Masters And Lovers 1-4

Chapter 15

The morning is chaotic. In theory, Michael and I, Richard and the guests occupy the hotel. Charlotte

and Beth have the house. In practice, people mill about in all directions, turning up in unexpected

places….

Still in jeans and tee-shirt while I make a last check on preparations, I eject a couple of kids from the

kitchen where the chef’s knife set seems to be a magnet for them. Then as I turn to leave, I run into an

old lady trying to force the larder door open.

“I was only looking for the ladies’ toilets….”

“And who are you?”

“I’m Michael’s Aunty Gladys”

“Well, I’m James, his Best Man, and you’ll find the toilets along the corridor.” Taking her by the

shoulders, I turn her around, steering her to aim the right way, then wait and watch to be sure she

toddles off.

In the bedroom we’re using as a changing room, Michael looks harassed. “Please tell me you

remembered to lock the door to the cellars in the house.”

“Oh, yes. We don’t want random wanderers down there,” I flash brows, fishing out my keys, jingle them

in demonstration, then tuck them safely back in my pocket. “All locked and secure.”

Jeez….

The idea of Ben wandering down there….

For someone normally so sunny, so self-contained, so competent, Michael is a bag of nerves. He

misbuttons his shirt and has to unfasten then rebutton it. The tie dangling under his collar, he fumbles

and mis-knots it. The front ends up three inches long with the back half trailing by his belt. The result

looks like something worn by a circus clown.

He tries again, with a similar result.

“I’ll do it for you in a sec,” I say, brushing specks of dust from his dark grey formal jacket.

“Here, let me.” It’s Ben. “Come on Bro. Calm down.” Michael shoots him a grateful glance as Ben

unravels the tie, then reknots it into a perfect Windsor. “You should have a drink. What is there around

here?”

I point to a bottle and glasses. “Scotch over there.” Belonging © NôvelDram/a.Org.

Michael shudders. “Don’t think I could handle it.”

“You should have some breakfast at least.”

Ben raises brows. “Yes, he should. I’ll bring something up for you. Is the kitchen open, James?”

“The staff should be in there by now. Just tell them what you want.”

“How about bacon sandwiches all round then?”

Michael’s face sets, so I interrupt. “Great idea, Ben. Get something solid inside him.”

*****

Leaving Michael to the tender care of his brother, I go to check the catering arrangements and see that

the staff have everything they need.

Along the staff corridor by the kitchens, I find a girl wandering. She seems familiar, but for a moment I

can’t place her.

Then she sees me and breaks into a simpering smile. “Hello.”

Ah, gotcha.

“Hello. It's Marie, isn't it? Charlotte’s friend from the student house?”

“That's right. She swings her arms around in time-honoured ‘dumb-blonde’ fashion. Personally, I’ve

never found blondes to be dumb, but in Marie’s case, I’m happy to make an exception.

I point. “The public areas are down there and to the left. And if you want the bathrooms, they’re to the

right.” I turn to for the kitchen, but my progress is interrupted.

“Charlotte’s very lucky to marry someone like Michael. He's terribly handsome isn't he.”

I keep my voice dry. “You wouldn't be the first to think so.” A thought occurs. “Is your boyfriend here

too? Pete was it? Rather a good cook as I recall.”

She wrinkles her nose….

Who actually does that…?

“No. Me ‘n Pete split up. He ran off with another girl….”

Sensible lad….

“…. I'm single these days….” She gazes up at me with what perhaps she thinks is a winning look. And I

look down into eyes quite devoid of a single original thought. “Are you with anyone today, James?”

Oh, crap….

“I’m here as Michael’s Best Man. I….” I'm saved from answering further by a crashing sound. Metal

clanks and clangs from beyond the swing doors….

And I don’t care what degree of disaster just befell….

…. Perfect….

“Please excuse me, Marie. I need to see what that is.” Turning on my heel, I leave her, pulling a face.

Following the racket into the kitchen, I find a girl in a previously white blouse and black trousers

scrabbling on the floor, floundering in a sea of spilt sauce and trying to gather up pans. The cause of

her accident sticks out from under a counter: a pair of legs in worn jeans and battered workman’s

boots.

“I'm sorry, Mr Alexanders,” she babbles. “I didn't see him there.”

I help her to stand, find a cloth to wipe off the worst of the sauce, then point her to the storeroom.

“You’ll find some clean overalls in there. Just use what fits.”

Then I turn my attention to the pair of legs. “And who would you be?”

The voice is reedy, a blue-bottle buzz of a voice. “Just plumbing in the dishwasher.”

What… Now?

“I wanted that done a week ago.”

“Well, we can't always have what we want, can we? It's a busy life, innit.”

“I'm guessing you will want to be paid for your work. It would be a real shame, wouldn’t it, if you couldn't

have what you wanted either. Get it finished quickly. The kitchen staff need to be able to do their jobs

too.”

He slides out from under the counter, lying on some kind of trolley. “Look, mate,” he says, punctuating

his words with a spanner. “I can talk, or I can work. Which is it to be?”

Officious little runt….

And I have to be satisfied with that.

The girl reappears. “Can you wash those by hand for now?” I ask her, nodding down to the pans.

She casts a toxic look at the plumber. “I'm going to have to, aren't I? I’ve got a gallon of sauce to

remake.”

*****