A hotel porter pushing a large trolley comes barreling through and looks startled at my cry, before he moves the trolley aside to open the door for me. I dodge the random bits of litter and lettuce leaves scattered across the sloped concrete and reach him without falling flat on my face.
“You know there’s a main entrance round the other side, right?” he says, after I thank him.
“Is there? Oh, well, I’m here now! Thanks again.”
I hear him chuckling as the door closes behind me and I make my way along the corridor. It’s dimly lit by strip lights and has several doors leading off it to what I assume must be mostly storage and laundry rooms. I reach the end and have the option of branching off to the left or the right, or through a set of double doors straight ahead. I stand and deliberate for a moment, then decide to go straight.
“Watch yourself!”
I slam myself back against the doors I’ve just come through, narrowly dodging someone carrying a tray of full gravy boats. I’ve walked into the kitchen.
I put a hand against my heart and exhale, imagining what might have been. Showing up to Lady Cordelia Swann’s engagement party covered with gravy stains wouldn’t have been a good look.
“Excuse me, are you lost?”
A young chef chopping herbs is watching me in amusement. I smile apologetically at her.
“Yes! I’m supposed to be upstairs in the hotel.”
“Yeah, you haven’t exactly dressed for the kitchen.” She nods to a door on the other side of the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Come on, I’ll show you the way.”
“Thank you!”
“Which waiter brought you down for the tour and left you?”
“Excuse me?”
“The waiter who, after your meal, invited you to see the kitchen. They shouldn’t abandon you here. Who was it? I’ll have a word.”
“Oh, it was no one. I came here myself,” I say, trying not to get distracted by the goings-on in the kitchen. It takes all of my willpower to follow her and not the pastry chef, who marches by with a tray full of freshly baked custard tarts.
She glances back at me over her shoulder. “If you say so. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. Through these doors and straight up those stairs. You’ll find yourself back in the dining room.”
I thank her and head to the top of the stairs, the atmosphere shifting as I go from the loud, stressful, busy kitchen to the calm, serene dining area, piano keys tinkling in the background. I walk round the tables and along the bar, trying to look as though I know where I’m going. If I don’t find my way to the Grand Ballroom sharpish, I’m going to be late. Lady Meade asked me specifically to be on time.
With a fresh sense of urgency, I burst out of the restaurantand run straight into the back of someone, sending him stumbling forward.
“I’m so sorry!” I gasp, before he turns round to see who barged into him and almost knocked the champagne glass out of his hand. He does a double take.
“Emily?”
“Lord Dashwell! Oh, my God, hi!”
Of course Ihadto knock into him. Ithadto be the hot brother, who is heir to half the country or whatever. It couldn’t have been a random stranger staying in the hotel whom I’d never see again.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, my cheeks burning. “Are you OK?”
“I’ll survive,” he replies. “Please don’t call me Lord Dashwell—it makes me sound two hundred years old. It’s Tom.”
“Right, sorry. Tom.”
“It’s nice to see you again. You look great.”
“Thanks. You too!”
Which, of course, he does. His hair is still tousled, but in a styled way this time, and every man looks good in a tux.
(Actually, apart from that guy, Kem, in my sixth form, who wore a tux that was much too small for him to our prom. One of the buttons of his shirt popped off on the dance floor midway through “Summer Lovin’” and hit a girl in the eye.)
