"Good morning, madam!"
The smiling hall porter's words hung visibly on the icy winter air as he held open the heavy entrance door, releasing a cushion of warmth that held the promise of fresh coffee and pastries.
"Welcome to Whittleford Park!"
Honey teetered slightly, unaccustomed to the spiked stiletto heels of her new, leopard print boots. The porter extended a steadying hand, a kindly smile lighting the weathered face, but Honey shook him dismissively from her elbow, swishing expensively blonded hair in his face as she turned and gestured to the Audi abandoned at the foot of the flight of stairs leading to the main entrance.
"My bags!" she instructed in an imperious tone, dropping her car keys into his hand.
"Of course, madam," said the porter, his lips resolutely stretched into an approximation of a smile, "I'll have someone bring them up to your room and park your car."
Honey delved into the butter soft leather of her shouder bag and retrieved a £20 note.
"Thank you," she snipped back at him, adding the money to the car keys without making eye contact.
"Thank you, madam."
Honey shivered inspite of the fur coat she wore. Eager to escape the frigid atmosphere outside, she didn't see the smile change rapidly to a disdainful 'I've seen worse, love,' expression as the door closed softly behind her.
The reception area of Whittleford Park Country Hotel and Spa was a haven of gleaming wood, deep carpet and crackling log fire.
Honey gave her name to the woman who stepped forward to greet her.
"Lovely to have you with us, Mrs Smythe-Nemerov. I'm so sorry that Mr Nemerov is unable to join us on this occasion."
Smartly but inexpensively suited, her smile was more convincing if less sincere than that of her colleague at the door. Honey's practised eye noted a slight regrowth of grey at her roots, a clumping of her supermarket bought mascara and a reassuring extra belt of body fat around her middle. She was probably in her mid forties, just a few years older than Honey but next to her, her own taught, gym-honed body razor sharp in black skinnies and hugging cashmere, Honey felt like a glossy gazelle. She made no attempt to disguise the quick once-over she gave 'Linda Clarke, General Manager' nor the faint smirk that lifted the corner of her mouth.
Linda was good, Honey gave her that; nothing in her demeanour hinted at the offense she surely felt as she continued speaking.
"Your suite is ready and the porter has taken your luggage up for you."
"I specifically requested a deluxe suite with balcony," said Honey in a raised voice, she wanted to be sure that any other guests passing through the reception area were fully aware of her elevated, VIP status, "and fresh fruit and linen each day of my stay."
"Absolutely," said Linda, her smile defiant in the face of overt rudeness. "All of your special requests have been accommodated but should you require anything at all, please do call down to reception at any time and I will personally ensure you have everything you need."
Shortly afterwards, Honey pushed the door to the Rutland Suite, her home for the next month, possibly slightly longer, hopefully slightly less, closed behind her. Her three large suitcases had been placed on the low table at the foot of the king-sized bed. Honey was unexcited by their contents; an extensive and expensive selection of designer garments, all brand new. She unhooked the 'Do Not Disturb' hanger and slipped it onto the exterior door knob before reclosing and locking the door, removing her coat and dropping it onto an armchair by the bed. She placed her voluminous handbag on a side table, obscuring an ostentatious arrangement of unseasonably exotic and frankly gaudy flowers, further ruined by the unnecessary addition of a tacky, logoed Whittleford Park teddy bear, his beady little eyes apparently following her progress around the room. Honey picked the bear up by one ear, glared at it with intense dislike and, mouthing the word 'revolting' into its sinister little face, dropped it with an offended shudder into the waste paper bin.
YOU ARE READING
Honey Bea's Casebook - All Spa None
ChickLitWhen a spate of petty thefts at the award winning Whittleford Park Country House and Spa takes a more sinister turn, uppermost in owner Edwin de Courcy's mind is to avoid any adverse publicity. The targets of what the Whittleford staff have dubbed '...