Did You Miss Me? (Love Out of London #2)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
Tom
“ Y ou’re welcome to stay and use the facilities. But to be clear, sir, this isn’t your hotel.”
Well, colour me surprised.
According to the once-perky-now-exasperated American behind the reception desk, not only have I lost my stag-slash-hen party on our second night in Vegas, but I’ve also managed to misplace an entire hotel.
I’m sure this was where I left it.
I can’t remember precisely when my night descended into absolute chaos. But, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say sometime after the last round of ‘Rum Punch Roulettes’.
Cheers, Patrick.
Perhaps it wasn’t the smartest idea to wander away from the club for a spot of solo sightseeing—especially at one in the morning—but the bright lights and debauched sights of Las Vegas called my name. I’ve never been able to resist an ill-advised adventure.
Which brings me here, one trip down the strip later, minus my phone and door key, and marooned in—apparently—the wrong hotel. At this point, I’m just pleased I’ve hung on to the clothes on my back.
With no way to track down the rest of the stags, my safest course of action is to take the irritated receptionist’s advice and explore the hotel I have found. Help will be here soon enough, I’m sure of it.
Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time I’ve gone AWOL on a boys’ night out. In fact, this isn’t even my first time stranded on foreign soil. I once had an impromptu layover in Amsterdam after my passport took an unfortunate dip in the Amstel on Anthony’s twenty-second birthday. The trick is not to panic. All I can do is wait for the sun to rise and my blood alcohol level to fall. Then I’ll be better placed to hunt down the stags and the right hotel.
Plan of inaction settled, I leave the receptionist with a parting wink and weave through the lobby, carefully calculating each step to deliver me safely to the hotel’s casino.
My one remaining brain cell screams at me that I’m alone, two drinks past tipsy, and severely jetlagged. I need to be sensible about this. I can’t afford to hole up at a blackjack table and inadvertently gamble away my vital organs. So, in a bid to protect my internal assets, I head for the labyrinth of slot machines. What harm could possibly befall me there?
As I walk further into the convoluted maze of flashing machines, the bustling energy of the hotel lobby dissipates into a calmer ambience. The soft clatter of falling coins punctuates the air and interrupts the soothing strains of jazz struggling to be heard from the tinny speakers hidden in each corner of the room.
Despite the late—or is that early—hour, the land of the slot machine is teeming with more…seasoned patrons. Some sneakily scout out their next spot, hidden in dark corners, ready and waiting to pounce on a fully loaded machine. Whilst others have made themselves so at home, it’s possible they’ve been here since the dawn of time itself.
Let there be light and little old ladies pushing quarters into slots.
One particularly frail octogenarian has even brought her own blanket, huddled up under the chunky knit, with one skeletal hand the only part of her that dares escape.
It’s incredible how much this hotel resembles the one I checked into. The whole thing is a sensory feast, almost too much for someone on the downward swing of a heavy night out, with its extravagant Greek architecture and glamorously gaudy gold interior.
I wonder if the rest of the stags also need sunglasses at their hotel. Our group touched down in Vegas yesterday, spearheaded by Anthony, the groom, and his beautiful bride-to-be, Cindy. I’ve played with Anthony on our local Sunday league football team for years. Still, it’s my first time meeting Jamie, Anthony’s best man, and Emma, the maid of honour. Given tonight’s mishap, I’m not exactly giving them the best first impression.
Emma and Jamie planned the trip and judging by their performance at the airport yesterday, the process was anything but smooth. They were at each other’s throats from the moment Jamie stepped foot into Heathrow Airport. According to Anthony, leaving the pair alone for any length of time is a recipe for disaster.
Emma seems…high strung, and to be honest, I’m dreading how she’ll react when she finds out I’ve gone missing. She’s planned our trip’s itinerary to the millisecond, and I’m almost certain ‘organise a search party for Tom’ is not on tomorrow’s agenda.
This means I need to find my way back before anyone realises I’m lost. Perhaps if I retrace my steps, I’ll figure out where I went wrong. I might even stumble across my phone.
Fuelled by this newfound optimism—and the hope of escaping Emma’s wrath—I burst out of the slot machine jungle and crash straight into what can only be described as a giant, moving disco ball.
Before I fully grasp what’s happening, I’m doused with freezing cold liquid, and the unmistakable sound of glass shattering on marble pierces the air.
“Ah!” the shining disco ball cries, her surprised shriek the last straw for my tattered nerves.
I jump back clumsily, barely avoiding the lethal shards strewn across the floor, and come face to face with a plump, elderly woman whose top is so dazzlingly reflective that it could guide air traffic. And that’s not where the sensory assault ends. If her attire is bright, her hair is brighter, the cotton candy pile atop her head dyed an alarming shade of electric blue. I don’t know how I managed to run into someone with such an aversion to subtlety. I must be more drunk than I thought…
Just as I’m about to stammer a mortified apology—despite being the one wearing the proof of our collision—a smaller, slender figure scurries to her friend’s side, fixing me with the deadliest stink eye I’ve ever seen.
And believe me, as a teacher, I’ve encountered my fair share.
Unlike her gleaming friend, this little old lady’s hair is a natural faded red, scraped back into a severe bun that’s so tight it’s pulling at her pinched face. Even my most winning smile wouldn’t stand a chance against this creature.
“You owe us drinks,” the scarier of the two declares, her words slicing through the air like a sharp blade.
I’m given no choice but to obey when the tiny, scowling spitfire grabs onto my forearm and drags me across the casino. She deposits me onto the nearest barstool like I’m not twice her height and three times her weight. The only consolation on my march of shame is the hearty tittering of the larger woman behind us.
One thing’s for sure, this isn’t the kind of female company the boys will assume I’ve abandoned them for.
Both women elegantly perch on the bar stools next to me, implying they are either seasoned pros or simply less intoxicated than me—a feat that is, quite frankly, not hard to achieve.
“So, what are we drinking?” I ask, summoning as much charm as possible to avoid another of the stick insect’s death stares.
“A slippery nipple,” my new reflective friend demands, and I nearly stumble off my stool. I glance between the two women, trying to gauge if this is a joke at my expense. Unfortunately, they both remain silent.
“Right. Got it,” I squeak. “And for yourself?” I ask the stone-faced woman on my right, praying she’ll have a more conventional choice.
“Sex on the beach,” she replies stoically, and I can barely stop myself from cringing. There’s no way the words ‘sex’ and ‘nipple’ are coming out of my mouth in front of two biddies old enough to have attended the Sermon on the Mount.
Fortunately, I’m saved from embarrassment when Shiny Grandma bursts into cackled laughter.
“Oh, don’t look so scared, honey. We’re just teasin’ you,” she says, swiping at my arm harder than necessary. “My name’s Gloria, and that sourpuss over there is Big D.”
Said sourpuss frowns at me, her nose scrunched up as if smelling something deeply unpleasant. This could be true, given the tacky stain drying on my T-shirt.
“Big D? You know that means—” I trail off when ‘Big D’ lifts a threatening brow in my direction. “Actually, never mind. Is D short for something? Doreen? Doris? Dorothy?”
“Dee. As in D-E-E,” she replies, rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of her head.
“And we call her big because she’s just so little,” Gloria caws, her bright eyes shining with mischief despite the hour. “Now, sweetie, what do we call you?”
“I’m Tom,” I say, offering my hand to my new companions. Gloria accepts excitedly. Big Dee is less enthusiastic.
Introductions squared away, Gloria flags down the weathered bartender and orders two—yes, two—bottles of wine.
Praying that the adage ‘beer before wine, and you will be fine’ is more a scientific fact than an excuse inebriated people use to mix their drinks, I pour three large glasses for myself and my new cronies.
These two old ladies break the mould. They’re complete opposites in every way. Where Gloria is big, Dee is gaunt. Where Gloria is blindingly bright, Dee is sternly dark. Where Dee sits in judgmental silence, Gloria talks, and talks…and talks.
Apparently, they met prowling for slot machines years ago. Dee dared to ‘steal’ the machine that Gloria had been feeding for over an hour, and quite the scuffle ensued. Coins flying everywhere, so I’m told. Eventually, their long-suffering husbands managed to separate the pair, and they’ve been attached at the bionic hip ever since.
We sit for what seems like hours, a third bottle of wine appearing as if by magic when Gloria runs dry. Her stories are so animated that I’ve had to surreptitiously slide her glass away from her on more than one occasion in case I end up wearing her beverage for the second time tonight.
Big Dee finally pipes up around three in the morning, narrowing her eyes at me accusingly. “What are you doing hovering around old ladies on a Saturday night anyway? Haven’t you anything less suspicious to do?”
“I’ve had a bit of a mishap,” I admit sheepishly. “I got separated from my friends on a night out, and I can’t remember which hotel I’m staying in. I thought it was here, but apparently not. I’m afraid I’ve lost my hotel.” Gloria snorts wine through her nose, hooting at my misfortune, whereas Dee looks at me like I’m an idiot.
Which, you know, fair.
Trying to redeem myself, I also tell them about my life back in London. I’m a P.E. teacher at a top school in Chelsea, and I’m in line for a promotion to deputy head any day now. Dee seems almost, almost, impressed, whereas Gloria uses my job as an excuse to squeeze my biceps to corroborate my story.
That leads to questions about my love life. I’d have thought these ancient women would be offended by my laissez-faire attitude to dating. They’ve come from a time when settling down was the only option, and that’s just not on my radar. I mean, life’s a buffet, right? Why rush to settle for one flavour when you can sample the whole spread and find what you really want?
Respectfully, of course.
To my surprise, when I explain that I’m happily single and perfectly content with my own company, both women nod encouragingly, launching into ever more elaborate tales of the spectacular divorces that have befallen their friends over the last six decades.
Only when we finish our third bottle do the ladies finally run out of steam. “Tom, honey,” Gloria asks, a stifled yawn rounding her words. “If you’ve lost your hotel, where are you plannin’ to stay tonight?”
“I was gonna hang around here until morning. By then, I’m hoping I’ll have sobered up enough to remember where I should be, or my friends will have sent a search party.”
“Hmm.” Dee scowls at me—again—before leaping off her barstool with the elegance of a geriatric gazelle. I don’t know where she’s marching off to, but she’s going with purpose.
I’m not left guessing for long. Barely a minute later, Dee storms back through the bar—far too upright for a praying mantis that has inhaled her weight in alcohol—and plants a key card in my hand.
“Give it back to reception in the morning,” she barks, hoisting herself back onto the stool.
“What? You got me a room?” I stare at the key in disbelief.
“I didn’t pay for it,” Dee sniffs. “It’s an old staff room, so don’t expect luxury.”
Considering I’d planned to prop myself up behind one of the hotel’s many decorative columns, a bed of any description seems like an upgrade.
“How did you get it?” I ask, debating whether Dee will slap me if I try to hug her.
“Oh, honey, we’ve been comin’ here since you were in diapers,” Gloria chips in with a disconcerting wink. “We’ve earned a few perks in our time. Come on, we’ll show you the way. We don’t want you gettin’ lost.”
Like my actual hotel, this establishment has based its layout on a spider’s web. We turn this way and that, rounding corners so often that we must be doubling back on ourselves. Eventually, after treading about one hundred miles of dubiously patterned carpet, Dee halts in front of room 004, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“You’re joinin’ us for breakfast tomorrow,” Gloria tells me as I swipe my key in the lock. The door opens with a satisfying click. Maybe my luck’s about to change. I usually get a card that doesn’t work.
“Breakfast sounds great,” I respond. And even if it doesn’t, I don’t think my new friend will take no for an answer.
“Excellent. Meet us in the Big Canteen at nine,” Gloria chirps over her shoulder as Dee leads her back through the winding corridor. “And you’re buying the coffee!”