‘Right, then,’ I said to Nick. ‘Looks like reception’s this way.’
He made a show of putting his phone away and then sprang to attention, ushering me in the direction of the revolving doors.
‘After you, m’lady,’ joked Nick.
The doorman helped us through the door and I thanked him as I dragged my suitcase through to the lobby aselegantly as I could manage given the half-shredded wheels, which didn’t glide as easily over the plush carpet as Nick’s luxury case seemed to. My jaw literally dropped as I looked around at my surroundings. I couldn’t believe this was going to be my home for the next five days! I mean, I loved hotels and, thanks to my job on a TV travel channel, I’d stayed in quite a few of them, but they were never, ever anything like this. It was like I imagined the interior of The Ritz to be, except smaller and cosier and more Italian (in other words, absolutely nothing like The Ritz).
I closed my mouth, thinking I should probably make some attempt to play it cool. To act like this wasn’t so far out of my comfort zone that it would be funny if it wasn’t also slightly terrifying. What did this say about Nick’s family? I mean, I’d picked up that they had money, but this was another level plush.
As we headed over to the front desk, I noticed a pianist playing in the corner. His dinner-jacket-clad back was hunched dramatically over the keys as he played what I thought might have been Vivaldi, although I was definitelynota classical music buff, so it was just a guess. Vivaldi was Italian, though, wasn’t he, so that would make sense?
When I looked up at the ceiling, I spotted a huge crystal chandelier that was about the same size as the studio flat I’d lived in before I’d moved in with Nick.
‘Imagine if that dropped on your head,’ I said, wincing at the thought.
‘Trust you to come up with the worst-case scenario,’ laughed Nick, directing me over to reception, where two women wearing chic racing green uniforms were doing an excellent job of pretending that they were excited to see us.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said one in a thick, Italian accent. ‘And to you, madam! I trust you had a very good journey?’
Not reallywas on the tip of my tongue.
Close up, their make-up was immaculate (I always felt the same way about air stewardesses) and I immediately wished I’d reapplied mine at the train station before we got in the taxi. Anyway, it didn’t matter because soon I’d be able to get up to our room and make myself look vaguely presentable to meet Nick’s parents for the first time. After all, they were going to be my in-laws – I wanted them to love me as much as I hoped I would grow to love them. I was excited about the prospect of having a whole new family to get to know, one which was, presumably, much more stable than my own. Nick’s parents had been married for forty-five years for a start, which was why we were all here in the first place.
Nick checked us in and when the receptionist slipped the invoice across the desk, I noticed it came to a total of just over three thousand euros, which she explained we wouldn’t need to pay for now, but that she’d need to take Nick’s credit card details for security reasons.
I tapped Nick on the shoulder, wide-eyed. ‘How much?’ I mouthed.
He looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
My mouth open and shut as though I was gasping for air. ‘That’s, like, half our wedding fund!’
‘My parents are covering the bill,’ he said, giving me a weird look, as though this was obvious.
He definitely had not mentioned anything about his parents forking out for our room.
‘What, the whole thing?’ I clarified.
‘Yes. Can we talk about this later?’
He turned back to the receptionist, all smiles.
I often wondered, with hotels like this, what constituted a room costing five hundred pounds a night as opposed to a much more reasonable two hundred? Two fifty at a push,for a city-centre place? Perhaps all would be revealed. Also, I was starting to realise that Nick was from a more privileged background than I’d thought. Still, I didn’t suppose it would make any difference – if Nick’s family were anything like him, I was going to love them.
I watched as the receptionist directed Nick to the lifts; our room was on the fourth floor, apparently, with a view of the city’s rooftops and the Duomo, she told us with enthusiasm. This was exciting. I’d already decided that, in the morning, I was going to wake up and throw open the windows and breathe in the Florentine air, channelling Helena Bonham Carter inA Room With A View.
‘Thanks, but we’re heading into the restaurant first,’ I heard Nick say. ‘Can you have our suitcases taken up to our room?’
‘No problem, sir,’ trilled the receptionist, calling over a porter with a flick of her wrist and barking orders at him in (I thought unnecessarily) aggressive-sounding Italian.
‘Um, what are you doing?’ I said to Nick brightly.
‘We’re going straight in to meet Mum and Dad. They’re waiting for us.’
I took a moment to gather my thoughts, hoping that I could air my dissatisfaction with this plan in a calm and reasonable manner.
‘But I look a complete mess!’ I screeched, failing dismally.
Seriously, though! I looked down at my faded jeans and my black T-shirt and my faux-suede ankle boots that were scuffed at the toe already even though I’d only bought them a couple of weeks ago (I was terrible at keeping footwear looking nice, probably because I only had about two pairs on rotation at any one time). How on earth was I going to make a decent first impression looking like this?