We’ve reached the reception desk by now, and a concierge in a trendy Nehru jacket smiles at us. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brandon,” he says. “And Miss Bloomwood. Welcome to Blakeley Hall.”
He knew our names! We didn’t even have to tell him! No wonder celebrities come here.
“I’ve put you in room 9,” he says, as Luke starts to fill in a form. “Overlooking the rose garden.”
“Great,” says Luke. “Becky, which paper would you like in the morning?”
“The Financial Times,” I say smoothly.
“Of course,” says Luke, writing. “So that’s one FT — and a Daily World for me.”
I give him a suspicious look, but his face is completely blank.
“Would you like tea in the morning?” says the concierge, tapping at his computer. “Or coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” says Luke. “For both of us, I think.” He looks at me questioningly, and I nod.
“You’ll find a complimentary bottle of champagne in your room,” says the concierge, “and room service is available twenty-four hours.”
I have to say I’m very impressed. This really is a top-class place. They know your face immediately, they give you champagne — and they haven’t even mentioned my Special Express parcel yet. Obviously they realize it’s a matter of discretion. They realize that a girl doesn’t necessarily want her boyfriend knowing about every single package that is delivered to her — and are going to wait until Luke is out of earshot until they tell me about it. This is why it’s worth coming to a good hotel.
“If there’s anything else you require, Miss Bloomwood,” says the concierge, looking at me meaningfully, “please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
You see? Coded messages and everything.
“I will, don’t worry,” I say, and give him a knowing smile. “In just a moment.” I flick my eyes meaningfully toward Luke, and the concierge gives me a blank stare, exactly as though he’s got no idea what I’m talking about. God, these people are good!
Eventually, Luke finishes the forms and hands them back. The concierge hands him a big, old-fashioned room key, and summons a porter.
“I don’t think we need any help,” says Luke, with a smile, and lifts up my dinky suitcase. “I’m not exactly overburdened.”
“You go on up,” I say. “I just want to… check something. For tomorrow.” I smile at Luke and after a moment, to my relief, he heads off toward the staircase.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, I swivel back to the desk.
“I’ll take it now,” I murmur to the concierge, who has turned away and is looking in a drawer. He raises his head and looks at me in surprise.
“I’m sorry, Miss Bloomwood?”
“It’s OK,” I say more meaningfully. “You can give it to me now. While Luke’s gone.”
A flicker of apprehension passes over the concierge’s face.
“What exactly—”
“You can give me my package.” I lower my voice. “And thanks for not letting on.”
“Your… package?”
“My Special Express.”
“What Special Express?”
I stare at him, feeling a few misgivings.
“The parcel with all my clothes in it! The one you weren’t mentioning! The one…”
I tail away at the sight of his face. He doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about, does he? OK. Don’t panic. Someone else will know where it is.
“I should have a parcel waiting for me,” I explain. “About this big… It should have arrived this morning…”
The concierge is shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, Miss Bloomwood. There aren’t any packages for you.”
Suddenly I feel a little hollow.
“But… there has to be a package. I sent it by Special Express, yesterday. To Blakeley Hall.”
The concierge frowns.
“Charlotte?” he says, calling into a back room. “Has a parcel arrived for Rebecca Bloomwood?”
“No,” says Charlotte, coming out. “When was it supposed to arrive?”
“This morning!” I say, trying to hide my agitation. “ ‘Anything, anywhere, by tomorrow morning’! I mean, this is anywhere, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” says Charlotte, “but nothing’s come. Was it very important?”
“Rebecca?” comes a voice from the stairs, and I turn to see Luke peering down at me. “Is something wrong?”
“No!” I say brightly. “Of course not! What on earth could be wrong?” Quickly I swivel away from the desk and, before Charlotte or the concierge can say anything, hurry toward the stairs.