The Burnout(79)

No. Noooo. Frantically, I try to think of a way out of this, but it’s too late to head him off.

“Got your you-know-whats,” he addresses me in his usual sepulchral tones, then seems to realize his lack of discretion. He places a hand over CLUB BISCUITS—only hiding three letters—then winks at me and resumes. “Didn’t see you in the shop and I was coming up here anyway, so I brought them. There’s ninety-eight in there,” he adds, nodding at the box. “That enough to keep you going?”

My face is blazing. I can’t look at anyone. Club biscuits. Not even oatcakes. Club bloody biscuits. The guy thrusts the box at me, but I don’t take it. I can’t admit I ordered ninety-eight Club biscuits for my own private consumption. What do I do?

And then the solution suddenly comes to me.

“Actually …” I turn to Simon, trying to sound convincing. “These are for you! For all the staff. As a … um … present. For all your hard work.”

There’s a slightly flabbergasted silence. The guy from the shop looks puzzled. Simon and Nikolai are peering uncertainly at the box. Nikolai seems particularly flummoxed, as though he’s never seen a cardboard box before.

It’s Simon who regains his cool first.

“Club biscuits!” he exclaims. “Club biscuits! Ms. Worth, you are too good. Too kind. Nikolai, look at this generous present of Club biscuits. Let us open it.”

“No,” I say hastily. “Honestly …”

But it’s too late. The guy in the brown T-shirt dumps the box on a table and tears off the tape, then opens the flaps, revealing a pile of seven-packs, encased in plastic.

“Look at this.” Simon surveys the packs reverently. “Orange Club biscuits. We will distribute these among all our hardworking staff. Cassidy!” He summons her from across the lobby. “Come and see Ms. Worth’s wonderful gift of confectionary! Tonight, we will feast on Club biscuits!”

My face is puce. This is hideous. I should have just taken them.

“You’re … very welcome,” I say feebly. “Enjoy.”

“Club biscuits?” says Cassidy brightly, as she approaches. “Nice!”

“Well.” I swallow. “I just thought you might like them.”

“Ooh, the noni juice!” says Cassidy, as she sees it in my hand. “I tried some of that, thought it was rank. But guess what? Chef Leslie’s made you a special cocktail with it for tonight. It’s called the noni-jito. Clever, isn’t it? It’s got kale in it too,” she adds triumphantly. “Alcohol-free, of course; we know you love your alcohol-free.”

I stare at her, blinking hard. I am not drinking noni juice with kale when everyone else is on champagne.

“Actually …” I hear myself improvising, “a vital part of my health regimen is Kick-Back Night. It’s important to relax your rules every so often. So I’ll probably have champagne tonight, for well-being, and maybe the noni thing tomorrow.”

“Kick-Back Night!” Cassidy’s face gleams. “I love that! We should put that in our wellness regimen too.” She turns to Simon. “Let’s have Kick-Back Night every night. We’ll serve tequila shots and tell the guests it’s for their own well-being! Win–win!”

As though on cue, a girl bearing a tray of champagne flutes arrives in the lobby. I recognize her as Cassidy’s friend Bea from the bakery. The next moment, the front door opens, revealing a pair of men in suits, and at once, Simon bristles with tension.

“Investors!” he hisses at Nikolai and Cassidy. “The investors have started arriving! Cassidy, coats. Nikolai, canapés! Canapés! Good evening!” He hurries forward, smoothing his hand down on his trouser leg. “And welcome to the Rilston Hotel.”

I grab a glass from Bea, shake back my hair, and stride confidently into the dining room. Eligible men, here I come.


The only trouble is, there aren’t any. Unless the term eligible is stretched waaay beyond where I am prepared to stretch it.

It’s nearly an hour later and the dining room is humming with guests. I’ve drunk two glasses of champagne and done the rounds. I’ve chatted. I’ve smiled. And the results have been terrible.

I’ve talked to a property developer with a paunch from Exeter, who has told me four times that his ex-wife got the convertible. (No.) And to his friend with halitosis. (No.) I’ve also met a gay local historian called Bernard, who is here to tell investors about the area, and a woman called Diane, who represents the Garthwick family that own the hotel.

Finn isn’t here. I’m super-aware of that. (I thought that might be him just now, but it’s a guy with dark hair I don’t recognize.)

The Wests aren’t here either, and I find myself hoping that they’re in bed, all loved up again, maybe on position fifteen of the “reconciliation-sex handbook.” (Lucky them.) In fact, I’m the only mug of a guest who has actually showed up, I realize.

“Sasha!” A booming voice greets me, and I turn to see Keith from the train, wearing a bright-blue jacket and holding a garish puppet with a seriously creepy face. “Remember me? Keith? Mr. Poppit?”

Hi!” I say, trying not to look at the puppet. “Lovely to see you again. Are you performing?”

“Doing a set after the speeches,” says Keith, nodding. “Bit of an ‘adult’ theme. Mr. Poppit in the red-light district, nudge, nudge.” He gives me an elaborate wink, and I make a firm resolve to leave straight after the speeches. “So, having a nice time, are you?”