‘Non. I do not need to sit down!’ Claudine snapped.
‘Oh. I’m sorry… I just?—’
‘I can’t believe that this has happened. A week before the presentation! It is the worst luck. Or perhaps the worst judgement.’ She gave Bella a look. Gone was the friendliness that she’d had in her eyes when she’d confided in her just an hour or so ago. Instead, her expression was fixed, cold.
‘But everything’s OK, the fire’s out. Mélodie said?—’
‘Ah, Mélodie. She is a fool. She doesn’t know!’
‘Know…?’
‘How important it is! How important the rooms were.’
‘The rooms?’
Claudine looked at her. ‘Yes, the rooms. You did not think to ask which rooms have been burnt and sprayed with foam and watered from above? You did not think that they might be important rooms, perhaps?’
An icy hand gripped Bella’s heart. ‘Oh. Oh no.’
Claudine nodded. ‘And have you considered perhaps how the fire started?’
Her look was so fixed, so accusatory that Bella was taken aback. She had been nowhere near the rooms when the alarm had been raised. In fact, the last time she’d entered the rooms had been earlier when she’d been with Claudine. She’d only stayed afterwards to fluff a couple of pillows, check everything was in place for the photographer.
Then something inside her sank as rapidly as if she’d plunged downward on a fairground ride. The candles. She’d lit the scented candles to impress Claudine, to showcase the overall effect of the room. But she hadn’t thought, as she’d closed the door feeling so pleased with herself, to blow the candles out, relight them later. Then again, they were in glass jars; they should have been OK.
‘The candles?’ she said.
‘Yes. They were placed on the bedside tables,non? Very near the curtains? Of course, the damage from burning is minimal. The smoke alarm and Yves’s quick thinking saw to this. But the water damage, the foam…’ Claudine’s voice was devoid of emotion. ‘The rooms are quite ruined.’
Bella felt the blood drain from her face. She’d put the candles there for ambiance, to throw light on the curtains and highlight the embroidery, the slight sheen on the material. It had been a momentary decision; she hadn’t thought.
‘We can delay Hotel Club, we can?—’
Claudine shook her head. ‘Everything has been paid for up front, the air tickets. Everything. Yes, we can cancel but…’ she shrugged. ‘I am not sure we will be able to afford to start again. Besides, Hotel Club have a one year waiting list…’
* * *
It was an hour before they were allowed back in the building, the guests grumbling and Claudine reassuring them, in a voice that betrayed none of her former misery, that they would receive a free meal in the restaurant this evening to make up for the inconvenience. Other guests, who’d been out for the afternoon, began returning, confused to see thepompiersdriving away, the muddy footprints in reception where they’d rushed through in haste – unnecessarily as it turned out.
Upstairs, Bella stood by the entrance of one of the Superior rooms, hardly moving. Her face was fixed on the decor inside, her heart sinking anew every time she glanced at something she hadn’t noticed before.
The paintwork was streaked, the bedding saturated and covered in foam. The rugs that she’d painstakingly sourced were sodden. The antique-looking chest of drawers had a black, burnt area, and the beautiful, expensive art that she’d carefully chosen had been soaked by the sprinkler, the canvas sodden, foamy, its paint bleeding onto the wall. The curtains, so carefully made to measure, were half eaten by fire, the shreds remaining blackened.
If someone had planned to destroy every item in the room, render each thing unusable, they could hardly have done a better job. Yves had clearly panicked and foamed nearly everything in the room. The sprinklers had finished the job. The fire itself had hardly damaged anything.
Any thoughts she’d had, any hopes that things might have been rescuable were scuppered. Nobody could turn this around in time, not even Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen himself. Not even the House Doctor, or Kim and Aggie, or the entire team onChanging Rooms.
It was over.
* * *
She knocked, tentatively, on Claudine’s closed office door.
‘Oui?’ said a weary voice.
She opened it. ‘Claudine, I’m so sorry.’
Claudine regarded her, her mouth a miserable fixed line. ‘Yes, I am sure.’
