Checking Out- The Complete Trilogy

by T W M Ashford

  ‘So why does your friend think it’s haunted?’ I asked, after a while.

  ‘Oh, I dunno. Same as most people I guess: just got spooked. Probably got drunk and then saw somebody wanderin’ the halls after people had gone to bed. Come to think of it, he’s usually too drunk to finish his story by that point, so I wouldn’t have put it past him to have passed out and dreamt the whole thing.’

  ‘Come on, there must be more to it than that.’

  The driver shrugged.

  ‘As I said, he’ll say anythin’ for a free pint.’

  We spent the next twenty minutes or so in comparative silence, our few smatterings of conversation drifting from the weather, and how it was affecting his fares, to how long he’d been working in the business. Near-enough thirty years, as it turned out. He’d come to the city looking for work and, since he loved driving above all else, the natural choice had been to become a taxi driver. I decided that I liked this wrinkled, blue-eyed man, even though I’d never asked for his name. There was an honest air about him, and in smoggy London that was all the more rare.

  Soon enough the smooth tarmac of the roads stepped aside for rough cobbles which bumped and shook the carriage. The transition must have been broadcast across my face for the taxi driver smiled to himself, even if his eyes never left the road ahead. The heavens still poured something rotten, and where the streets grew narrow gutters threw up against the drains. Over Victorian facades clambered vibrant yet violent neon signs, screaming their wares through the storm.

  I peered into one of the stores as we passed, and though their windows were piled high with books their shelves were lined with stock of a far more adult nature.

  To think that the theatre district had been my world, once upon a time.

  Not anymore.

  Before nostalgia for memories a world away could glaze my eyes over, we turned right once more, back onto the smooth and gentle tarmac, and there I saw it: the Thames. Fond memories took some digging for, as the river before me, though wide and grand, was little more than a grey expanse, a mirror of the turgid sky, shaken by the rain and clawing up its banks. Long streams of people hurried over the thin walkways of the twin Golden Jubilee bridges, their coats flapping in the river’s breeze in time with the swaying of the bridges’ supports, their umbrellas held staunchly over their windswept heads.

  And before I could do so much as glance towards the bustle of Embankment Station we were turning yet again, turning our back on all of it, running parallel to yet hidden from the river, and slowing to a stop.

  ‘Well here you are, mister,’ said the taxi driver, staring out his window with his eyes full of diamonds. ‘Le Petit Monde herself.’

  It was like waiting for a blind date, your gut telling you that you’d been stood up, and then seeing the most beautiful woman in the world walk through the doors of the bar and just knowing she was there for you. I’d looked through pictures online - or at least, I could have sworn I had - but I couldn’t have prepared for the majesty that welcomed me.

  It climbed twelve storeys, which may not sound much compared to the towers seen in the States but sure as hell stands out on a London skyline, and stretched so far wide that I could barely believe the street had room for a second let alone third address; only narrow alleys down each flank served as a reminder that Le Petit Monde had neighbours at all. It was a gorgeous titan, a glorious and decadent monolith, the ultimate tribute to all that is great and grand. A castle built for comfort. My first thought, as it is every time I see a hotel larger than a Bed and Breakfast, was: I wonder how many rooms it has?

  More than I could care to count, I was sure.

  Windows marched in row upon row like a thousand antique eyes. To their sides had been carved ornate little columns, and above a quaint Roman roof; you could almost imagine passing underneath them as you marched your way into an ancient gladiatorial arena. Higher up, the rooms seemed to have stepped back to allow their balconies a better view of the river. Higher still the chimneys, relics of the hotel’s Victorian growth, dreamt of blowing smoke into the storm.

  Adjacent to the taxi was a set of ten steps leading up to the hotel’s patterned yet clear glass doors, opened by a doorman that stood beside each. Greyed but full of smiles and sprite, they were decorated in coat-tails and top hats kept dry by the canopy of the porch. To either side of them waved a flag - to the left the Union Jack, the right the French - and above it all whispered a cursive and golden inscription: Le Petit Monde.

  ‘Friend, you have a habit of stayin’ on the same spot for too long,’ said the taxi driver, breaking my trance. I smiled and asked how much I owed him. He said twenty-five pounds, so I gave him three tenners and told him to keep the change.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said with a smile as I opened the door and bumbled my way out of the car, briefcase in one hand and disobedient suitcase in the other. ‘Now, you make the most of that place, you hear me?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said, and shut the door. I was for the most part sheltered by the canopy but there was a steady dripping on my shoulder and a chill hammering at my bones.

  The taxi driver rolled down his window.

  ‘One more thing. Ask for a Monkey Gland.’

  You honestly wouldn’t believe how long I stood there, my face expressionless, before he continued talking.

  ‘It’s a drink. A good one. And my friend says theirs,’ - and with that he pointed to the front doors - ‘is the best. Next time I see ya, I’ll be sure to ask you how it was. See if he’s full of crap or not.’

  He rolled up his window as he pulled away from the kerb, sending another ripple of waves rolling across the puddles of Whitehall Place. He turned the corner, and that was the last I ever saw of that taxi driver.

  Still didn’t know his name. Still don’t.

  So there I was, barely noticing a sense of unusual calm wash over me as I stepped away from under the pouring rain and towards the opening arms of Le Petit Monde’s doors, towards its glamour and its history and all its secrets I was yet to discover. I was invited in as if I were the King of England. I was invited in as if it were my home.

  April 25th. That was the first night I spent at Le Petit Monde.

  That was the night I killed myself.

  Chapter Two

  Of course, I should have known that the doors weren’t being opened on my behalf. I was only halfway up the steps when the two porters swung them aside by their golden handles - the doors, that is, not the steps - and gave a smiling nod as their priority passed between them.

  And what a priority she was. I don’t think I’d ever seen somebody so - dare I say perfect? - up close, in real life. She didn’t so much walk as waltz through the door, a glitzy beauty who swam down the steps as if they were a red carpet. In fact, she looked as if she’d been cut straight out of a movie - not one of those modern blockbusters but a classic, like Singin’ in the Rain or Some Like It Hot. A real Loren or Monroe. Eyes that could cut through fire; blonde hair that tumbled yet never fell a strand out of place. Engulfed by a Hollywood coat of velvet and furs that chased after her like a cascading waterfall, tailed by a couple of silent, sharp gentlemen.

  My ascent had been on the opposite side of the steps, and I came to realise that I’d stopped moving entirely. I was nothing more than one of the old Victorian lampposts that lined the street, and I felt about as exciting as one, too. Here was someone bound to be a celebrity of sorts, and there I was, a middle-aged man with his little tattered luggage; a second-class everyman, struck by the stars.

  And yet her head turned as she passed. Furniture or not, she’d seen me. Her eyes didn’t light up; her mouth didn’t turn at the edges. But there was a second - just a second - where I thought I was at the forefront of her mind. I was a part of her world, otherwise filled with glamour and beauty. I existed.

  But then she turned back to the street where a car had pulled up quite unbeknownst to me, and climbed into the back of it without so much as another look towards either me
or the hotel. The two sharp gentlemen climbed in after her, one in the back and the other up front with the driver. I shook myself free of my stupor, embarrassed to have become like an extra who didn’t belong in the scene, and continued to climb the steps as the car pulled off and away.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said the nearest doorman, offering me as great a smile as he had the woman - the woman I had become increasingly sure I’d seen somewhere before, either in a film or on the cover of some women’s magazine. ‘May I help with your bags?’

  ‘Oh, thank you but no,’ I replied, taken aback a little. ‘Best I hold on to them for now.'

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ he said, still smiling.

  I stepped through the threshold of the doorway and my God - if I described the woman on the steps as stunning there aren’t sufficient words left to paint a picture of the hotel’s breathtaking lobby. The marble floor was so polished it was like walking on a mirror; looking down I could see another version of myself, crystal clear, longing to break through. And hanging over his head and mine was a chandelier far more resplendent than any I had seen before; it was a diamond beehive, twelve feet across; a million sparkling lights dancing above the hall. It appeared to hover, suspended from nothing, though I knew if I could get closer I’d see the magic fade away.

  The lobby was busy but not crowded. There were plenty of men and women in impeccable suits and splendid dresses, but also a wealth of guys and girls in far more casual glad rags; t-shirts and jeans and, dare I say it, even a pair of trainers. Bellboys, decked out in old-fashioned uniforms and hats, travelled in a polite rush, pushing trolleys of suitcases and bags whilst nimbly dodging guests and patrons. Fast or slow, everybody was going somewhere. Everybody except me.

  Well, I say that, but just beyond the entrance hall was a relaxing leisure lounge, filled with tea-room tables and elegant armchairs. Old men with fat moustaches sat reading their newspapers. Couples sat beside one another in silence, checking their emails on their phones. And waiters went gliding in and out to take orders for drinks, as fleeting and discreet as ghosts.

  To my left was a fountain, simple in design in contrast to everything else. A single spout of water spilled down three levels and provided the lobby’s gentle, trickling soundtrack. Another bellboy stood beside it, eager to take people’s suitcases upstairs. I gripped my briefcase ever tighter, and walked over to the reception desk to the right.

  ‘My room’s too hot. I want to be moved to another one.’

  A man was talking to the receptionist, and being British I formed an orderly queue of two behind him. He was tall, thin and old before his time. His long, hooked nose and tufts of greying hair made him resemble a plucked vulture. He wore a brown suit, much as you’d imagine a university professor would wear. A chequered red and yellow scarf wrapped once around his neck and then fell to his waist. He was leaning forward on the desk. His nose looked drippy.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Mr. Boyle,’ replied the receptionist, his face a flawless balance of professional smile and pseudo-concern. ‘But the temperature of each individual room is regulated by its occupant via the thermostat opposite the bathroom door. With the weather outside quite nippy we find that guests prefer to be welcomed by a mild warmth - you are free to adjust it to your liking, of course.’

  ‘Mild? It’s like I’ve stepped into the bloody Sahara in there. And do I look like an idiot? Of course I’ve tried the thermostat. Did sod all from what I can tell.’

  ‘I’ll have somebody come up to check it right away, sir. In the meantime, can I recommend opening a window?’

  ‘Open a window?’ The man looked ready to explode in a shower of spit and protestation. His thin cheeks puffed up with air, like the Big Bad Wolf’s frail old grandpa. ‘Have you seen the weather outside? What if my curtains get wet? What if a bird finds its way in, thinking it’s flown to a warmer climate?’

  ‘Sir, I can assure you that the hotel hasn’t had an issue with nesting gulls since 1908, and-’

  ‘No. I won’t have it. I want another room.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we’re fully booked this whole week. That simply won’t be possible. I’ll send somebody up to look at it immediately.’

  The vulture man grumbled and stepped back from the desk.

  ‘I’m late heading out, thanks to all this,’ he said, tapping at his watch as if expecting the hands to turn back. ‘My room had best be fixed when I return.’

  ‘Of course, Mr. Boyle.’

  The vulture swept away from the desk and stormed out the front door as if he’d just spotted a fresh carcass. He rolled his eyes at me as he passed.

  ‘What can I help you with, sir?’

  I looked back to the desk. The receptionist was smiling at me, expectant. He wore the same uniform as the bellboys but his was black, rather than beige, and considerably smarter; it almost resembled a suit, what with its buttons and breasts. He also had a good decade or two of years over them, and a thin but not unpleasant moustache over his upper lip. Instead of a hat he wore his hair slick and parted to the side. A name badge on his chest said Pierre but I was glad to hear an accent that was barely French at all. There’s authenticity, and then there’s just making things difficult.

  ‘Well he was a ray of sunshine on a rainy day, wasn’t he?’ I said.

  ‘I couldn’t say a bad word about dear Mr. Boyle,’ said the receptionist, that pleasant smile not faltering for a second. ‘But I won’t turn down hearing a few.’

  ‘Regular, is he?’

  ‘Oh, regular as they come, sir. And always a pleasure to have him here, too. Is there something I can help you with?’

  ‘I should hope so. Be a long way to come if you can’t. I should have a room booked for me under the name Webber - George Webber.’

  The receptionist brought out a giant tome from underneath the desk and opened it where its bookmark lay like a serpent’s red tongue. He ran an elegant finger down the inside of its spine, scanning the names scrawled in rows, his mouth twitching as he strained to stop himself from sounding each name out in a flurry. He came to a name he seemed satisfied by enough to slam his finger against, and resumed his welcoming grin.

  ‘Mr. Webber, found you at last. Just the one night, I see?’

  ‘Just the one night.’

  ‘Not a problem, sir. If you wish to stay for a second we simply ask you let us know before eight o’ clock this evening.’

  I looked around the hotel lobby and its whirlwind of guests.

  ‘I thought you told Mr. Boyle you were fully booked.’

  The receptionist smiled - a little knowingly, I thought. ‘Oh, we always find a way to make things work, sir. If you could sign here, sir?’

  I looked down and the ledger was facing me, accompanied by a silver and black pen bearing the hotel’s name. I hadn’t seen him turn it around, but I left my signature in the box beside my booking and shrugged it from my mind.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, snapping the book shut and returning it to its place below the desk. It seemed awfully big and I wondered why they hadn’t digitalised their bookkeeping - to keep with their old-fashioned aesthetic, I guessed. ‘Now, there’s just a few things we have to go through before I hand over your key. First of all, smoking isn’t allowed anywhere in the hotel, even on the balconies.’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Good. Nasty habit. Second: checkout is by noon at the latest. Housekeeping make their rounds at ten-thirty so make sure you hang the sign on your door if you want those extra hours in bed.’

  Oh, I’ll be getting those extra hours all right, I thought, my face an immovable block of granite.

  ‘And most importantly,’ he continued, ‘our wifi code. Sign in with your room number and password: Rotterdam. Would you like me to write that down?’

  ‘Hmm? No, I should remember it. Thanks.’

  ‘Okay, well the phone in your room will have all the numbers for the front desk and other services should you need reminding. And here’s your k
ey, sir.’

  I realised that Pierre was holding my room key between the tips of his outstretched fingers. I hadn’t seen him retrieve them from anywhere, but I assumed he must have had them in his hand all along. It was plain and silver. A little card tag hung from its loop-hole, labelled No. 628.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Mr. Webber?’

  ‘I don’t think so, thank you.’ I had almost turned away from the desk when a thought struck me. ‘Actually, is it too late to make a reservation at your restaurant?’

  Pierre somehow smiled even more welcomingly than he had before. ‘It’s never too late, sir. Shall I make a booking for seven thirty?’

  ‘Make it eight, if you can.’

  ‘For how many?’

  ‘For one.’

  He nodded as he made a note on a pad, making no comment. Passing no judgement, I hoped. It’s not that I cared, not really, I just didn’t like the idea of being the target of someone’s pity. Not on that day.

  ‘All sorted for you, Mr. Webber. Would you like anyone to assist you in finding your room?’

  I looked to the group of bellboys with eyes as bright as those of a puppy bouncing out of a box on Christmas morning. They lugged suitcases twice their size, like ants carrying leaves back to their nest.

  ‘No, I should be fine, thank you.’

  ‘Very well. The elevator and stairs are over to the back and left,’ he said, pointing across the hall towards them. ‘Do let me know if there’s anything more I can help you with, and have yourself a lovely stay.’

  I wished him similar pleasantries in return and wheeled my suitcase away from the desk, dodging a little girl who was waving a lollipop around like a swashbuckler. Her parents, looking tired and flustered, were trying to usher her out the front door. They weren’t succeeding. I left the bustle of the entrance hall and followed the carpeted ring around the sunken leisure lounge, the soft floor mercifully smothering the rumble of my luggage at last. The aroma of thick coffee and frosted cupcakes washed over me, and once again I felt a pang of regret at not making a greater effort with my lunch.