Under normal circumstances, the Bonneville was so tightly staffed that you rarely saw three cleaners on the same floor, let alone five in one function room. I reckoned Laurence must have let something slip. He was a bit of a shameless star-spotter himself, though he pretended modern stars weren’t a patch on the gold-plated ones who’d frequented the Bonneville in the Good Old Days. I made a bet with myself that he’d be ‘passing’ the Palm Court at about, ooh, ten past ten, in a new shirt and fifty per cent more Eau Savage than normal. Looking on the bright side – literally – the room was spotless. Every surface gleamed – the black grand piano, the glass tabletops, the silver tea services. I ran a quick critical eye over the furniture for any out-of-line chairs or used teacups, and tweaked a couple of round cushions. Sunshine streamed through the long French windows overlooking the rose gardens and creating a neat yellow column over the polished parquet. It really did feel like the sort of room in which an off-duty film star would flick through the morning’s papers, while sipping a coffee poured from a silver cafetière.
