Chapter 7
I WRANGLE A cab outside the airport and Val helps the driver lift our luggage into the back of the classic black car.
Our route takes us from Heathrow straight into the heart of the city.
Gazing through the window, I watch dozens of landmarks flash in and out of view.
We pass by Wellington Arch. A bronze sculpture—the largest one in Europe—stands balanced at the arch’s apex.
Nike, the winged goddess of victory, is beautifully captured there in all her bronze glory.
As we drive past Buckingham Palace, the driver points out a flag rippling atop the building.
That one means the King is in residence today, he states proudly.
Iconic red double-decker buses rip along the roads and I flinch every time we encounter oncoming traffic, afraid someone’s about to ram into us. This driving-on-the-left situation never fails to feel weird.
Val seems absent-minded as he stares out the window.
He must be mentally preparing for our afternoon meeting.
I know how important this UK location is to him.
The sales numbers have been disappointing and he’s prepared to do anything to give them a boost. He’s hired the very best marketing consultants in the hopes that they’ll be able to shed some light on what’s causing this mess.
With tires squealing, the cab skids to a halt outside our hotel that’s located close to Covent Garden.
The facade is adorned with swirly embellishments and the building exudes class and historical significance.
A red carpet leads the way up three steps and toward the golden entrance.
With a thank-you to our driver, I head for the reception desk inside as Val trails behind me dragging our suitcases.
Behind the desk sits a put-together looking woman—the type who might play a British royal in a Hollywood movie.
Her chestnut brown hair is pinned up elegantly and she’s wearing a navy blue skirt suit.
Good afternoon, how may I help you? She treats us to a blindingly bright Colgate smile.
Hi, I say with a polite smile. I’d like to check in, please. The reservation is under De Haas.
I lay our passports down on the counter in front of her.
She picks them up with manicured hands and proceeds to type at lightning speed.
Her eyes zip back and forth across the screen.
Finally, she walks over to the cabinet behind her, taking out one single key card.
Brow furrowed, I stare at the piece of plastic she’s holding out to me. Shouldn’t there be two of those?
You’re in room 405, the honeymoon suite, located on the top floor. Breakfast is served between seven and ten.
I can feel Val’s eyes burning holes in the back of my head. The honeymoon suite. Out of all the possible options, we’ve been assigned the room where countless British babies have been conceived.
Pardon me? I stare at her in shock. You only mentioned one room number just then. I spin around to look at Val, who’s listening in on this exchange with a dubious look on his face. I booked two rooms, I add, turning back to face the woman. She’s the one who seems surprised now.
I have you booked for one room, two guests, she says, taken aback.
Nuh-uh. Something must have gone wrong with the reservation. I flap my hand back and forth between Val and myself. We’re not a couple. We can’t share a room.
I can’t imagine spending two entire weeks sharing a bed, bathroom, and toilet with Val.
I’m stuck with my boss all day long as it is, so the thought of spending all my free time in the same room with him, too, isn’t exactly an enticing one.
I rifle through my bag, fish out my phone, and show the woman my confirmation email that clearly states I booked two rooms.
She studies the email carefully, then gives me an apologetic look.
You’re absolutely right. My sincerest apologies.
She types a bit more. It looks like the room next to the honeymoon suite is our only other available one at the moment.
We try to leave that one unoccupied whenever the honeymoon suite is booked.
It helps avoid . . . noise complaints. I suppose that worked out well this time.
She pops back over to the cabinet to take out a second card.
Which one of you would like to take the honeymoon suite? She gives us an inquisitive look.
I feel like you could use a little more love in your life, Hannah, Val says with a corny grin.
Couldn’t we all, the woman mumbles, sliding the key cards toward us. I wish you a pleasant stay at the Grand Hotel London. Should any questions arise, we’re here to serve you round the clock.
We thank her, then head to the elevator.
This is probably the closest I’ll ever get to a stay in the bridal suite, I hear Val mumble as he presses the button for the fourth floor.
This is probably the only time I’ll ever get to stay in a honeymoon suite, I reply.
He shoots me an amused look as the elevator doors glide open and we exit into the hallway.
Do you know where the summary is of the annual report and the revenue numbers? I’d love to go over those before the meeting, he says, sliding his key card into the slot on the door. It opens with a soft click.
I put it all in your briefcase. Let me know if you have any questions. I know those reports inside and out.
Excellent, thanks. I’ll see you in a few hours, he replies, and we both walk into our rooms.
My room looks like Cupid went to town in here.
Two towel swans sit in the middle of the bed, surrounded by a heart of sprinkled rose petals.
There’s a fully drawn bath in the corner of the room with lit candles along the edge of the tub and more rose petals floating in the water.
His and Hers towels hang from little hooks.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume this room was rented by the hour.
I flop down on the mattress—the rose petals puff up from the sudden shift in weight—and stare up at the ceiling.
I wonder what would show up if I aimed a blacklight at these walls.
For the next two weeks, I get to stay in a room that’s historically been home to horny couples whose trickiest task is unfastening stubborn bra hooks.
This is so not what I needed right now. I walk over to the bathroom, splash my face with water, then take a whiff of my armpit.
Jesus. I’m surrounded by the all too familiar odour of a long journey.
One long shower later—I have to admit, the shower in the honeymoon suite is delightfully spacious and luxurious—I pull on a black turtleneck sweater with a dark green blazer and matching pants.
I brush my eyelids with a thin layer of bronze eyeshadow, then slick on some mascara.
It’s the perfect highlight for my hazel eyes.
Once I’m happy with the result, I nestle into the sofa by the window to continue reading my book.
A little while later, there’s a loud knock on the door, just as I’m finding out who killed the butler.
Hannah? Are you coming?
I check my watch. It’s an hour too early, because of course it is. Val is a known control freak. The man would show up early to his own surprise party. Me, though? I’d arrive late to my own funeral. I grab my backpack and head out the door.
Val peeks past me into my room and chuckles. Looks like you’re in for two pretty romantic weeks, he says, nodding at the rose petals and towels. Even the swans are in a heart shape.
Listen, self-love is very important, I reply dryly, pulling the door shut behind me.
The management offices for the London store are located on the top floor of the building.
It’s where the conference room is, and Val has an office space of his own here, too.
This is my second time seeing the impressive building in person—it wasn’t even open for business yet the first time I visited.
On the building’s facade, a large golden W catches the light.
There are rows upon rows of stained-glass windows framed with little white lights, giving the whole place a wintry feeling.
The displays are dressed with an array of luxury merchandise and, with February 14 on the horizon, champagne, chocolates, and sparkling jewellery are the clear focus.
It turned out beautifully, I say, gazing up at the facade.
Yeah, our low revenue definitely isn’t the building’s fault, he mumbles, leading the way through the staff entrance toward the elevator.
We’re obviously way too early—the board room is still empty.
With a smile, the receptionist offers us something to drink while we wait.
Val’s foot is twitching as he sips his cappuccino.
He looks visibly annoyed when the board members are still trickling in a bit past 5 p.m., and when the receptionist informs us that the Dutch marketing consultant is running a bit late, his expression sizzles with irritation.
A man sits down next to me. You’re new here. He gives me an approving look. I definitely would have remembered seeing you before, he adds, with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.
Val’s jaw tightens as he sorts through his documents.
The man’s hair is dark and mussed and his eyes are a bright green. Add a pair of glasses, etch a scar into his forehead and voilà: you get portly Harry Potter going through a midlife crisis.
That’s exactly what you said last time, I reply with a sugary smile.
That catches Harry Potter off-guard. Ah, I see. You’re Hannah. Your hair was pulled back last time. The red curls look good on you.
Thanks.
Ronald . . . In a warning tone, we’re interrupted by a man who looks like a British doppelg?nger for the Dutch prime minister.
Val’s eyes shift from Ronald to the PM’s twin and back again. He seems alarmed, clearly suspicious about the looks being exchanged between his British colleagues.
Nothing to see here. Ronald waves off the comment, then gestures at the screen. Let’s begin the presentation.