Chapter Three
The Receptionist
It’s Saturday, and the busiest day at The Ionian Escape as guests arrive and leave, and the sky is cross-hatched with aeroplane vapour trails. It’s also the first weekend that the receptionist has had to work since returning from maternity leave, and she’s already had sixteen panicked messages from her husband, who is minding the baby today. She won’t stop crying. Ithink she misses you. Do we have any more wipes? Ican’t find the pink elephant.
Her husband is not a stupid man by any means– he’s a good man, kind and honest– but he can become overanxious at times. However, the receptionist needs to be able to get on with her job without worrying about him and their baby all day. She’s good at what she does, she likes it here at the hotel and they need the money, more to the point. Somehow or other, they have to make this work between them.
She puts her phone away as a taxi pulls up outside, then watches expectantly as a tall, well-dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair gets out, followed by a small, slight woman with a shingled silvery bob. The driver opens the boot for them and hauls out first one case then another. The woman stops to thank him, pressing some money into his hand, but the man is already hauling the biggest suitcase along and into the hotel as if he’s in a hurry. Only when he is two steps away from the desk does he turn round, belatedly realising that his wife is lagging behind.
‘ Kalispera ,’ says the receptionist with a warm smile as they approach. In all of her years working in hospitality, she has perfected that smile, and can flick it on at will like a lamp, whatever she thinks of people. It is our job, our duty to treat every guest as if we are delighted to see them, her boss Dimitris is fond of saying. To make them feel special, welcomed. First impressions count.
‘Afternoon,’ the man says, as he and his wife reach the desk together. First impressions cut both ways, of course, and he is quite a presence, the receptionist registers; in his early sixties, by her estimate, and still very handsome with his aquiline nose, grey eyes and strong jaw. A full head of hair too, and the sort of body that signals a man who knows his way around the gym. Imagine having the energy, she thinks to herself, as the man puts a hand into his jacket pocket to withdraw two passports. She and her husband both went regularly to the gym before the baby arrived but these days her flesh feels soft and slack, and the thought of squeezing herself into Lycra in order to run on a machine or lift weights seems incomprehensible. The scant free time she gets she would rather spend horizontal in bed, fast asleep, than do anything that involves exertion. ‘Frank and Leonora Neale,’ says the man tersely, slapping the passports– British– down on the counter.
‘What a lovely place this is,’ the woman adds, perhaps to soften his brusqueness. Working in a hotel means that you encounter new people every day, sometimes every few minutes, and you can’t help but become an expert in decoding relationship dynamics. These two are not in a good place, the receptionist decides, picking up their passports and tapping her computer back into life. They are standing a little distance apart, both somewhat stiffly, and the woman’s eyes are red, as if she is tired.
‘Thank you,’ the receptionist says, searching up their names on the system. ‘Welcome to The Ionian Escape, Mr and Mrs Neale.’ Ahh yes– they are staying in one of the finest suites here, she sees, with a request having been made for flowers and a fruit basket to be awaiting them. Very nice. ‘If you could just sign a few documents for me. . .’ she says, handing over a sheaf of printed forms and a pen. Mr Neale takes them, as she knew he would, and signs with a large flourish. ‘Wonderful. And here are your room keys. Would you like any help with your cases?’
They would not, says Mr Neale, although his wife opens her mouth as if she was about to say yes, only to close it once more, her words unspoken. The receptionist pretends not to have seen the flash of resignation on her face– sometimes guests don’t like it if you catch their eye, attempting solidarity– then directs them to their suite. From below the desk she hears her phone ping again but there’s no time to look at whatever her husband is fretting about now, because in comes a group of six animated young women, who perhaps have had a glass or two of something on the plane over. This must be the German group who have booked two triple rooms; the receptionist makes a quick mental note not to allocate the neighbouring rooms to the family with two toddlers who are arriving later today.
Checking them all in takes some time, and afterwards the receptionist has a brief moment to see the latest update from home– She still hasn’t gone to sleep– before a young couple arrive, holding hands and leaning against each other as they announce their names. You can tell that the very second they get into their bedroom and close the door they will be ripping each other’s clothes off and having sex, the receptionist thinks, with a small pang for the days when she and her husband used to be like that too. She couldn’t get enough of him back then– nor he her. Nowadays they stumble blearily into bed and hold one another in silence, like survivors from a natural disaster, clinging on for dear life. This is what parenthood has reduced them to: hollowed-out shells of their old selves, feeble from exhaustion. But she’s made it back here at least, she reminds herself. She is reclaiming her old life incrementally, extricating herself from the confines of the motherhood bubble. Which is why she needs her husband to persevere, to learn how to look after their daughter, just as she has had to.
The young couple head off to their room, trailing a cloud of pheromones, and the receptionist picks up her phone to reply to her husband. But his most recent message stops her short: Idon’t know if Ican do this. I’m sorry. Idon’t think I’m very good at it.
The receptionist’s husband is a proud person, who will not have enjoyed typing those words. As she reads his admission of defeat, her own body lets her know that it feels compelled to step in now, her breasts tingling with a familiar fullness in her unsexy maternity bra, aching to feed her baby into milky submission. But she’s here, far from home, where her little one is crying and her husband is in despair. All of a sudden, it feels as if she has made a bad mistake, that her priorities are wrong. Giddy in her excitement to be working again, has she let down her own little family?
She gulps some water as two new taxis arrive, wishing she could sneak off and use her breast pump, but that’s impossible on arrivals day when the guests keep on coming. Please don’t leak, she thinks, glancing down at her clean white blouse in alarm, praying that the milk won’t flood through the fabric. She doesn’t want to have to scuttle off to Housekeeping to see if there is a spare white top she can borrow.
Just then a woman wearing enormous dark glasses and a floppy sunhat walks in with a huge Samsonite suitcase. ‘Miranda Vallance,’ she says curtly. ‘Staying for two weeks.’
‘ Kalispera ,’ says the receptionist. ‘Welcome to The Ionian Escape. Do you have your passport, please?’
Ms Vallance heaves a massive handbag onto the desk and starts rummaging around inside it, although the receptionist is surprised she can see anything much in there with those sunglasses. Meanwhile, another two taxis have pulled up outside, and her phone is pinging again, presumably with another anguished update from her husband. Something tightens inside her, the feeling that her reserves are being stretched thin. Might she have romanticised working here while under the sleep-deprived cosh of maternity leave? With a rush of guilt, she remembers her eagerness that morning to wear smart clothes and make-up once more, to step back into the old outline of herself rather than being Mama around the clock.
‘There,’ says Ms Vallance eventually, pushing her passport across the desk.
‘Thank you,’ says the receptionist, finding her booking. Ahh– she’s in the Serenity Suite, the most expensive and luxurious one in the hotel, with a double-aspect room, huge bathroom and a private sun terrace. Well, if anyone needs serenity it’s Miranda Vallance, who stalks off with her luggage and room key without so much as a thank-you.
For the rest of the afternoon, the receptionist is so busy she barely has time to think about her baby or husband. Then comes a short lull, and she is about to rush off to find her breast pump when an older woman walks through the door, slowly hauling along a case. ‘ Kalispera ,’ she says when she reaches the desk, passport in hand. ‘I’m afraid that’s about the limit of my Greek, but I’m Evelyn Chambers and I’m booked in for ten days here.’
‘ Kalispera ,’ the receptionist replies, typing in the woman’s name. Gosh, she’s eighty-two, she realises as she adds the passport details. Eighty-two, and still very dapper in a dusky pink tunic top and parchment-coloured loose trousers, her white hair in a neat crop. Good– she’s been allocated a lovely room with a sea view and a spacious balcony; a nice, quiet space at the end of the corridor, so she shouldn’t be disturbed. ‘Here’s your key,’ she says, retrieving it.
‘Thank you , Duska,’ says the lady, with a quick glance at the receptionist’s name badge. ‘Am Ipronouncing that right? What a pretty name.’
‘It’s Dush-ka,’ Duska replies, smiling as she hands over the key. ‘But you were close.’ She glances around for the porter but her colleague Julia has just collared him to escort a middle-aged couple to their room. ‘Let me show you to your suite,’ she says, getting up from her seat.
‘Are you sure? Idon’t want to be any bother.’
‘No bother in the slightest,’ Duska assures her. The woman reminds her of her own grandmother, Anna, who died a few weeks before the baby was born. They named their daughter Anna in tribute but Duska has missed her kind, twinkly-eyed yaya very much. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
She walks Evelyn through the hotel and out onto a path that curves around the bar’s outdoor seating area. Guests are settling in with cocktails and bar snacks– there are the German women, getting stuck into large Aperol spritzes filled with ice and orange slices, she notices with a smile. There are the two blonde ladies– sisters, from the Netherlands– who arrived after the Neales, already sharing a bottle of white wine on the next table, one of them having kicked off her shoes to wiggle her bare toes in the late afternoon sunshine. Good. This is what a holiday should be about, Duska thinks, feeling her own spirits rise at the sight.
‘So, as you can see, this is the bar,’ she tells Evelyn as they proceed along the path. ‘Konstantinos and Christos there make great cocktails, but we have a wide range of other drinks, including some delicious Greek wines. Your room has a balcony, by the way, so if you ever fancy a sunset drink just call reception and we will send someone up with it, okay?’
‘Now you’re talking, Duska,’ says Evelyn. ‘A sunset tipple– that does sound nice. And why not? Iam on holiday.’
‘Absolutely!’ Duska tells her. It is her favourite part of working at the hotel, seeing people enjoy themselves. Especially the ones whose eyes light up in appreciation, like this lady. ‘You can order food here too,’ she goes on, gesturing to the tables set up on the terrace. ‘Breakfast is from seven in the morning until eleven, and we serve snacks, lunch and evening meals.’
‘Wonderful,’ says Evelyn happily. ‘Gosh, and look at that view. The sort you could never grow tired of, Iimagine.’
‘I’ve been here four years in total, and no, not yet,’ Duska tells her as they slow their pace to gaze out at the bay below– the stretch of golden sand, the azure sea seeming to meld into the bright sky on the far horizon. The beachgoers will be packing up soon, returning to their guest-houses and hotels to shower off the salt and sand. Seagulls skim across the sky high above them, banking and rolling like stunt pilots.
They’re nearly at Evelyn’s room now, the path leading them through the garden area, cicadas chirping all around. The path is lined with great banks of gauras, their white starry heads bobbing as the bees cruise between the stems, and there’s flowering rosemary too, its fragrance hanging in the warm air.
‘Are those myrtles Isee blossoming?’ Evelyn asks. ‘They smell divine. And lime trees too. . . Oh, this is perfect. Ifeel as if I’ve had a holiday already, simply walking along here with you.’
‘Iam glad to hear that,’ Duska says. ‘And now this is your room, number seven.’ She comes to a halt outside the single-storey block, opens the door and holds it for Evelyn to step inside, then follows behind with the case.
‘Heavens above! This is too perfect for words,’ says the older woman as she takes in the calm, unfussy room with its large olivewood bed and spotless white bedlinen. A couple of comfortable rattan armchairs are visible on the balcony through the double doors, with the sea beyond. ‘You’d better watch out, I’m not sure I’ll ever want to leave again.’ She starts fumbling in her purse. ‘Now let me find you something. . .’
‘Oh no– please. There’s no need,’ Duska tells her. ‘Honestly.’ And it’s true– seeing the older lady’s appreciation is reward enough. She does love her job. ‘Remember, call reception if you need anything. In the meantime– enjoy yourself.’
They say goodbye and Duska walks back to the reception desk, hoping that a queue hasn’t built up in her absence. But the lobby area is empty, save for Julia. Finally. ‘Do you mind if Ijust nip to the loo?’ she asks.
‘Of course not,’ says Julia, who’s engrossed in her Instagram feed. Duska grabs her phone, heads for the staffroom, where she has stored her breast pump in a locker, then retreats with it into a cubicle for some privacy. Sitting there, releasing the pressure at last, she enjoys an exquisite moment of relief as she exhales. Then, bracing herself, she checks the latest update from home.
Anna’s asleep! she reads, thankfully. Sorry about all the messages. I’ll get the hang of this soon, Ipromise.
The tension leaves her immediately as Duska pictures her daughter’s tiny sleeping face, her beautiful pink lips slightly parted, her body slack. Everything’s okay, she tells herself. They can do this. Between them, they’re going to make it work.