at five-thirty and I’m down to the final hotel on my list.
My very last hope.
Punching in the number, I offer up a silent prayer that this time I’ll speak to someone who is at least a little sympathetic to my plight. I will offer to bake them muffins, read them a bedtime story – God, I’ll even send hard cash – if they will only give me what I need. Then I can get the hell out of here for another day.
It rings – smile and look positive! – and it rings.
It keeps on ringing.
Then it rings some more.
With each electronic shriek, an iron band of frustration tightens around my gut, increasing my sense of panic.
‘For God’s sake, what kind of a place is this?’ I drum my fingers hard on the desk, tensing my ear muscles against the phone shrieks. ‘Christ, have all the staff taken the same day off?’
Shona and Ella are frowning sympathetically at me.
I am so incensed it doesn’t immediately register that the phone has stopped ringing.
So, as it filters through my jangling head that someone is actually speaking, I am simultaneously yelling, ‘Bloody fucking stupid bastard of a hotel!’
There is a deafening silence at the other end.
And then a man says, ‘Well, you know, that’s not how we’re currently described in the Good Hotel Guide.’
My heart leaps with horror.
Oh, buggery bollocks!
Heat envelops me, I am sweltering like a greenhouse in high summer. What do I do now? Hang up?
Then I think of Carol, hatchet-faced, drumming her fingers, expecting a miracle.
This man is my last hope. I’ll just have to grovel.
‘Gosh, I do apologise.’ I pull out my T-shirt neckline and desperately waft some cool air in. ‘I’m – er – having rather a stressful afternoon and it all got a bit – well … ’
‘Too much?’
‘Exactly.’
He laughs. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ve all been there. Try squeezing a tennis ball.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what I do when I feel like leaping off a cliff. You’ve got to put a hole in it, obviously.’
‘A hole,’ I repeat, feeling somewhat bemused. ‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Works wonders. Honestly. You should try it.’
His voice is deep and oddly soothing, and my panic subsides a little.
‘So what’s stressing you out? Is your goldfish ill? Or is your boss giving you a hard time?’
I’m about to laugh wearily and say, ‘Spot on!’ Then I think: No, I’ve got to be nice about Carol. She has to sound like the perfect hotel guest.
‘The Boss?’ I take a deep breath and cross my fingers. ‘Oh no, she’s great. Firm but fair. Always puts the welfare of her staff before profits. And she particularly asked me to book her a stay at your hotel. We’ve heard – er – fabulous reports.’
I can see Shona giving me funny looks. But I don’t care. I’ll tell as many porkies as required in order to bag a deal and get out of here.
‘Right, well, we’ve obviously got a lot to live up to. So let’s see what we can do for you.’ His tone is laced with humour. He sounds so laid-back, I can’t imagine him ever needing to leap off a cliff.
I gulp. ‘There’s – er – just one thing. The Boss has a budget.’
‘Of course. Fire away.’
I close my eyes and mumble the figure.
There’s a brief silence.
Then he laughs.
Roars with laughter, in fact, and my heart drops into my boots.
I stare murderously at Carol’s door.
I knew it was useless.
‘I’m glad you’re amused,’ I say primly, when Reservations Guy has stopped clutching the desk, wiping his eyes and falling off his swivel chair. ‘I, on the other hand, don’t find it in the least bit funny. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.’
I hang up, my dignity in shreds, and punch ‘bargain hotels London’ into Google with so much force, it comes out as ‘bqrghain hireks Libdon’.
A second later, the phone rings, and when I snatch it up, a familiar voice says, ‘Let me lessen your stress. As I said, I’ll see what we can do for you.’
I sit bolt upright. Reservations Guy. ‘Oh. Right,’ I mutter hoarsely. ‘Er, that’s great, thanks.’
‘Give me your email address.’ He sounds like he’s smiling. ‘The name’s – er – Ronald McDonald. I’ll get back to you. Oh, and look after that goldfish.’
I laugh and give him my details, feeling a whole lot better.
A minute later, I pop my head round The Boss’s door. ‘Job’s a good ‘un.’
‘It bloody better be,’ she yells after me, as I skip out and grab my coat.
I’m in such a hurry to leave, I don’t even notice the rain.
All week, the weather reporters have been banging on about a spectacular storm that will sweep north, arriving just in time for today’s commuter exodus.
Luckily, I thought to wear my new raincoat this morning – the one I fished out of a bargain bin at a camping shop. It’s fairly obvious why no one wanted it. The last time swirly orange and purple Paisley pattern was on trend, I probably wasn’t even alive. Plus it’s a large size and therefore swamps me. But it’s functional, and that’s what’s important.
As I emerge from the chemist’s, the sky turns spookily dark and thunder crashes overhead. A fork of lightning splits the sky and big fat raindrops begin to splat onto the pavement. Everyone hurries to get somewhere.
I glance anxiously upwards. The clouds are black and menacing, like giant angry gods. Raincoat or not, I’m going to get soaked.
Remembering the teashop Shona keeps raving about, I hurry down the next side street and dive thankfully through the door. I flump down in a seat by the window of Frankie’s Tearoom and observe the storm with wonder for a moment. Rain is now lashing against the windows and it’s so black out there it could be midnight.
