Chapter 54
Tilly had been introduced to the wonders of a fast train not far from Darling Island that had whisked her up to London in the blink of an eye.
Sitting and sipping on a coffee, she’d gazed out the window, very excited about the trip and looking absolutely forward to what would happen in the hotel.
Once arrived in London, however, it was as she stepped off the train that she began to feel a tad out of sorts about the whole situation.
She was on her way to meet a man in London when not that long before she’d told herself that the one thing she would stick to in Blighty was doing her own thing.
Yet, here she was again tethered to someone, jumping through hoops for a man, letting herself go way too much.
But oh, how nice the tethering was. Just so nice.
Everything about it. Truth be told: she’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
Strolling in the direction of the ticket machines, Tilly peered overhead at the majesty of one of London’s finest old Victorian stations.
Rising up like something out of a dream, she stood for a second just staring at the loveliness of it all.
She had, for sure, stood under the soaring glass roofs of many of the great international airports of the world, but this was next level.
A thing of beauty from a bygone age. Above her, a grand and impossibly high Victorian roof arched away in long ribs of iron and glass, light filtered through in dappled patches, and the whole cathedral of the place echoed with the sound of people going a thousand places at once.
A clatter of cases over the concourse, the boom of announcements, hiss of a coffee machine somewhere, pigeons wheeling up into the rafters and the smell of engines, bacon sandwiches, travel.
After months of Darling fog, the slap of the tide against the decking and the gentle ding-ding of an old timber tram, the sheer roaring scale of London hit Tilly square in the chest and very nearly took her breath away.
Pausing beneath the great roof with her weekend bag over one shoulder, Tilly smiled, feeling so very small under the enormous Victorian roof.
Here she was on her way to meet Otto, whom she’d fallen for hook, line and sinker.
She’d crossed half the world to bury herself in a tumbledown shed to be defiantly, independently alone, but instead she was standing under a great glass roof off to meet a man, spend a night in a fancy hotel.
After all the solemn promises she'd made herself on a plane somewhere over the Indian Ocean about never again, here she was jumping in with six feet.
Ambling along, Tilly mused about it all as she took in the departure boards clattering through letters and numbers, strolled past little shops tucked into corners, gazed at a flower stall full of colour, and watched people kissing hello and waving goodbye all as the old ironwork and glass soared above.
New and old jumbled together, and London and the night away stretching out gloriously ahead of her.
A little bit like the Tilly and Otto story, really, or at least, that’s what she hoped.
After meeting Otto and having a quick drink, the pair of them had hopped in a taxi to their destination.
The hotel, when the taxi had finally turned off the bustle of the street, was not at all what Tilly had been expecting.
Which was to say it was not enormous, nor glittering, and it was far from being announced by a great glass frontage and a row of flags.
Instead, a tall, wide row of elegant white townhouses tucked down by a quiet square presented itself.
Tilly, it seemed, had arrived in the land of black railings around squares of lawn, exclusive parking spots and manicured hedges.
The hotel's glossy black door, discreet brass plaque and doorman in livery did not disappoint. Otto hopped out and took Tilly’s bag.
When the doorman greeted Otto by name, Tilly swallowed as she began to feel like a fish out of water.
Filing away the doorman’s acknowledgement of Otto with the watch, the school and the piles up north, she followed him into a hush of black-and-white marble, where a lovely old reception desk was surrounded by old mirrors and enormous arrangements of flowers.
After checking in, Tilly had to fight to keep her chin from dropping to the floor as the hotel showed off its wares left, right and centre.
She’d seen a five-star hotel or six, certainly, but this upped the ante a notch, and didn’t she know about it.
'Drink before we change later? There's a bar up top. I think you'll like it.'
Tilly swallowed and nodded and tried not to show her nerves. ‘Sounds perfect.’
Half an hour later, they were on their way to the roof.
The lift was a tiny brass-and-mahogany affair that took them up in a slow, creaking, intimate sort of climb, and then a door was opened by yet another immaculate staff member.
As Tilly stepped out onto the roof, she stopped quite still at the sight of London laid out at her feet.
Not a roof terrace of the modern sort, all glass balustrades, chrome, thumping music and cocktails the colour of antifreeze.
This was from another world. Understated, old, beautiful, and so very confident in its surroundings and itself.
A small walled garden in the sky with box hedges clipped into neat low squares, climbing roses trained up trellis along a parapet, little olive trees in lead planters and great froths of jasmine just about everywhere.
Wrought-iron tables and rattan chairs with deep cushions.
Hurricane lamps and candles in storm glasses flickering as the light went down.
A long mahogany bar at one end, gleaming, where a barman worked a silver shaker, and not a thing on the whole rooftop that hadn't been there, in spirit at least, for the better part of a century.
Taking a seat, while Otto ordered, Tilly gripped her hands together as she stared at the view. The Thames wiggling its way along the familiar shapes of London. The dome of St Paul's, the bridges, towers, spires, rooftops. For sure, she’d gone up in the world.
Watching Otto chatting at the bar and wondering quite how she’d ended up on a rooftop looking over one of the most glorious cities in the world, Tilly gulped.
How had her life turned on its head? One minute she’d been on her hands and knees in a hotel bathroom on the other side of the world scrubbing talcum powder out of the grout around an egg-shaped bath while two women on a balcony had talked about the man she'd thought was her partner in crime. She’d been the one dressed in a brown tabard who had folded other people's towels into towers. She’d hospital-cornered ten thousand bedsheets and been spoken to like furniture by women with too much money and not enough manners.
She’d trod a hushed, silent walk in and out of rooms exactly like the ones in this exquisite, well-to-do, flower-filled hotel.
Now here she was, not a worker but a guest. A voice snarled from the depths of Tilly’s self-esteem, just, you know, to spoil things a bit.
Out of your depth, Tilly. This is not your league. What on earth does a divorced hotel cleaner from nowhere, with a derelict shed and her last bit of money sunk into some bed sheets, think she's doing up here?
Trying to make herself see sense, Tilly pondered why imposter syndrome had reared its ugly head right there on the roof of the hotel.
What did out of her league even mean? She'd cleaned some of the finest rooms in the world, run a high-end afternoon tea single-handed, crossed the planet on her own, walked away from a controlling husband and a faithless musician with her chin up, and bought a business sight unseen off a Facebook advert with nothing to go on but her own gut and her dad's voice in her head.
She'd cleaned up other people's beautiful lives for years.
She was allowed, surely, to sit down and soak up nice things.
Oh yes, she was, and she was there for it.
Watching Otto walk over with two drinks, Tilly swallowed and resolved not to let any sort of imposter whatsoever ruin anything.
She, cleaner, traveller, divorcee, shed-owner, decided that being out of her league was, on balance, a rather marvellous place to be. She was going to own it and then some.