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Chris up to this and told you to show it to me.’
    â€˜No, it’s a real booking.’ The receptionist looked horrified. ‘You mean Mr Watt isn’t your boyfriend?’
    â€˜No, he is not. Cancel it.’
    The girl hesitated.
    â€˜You can do that, surely?’
    â€˜Well, no,’ stuttered the girl. ‘It’s a special code for free stays. Chris typed it in; I can’t undo it.’ The telephone next to her rang. ‘Look, we’ll get Chris to sort it out in a minute. Let me just get this call.’
    Seething with indignation, Becky left her to it and sat in one of the classic English antique chairs in the reception area. So this was the extra favour Ian had intended extracting from the manager. And pathetic Chris Harris had gone along with it.
    She wondered whether to have it out with Ian as soon as she saw him. Or maybe it would be more satisfying to see how he intended to break the news to her and then deal with it – preferably in front of Chris, who clearly needed to ‘man-up’ where users like Ian were concerned.
    And here they were: Ian coming along the corridor with a jaunty swagger, followed by Chris Harris, looking deathly, his forehead beaded with sweat.
    â€˜Becky,’ exclaimed Ian. ‘Isn’t this a lovely hotel? Are you getting enough for your write-up?’
    Chris was looking at her with an anxious intensity. God, he really believed she had the power to influence would-be local customers.
    â€˜It’s a lovely setting,’ she told him. ‘And I’m sure your hotel doesn’t need the publicity.’
    â€˜Everyone could do with good publicity,’ said Ian, quickly. ‘And isn’t it nice of old Chris to insist that we have lunch here?’
    â€˜It’s nice that Mr McBride has agreed to cover our expenses,’ said Becky. ‘Or shall I just ring him now to confirm it’s OK?’
    Ian glared at her, while ‘old Chris’ looked resentfully at him.
    â€˜Lunch is on the house,’ Chris murmured, standing aside. ‘Would you like to come this way, Miss Thomson?’
    He led them to a table in the walnut-panelled dining room and handed them each one of the Monmouth’s ornate, gold-tasselled menus. He then disappeared into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a waiter who he brought to the table just as Ian was holding up a knife to the light.
    â€˜Is there something wrong with it?’ asked Chris.
    â€˜Relax, old boy,’ said Ian. ‘I was admiring the hallmark.’
    â€˜You may need to frisk him when we leave,’ said Becky and noticed Chris cast a bewildered look at Ian, who was now perusing the menu.
    From where she was sitting Becky could see part of the reception desk through the open dining-room door and made a mental note to ask the receptionist for a screen print of the bridal suite booking. Once she got back to the office she would show it to Mr McBride; surely even his favoured nephew wouldn’t survive this. But then the receptionist moved back into her line of view and it wasn’t the young woman from before; an older man had taken her place. Becky cursed inwardly.
    Ian completed his protracted perusal of the menu and settled for moules marinière. ‘And, I suppose, let’s have a look at the wine list.’
    â€˜You’re driving,’ snapped Becky and then, more gently to the waiter, ‘a salad, please. And a glass of tap water.’
    â€˜You haven’t even opened your menu,’ said Ian. ‘How can you do a write-up of the food based on a salad?’
    â€˜I’m not a food connoisseur,’ said Becky.
    â€˜How about a perigourdine salad?’ asked Chris, ‘it has duck and walnuts and –‘
    â€˜Does it need a lot of preparation?’ said Becky. ‘We have to be back in the office this afternoon.’
    â€˜No more than for a plain salad.’ Chris cast a surprised look at a frowning