Christmas with His Cinderella
Author
Jessica Gilmore
Reads
17,8K
Chapters
13
CHAPTER ONE
‘SO, WHAT EXACTLY is the problem?’ Alexander Everard Montague, Fifteenth Baron Thornham, eyed the so-called crack PR team he’d hired at great expense coolly, hiding his impatience as he waited for an answer.
The pause stretched, as if the two consultants perched on chairs opposite his three-hundred-year-old desk were playing some kind of game of chicken. The male cracked first. ‘The problem, sir...’ Hugo hesitated.
Xander steepled his hands and tried not to sigh. ‘Yes?’ he asked silkily.
Hugo looked at his colleague for support, but clearly none was forthcoming. She stayed silent, the serene half smile gracing her glossy lips unchanging.
‘The good news is that the reviews for the hotels are uniformly excellent. The food, the facilities, the service. All five star.’
This wasn’t a surprise. Xander worked hard, and expected the same from everyone he employed, ensuring that the hotels under the Baron Thornham brand were a byword for elegant luxury and peerless service. And he and they delivered. But in the last couple of years a certain cachet the hotels had effortlessly held for decades had begun to slip. Just a little, but noticeably if you were keeping a close eye on all the data—and Xander was.
To an outsider everything might seem business as usual, the hotels filled with the rich and entitled, every whim catered for. But Xander had crunched the numbers and he knew the truth: the waiting list was months and weeks rather than years and they were no longer the elite’s first choice. Although still profitable and successful, the brand had somehow lost the exclusivity that set it apart from bigger, older rivals. And that exclusivity was their USP.
No matter what it took, Xander needed to fix it. Fast.
Healthy profits weren’t enough. Xander wanted it all: financial and reputational success. The family name demanded it. The family honour demanded it. ‘Do I need to repeat myself? Never mind the good news, what is the problem?’
Hugo gulped, straightening his expensive tie. ‘It’s you, sir.’
The word ‘you’ echoed around the study and Xander could have sworn he saw the portraits of his ancestors lining the panelled walls smirk in confirmation. He sat back, trying to formulate a response. ‘Me?’
You. He could hear his father’s frustrated sigh, the same exasperated sigh he’d give when Xander wanted to read rather than hunt, when he slipped away from yet another interminable party, when he struggled to make small talk with guests. No matter he had been a shy, bookish child, as a Montague the ability to command a room had been expected of him, should have come instinctively.
Xander’s jaw set as he pushed the memories away. His father had never hidden his belief that Xander had been a disappointment as a son and as an heir. He would not be a disappointment as the newest Baron too. ‘Explain.’
‘Our research found that guests love your hotels. They love the feeling that they have stepped into the pages of a novel or a television show. The stately home, the Scottish castle, the Mayfair townhouse, the hunting lodge, the chateau, the...’
His mouth tightened. ‘There’s no need to list them all, thank you.’
He knew them by heart. Of course he did because, after all, the famous stately home in Buckinghamshire, the house in a discreet Mayfair square where he was currently residing, the castle in Scotland, the lodge in Yorkshire, the chateau in the South of France brought to the family by a French great-grandmother, the Rhode Island mansion, the legacy of an American buccaneering great-great-grandmother who had also bequeathed a charming Art Nouveau townhouse on New York’s Upper West Side to the family, all belonged to Xander—to Xander and to whoever was prepared to pay handsomely to stay there.
Faced with high taxes and no income after the Second World War, his grandfather had resisted selling his property off, turning each house instead into a hotel where every guest felt personally invited, where dressing for dinner was encouraged and afternoon tea an institution, every day a house party complete with lawn tennis, croquet and lavish meals. And the potential of being personally entertained by a member of the illustrious titled family was the biggest draw of all.
Until now.
Hugo cleared his throat. ‘Obviously your father and grandfather couldn’t greet every single guest, but guests felt connected to them, even if they never actually met them. However, our research suggests that they find you a little more...remote.’
‘Remote?’ True Xander didn’t have his father’s bonhomie, his grandfather’s easy patronage, but he had worked hard to overcome his natural shyness, to be welcoming. Or at least he thought he had. Clearly it still wasn’t enough. ‘In what way?’
‘Guests feel as if they don’t know you. That they’re not personally hosted by you. And without that feeling of connection then the hotels are simply just hotels. Luxurious and exclusive hotels of course, but there’s a lot of competition offering the same level of service, especially amongst your target market.’
‘Luckily—’ finally the woman—Pernilla—spoke ‘—this is an easy fix. We make sure your guests get to know you.’
‘How?’ Xander’s forehead creased. What else would it take? Because if they didn’t know him by now...
Xander had grown up travelling from hotel to hotel, never having a bedroom of his own, space that was his alone. His baby photos hung in the drawing room of Thornham Park, the family seat in Buckinghamshire, his graduation photo was displayed on the desk in the library at Glen Thorne in Scotland, his toys sat in the nursery here in London. His whole life had been on display, every meal taken with strangers, no family moment so private it was family alone.
Pernilla held up her tablet. ‘Social media.’
‘No.’ Xander didn’t need to think, his response a gut instinct; he didn’t need even more of his life on display.
‘You are the brand, you are the Baron, and when people book into your hotel it is as your guest. You are inviting them into your ancestral homes, to enjoy your hospitality. They need to feel personally connected to you.’
Much as he wanted to repeat ‘no’, send the pair of consultants back to their trendy Soho agency and demand a new strategy, Xander made himself absorb their words. Personally, he thought the agency name Milk ridiculous, found the consultants’ style too knowingly quirky despite their semblance of formality, and he knew their fees were exorbitant, but he was also aware that their reputation was hard earned. If their research had identified Xander himself as the reason the hotels were losing their identity, then, uncomfortable as it might be, both the cause and the cure needed to be considered.
His grandfather and father might have died, but the need to prove them wrong was still very much alive. Xander had what it took to be Baron Thornham, to be the head of the family, to step into their shoes. It was time to prove it. To step out of his comfort zone, away from the spreadsheets.
‘What kind of social media?’ He braced himself against his desk, alarmed. ‘Not the dancing one?’
‘No, no, that wouldn’t fit your brand at all. We were thinking visual. After all, you have the perfect backdrop. People want to see beautiful pictures of your hotels, famous guests enjoying the facilities, the food and all the décor, so much of it original. Show people your homes, your life, make them want to be part of it.’
Pictures. That didn’t sound too awful.
‘Let them see that the hotels are not just a short-term destination but a home you wish to share with them.’ Hugo picked up the narrative. ‘Whether that’s through supposedly candid shots of you relaxing in an armchair in the library here, fishing in Scotland, playing tennis in Rhode Island or breakfasting on your personal Parisian terrace. Sell the Baron Thornham lifestyle through you, the actual Baron.’
‘Through me. Right.’ That sounded a little more awful. He wasn’t really one for selfies. Not one for photos of him at all. ‘I see.’
‘We also thought—’ Hugo pulled on his tie again ‘—that you might want to get a dog.’
‘A dog?’ Had he heard correctly? ‘What on earth would I do with a dog?’ Xander had never had a pet. A life spent moving around, regularly travelling across seas and oceans wasn’t exactly conducive to pet owning.
‘People love dogs—and, more importantly, they love dog owners. What better way to showcase the hotels and your lifestyle than through a dog? But time is of the essence. It’s already the end of November and we recommend you launch the campaign over Christmas. We’ll start with you choosing a dog to adopt from the local rescue, then spending Christmas with it as it settles in.’
Pernilla held up her tablet to show him a picture of a dog and its owner walking in a wood—an owner who had more than a passing resemblance to Xander. ‘According to our research you usually spend Christmas Eve here in London before going to Thornham Park for Christmas and Scotland for New Year. We tested that itinerary, with shots of a dog sleeping by the library fire, the two of you on wintry walks, the dog’s Christmas dinner. Our test audience lapped it up.’
‘It all sounds very winsome.’ Xander was aware the words didn’t sound like a compliment and he hadn’t meant them to. The concept actually sounded like the plot of the sort of wholesome film he would immediately turn off. At least they hadn’t mentioned matching jumpers. ‘However, your research has missed one crucial detail. I don’t know anything about dogs. I couldn’t possibly manage a rescue dog.’
‘We did take that into consideration,’ Hugo said, a trifle too smugly. ‘That’s why we thought you should bring your dog nanny on board to assist you exclusively throughout the whole festive season.’
His what?
‘Now her social media is really good,’ Pernilla said. ‘She has a lot of organic followers. The hotel itself plays it safe with its marketing, especially its social media, too safe in our opinion and we have a strategy to remedy that, but the dog nanny’s account oozes with personality.’
‘I employ a dog nanny?’ Maybe he needed an audit of every role in every hotel. Was there a cat masseuse and a hamster chef also lurking on his payroll?
‘Three, actually.’ Yes, Hugo was definitely verging on smug. ‘One here in London, one in Paris and one in New York. Dogs are extremely popular right now with your core clientele, but they can be a hindrance in cities as most restaurants and entertainment venues won’t allow them in. The dog nannies walk them, and dog sit if the owners are out for the evening.’
‘Here...’ Pernilla pushed her tablet onto the desk. ‘Take a look for yourself.’
Reluctantly Xander picked it up and scanned the account she had selected. A vivid shot of three fluffy dogs, sitting on a checked blanket in the park, greeted him.
Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic! Meet Babe, Bear and Belle, contenders for the fluffiest dogs of the year award. Spending the afternoon with these three cuties has been an utter treat. Now it’s time for theirs. Picnic-time, anyone?
He swiped onto the next post. This time a handsome, slim dog sat posed before the fire in Thornham House’s library, a book open before him, a tweed kerchief around its elegant neck.
It’s raining cats and dogs outside and Austen is more of a bookworm than a hiker anyway.
There were plenty more, all showcasing the hotel’s canine guests out and about in the local vicinity or here in the hotel. There was no sign of the nanny herself, just the occasional booted foot or mittened hand.
‘People like to read this?’ He pushed the tablet back across his desk, unable to keep the scepticism from his voice.
‘They do. She has a high following, excellent interaction and a much better organic reach than any other hotel account. That’s why this is the perfect place to launch your social media and to kick-start the campaign. We suggest that she helps you choose the rescue dog and works with you while it settles in, chronicling it all on her account whilst you do the same on the one we create for you. She and the hotel will cross post you and we’ll work with some influencers to do the same.’
This was really their strategy? A mutt and some pictures? ‘But the dog? It would actually live with me?’
‘You have plenty of staff to walk it and so on after the campaign ends, if you didn’t want to be bothered with that side of things. As long as your account still features it regularly.’
For a moment Xander felt pity for the putative dog, condemned to live on show, no real home, no family of its own, a prop and a marketing tool only. He knew what that was like. He opened his mouth, ready to send them back to the drawing board, when his gaze fell onto a portrait of his great-grandmother, dog on her lap, one hand resting fondly on it, and then onto one of a great-great-uncle as a boy, surrounded by spaniels. He’d looked at those pictures as a child and wished for a dog of his own every Christmas. But there had never been a dog under the tree for him; instead he would discover a fancy train set or a huge rocking horse. Expensive toys destined to be shared with any child staying here or at the castle or Thornham Park. His lips curled into a reluctant smile. He’d forgotten that old desire for a dog.
‘Okay,’ he said, to his own surprise. ‘I don’t have time to go to the shelter myself so get the dog nanny to select something suitable. Something sleek, a decent size. A Labrador or some kind of hound. Nothing that would wear a bow.’
‘Absolutely,’ Pernilla said. ‘Leave it with us.’
Elfie Townsend walked slowly down the concrete corridor, trying not to let her heart get pulled in a hundred different directions. It was an impossible task. She wanted to give each and every one a good home. The keen one with the bright eyes, wagging its tail enthusiastically. The excited one, barking as it danced around its door. The timid one, lying with its head on its paws, shuffling back as she approached.
But she wasn’t looking for her own perfect companion. This was work. She had to find the kind of dog Lord Thornham wanted, a dog as aristocratic as he. Something tall, well-bred and aloof.
Easy.
The dog shelter was now Thornham House’s official Christmas charity partner and so Elfie made sure she took plenty of photos of every dog she passed for both her own dog nanny account and the main hotel account. Their goal was that every dog here would find an owner by the end of the Christmas season and so every day she and the hotel’s main account would post a picture of a different dog looking for a family.
‘Aristocratic...’ Elfie murmured as she stopped and took a picture of something small, white and very, very fluffy, imagining walking into Lord Thornham’s study with that ball of wool under her arm and seeing his horrified expression. But no, she needed to keep her job until the New Year. She had decided against heading over to the Alps for her usual season working in the mountain resorts of the rich and famous, tempted by a lucrative offer to stewardess for a couple of private yacht charters in January instead. The last thing she wanted was to dip into her precious savings if she was unemployed for a few weeks.
‘I’m sure somebody will love to give you a home.’ She stooped down and scratched the small dog’s ears. ‘But you wouldn’t want this home; it’s not exactly cosy and you look like a cosy dog to me. Let me take your picture. I bet we can make sure you get a family for Christmas.’
She straightened, sighing as she did so. Helping re-home these dogs was one thing but, truthfully, Elfie wasn’t sure she should be looking for a dog for Lord Thornham at all. Her one encounter with the Baron had been short, to the point and chilly. Oh, she could see why some of her colleagues swooned over their boss; years of selective breeding had resulted in a face as finely sculpted as a Michelangelo. But although sharp cheekbones, a strong mouth and decisive eyebrows topping a pair of chocolate-brown eyes sounded dreamy in principle, the reality was very different when said eyes were piercing into her as if the owner wasn’t really sure why he bothered employing her at all. What kind of dog would enjoy a life that seemed luxurious on the surface, but would potentially be starved of affection? She couldn’t see the Baron rubbing tummies and patiently throwing a ball. What she needed was a nice, staid middle-aged dog who looked as if he or she would be at home in the pages of a hunting magazine and required little but a comfortable bed and regular meals.
Reluctantly, Elfie said goodbye to the small fluffy dog, promising again that he would be on the top of her list, and took another look around. The assistant who had welcomed her in had suggested that there might be a suitable dog at the end of the corridor, so Elfie headed in that direction, making slow progress as she stopped to acknowledge each dog with a murmured endearment and photo. She tried not to pause too long but found it hard to walk on when a grey, scruffy-looking dog sat up very nicely, lifting a paw to greet her.
‘Why, hello.’
The dog gave the kind of yelp that could be construed as a hello back and Elfie took a step closer. ‘Now, what are you?’ she asked. ‘One of the new design of breeds or a good old-fashioned mutt?’
Not surprisingly, the dog didn’t actually answer, but tilted its head on one side in what she had to admit was a particularly endearing way. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t really matter because, cute as you are, I wouldn’t call you aristocratic. I’m not being offensive; I’m not aristocratic either. It’s a good thing, makes us strong. But I am looking for a well-bred dog for a well-bred gentleman. If I had a flat of my own, a permanent job...’ She shook her head regretfully. There was no point wasting time on what-ifs and if-onlys. One day she would be able to afford to buy her own home and then she would have a menagerie of pets. She glanced quickly at the printed nameplate. ‘Nice to meet you, Walter,’ she said. ‘I hope we see each other again soon.’
Walter yelped again, rearing up onto his hind legs.
‘You have all the tricks,’ Elfie told him, backing away. Okay, maybe he would be top of her list for finding a new owner. It was hard; they all deserved one.
A few steps further and Elfie halted in front of Duke, the dog the assistant had mentioned. ‘Hi Duke, you have the perfect name,’ she said, holding her hand out to the handsome setter, but, to her consternation, instead of stepping forward, he shrank back, tail between his legs. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ she crooned, but Duke was clearly not reassured, retreating to a corner. Elfie bit her lip as she recalled the brief she’d been given. A hotel dog, a dog to be photographed, to be a social media star, to connect with the guests. ‘I don’t think you’d like that, would you?’ she said softly. ‘You need to be an only dog in a small, experienced family, not a publicity dog. I’ll find you a good family, I promise. But not the Baron. You’re not right for him.’ Which was odd because Duke reminded her of Lord Thornham in some ways. She stood there, trying to figure it out. Both had haughty, sleek good looks, but that wasn’t it.
Slowly, she went over every word of the very brief meeting she’d had with him in the Thornham House study. He’d asked a few questions about her job, her social media account and then handed her instructions to select him a dog with as little emotion as if he’d asked her to pick up his dry cleaning.
And yet, behind the glacial manner, she had seen a glimpse of something she recognised. Loneliness.
Maybe finding him the right dog wasn’t such a crazy task after all. Maybe a companion was something he needed just as much as every one of these dogs did. Or maybe she was just trying to feel better about the task at hand.
Either way, she had a decision to make and there was really only one way it could go. She just hoped she could talk him into agreeing or she’d be looking for a new job after all.
