Charlotte Phillips - Did Someone Order Room Service?:

Charlotte Phillips

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 77–85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013 Copyright © Charlotte Phillips Cover Images © Shutterstock.com Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © October 2013 ISBN: 9780007532049 Version 2014-09-30 Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Dedication For Barry, who is always there for me. With love and thanks.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Charlotte Phillips

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013

Copyright © Charlotte Phillips

Cover Images © Shutterstock.com

Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2013

ISBN: 9780007532049

Version 2014-09-30

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

For Barry, who is always there for me. With love and thanks.

Layla Jones wondered, not for the first time, if there could be such a thing as an entire-adult-life crisis instead of just a mid-life one.

She reached the top of the stairs and turned to walk at speed down the hotel’s top floor corridor, heels sinking into the sumptuous ankle deep runner, phone clamped to her ear and eyes everywhere for the slightest sniff of another member of staff. Specifically anyone superior to her. Which actually amounted to quite a lot of people. Guest Services Agent was only a few steps above minion here at the Lavington Hotel. It had taken sixteen tries before her mother picked up the phone and she wasn’t about to hit disconnect after all that effort just because of a little thing like personal phone use during work time.

Unfortunately this wasn’t looking like a quick call since she apparently had to spell out the fact that what her so-called parent had done was unforgivable. She’d just have to dodge into a linen cupboard or something if push came to shove.

‘I lent you my savings because you wanted to set up a business,’ she said, and it sounded so laughable spoken out loud that she could scarcely believe she’d been so stupid. Her mother set up a business? In which universe would that be? ‘And instead you’ve blown the lot on travel plans and concert tickets.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic, darling.’ Behind her mother’s attempt at soothing she could hear an airport tannoy announcing some flight or other. ‘Chance of a lifetime this. Not just any concert tickets. This isn’t some flash-in-the-pan manufactured cutesy boy band, you know. We’re talking Sweet Victory here. Their comeback tour and I’ve got backstage passes. Did you hear me? Backstage Passes! I’m with the band , darling. I never missed one of their shows back in the Eighties and I’m not going to start now.’

Layla gripped the phone briefly away from her ear as she processed this information, and thought for a moment that she really must call up hotel maintenance to get the top floor air-con checked because it was suddenly boiling in here. Her mother had never missed one of their shows, oh no, she’d spent half Layla’s childhood trailing around the world after them, wearing too much leather and hair mousse, while Layla outstayed her welcome with a progression of relatives.

Doors sped past, their glossy red number plates a blur. She didn’t have time for this. She had an hour or so at best to check the Kerry Suite was prepared to perfection before the last-minute guests moved in. After that she’d have to keep a permanent can-I-help-you smile on her face as she saw to their every whim when what she wanted to do was snarl at everyone within shouting distance. She made an enormous effort to lower her voice.

‘I was saving that money for a deposit on a flat,’ she said. Finally it had felt within her grasp that she might actually be able to put down some roots of her own. Steady job and her own place instead of the tiny rented studio with its grotty shared bathroom and her mother kipping on the sofa for a few months at a time when she wasn’t doing the festival season. ‘You told me it was just a start-up thing. You promised you’d pay me back in a week or two when your bank loan came through.’

‘And I will darling. Once the tour’s over I’ll be ready to get my teeth into that T-shirt business and you’ll get your money back quick smart. Just a few months that’s all.’

Layla mentally wrote off the cash. And when her mother turned up after this latest jaunt, just as she always did, murder might be on the cards.

‘How the hell did I get stuck with you as a parent?’ she wailed. ‘Why can’t you be like any normal mother? You should be teaching me how to make shortcrust pastry, handing down family recipes and lending me money to buy my first flat, not disappearing halfway round the world in a leather bustier and hair extensions.’

Her mother made a horrified noise.

‘Sounds like a bloody boring nightmare to me. What are you, living in the dark ages?’