To Love and Be Loved(42)

‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Thank you for calling Milbury Court. How may I help you?’

‘Yes, hello.’ The man spoke slowly, so slowly it was all she could do not to ask him to hurry. ‘I’m, er . . . I’m, er, thinking of bringing the wife to stay at your establishment for a couple of days and I have a few questions.’

‘I will certainly do my best to answer them, but can I remind you, sir, if I may, the best way to look at all we offer is to go on our website, and that’s also where you will find the calendar with a list and description of all rooms, services and availability.’

‘Yes, I have been on your website, but, well, the thing is’ – the man drew a slow breath – ‘my wife’s cousin, Brenda, or Mrs Montgomery, as you would know her . . .’

‘I do meet a lot of guests.’ She found a smile, trying to ignore the key tapper, who had now taken to coughing occasionally, as if she were not already painfully aware of his presence.

‘Yes, well, she came and stayed with you a few years ago and she remembers it was very cold. Cold rooms, cold lounge.’

‘Well, I’m certainly sorry to hear that and I do hope it didn’t spoil her stay. As I say, sir, we have a gallery on our website with images and details of all our rooms and availability. I think that might be your best bet.’

Key-fob man now subtly kicked the front of the reception desk and sighed. ‘Be with you as soon as I can.’ Again she smiled and whispered.

The man on the phone continued. ‘That’s all well and good, but I don’t like websites. I prefer to talk to a person, a human person, none of this robot rubbish. Anyway, the wife has sciatica and likes an electric blanket.’

Key-fob guy huffed loudly and almost growled his dissatisfaction. Merrin had to make a split-second decision between a potential customer and a paying one standing in front of her who just might have an emergency.

‘I am so sorry, sir, I just need to pop you on hold for one second.’ She pushed the hold button and turned her attention to the man in front of her.

She smiled at him and joined her hands on the jotter. ‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.’

This morning, despite her early start, all she’d done was apologise. They were short-staffed and each and every one of them was feeling the pinch. At that precise moment, Merrin should have been organising the staff rota for the next three weeks, writing a warning letter to the florist whose flower arrangements had been less than incredible for the third week running, and sending the new fabric samples for the recovering of the vintage sofas in the reception area to Lionel’s wife, who dealt with such matters.

‘No worries. Can you recommend a good pizza delivery?’

‘A pi—’ Even saying the word within the confines of this high-end hotel with its award-winning haute cuisine and a wine list that she knew the sommelier anguished over, so keen was he to get the exact right pairings with the food, was difficult.

‘A pizza joint? Somewhere that can rustle me up a stuffed-crust Margarita with a generous drizzle of chilli oil? You know what it’s like when you are in a hotel, and all that truffle-infused whatnot and micro portions of grub leave you feeling a bit, meh.’ He shrugged.

‘And you want that right now? This morning?’ She glanced at the clock and hesitated to recommend the breakfast buffet that would be in full swing in less than fifteen minutes.

‘Yup. Jet lag. This is my night time.’ He grinned.

‘Yes, of course, let me find you a menu or at the very least a link to a website. Failing that, I will have the kitchen contact you directly and see what they can whip up. And I will have someone either bring it to your room or I will email you the link. Your room number, please?’

‘One oh eight.’

‘One oh eight. Consider it done.’ She smiled sweetly.

‘Thank you, and don’t let me keep you. I know you put that guy on hold.’ He winked at her and helped himself to a couple of the wrapped mints that sat on the desk in a natty glass bowl bearing the family crest.

‘Thank you.’ She immediately picked up the phone. ‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, sir . . . hello?’ But the line was dead. She felt the flare of guilt that she might at worst have lost a potential customer or at best offended one.

The front door opened and in walked a handsome man with dark hair and the gorgeous golden complexion that suggested he might be from the Mediterranean.

‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to Milbury Court. How can I help you?’

‘Hello!’ He beamed, his accent a London one and his manner friendly. ‘I don’t know if I should have used another entrance.’ He took in the grand reception. ‘I’m the new restaurant manager.’ He walked forward and held out his hand. ‘Miguel. Miguel Rochas.’

Merrin shook it and felt a little shy, as the armour of her position slipped away and she was now aware of addressing a colleague.

‘I’m Merrin.’

‘Nice to meet you. Where’re you from?’

This a standard question in this industry, where a team was, more often than not, international.

‘Cornwall.’

‘I went to Cornwall once.’ He smiled at her.

‘Did you like it?’

‘No,’ he answered sharply, and she laughed loudly. It was a laugh that came without hesitation, a reminder of the old Merrin who used to act with glorious spontaneity, before each movement and sound that left her body had to travel through a filter of hurt and second-guessing. He was funny. ‘Of course I did! It was beautiful.’