Fran felt like the well-behaved dog now, as she took a seat on another hardwood chair.
‘There has been some confusion, I think.’ The woman’s French accent was strong, but her English was impeccable. ‘I am Madame Beaufoy, but you are not who we were expecting. We were told there would be a Harriet Hollis, but the agency telephoned earlier to say that the girl was not coming. And yet a girl has appeared.’ There was an edge of a smile on the woman’s lips as she gestured at Fran. ‘Are you Harriet Hollis after all?’
Fran shook her head.
‘And yet, you are here. If I believed in such things, I would suggest a miracle has taken place. We are short-staffed as it is, and you are most welcome. But who are you?’
Before Fran could reply, the mobile lodged on Madame Beaufoy’s desk began to vibrate. She took the call swiftly and efficiently, in a burst of rapid French.
‘Merde, now I am needed at the reception – a problem with a guest check-in.’ She waved a hand in Fran’s direction. ‘As your arrival is unexpected, I will welcome you very warmly to Chateau les Champs d’Or, but I must place you on probationwhile we establish your skillset. Would that be amenable to you?’
Fran nodded, about to add some details of her work experience, but Madame Beaufoy was already on her feet.
‘Please speak to someone in the laundry room – they will show you the staff quarters and provide you with a uniform. There is always plenty to do around here, you will be busy in no time. And we will speak again later for all the details, yes?’
Fran hadn’t managed to utter a word as the woman swept past her and left the room. Perhaps that was as well. Less chance of saying the wrong thing. In the quiet space which remained after Madame Beaufoy’s sharp exit, Fran considered her options. There was still time to come clean. She could remain here until the woman returned – or follow her to reception – and explain exactly who she was and why she was here. Or she could continue with the deception.
It wouldn’t be impossible to fumble her way through the formal stuff. Pretend she didn’t have the number of her bank account for wages, that she’d mislaid her cards, lost her purse, had her details stolen and so needed to be paid in cash. Bluff that her information must have been lost by the agency. Anyway, she wasn’t here to earn money – she was already in a salaried position with Wilding Holdings, so she could do her best to sidestep those kinds of details for a while, at least.
A tickle of adrenalin butterflied around her stomach, and Fran began to grin. For the first time since she’d taken this job with Wilding Holdings, Fran felt a sense of confidence in what she was about to do. She would be on home ground,asa member of staff rather than being pandered tobymembers of staff.
Straightening, Fran tugged at the handle of her case and headed for the door. Outside, there was a fifty-fifty decision tomake – left, or right? Opting for right, Fran went in search of the laundry.
‘No. We booked four suites. Four. Not three.’ Noel was becoming louder every time he spoke. Which was impressive seeing as his volume dial was already turned all the way up. With one hand laid proprietorially on the welcome desk, the other looped its way around his head as he gesticulated wildly – four fingers splayed for added emphasis. He glanced around, locking eyes with Johnny before he could look away. ‘Thank God we’re out.’ Balling his free hand, Noel pretended to cough into it. ‘Brexit.’
Johnny rolled his eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Noel. Calm down.’ Now was not the time to remind him that a British company owned Chateau les Champs d’Or, or that the CEO of Wilding Holdings, Bill Wilding, was someone in the business world whom Noel held in a God-like reverence. Or that Brexit had caused untold problems for businesses such as this, not to mention their own, both inside and outside the UK.
‘There are four of us,comprendez? We need four rooms. Four beds. How hard can this be?’ Noel’s attention was back on the unfortunate member of staff behind the desk, whose nametag, brushed steel engraved with ‘Pierre’, glinted in the reflected light from the ostentatious chandelier hanging above their heads. ‘We booked four of your standard suites. We need four suites. End of.’
Johnny would put money on the small, immaculately dressed receptionist suddenly wishing he’d pretended he had absolutely no English at all, rather than smiling at them and offering them a warm greeting when they’d first bundled through the chateau doors.
Ricardo and Ed had managed to separate themselves and were standing at a discreet distance while Noel blew off the worstof his tantrum. Johnny did his best to ignore his brother as he focused on an increasingly nervous Pierre.
‘I’m sorry,’ Johnny said to the man behind the desk. ‘But we do need four rooms. Are you sure there are only three booked for us?’
Pierre tapped at his tablet, a grimace of apology as he began to nod. ‘It seems so. The manager is coming, she will be able to help.’
‘Surely you can just allocate us another room.’
‘My problem is that we are almost fully booked. There is only one suite available, and …’ Pierre glanced past them, a look of relief flooding his features as a woman swept across the foyer. ‘Ah, here is Madame Beaufoy.’
As Johnny waited, a rapid conversation took place in French. For a moment, Johnny was tempted to explain his natural aptitude for languages, how he could understand everything they were saying. But sometimes it was useful to feign ignorance.
It was fair to say Johnny could agree with much of the sentiment of their conversation. If he’d been the one dealing with Noel, Johnny would probably think his group looked like trouble, too – British businessmen more than likely in search of alcohol and other associated distractions. Johnny could appreciate the last thing the hotel manager wanted was to give one of them their newly refurbished and superior quality (which equalled more expensive) turret suite, especially for the same money. That the last thing they wanted to do was to have to clear up after the inevitable drunken damage which might follow, particularly in such a beautiful room. He wanted to tell them that he and his compatriots really weren’t going to bethatbadly behaved. Johnny glanced at Noel and revised his thoughts.Probablywouldn’t be that badly behaved. Plus, they were here now, and they each needed a room in which to sleep.
Johnny, for one, had absolutely no intention of sharing a room with anyone – not his brother or a work colleague, or for that matter any ‘alcohol-related distraction’. Now, or possibly ever again.
Mention was made between Pierre and Madame Beaufoy of the error someone had made when the booking was taken, the difference between the charge per night for a standard suite and the turret rooms, the loss the hotel would have to absorb.
It seemed the turret suite was the only solution, however, and with a particularly Gallic shrug, Pierre acquiesced to Madame Beaufoy and turned to the group.
‘I have good news,’ he said, re-establishing his smile. ‘We are able to offer one of you a suite in the west turret, at no additional cost.’
‘I should bloody well think not.’ Noel was back at the desk. ‘This trip is an arm and a leg job as it is. OK, who wants the turret room? I don’t. More stairs between me and the bar.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ Ed said. Recently out of plaster following a nasty car accident and still limping, he didn’t look excited by the prospect of a spiral staircase. And Johnny presumed there would be a spiral staircase – what self-respecting French chateau turret came without one?
‘Ricky can have it,’ Johnny said. ‘I genuinely don’t care where my room is, so long as I don’t have to share with any of you.’
