Funnily enough, even though he thought of himself as someone who could take or leave social media, he realized just how much he’d used it, been on it. And, conversely, how relaxing it was not to be on it. He was, he’d noticed, sleeping better since he’d come here. Something to do with hard work, he supposed, and getting up early, and no booze (unless Gaspard was feeling generous), and somehow being away from everything, including the fun, also kept him away from the other things too: the empty echoing corridors of the palace, the constant sense of someone missing, the wasted mornings and pointless days, the bored indulgences, the rooms where his mother had used to walk.

It was the first time, truly, that he had distance from everything and he had a little time and space to himself. Not to be online, not to be playing with his friends or tearing things up. Just a little time to contemplate the world and a little discipline. He had found an old book in the library about wintering in the South Pole and was engrossed in it, feeling, sometimes, that the person’s experience wasn’t massively different from his own. Peace, quiet, dark, and contemplation.

So he wasn’t really taking in what Fintan was saying.

Meanwhile Isla—how pretty she had looked, he thought again, when she laughed. How soft she had felt in his arms. Isla was looking absolutely terrified at the prospect of getting into trouble. It made her seem very young.

Fintan pulled out his iPad and set it up on reception, then showed them the news headlines.

Isla’s knees trembled. This was awful.

Konstantin threw back his head and burst out laughing. She looked at him.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “This will be great for business.”

“Being the worst hotel in Britain?”

“Having a very handsome dog!” He frowned suddenly.

“What?”

“How many shares?”

It was, he had just realized, not impossible that someone he knew had seen it. Seen him. Oh well. That wouldn’t mean anything, would it? Would it?

“Forty thousand,” said Isla in awe. “Oh my God.”

“Don’t plug the phone back in,” said Fintan. “But bloody well start behaving like professionals.”

“We’re pot washers,” said Konstantin.

“I’m junior kitchen manager!” gasped Isla, suddenly aware she sounded exactly like her mother.

Fintan ignored her. “Well, professional pot washers then, for Christ’s sake. It’s not difficult. Where’s Gaspard?”

It was the first time Konstantin realized there was no telltale smell of something delicious—slowly caramelizing onions, fresh roasted garlic—emanating from the kitchen.

“Did you even think to look for him?” stormed Fintan. If he had been disenchanted and sad and fed up with the hotel before all this, well, now he outright hated the entire enterprise.

As the two of them shrugged sheepishly, he ordered them into the kitchen to clean up and stormed off in search of his chef.

Chapter 34

G aspard wasn’t in his room or the library or any of the rooms of the hotel at all. Fintan sighed. Oh God, he couldn’t lose his temperamental chef. Not with the grand opening coming up and, now, with the eyes of the world on them. He couldn’t get over what a stupid idea the Instagram post was and couldn’t believe anyone had signed off on it.