Page 85 of An American in London

I laugh. “So you already knew about that desk, didn’t you?”

Ben nods.

“You’ve been here before?”

He nods again as he sets his coffee down on its saucer.

“Did you use to work here?” I ask. Is that what this is? Some kind of weird score settling?

“My dad worked here,” he says finally. “For thirty-five years.”

It’s like I’ve cracked the world in two and molten lava is flooding out. I’m not quite sure what to do.

“That’s a long time,” I say, like I’m trying to avoid stepping on anything hot. “He must have enjoyed it.”

“He loved it. He loved people.” He shoots me a look that says,I know what you’re going to say before you say it, so save your breath.

I shrug. I’m not going to make some lame joke about how the apple falls so far from the tree it thinks it’s an elephant. It’s not a time for telling jokes. “Way too easy.”

“That was his desk. Itishis desk, as far as I’m concerned.”

“That’s why you want the hotel? For the desk?”

“Not just the desk. While he worked here and even after, when he retired, he’d regale us with stories from the hotel. The rich and famous who crossed the threshold. The waiters who made more money than the managers. The chefs screaming at each other. His mother, my grandmother, was Irish, and you could tell by the way he could—and sometimes still can—tell a story. He could capture the attention of Wembley Stadium. He still has a magnetism about him. A charm. He can pull people in and keep them entertained for hours. This hotel is so much a part of him. And a part of him and me that ...” His voice cracks. It’s like watching steel turn to cotton.

I slide my hand over his, and he lets me provide that small bit of comfort.

“There’s a lot of memories here,” he continues. “The way he proudly brought me to visit the place on his days off. The way I’d sit under that desk—that he was so proud to work behind—during school holidays when my mother was ill. I’d sit cross-legged by his feet and listen to him arranging trips, charming restaurants for reservations, researching destinations and guest preferences. He took his work tremendously seriously. He was my inspiration.” His voice doesn’t crack this time, but only just.

“Did anyone know you were under the desk?”

He smiles. “The staff all knew. Apart from the manager. But never the guests. I’d sit so quietly while he spoke with people. I always had a book with me, and Dad had a pocket torch as well as a Swiss Army knife he’d charge me with while I was there. But I didn’t read much. I was too fascinated with everything going on. Every now and then, when Dad knew it was going to be particularly busy, housekeeping would smuggleme into one of the guest rooms and put the TV on. Someone always brought me a plate of strawberry shortcake.”

This man is so special.

“I bet you know every room in this place.”

“Like the back of my hand.”

“So that’s why you want it? To relive the memories?”

Ben sighs and shakes his head. “My dad was—is—a clever man, but his father before him was a farmer. They came to England for a better life. For their children to have a better life. And Dad had a life his father before him could never have dreamed of. My father’s wages weren’t generous, but in summer months, wealthy Arabs flock to London to avoid the heat of the Middle East. It still happens now. The tips would flood in like rain. We lived a comfortable life. But he could have done so much more if he’d had the opportunity. I’d overhear him talk to my mum about what he’d do with the hotel if he was in charge. The small changes he would make. The large shifts all the staff agreed on. He was on the ground. He knew what he was talking about.”

It’s like when a painter starts on a canvas—there’s no hint of what the picture will look like in the end. But Ben has just put down his palate knife, and everything has become clear. I understand him so much better now. “You want a chance to do all the things your dad talked about.”

He nods. “He’s older now. Too old to come back. He has joint pain, probably from being on his feet so much over the years. And his memory sometimes fails him. He’s having some tests. They think it might be the early stages of dementia. I want to show him, before it’s too late, that his hard work laid the foundations for what I’ve been able to achieve. I don’t know a better way to do that than buying this hotel and making all the changes he wanted to make.”

My throat tightens and I can barely get my words out. “I think you’re wonderful.”

Ben is not some tropey, grumpy billionaire. He’s real and sweet and loyal and so, so wonderful. I can’t bear to think what would havehappened if I hadn’t mistaken him for Daniel De Luca. If I had never gotten to know him.

“Have you ever thought about telling the duke the truth about why you want the hotels?” Surely anyone would be moved by Ben’s story.

Ben shakes his head. “He’s focused on maintaining his legacy. The financials have to be sound. He needs to have confidence that if he sells, the person is going to be able to continue what he started.”

“Is it possible to have both? You can prove to him that you meet his competence criteria, that you understand the financial aspects of the hotel,andthat you have a truly personal connection to the business he built. You don’t even need to buy all of them. Why not see if he’ll just sell youthislocation?”

He takes his time, and I appreciate him listening to me. He doesn’t dismiss me because he’s the billionaire and I’m just some random American who works at a bank. He respects me enough to consider what I’m saying.

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