And then I freeze. I can hear a sound. A rustling sound. Just outside the bedroom door.
In reflex, I shove Ben away and sit up, every sense on alert.
“Stop! Stop it. Listen.” I can barely frame the words properly. “He’s still here.”
“What?” Ben’s face is contorted with desire, and I’m not sure he’s understanding anything I’m saying.
“He’s still here!” I bat Ben’s hand off my breast and gesture frantically at the door. “The butler! He hasn’t left!”
“What?” A murderous scowl comes over Ben’s face. He swings his legs round and gets out of bed, totally naked.
“You can’t go out like that!” I squeak. “Put on a robe.”
Ben’s scowl becomes yet more murderous. He shrugs on a terry-cloth dressing gown and throws open the door to the bedroom. Sure enough, there’s Georgios, arranging glasses neatly on the cocktail bar.
“Ah, Georgios,” says Ben. “I think you misunderstood. Thanks very much. That will be all for now. Thank you.”
“I understand, sir.” Georgios makes a little bow. “I await your command.”
“Right.” I can sense Ben’s temper starting to fray. “Well, my command is for you to go. Leave the room. Go. Adiós.” He makes a shooing motion. “Leave us alone.”
“Ah.” At last light dawns on Georgios’s face. “I see. Very good, sir. You call me if you need anything.” He gives another bow, then heads toward the kitchen. Ben hesitates a moment, then follows him to make sure he actually exits.
“That’s right,” I can hear him say firmly. “You go and put your feet up, Georgios. Don’t worry about us. No, we can pour our own water, thank you. Bye, then. Bye …” His voice recedes as he enters the kitchen.
A few moments later, he appears at the door of the bedroom and pumps the air. “Gone! At last!”
“Well done!”
“Stubborn bastard.”
“Just doing his job, I suppose.” I shrug. “He’s obviously got a really strong sense of duty.”
“He didn’t want to leave,” says Ben incredulously. “You’d think he’d leap at the chance for some time off. But he kept telling me we’d need him to pour our mineral water, and I kept telling him, no, we wouldn’t, we’re not total lazy gits. Makes you wonder what kind of people stay here—” Ben breaks off mid-sentence and his jaw drops. As I turn my head, I can feel mine dropping too.
No.
That can’t be …
Both of us stare in disbelief as Hermes, the assistant butler, strides into the sitting room.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Parr,” he says cheerfully. He approaches the cocktail bar and starts arranging exactly the same glasses that Georgios was tidying ten seconds ago. “May I offer you a drink? A small snack? May I help you with your entertainment for the day?”
“What … what …” Ben seems almost incapable of speech. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Hermes looks up, apparently perplexed by the question.
“I am your assistant butler,” he says at last. “I am on duty while Georgios is resting. I await your command.”
I feel like I’ve gone mad.
We’re trapped in butler hell.
Is this how rich people live? No wonder celebrities look so miserable the whole time. They’re thinking, If only the butler would let us have some bloody sex.
“Please.” Ben looks almost demented. “Please go. Now. Go.” He’s ushering Hermes toward the door.
“Sir,” says Hermes in alarm. “I do not use the guest entrance, I use the kitchen entrance—”
“I don’t care which bloody entrance you use!” Ben practically yells. “Just go! Get out! Vamoose! Scram!” He’s batting Hermes toward the door as though he’s a pest, and Hermes is backing away, looking terrified, and I’m watching from the doorway, the duvet wrapped around me, and all three of us jump violently as the doorbell rings. Ben stiffens and looks around as though suspecting a trick.
“Sir.” Hermes is composing himself. “Please, sir. You permit I answer the door?”
Ben doesn’t answer. He’s breathing heavily through his nostrils. He glances at me and I give an agonized shrug. The doorbell rings again.
“Please, sir,” repeats Hermes. “You permit I answer the door?”
“Go on, then,” says Ben, glowering. “Answer it. But no cleaners. No turndown service, no turnup service, no champagne, no fruit, and no bloody harps.”
“Very good, sir,” says Hermes, eyeing him anxiously. “You permit me.”
Hermes edges past Ben, into the lobby, and opens the door. In sweeps Nico, followed by the six workmen from last night.
“Good morning, Mr. Parr, Mrs. Parr!” he breezes. “I trust you slept well? A thousand apologies for last night. But I have good news! We have come to change your bed.”
13
LOTTIE
This can’t be happening. We’ve been turfed out of our own honeymoon suite.
What is wrong with them? I’ve never seen such an inept crew in my life. They unscrewed the legs of one bed, shuffled it round, and lifted it up and pronounced it too big, then Nico suggested they screw the legs back on and start again … and all the time Ben was simmering to a boil.
At last he started yelling so loudly, the workmen gathered protectively around Nico. To his credit, Nico kept his cool, even when Ben started brandishing the hair dryer. Nico asked if we would please leave the suite while the workmen were operational and perhaps we would enjoy a complimentary à la carte breakfast on the veranda?
That was two hours ago. There’s only so much à la carte breakfast you can eat. We’ve been back to the room to get our beach stuff and there are still people in there, all peering at the beds and scratching their heads. The room is full of bed legs and headboards and a super-king mattress propped up against the wall. Apparently it’s the “wrong kind of bed.” What does that even mean?
“How hard can it be to swap a couple of beds?” says Ben with a furious scowl, as we head toward the beach. “Are they morons?”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Ludicrous.”
We pause by the entrance to the beach. It’s quite something. Blue sea, golden sand, rows of the plushiest sun beds I’ve ever seen, white umbrellas billowing in the breeze, and waiters hurrying around with drinks on trays. Any other day, I’d be salivating at the sight.
But there’s only one thing I want right now. And it’s not a suntan.
“They should have given us another room,” says Ben for the hundredth time. “We should be suing.”
As soon as they asked us to leave, Ben requested a substitute room, and for one heavenly moment I thought everything was going to work out after all. We could disappear into a spare room, have a wonderful morning together, emerge in time for lunch.… But, no, Nico wrung his hands and said he was devastated and mortified but the hotel was fully booked, could he offer sir a complimentary hot-air-balloon ride instead?
A complimentary bloody hot-air-balloon ride. I thought Ben was going to throttle him.
As we’re pausing by the towel stand, I become aware of a presence lurking. It’s Georgios. Where did he appear from? Has he been following us? Is this all part of the service? I nudge Ben, and he raises his eyebrows.
“Madame,” says Georgios gravely. “May I help you with your towels?”
“Oh. Um, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I don’t really need help, but it would be rude to tell him to go away.