Chapter 2 Christopher
Thursday
Could this day be any longer?
I tap away on the door handle with my fingers and feel another wave of irritation rise as the cab continues to wait, despite the traffic light having turned green, for an elderly woman with a walker to cross the road.
By the time we pull up to the Landmark Hotel, six hours later than I had planned, my dinner plans with Stephen cancelled, and out an extra five pounds more than I’d expected to be for the ride, I am beyond feeling pity or compassion for anyone.
I reluctantly tap my phone on the card reader, grab my rucksack, and step out of the taxicab, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of the past twenty-four hours.
God, I don’t miss living in London.
“Good luck getting your luggage back!” the taxi driver shouts.
The wave of irritation turns into a tidal wave. Damn British Airways.
“Thanks,” I manage through a gritted smile.
As I attempt to make my way into the hotel, I pull at the neck of my brown hoodie.
The late-night summer’s heat, a rarity in London, is oppressive, and a crowd of hundreds of eager young girls and women, many looking at me with hunger in their eyes, blocks the twenty yards between me and the hotel entrance.
“Are you here with Alexander?” asks one of them.
“Alexander who?” I attempt to edge past her with a stern look.
“Oh my God, you’re joking right?” another girl says, stepping toward me.
“Nope, afraid not,” I say, trying to keep moving through the growing crowd toward the hotel entrance.
If I don’t get in before the clock strikes midnight, I’m going to turn into a pumpkin, or even worse, a gremlin, and Lord help these girls if that happens.
But a third girl pops up in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.
“He’s only the biggest pop star on the planet!” she exclaims.
As I look around, I notice numerous handmade posters.
Alexander, Marry Me.
It’s You That I Need, Alexander.
No One Compares To You Alexander.
I politely smile and move again toward the hotel entrance, suppressing the flashbacks to my mum’s endless lectures that these women are evoking with their relentless questioning.
The doorman, dressed in a top hat and a long winter jacket that looks completely out of place in this summer night’s heat, stops me in my tracks.
“Can I help you, sir?” His nostrils flare; his lips purse. He looks me up and down with the same disdain that I managed to hide from my face when confronted by those girls just now. But I guess, unlike me, his resting bitch face never rests.
“Yes, you can let me pass so I can check into the hotel,” I say. I press my lips hard together as I finger comb my unkempt brown hair, unwilling to entertain the power play that he seems keen to act out.
Sure, I look far from my best, but wouldn’t anyone whose flight from LA was delayed for three hours and then found out their luggage was still five thousand miles away when they arrived at their destination?
“Sorry, sir, and welcome to the Landmark Hotel.” His face softens as the words tumble from his mouth, and he finally pulls the wooden door open and steps aside to let me through.
“Check in is on the other side of the hotel,” he says as I enter.
I roll my eyes at yet another inconvenience. Maybe the taxicab driver knew about my preference for the rear entrance. The corner of my mouth lifts at the thought.
As I walk through the halls to the front desk, I breathe in the familiar samphire scent that reminds me of childhood summers with my grandma.
The long journey through the corridors, with their mix of marble flooring and Persian-style carpentry, makes me want to shoot myself in the head, until I’m taken aback by the familiar sight of palm trees and a scattering of decorations.
It’s almost symbolic, if I believed in such things. My current life in LA, embodied by the palm trees in the atrium. And my former life in northwest London, represented by chandeliers, flower vases, and an old-school landline phone with a rotating dial.
The night manager greets me as I reach the reception desk. Her pearly white smile stands out against her golden-brown skin and black uniform.
“Welcome to the Landmark Hotel, sir. How may I help you?”
“I’m here to check in; Christopher Foster,” I say, removing my backpack from my shoulders, retrieving my passport, and passing it over to her. The passport looks even more worn out and beaten-up than I feel.
“Just one moment, sir, while I pull up your reservation.”
As the woman looks through her computer, I take a moment to center myself and breathe. I’m here now. The nightmare journey is over.
Yes, I may be sleep deprived.
Yes, I may have missed catching up with my best friend Stephen over dinner.
Yes, I may be without clothes until my luggage catches up with me, but I am here now, and that’s all that matters.
“I can’t seem to locate your reservation, sir. Could it be held under a different name?”
“Why would my booking be under a different name?” I respond sharply, catching myself as I do. Once again, my mum flashes into my mind, and how she would have reprimanded me for speaking so rudely to someone who was only trying to help.
The night manager laughs. “We tend to have a lot of famous people staying here, and they all stay under pseudonyms. You wouldn’t believe some of the names they use. Robert Downey Jr. stayed here as Tony Stark once, and Daniel Craig’s team made me put him down as Minnie Mouse.”
Her eyebrows rise alongside her smile, immediately diffusing my frustration. I guess I’m not the first angry guest she’s had to deal with today, and no doubt I won’t be the last.
“I’m sorry, it’s been a hell of a day,” I say. “I’m here for my sister’s wedding next weekend, and her fiancé took care of all the hotel arrangements. The booking may be held under Daniel Reed.”
“Ah yes, here we go.” The night manager clicks her mouse and prints out a document.
Well, at least one thing of mine has been found today.
“I have one booking here under Daniel Reed for ten nights, which I am assuming is yours?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Great. If I could just get you to fill out this form, please, and also if I could get a credit card for any incidentals.” She slides the paperwork across the counter and hands me a weighted pen as I pass over my credit card and start completing the form.
Surely this should all be automated by now.
After I hand back the paperwork, she returns my credit card and passport and starts going over all the hotel details. I have no patience for it at this ungodly hour. But the nagging voice of my mother, telling me to show some respect, reappears once more, and I force myself to smile and nod along.
“Breakfast is included in your booking and is served from 7 to 11 a.m. in the atrium, just up on your left where the palm trees are. The gym and spa are open from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. and are located one floor down. The elevator to the fifth floor is just across from us on the right. I’ve noted the Wi-Fi details down for you on the inside of the room key holder.
” She hands me the key. “Do you have any questions?”
“I’ll let you know if I need anything,” I reply. I won’t. I can think of very few circumstances in which I’ll need her help, but manners don’t cost you anything.
A yawn escapes my mouth as tiredness washes over me. All I want to do now is creep into bed and pull the duvet over me.
“Will you be needing any help with your luggage, sir?” She nods at the bellboy standing behind me at the concierge desk.
“I’m good, thank you.” I slide the key into the pocket of my brown sweatpants, return my backpack to my shoulders, and muster up the last of the energy I have to make my way across the foyer.
As I press the button for the elevator, I hear a flurry of activity nearby. Muffled screams, coming from outside the hotel, get louder and then quieter again, probably from the doors opening and closing at the entrance.
The lift doors open, and as I make my way in, I feel a looming presence behind me.
“I’m going to need you to step aside, sir, and wait for the next elevator.”
As I turn, I’m confronted by a towering, bald-headed Black man with a goatee beard, who is staring down at my not-so-short five-eleven, one-hundred-fifty-five-pound self.
There’s a steely determination in his eyes, but this American douchebag picked the wrong person to mess with tonight.
“Excuse you?! I think you’ll find in this country that we wait our turn. You can help yourself to the next lift, thank you very much.”
The shock on his face tells me he’s not used to having people fire back at him, and it’s confirmed when I hear a slight chuckle from behind him.
“It’s fine, let’s just get to the room,” I hear another American voice say.
I can’t quite make out who it’s coming from.
The mountain in black takes up my entire field of vision.
But I’m guessing it’s someone important, given that this guy, who must be security personnel, refuses to take his glare away from me.
As four more people make their way in, I’m forced into the right corner of the wooden elevator, right by the golden panel with the lift buttons.
I take note as they squeeze themselves into the space: Another security person with an earpiece in.
A petite red-haired woman, struggling under the weight of a dozen items. Yet another bald-headed guy wearing oval-shaped glasses and with a poker face, who looks like he’d be a dab hand at cards.
And finally, a blond woman with a bob whose physique is so slim as to be bordering on anorexic.
And someone else, the owner of the mysterious voice, in the middle of all of them.
“Which floor?” I ask no one in particular.
“Three.” The blond-haired woman, lost in her phone, barely acknowledges me.
“Six,” the bald-headed guy with glasses says, in a monotone voice.
The two security guards share what seems to be a coded look as they take in the control board and then me.