Love Me Or Leave Me Read online

  Not. An. Option.

  And then suddenly, from out of nowhere, an idea.

  You don’t have to, a tiny voice inside me prompts. You don’t have to face any of them, not if you don’t want to. Who says you even have to? You can just pack up and go. Start a new life, start over. Start right now.

  Suddenly I’m sitting bolt upright, heart walloping cartoon-like in my chest, as I really start to give it serious thought.

  London, I could go to London, couldn’t I? Not too far from Dublin that my family would think I’ve completely lost the plot and yet distant enough for me to get some perspective. I even have an old pal there who couldn’t make it over for the wedding, maybe she’d look after me for a bit? We did hotel management together in college, so who knows? She might even know of a few job opportunities I could go for.

  For the first time all day, I feel a surge of fresh energy coming over me. Just the thoughts of a new life in a whole new city, where I wouldn’t forevermore be branded as the girl who got dumped on her wedding day, and suddenly I’m on my feet and already unhooking the back of my wedding dress. I’ve already got loads of luggage in packed suitcases here, full of clothes I needed for the honeymoon. Admittedly, most of it is fancy-schmancy underwear, but I know at least there’s a pair of jeans and a warm jumper in there somewhere.

  Ten minutes later and I’m out the door, pulling a small wheelie bag after me, tiptoeing down the deserted corridor like some kind of fugitive from justice. I know all my family and pals are still downstairs in the hotel’s Cellar Bar, which is in the basement, so with any luck, chances of my running into any of them are slim.

  I check my phone and am astonished to see it’s actually still early; just coming up to six in the evening. And I know there’s always late evening flights to London, so with all going well and if I can grab a last minute seat, I might just make it.

  Then a sudden dilemma. How do I get out of here unseen by the rest of the staff, by my colleagues, maybe even my boss? If I’m spotted, they’ll just drag me back, tell me I’m not acting rationally and possibly call a psychiatrist to give me the once over. And if I use the staff entrance like I always do, there’s no way on earth I won’t be spotted.

  Main door then. No choice. Just like any other guest. Best shot all round. I take the precaution of using the stairs in case I bump into anyone I know in the lift who’ll physically try to haul me back, but thankfully, my luck holds; I’ve the whole stairwell to myself. I make it all the way downstairs and apart from distant voices wafting up from the Cellar Bar, I don’t start running into any other guests until I make it to the busy, packed foyer.

  Please, please, please, I find myself praying to a God I barely believe in, don’t let anyone I know see me …

  And for the first time throughout possibly the shittiest day known to man, the heavens actually send me a break. The Merrion Hotel is a real weekend hotspot, so the drawing rooms by reception are packed with the fake tan brigade out in stiletto-heeled force and a clutch of hunky looking men wafting around them. Heart palpitating, I spot two lounge staff that work for me, but thank you God, they’re so busy weaving in and out of the throng that they don’t seem to even notice me.

  Chest hammering cartoon-like, I weave my way through, slip out the main door completely unnoticed and in the blink of an eye I’ve escaped outside, clattering my wheelie bag behind me.

  Mercifully, the air outside the hotel is cool and I allow myself a few deep, comforting gulps of it, feeling exactly like I’ve just escaped from Alcatraz. I make a silent vow to call Mum and Dad as soon as I’m safely booked onto a flight, because let’s face it, last thing I need after the day I’ve had are any of my family going to the cops and filing me as a missing persons case.

  Mind’s made up and this girl is not for turning.

  The Merrion Hotel is just round the corner from Stephen’s Green, which I race towards as fast as humanly possible, all the while scanning right, left and centre for a cab.

  And then, a miracle. Just at the junction of Kildare Street and the Green, with immaculate timing, a taxi turns the corner. I instantly let out an almighty yell at the driver and am just about to shove my way through the crowd to get to him, when a voice from behind suddenly stops me dead in my tracks.

  ‘Any spare change for a hostel, love?’

  No, no, no, no, no! Please, please, please don’t let it be someone I know, come to haul me back … not now! Not when I’ve got this far! But even through the befuddled haze clouding me, a tiny part of my logical brain says … hang on just a sec. Your wedding guests are hardly likely to be out on the streets looking for change for a hostel, now are they?

  ‘I don’t drink or do drugs, love, I’m only looking for a bit of spare change.’

  I turn sharply round to see a homeless guy just at my feet, huddled under a sleeping bag and shivering, even though it’s a warm, balmy evening.

  ‘Even just a few coins would help,’ he adds, eyeing up my handbag.

  Instinctively, I open the bag to fumble round the bottom of my purse for a few coins … and that’s when my eye falls on it.

  My engagement ring. The one that Frank flew me especially to New York to buy, just so we could always say it came from Tiffany’s. I take a good look down at it. Three tiny neat little diamonds. And much as I loved it, I know I can never look at it again as long as I live.

  In an instant, I whip it off my finger and without a second thought, hand it over to the homeless guy.

  Will we both be okay, do you think? I wordlessly ask him as our hands momentarily lock.

  I don’t know, he seems to say, looking lifelessly back up at me.

  Two minutes later and I’m in the back of the taxi, speeding out towards the airport. And for the first time in my entire life, I don’t have a single clue what tomorrow may bring.

  Chapter Two

  London, the present.

  ‘Miss Townsend? Miss Chloe Townsend?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I smile brightly back. But then I’m a firm believer that when nervous, just look and act confident and effervescent on the outside, and sooner or later, the rest of the world will eventually believe the lie.

  ‘Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels,’ he nods back, giving me a firm, businesslike handshake. Strong, confident grip.

  ‘Good to meet you and thanks so much for coming along today, especially at short notice. Here, grab a seat.’

  I do as he says, but then Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels is someone you just automatically do what you’re told around. Even guests who’ve paid handsomely for the privilege, I’d hazard a guess.

  ‘Okay if I call you Chloe? Sorry, but as you probably know, I’m not so big on formality.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  Not so big on formality? I think. Ha! Rob McFayden is famous for coming to work in jeans and trainers; almost like he was in such a rush to get there, he ended up sprinting. Rumour has it he’s frequently acted as impromptu doorman/receptionist and even barman on the rare occasions when he feels things aren’t being done snappily enough in his hotel chain. Received myth is that, at a wedding in his Parisian hotel, he once jumped in and acted as a sous-chef for the night, on account of they were one man short in the kitchen.

  Yup, an unpredictable man, by all accounts.

  ‘Great,’ he nods curtly back at me. The mighty Rob McFayden doesn’t even bother to sit behind his desk either, I notice, like would-be-employers usually do in interviews. Instead, he just rolls up his sleeves and perches casually on the edge of it, as if he’s already decided this meeting will take no longer than three minutes, so the application of his bum to the seat is just a waste of time.

  ‘So, I have your CV here, Chloe, and my HR team tell me it’s all looking pretty good. Well,’ he throws in briskly, ‘obviously it’s a glowing CV, otherwise, you’d hardly have got through my door in the first place.’

  ‘Well, emm … thank you,’ I smile tautly, although I’m not actually certain he meant it as a comp
liment.

  Suddenly, the nervy tension between us is shattered as his phone rings. He whips it out of his pocket, checks the number then rolls his eyes.

  ‘Sorry, but do you mind if I take this? It’s my Locations Manager in Italy and it’s more than likely an emergency.’ Then with a wry smile, he adds, ‘It inevitably is.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I smile overly brightly to compensate for sheer antsiness. ‘Please, go right ahead.’

  He takes the call, giving me the chance, for the first time, to really get a half-decent look at the guy. A lot younger than I’d have thought, is my initial impression. Early forties at most, salt and pepper slightly greying hair, long, skinny build. Well travelled, lean, all angles. One of those ectomorph body types you’d almost automatically take a dislike to, on account of they can probably eat all they like and never gain a single gram. Well, either that, or the man lives off fags.

  Then with a quick, businesslike, ‘well, let’s set up a meeting with the architect and I’ll see you in Milan on Thursday. We’ll pick this up then,’ he’s off the phone.

  ‘Apologies for that,’ he says, though not looking at me, instead totally focused on the CV in front of him, eyes darting busily up and down the page. ‘So I see you’ve been working at the Bloomsbury Square Hotel here in London for the past couple of years.’

  ‘Emm … yes,’ I answer brightly.

  ‘And you’re Reservations Manager there …’ he says absently, still scrutinizing the CV closely.

  ‘That’s right!’

  ‘In other words, Chloe,’ he says, pointedly using my name, ‘you’ve basically spent the last two years looking after high maintenance guests, unhappy that they weren’t allocated a panoramic view and dealing with complaints that the en-suite’s not big enough. That sort of thing, yeah?’

  I bristle a bit at this, mainly because my job involves a helluva lot more than just basic housekeeping.

  ‘Well, of course, that’s some of what my work entails, yes,’ I answer him, ‘but the job isn’t just about troubleshooting staffing issues and rotas, but ironing out countless unforeseen guest-related issues on virtually an hour-by-hour basis.’

  And don’t even get me started on the guests that needed to be ‘handled’, in much the same way that you’d handle nitroglycerine, I’m about to tell him. But no such luck; he’s already moved on.

  ‘But before that, I see you were Functions Manager at the Merrion Hotel over in Dublin,’ he says, impatiently tapping a biro off the CV. ‘Now that’s good, that’s more like it. In fact, that’s the main reason I wanted to meet you personally this morning. Having an in-depth knowledge of the Irish hotel system would be hugely helpful for this particular job. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I thought that might be of interest, alright. Plus as you know, the Merrion is part of the Leading Hotels of the World group, so it was fantastic to gain first-hand experience working in that environment. I loved my time working there,’ I tell him, growing more and more confident now I’m talking about what’s essentially my passion. What I know and love best.

  ‘Go on,’ he says blankly.

  ‘You see, I saw my job as so much more than just making a function such as a wedding, run smoothly. I took it as my personal mission to see that every single bride’s dream day was utterly magical in every way that we could possibly make it. After all, every bride deserves her perfect day, doesn’t she?’

  Good girl, you did it Chloe! You actually managed to get it out. I allow myself a tiny sigh of relief now. Mainly because it took many, many hours of rehearsing that last bit in front of a mirror at home to finally get the wobble out of my voice, but somehow, I think I pulled it off.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t know myself, never having actually been a bride,’ says Rob dryly, looking right at me now. ‘But if you’ve brought any back-up with you, I’d love to see it.’

  ‘Of course,’ I smile, but then I’ve come fully prepped for this. Out of my briefcase, I whip a full list of every wedding, fiftieth birthday party and corporate black-tie shindig that I’ve ever organized and worked on. Back-up photos, the whole works.

  ‘As you’ll see here,’ I tell Rob, handing it over, ‘there was absolutely nothing I wasn’t prepared to do for any of our guests, no matter what their budget. I’ve arranged for doves to be released at midnight, just as one couple asked; I’ve even organized themed weddings too, from a Caribbean indoor beach theme, to a couple who wanted the hotel dining room transformed into a scene from Hogwarts.’

  ‘Hogwarts? Seriously?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Believe me, that was the tip of the iceberg,’ I say. ‘When the happy couple asked for a fleet of owls to fly in carrying emails from well-wishers in their beaks, that was when we ran into difficulty.’

  ‘I can only imagine,’ he says, shaking his head.

  ‘But if you ask me, I think you can sum up any manager’s mission statement in a single word. WIT.’

  ‘Which stands for …?’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ I say, really feeling in control now. ‘Whatever a guest wants, I’ll personally jump through hoops to ensure we secure it for them. No matter what.’

  ‘I see,’ Rob nods at me, then goes back to scanning through the file I’ve just presented him with. Now I worked hard on it and am bloody proud of what’s in there, but I have to say, so far he looks completely unreadable and not at all bowled over and impressed as I was hoping he would be.

  ‘So you’ve worked on weddings, functions, birthdays, I get it,’ he says again, just that bit unenthused. ‘But you see, this particular hotel I’m planning on opening in Dublin will, as you’ll appreciate, appeal to a quite specific niche market. So, you want to tell me exactly why you think you’d be right for the job of General Manager there?’

  I smile brightly, but then, boy am I ready for this.

  ‘Firstly,’ I tell him, taking care to meet the slate grey eyes boring into me now, ‘because you see, I’m from Dublin. I know the city upside down and particularly the area around Hope Street, where the hotel will be situated. I’ve devoted my entire career to working in boutique hotels and have so many ideas I’d love to share with you.’

  ‘Such as?’ he says, and I could be mistaken, but swear I pick up just the tiniest spark of interest now. So I really go for it.

  ‘As you say, this will be very much a niche hotel, so let’s really appeal to that niche. As well as all the regular function rooms they’d get at any five-star hotel, let’s give them so much more. We really have scope to go the extra mile here, so let’s do exactly that.’

  ‘Go on,’ he says, folding his arms and looking interested now.

  ‘Well, given the emotional intensity of what our guests will be facing, I’d suggest a relaxation room or maybe even a quiet room, for calm reflection. Equally, I’d love to see a games room where more boisterous guests could let off a bit of steam. And the gardens around the Hope Street area are all so quiet and serene, so let’s really make a feature of that. We could possibly have a beautiful meditation area outdoors, as well as a water feature.’

  ‘A water feature?’

  ‘The sound of flowing water is really soothing outdoors,’ I tell him confidently.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘And we could also have some decking and a barbecue area, maybe for a final goodbye lunch, when all business has been conducted and before we send our guests on their way.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Rob is nodding away at me now and for a brief, shining moment, I think this might just swing things my way. ‘But just for the moment, I’d like to get back to your CV,’ he says, suddenly changing tack and referring back down to it, inspecting it closely.

  Shite. Or maybe not.

  ‘So it seems you worked at the Merrion Hotel for over seven years?’ he asks, scrutinizing the CV forensically.

  ‘Emm … yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Ah, but hang on here a second,’ he says, suddenly spottin
g something that seems to jar with him. ‘According to this, you left the Merrion three years ago, but didn’t start work here in London months afterwards. Now for a CV like yours, that’s quite a lengthy gap. So, I guess my next question is, why?’

  ‘Well, you see,’ I begin and for the first time, my voice is now starting to sound just that bit smaller than it has up to now. ‘I had come to a point in my career where I felt working abroad would really benefit me on a number of levels.’

  But predictably, he’s zoned straight into this and won’t let up.

  ‘Yeah, but why the long gap? Pretty long time for someone who’d just finished up at the Merrion. Surely if you were planning to work abroad, you’d have locked a new job in place before jumping ship, as it were?’

  He’s looking at me unflinchingly now. Slate grey eyes, unblinking; the CV in front of him his sole focus.

  ‘The reason being,’ I begin nervously, taking a deep breath, and locking eyes with him, then diving into my over-rehearsed answer. ‘It just took me some time to find a post that was the right fit for me. As you can see, I’d gained invaluable experience at the Merrion and was anxious to expand my CV even further. I wanted to cover all managerial aspects of the job and if possible, branch out from a Functions Manager’s role.’

  Can’t we just drop this and move on?

  ‘Yeaaaah, but what you’re saying still doesn’t quite make sense,’ he says, lightly tossing my CV aside, almost like he’s lost interest in it now. ‘You see, I know the Merrion, know it well; I’ve stayed there. Functions Manager in a hotel like that is a terrific gig anyone your age would kill for. Yet you left to go to London, and then took a lower grade job at a significantly reduced salary. Which strikes me as an incredibly odd thing to do, for someone with all your experience. It seems like a backward career move. Particularly for a manager as highly thought of in the industry as you are. And yes, Chloe, before you ask, please know I’ve done my homework on you before you even got this meeting.’