Wedding Night

You’d think that the spa treatments would cancel out the sun damage, but I find it tends to be the other way around. They really should stop putting spas in Thailand. They should situate them in northern wintry countries with no daylight at all.
    Hmm. Is there a piece in that?
    I quickly type into my BlackBerry:
Zero-daylight spa?
then look up. “Everything OK?”
    “The Gruffalo is here. He looks livid.” She swallows. “Maybe I should leave.”
    The Gruffalo is the industry nickname for Gunter Bachmeier. He owns a chain of ten luxury hotels and lives in Switzerland and has a forty-inch waist. I knew he was invited tonight, but I assumed he wouldn’t turn up. Not after our review of his new spa–hotel in Dubai, the Palm Stellar.
    “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
    “Don’t tell him it was me.” Celia’s voice is actually trembling.
    “Celia.” I grip her by both shoulders. “You stand by your review, yes?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, then.” I’m willing some strength into her, but shelooks terrified. It’s amazing how someone who writes such savage, excoriating, witty prose can be so gentle and sensitive in the flesh.
    Hmm. Is there a piece in that?
    I type:
Meet our reviewers in the flesh?? Profiles??
    Then I delete it. Our readers don’t want to meet the reviewers. They don’t want to know that “CBD” lives in Hackney and is an accomplished poet on the side. They simply want to know that their massive slice of cash is going to buy them all the sunshine/snow, white beach/mountains, solitude/beautiful people, Egyptian cotton/hammocks, haute cuisine/expensive club sandwiches that they require of a five-star holiday.
    “No one knows who ‘CBD’ is. You’re safe.” I pat her arm. “I have to run.” I’m already striding down the corridor again. I head into the central atrium and look around. It’s a large, airy, double-height hall—the only impressive space at Pincher International—and every year our overcrowded sub-editors suggest that it’s converted into office space. But it comes into its own for the awards party. I scan the space, ticking off items in my head. Massive iced cake in shape of magazine cover, which no one will eat: check. Caterers setting out glasses: check. Table of trophies: check. Ian from IT is crouching by the podium, fiddling with the auto reader.
    “All OK?” I hurry over.
    “Grand.” He jumps up. “I’ve loaded the speech. Want a sound check?”
    I step onto the stage, switch on the microphone, and peer at the reader.
    “Good evening!” I raise my voice. “I’m Felicity Graveney, editor of
Pincher Travel Review
, and I would like to welcomeyou to our twenty-third annual awards ceremony. And
what
a year it’s been.”
    I can see from Ian’s sardonic eyebrow that I’m going to have to sound a bit more excited than that.
    “Shut up,” I say, and he grins. “I have eighteen awards to present.…”
    Which is far too many. Every year we have a stand-up battle over which ones to get rid of, and then we get rid of none.
    “Blah, blah … OK, fine.” I switch off the mike. “See you later.”
    As I hurry back down the corridor, I see Gavin, our publisher, at the far end. He’s ushering an unmistakable forty-inch waist into the lift. As I’m watching, the Gruffalo turns and flashes a menacing anti-smile at me. He holds up four stubby fingers and is still doing so as the doors close.
    I know what that means, and I’m not going to be intimidated. So his new hotel got four stars from us instead of five. He should have created a better hotel. He should have invested in slightly more sand to lay on the concrete base of his “award-winning, man-created beach” and tried hiring slightly less pretentious staff.
    I head into the Ladies’, survey my reflection, and wince. Sometimes I’m genuinely shocked at the version of me in the mirror. Do I look
so
unlike Angelina Jolie? When did those shadows appear under my eyes? Everything about me is too dark, I abruptly decide. My hair, my brows, my sallow skin. I need to get something bleached. Or maybe everything, all at once. There must surely be a spa somewhere that has an all-in-one bleaching tank. One quick dip; keep your mouth open for the teeth-whitening option.
    Hmm. Is there a piece in that? I type
Bleach?
into my BlackBerry, then attack everything I can with brushes. Finally I apply a generous amount of Nars Red Lizard. One thing: I can damn well wear lipstick. Perhaps they’ll put it on my grave.