7
You get what you pay for, and at the hotel Jonathan had paid for, they got discreet, supposedly incurious serenity at the sight of the newly (un)engaged couple doing a flit – Harriet didn’t doubt the staff recognised them, given Jonathan’s extensive arrangements.
They might’ve imagined it was some sort of amorous impulsiveness, like they were about to floor it to Gretna Green, except for the fact Jon and Harriet were both as edgy during the checkout as a pair of bank robbers waiting for the cashier to empty the till.
What on earth is going on there? the staff would say, as soon as Jon’s Merc scrunched away with a spray of gravel.
As they dragged their trolley cases past the dining room, Jon said: ‘Right, it’s inclusive, so if we move like lightning …’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting we have breakfast?’ Harriet hissed. ‘It’s already seven a.m.!’
Every minute he’d spent in the shower this morning had felt like he was trolling her. Jon’s promise of a ‘very early’ departure was now, timewise, well into overlapping on the Venn diagram with ‘the kind of hour that sixty-somethings get up and potter around with the Telegraph over a decaf coffee’.
The thought of Jacqueline appearing round a corner, wreathed in Jo Malone Pear & Freesia and schadenfreude, was making Harriet ill.
‘I’ve got to grab something or else it could provoke a migraine,’ Jonathan hissed. ‘I’ll wrap a croissant in a napkin.’
Harriet suppressed fury. ‘If you must.’
For ‘migraine’ he meant a ‘bit of a headache’ – headaches always conveniently and passively aggressively brought on by anything in his environment not entirely to his liking. The way he finicked over his own health needs had always given Harriet a slight shudder. She once saw him tell a waiter in The Wolseley: ‘No fresh orange juice for me thanks, it’s gastric carnage an hour later. Like a Roman candle. Something to do with the acidity.’
Harriet didn’t want to accompany Jon to the buffet but she sure as hell didn’t want to risk an encounter with anyone they knew while standing on her own, so she followed him through.
They both stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of Barty, alone, calmly picking his way through an absolutely gigantic full English, with three fat sausages, extra granary toast and a fruit salad on the side.
‘Why are you here?!’ Jon blurted, and for once, Harriet had to allow that the insolent Barty comeback of ‘Why are you here?’ was justified.
Even in the nasty shock of discovery, Harriet spent a split second admiring Barty’s audacity. He was surely going down for three counts of ‘Conspiracy to Defraud’ and one of ‘Impersonating a Sheikh’ at the Old Bailey in the future.
In the turmoil of the previous evening and the agony of this morning, neither Jon nor Harriet had strategised for running into his family, and their asking where and why they were going.
‘I woke up and I was hungry,’ Barty said, boredly, looking back at a banquet spread which Harriet now saw included two pain au chocolat.
There was a brief yet painful pause.
‘Same here! Fancied an early brekkers,’ Jon said, leaning over to playfully muss his hair, which made Barty wriggle away.
‘With your luggage?’ Barty said, sceptically.
‘Oh, ah … no harm in being organised,’ Jon said, shakily, and they all stared at each other, in a Mexican stand-off involving blatant lies instead of guns.
‘I’m eleven, I’m not an idiot,’ Barty said, succinctly, and Harriet felt belatedly vindicated that the near-mute who asked his parents to explain everything was indeed a malicious persona.
‘Are you trying to avoid seeing my parents and grandparents?’ he added, clearly enjoying tearing off the mask to reveal Clever Barty. Barty Poirot.
Harriet, desperate to be gone, said, ‘Yes, we’re doing a runner.’
‘Why?’
‘Jon and I have broken up because I don’t want to get married.’
‘You did say you didn’t like weddings,’ Barty said, insouciantly, and returned to cutting up his hash browns. Finally, a Barraclough who listened to her!
‘True enough. Bye then,’ Harriet said, and saw that Jon looked like he was having a heart attack. She nudged him and gestured to the croissants.
As soon as the car door slammed outside, Jon rounded on Harriet: ‘Don’t you think I have the right to tell my parents before that little berk does?!’
She knew he must be genuinely incandescent, to be slandering his nephew.
‘Jon, I know, but we’d been caught red-handed.’
‘We could’ve fobbed him off!’
‘How? I couldn’t think of a single innocuous reason why we’d be legging it at this hour, could you?’
‘Well, if you’d given me a chance, before blabbing: “oh I dumped him, I dumped his ass, he dwells alone in a hovel in Dumpstown.”’
Harriet said nothing, having forgotten that Jon trying to speak ‘street’ was worse than him telling waiters about his bowel movements.
‘I’m really sorry. I did say we shouldn’t risk the dining room.’
‘They’ll be ringing me in ten minutes’ time now! Demanding explanations! And guess what, I don’t really have any? Turns out Harriet doesn’t love me and the thought of marrying me is like an EARLY DEATH!’
‘… Do you want me to speak to them?’
‘NO, I FUCKING DON’T! THAT WOULD BE REALLY WEIRD.’
He was port coloured, working himself to hysteria, and Harriet didn’t know what she could do other than stay calm. She wasn’t insured to drive the Mercedes, either. She really needed Jon to make good on his promises or she’d be waiting for an Uber, concealed in a ditch. She imagined pin dropping her location, in a roadside bush.
Eventually, breathing heavily, Jon resentfully thrust his key in the ignition and roared out of the hotel grounds as if he was in the Grand Prix. Harriet inwardly let out a huge sigh.
It was an odd thought, but as they tore through leafy country lanes full of cow parsley, she wondered if Jon now regretted agreeing to their (partially) successful bolt. After all, they were leaving behind the four people – minus her new pal, Barty the sausage gannet – who’d be appalled at Jon’s reasonless mistreatment, at the inconceivable arrogance and stupidity of rejecting him. Jon always wanted to protect and promote Harriet’s reputation with his loved ones, but had that expired abruptly, like insurance cover? She had terminated her policy and stopped paying the premiums.
They drove in threatening, unbroken silence back to Leeds. At first, Harriet felt she should say something, but as it continued, she felt respecting his not wanting a conversation was wise.
‘You can stay as long as you like until you find somewhere,’ Jon finally said, with wounded gallantry, as they passed through the electric gates to his house. It seemed a semblance of Jon normality had returned. ‘If you’re genuinely determined to do this.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ignoring the last part.
As they got out of the car, Harriet noticed the uneaten squashed pastry in the map pocket of the driver’s car door.
In the hallway, Jon checked his phone, scowled, said nothing, and strode off to make calls in the garden.