Page 5 of Taste

Because I was. I truly was.

I had the memory of an elephant, and I was as stubborn as an old mule.

I also hated that in the back of my mind—the very,veryback of my mind—I knew, despite Mark Quinton having some utterly absurd ideas about how to run a business, he was actually good at what he did, and that what he had achieved in the last couple of months was nothing less than astonishing. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

I was a good boss and a decent human being; I had no doubts about that. I looked after my own, and I hoped I was fair and honest. If you fucked with me, you’d regret it. My staff all knew that, and they were loyal, decent people. Even the oldies who had looked at me with suspicion and disgust as I rose through the ranks had shaken my hand when I took over as front-of-house manager a few years back. They knew who I was, who they were dealing with and what my game was. For that, they had my respect, as I had theirs.

But it wasn’t like I was going to hang around anyway. My plan was to move around the hotel, learn everything I could and become general manager of my own property by the time I was forty. I was thirty-nine.

Fucking thirty-nine and still sitting in the murky backroom of the reception punching out key cards. I wasn’t going anywhere fast, and I knew it, my anxieties once again playing me for a fool. I was the product of a home that had always reeked of fear, the side effect of a broken man and a mother who had failed to protect me from my father’s fists and temper. I had no desire to repeat that cycle, so I was going to just be what I was meant to be. A worker. A success of my own doing. In my younger days, I’d been seen as handsome and ambitious, but I’d been trying too hard to be someone I’d now rather forget. These days, those features had dulled and greyed. I was now just an ordinary-looking bloke who blended into the background. I doubted I’d be remembered for my charming personality or achievements; there would be no plaques on these walls bearing my name. But perhaps one day I could retire knowing I’d made my mark on the hospitality world and find peace in the fact that I had tried my best and met those goals. Because I would achieve them, one way or the other.

“Boss?” Joe was another one of those people. Pretty, ambitious, a clear agenda that went right along with his cheap suit and management trainee name badge. We had them in droves. Keen youngsters thinking they would spend a year learning the ropes here and then get handed a management post on a plate. The truth was they were nothing but cheap, disposable labour with fancy degrees and would be kicked out headfirst as soon as they demanded a work contract and a decent wage. Not that the wages in the industry were decent; even with the fancy name badge on my chest, I was more often than not horrified at the state of my bank account. The hospitality industry would never make anyone rich, and living in London soon depleted your income to barely anything.

“Yes?” I grunted back. I wasn’t here to make friends. This was work, and Joe had overstepped before. He was well known for having the audacity to invite me out for drinks. Club nights. Fuck knows.

“Mr Klutz rang down to advise that if Mr Van der Houdenberger turns up, we are to immediately notify Mrs Carrington.” He sounded stressed, even though the reception area was calm and almost empty, just a small group of Korean tourists chatting excitedly in the corner and a few people lingering near the gift shop.

Dear Mr Van der Houdenberger was on his way, then, and would make another dramatic entrance, no doubt. The young, far-removed cousin to some obscure royal was usually followed by paparazzi and a cluster of hangers-on. Then he’d check in under some ludicrous false name with whichever unsuitable arm candy currently serviced his tanned-all-over body. He was also Mr Klutz’s godson and never let him forget it.

And right on cue, here he was, swanning in with a girl on his arm who was as cosmetically enhanced as Mr Van der Houdenberger himself.

“Anna Tzarkovska.Love Islandseason two. Finished fourth,” Joe stage-whispered behind me. “I’ll ring Mrs Carrington.”

I sighed. Sighed again before plastering on my fakest smile.

“Mr Van Der Houdenberger,” I opened, watching him squirm with faux humility.

“Call me Terry, please.” He gestured widely at his female companion, who giggled nervously.

“How delightful to see you again, I hope you are well. And your reservation is in the name of…?” I was half wanting to embarrass his smarmy arse, half trying to help him out, but the guy was a dick, as always.

“Oh, you know I never need one. Anna is so excited to see the King William suite, and I will require a private dinner. We have some friends joining us for cocktails on the terrace. Is that butler around? Simon, is it?”

“I have Mrs Carrington for you,” Joe said and handed me the phone, then immediately launched into a comprehensive string of compliments directed at this Anna woman, asking suitably vague questions about her future in acting and recent assignment forHello!magazine. I must admit I was impressed by the way Joe handled her. I also hoped he’d deal with the private butler issue, as in politely informTerrywe didn’t have those. Whoever Simon was would get the fucking sack.

Turning away from the blinding glitz of gold chains over that hideous tan—Mr Terence Van der Houdenberger’s standard attire—I growled into the phone, “Grace.”

“The King William suite is being prepared,” Mr Klutz’s long-suffering personal assistant replied. Grace Carrington had been around longer than I had been alive, and how she’d managed to not strangle Mr Klutz with one of her pearl necklaces was, and always would be, beyond me.

With a quick glance at Joe, who was now fully engrossed in perusing Anna Whatever’s Instagram under her guidance, I cupped my hand, covering my mouth, and muttered, “But Sheik Al Fareed has one more night booked.”

“Mr Klutz has convinced the sheik to transfer to his home in Surrey for the evening, since there is a particularly interesting race on at Ascot. A helicopter will arrive within the hour, and housekeeping need at least thirty minutes to return the suite to status. I trust you will ensure Mr Van der Houdenberger and his team receive the standard of arrival we usually provide. Is that clear, Christensen?”

Mr Van der No-sense-at-all flashed me another smile as he counted out twenty-pound notes in full view of anyone paying attention. I’d probably never know what hold he had over Mr Klutz, but these impromptu visits usually turned into cocaine-hazed parties where we would end up with security intervening and meetings with housekeeping to discuss whether the task of cleaning up bodily fluids and illegal drugs was in their contract. I’d cleaned up a few of those incidents myself, and I couldn’t say I enjoyed it, but it was the dirty reality of the hotel world. Part of our lives. Part of the charade these people upheld, where money was no issue and the laws of this country didn’t apply. I hoped one day I’d have more backbone than to let people like this railroad all over me, but for now, front-of-house manager or not, I was still a mere employee here to follow orders.

“Mr Van der Houdenberger, can I suggest a drink in our rooftop bar? I am sure Claire will be thrilled to see you again. It’s been too long since we last had the honour of a visit.” I kept my professional stance, despite knowing Joe’s coughing behind me was him in hysterics. Claire would kill me for sending this bunch of Ibiza afterparty survivors up to her classy oasis of calm. She hated Mr Van der Prat-face even more than me.”

“Guys, rooftop bar!” he shouted to his hangers-on, who all squealed in delight as a handful of twenty-pound notes rained down on the reception desk.

“We don’t accept tips,” I started, but he’d already walked away, leaving Joe to scoop up his dirty money.

“That goes in the charity jar,” I huffed.

“This,” he waved the banknotes at me with a mischievous grin on his stupid face, “goes in the Monday night staff drinks kitty.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue, because I apparently still needed to figure out how to grow that spine. And now housekeeping was back on the radio and security came running, motioning for me to step to the side so they could talk to me.

“The police are outside wanting to speak to Reuben the doorman again.”

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