Checking Out- The Complete Trilogy

by T W M Ashford

  Château Beaumont Haut-Médoc, vintage 2010.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I replied, marvelling at their standard of service. It was quite a feat, keeping track of what everybody was drinking. A nice, personal touch.

  She smiled something radiant, and the next thing I knew my wine glass was full. I don’t even remember her pouring it. I suppose it just goes to show what you can miss when you’re distracted by a pretty face.

  ‘And there’s a dessert menu for you, if you’d like to have a browse. Our special tonight is the pear liqueur-soaked sponge pudding.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I repeated. And lo and behold, a menu lay open before me.

  Although both the apple tart and the booze-soaked sponge sounded great - and I very nearly went for the ice-cream sundae for two - I opted for the profiteroles. I like to think of myself as a man of cultured taste, after all. They arrived in a pyramid of delicate delight, and the waiter drizzled a pot of warm chocolate over them right there at my table. They didn’t last long after he’d left.

  A band started to take shape on the stage. There were five of them - a drummer, a singer and guitarist, a trumpeter, a pianist and somebody wrestling the biggest double bass I’d ever seen - and they all looked a little long in the tooth. Full of far more life than I could ever boast of, but outside they were greyed from the years. Grinning a wide set of pearly-white teeth, the drummer counted them in.

  I vaguely recognised the tune - some old swing number from the 20s or 30s - and it was pleasing to the ear. The guitarist crooned with soul and the smiles of the band were contagious. I found myself tapping my foot along to their groove, quite without intending to.

  ‘Good, aren’t they?’

  I jumped, half expecting to see a waiter standing over me, anxious to take away the brown smear that was my dessert plate. But much to my surprise it was Mr. Boyle, the irritable gentleman from down at the reception earlier that day. He was still wearing the same garish scarf, but a much more agreeable expression.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked, already pulling up a chair.

  I was about to tell him that yes, I did mind, I minded very much, but then it struck me - what was happening, that is. Here was a lonely man, dining by himself, assuming the same of me. That he’d thought to extend a hand to ease that loneliness… well, it was a touching gesture. And for all I knew he could have been standing on the edge of a very deep canyon, as a great many lonely people are, and to turn that hand away would be more than a great unkindness, it could be tantamount to a push.

  Either that or he was a foul and disagreeable old man prepared to ruin my evening.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, going back to listening to the band. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘They play near enough every night, you know,’ he said, sitting to my left and nodding towards the band. He’d brought a wine bottle of his own and plonked both it and his rather full glass down on the table. ‘Never gets old, trust me.’

  ‘They certainly did,’ I said, and Mr. Boyle burst out laughing. It wasn’t that funny. ‘I’m George, by the way. How long have they been performing here?’

  ‘Oh, five or six years at the very least. That’s how long I’ve been coming to stay here at any rate, and I should imagine they were the house band long before that. And the name’s Boyle, Bernard Boyle. How’s the wine?’

  I told him it was good, and named it. He pulled a face that was not damning, but not one that looked entirely impressed, either.

  ‘Not bad, not bad,’ he said after a second or two. ‘Probably better than the red piss I’m drinking.’ Red piss or not, it didn’t seem to be slowing Mr. Boyle’s rate of consumption. ‘I wanted something a bit more… classical, but it seems Le Petit Monde’s cellar is growing a bit dry.’

  A silence hung between us, as did the assumption I was making of Mr. Boyle. He was clearly an alcoholic. Or a rich old man with too much time on his hands, which in this case seemed to amount to much the same thing. The band had switched gear and were now jamming out a lively rendition of Johnny B. Goode.

  ‘First time here, I’m guessing?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Got any advice, from a veteran to a rookie?’

  ‘Ha. Well the bar’s not half bad. And most of the spa facilities come included in the price of your stay, so that’s always worth taking advantage of.’

  ‘Spa? There’s a spa here?’

  Mr. Boyle looked surprised, his bushy eyebrows rushing up to where his hairline may once have been. ‘Of course there’s a spa! What do you think this is, a Holiday Inn?’ But then he shrugged. ‘I guess they don’t make a song and dance about it. But head down to the first basement and it’s all there, alright. Saunas, hot baths, the lot. Good for couples, I’d imagine, and you can book massages too. You married?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Are you married? It’s just I don’t see many single men come through here. Those on business tend to choose the cheaper places, unless they can put it on an expense account. You are a businessman, right?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m in sales.’

  ‘What market?’

  ‘Ha, you’ll judge but try not to laugh. Cosmetics. Beauty products, you know?’

  ‘Really?’ Mr. Boyle stifled a laugh and his cheeks turned almost as red as his nose. ‘Like, do you go door to door or something? Isn’t that a… a…?’

  ‘A woman’s job?’ I’d heard this comment so many times before at parties and functions. I’d always smile and chuckle and imagine putting my fist into various parts of their face. And then I’d explain, like a teacher to a struggling pupil: ‘No, I didn’t sell to people. My audiences were the retailers, the supermarket chains, the sorts of places that would buy up stock in the hundreds of thousands.’

  Nine times out of ten this would make the mocker’s face drop like a bag of kittens off a bridge. But Mr. Boyle just smiled and nodded, as if putting the final piece of a jigsaw in its place.

  ‘And…?’ he asked. He looked quizzical, his nose like a vulture’s beak pointing at me. ‘Are you married? Or do you just pop the ring off when you’re out of town?’

  ‘Huh? No. Not anymore, at least.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Divorced, right? I never married, myself. Too much like hard-’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘What? Oh. Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Nothing to apologise for. It was a few years ago now.’

  ‘How did she go?’ He hiccupped. ‘If it’s not too rude to ask.’

  I looked at Mr. Boyle and, for the first time since I’d first seen him at reception, there was a softness to his eyes.

  ‘Car skidded off the road,’ I said, taking a deep breath. Ever since the accident I’d found it difficult to talk about Chloe and Sam without feeling as if my lungs were filling up with water. It was as if somebody had taken my entire world and locked it away in an iron box. Everything that mattered was irretrievable, just out of arm’s reach. ‘Hit a patch of ice whilst driving up in Scotland.’

  I’d been threading my napkin between my fingers. I finished off my remaining half a glass of wine in one swift gulp.

  ‘That’s a tragedy. I’m very sorry to hear that. Did you… did you have any children together?’

  I stood up to leave, overwhelmed by a sudden urge to be alone. I could feel the backstage of my eyes growing heavy and my chest thinning. I offered Mr. Boyle what must have been a very unconvincing smile.

  ‘We did, yes. But not anymore.’

  He hung his head as if acknowledging my departure, nodding as he sipped his wine. I pushed my chair in, then navigated a path between the few tables that peppered the way towards the exit.

  The waitress at the restaurant’s reception smiled at me, like somebody seeing a close family member for the first time in years. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and I returned it in a hurry. Lucky for me that they charged any additional expenses, such as, for example, a meal in their restaurant or the bottles of beer in the mini-fridge, to my account, rather th
an expecting me to wait at my table to pay. Keeping face for myself was easy enough - not so much everybody else.

  Goddamn that lonely old drunk, I thought, stepping out into the hallway that led back to the main lobby. My head was throbbing something terrible. He couldn’t keep his goddamn beak out, could he? A washed-up scavenger, circling overhead, waiting to feast on the dead and dying. No, worse than that. A goddamn leech, sucking out the last of another man’s light.

  No, calm down. You’re not being fair. He’s just a lonely old drunk meaning no harm. He asked some questions; you didn’t like answering them.

  I stood in the hall, steadying myself. A beautiful middle-aged couple walked past, arms around one another, engrossed in flirty conversation, the sounds of a Bobby Darin cover drifting lazily after them. They paid me no attention at all.

  The evening isn’t ruined, far from it. Some memories were brought to the surface a little earlier than planned, that’s all. But it’s not time for tears just yet, so pick yourself up and make the most of what’s left.

  I used the bottom of my pocket square to dab at the corner of my eyes, calling a halt to the leak before the dam could burst. At least poor old Mr. Boyle had done something of use that night. He’d set me a course as to where I should head next.

  And a good thing too, because now I really needed a drink.

  So I set out towards the hotel lobby, out under the enormous chandelier like a thousand glass stars in a marble sky. And so focussed was I on where I was headed, that I didn’t notice the man sitting in the foyer, tomorrow’s newspaper open across his middle, watching only me as I passed.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase. First, you’re going to order a double whiskey, on the rocks. Then you’re going to chastise yourself for not having enough of an imagination, so you’ll ask me for a Monkey Gland. Why don’t I just pour you both now?’

  The bartender wore the traditional outfit of a white shirt under a black waistcoat, but his dusty brown hair fell past his ears and his moustache was bushy enough for him to curl it up at its ends. His face was weathered - pocked and lined. He reminded me of a grizzled barman in an old western film, rather than the polished professional one would expect. Even his voice was thick and deep, scarred by a thousand lazy smokes.

  He turned from me and poured a double shot of whiskey from one of the many bottles hanging from the wall behind the bar. In went two cubes of ice, and down it went on the counter. Then he started to build a silent concoction of gin, orange juice, grenadine and absinthe, shaking it well and straining it into a classic cocktail glass. That too was brought towards me.

  I looked at the man, my words caught in my throat.

  ‘How did you know?’ I eventually managed.

  ‘Spend enough time around people and soon enough you see the same few coming back and back again, each time with a different face. You end up knowing them better than they know themselves. Most people, anyways.’

  Even though nobody else was anxious to be served, he began to walk down towards the end of the bar.

  ‘What?’ I asked, teasing him. ‘Aren’t you supposed to ask me what’s on my mind? I thought baring my soul was part of the deal.’

  The bartender smirked and shook his head.

  ‘I had a friend called Don, once. Clever guy. You know what he said?’

  Obviously I didn’t.

  ‘He told me, “By the time a bartender knows what drink a man will have before he orders, there is little else about him worth knowing.” Like I said, clever guy.’

  He carried on to the other side of the bar and asked a young woman with a beehive barnet if she’d like another beer.

  ‘Wow,’ I said to nobody in particular. ‘Where did all the smiles go?’ Secretly I kind of liked it, though. It was nice to speak to somebody genuine within those walls, rather than face another grin from one of the copy and paste concierges. And actually, I wanted the quiet.

  That same background piano soundtrack swept through the lounge - and it was more a lounge than a bar. The actual counter was old fashioned and grand - just like its bartender, it could have been shipped straight from the Wild West - and a row of stools surrounded its horseshoe shape. But the rest of the room was full of leather armchairs and soft, sinking sofas; ancient coffee tables to sit around and mock fireplaces to warm oneself by. It wasn’t, somehow, for better or worse, stocked with the same pretence that plagued the rest of the hotel.

  What it was stocked with, on the other hand, was one of the finest collections of intoxicants known to man (or at least to me). If Mr. Boyle didn’t want to settle for his Red Piss he could surely have sourced a suitable replacement for his pallet amongst the liqueurs, spirits, wines, champagnes, meads, ciders, ales, beers and lagers, not to mention more exotic drinks ranging from sake to the quite frankly worrisome kumis. If he couldn’t find something worth his taste buds there, well I quite doubt he’ll ever die a happy man.

  Speaking of which, I was wary of dear old Bernard wandering in after me. He was a wino after all, and where else would a wino go but the bar? I hoped he’d find some darkened corner in which to drink in peace, rather than force a repeat of our earlier performance.

  Propped up on my stool, I surveyed the drinks before me. As soon as the bartender had poured them I’d known he was right. I would have started with the whiskey and then moved on to something more… elaborate. But how could he have known? Was I really that predictable?

  Well, to hell with it. I was still being spontaneous… just spontaneous in advance.

  I started with the Johnny Walker, Black Label to maximise the malts and grains. I didn’t know what the hell I was on about, but I knew from experience it tasted good. And taste good it did, slipping down smooth as satin in three slow sips. With the third the ice brushed my lips, a frost to follow the fire. I put the clear, crystalline glass back on the counter and wrapped my fingers around the stem of the cocktail.

  The grandfather clock in the corner read out half nine. Was it that early? There were still two and a half hours until midnight.

  A couple of women laughed over on the other side of the bar. The bartender smiled at them, said something which made them laugh even harder, then went back to polishing glasses with a pristine white cloth. Over in an alcove I could just about make out three guys in striped jumpers knocking their beers together, celebrating something.

  And over in the furthest corner, sitting alone at a table meant for four, sipping his mediocre wine, was Mr. Boyle, still in that bloody scarf, looking up and over every now and then with eyes that pleaded pity. Every not-so-subtle glance begged to make me feel better through drink after drink after drink.

  It would have been almost endearing, had it not also been infuriating and more than a little creepy.

  The orange-gold cocktail sat there waiting, tipping its jaunty little orange slice towards me like a gentleman would a hat. Having traced the cold and slender stem of the glass for more than a few awkward moments I picked it up and took a tentative sip. My God, the taxi driver had been right. Or his friend had, at least. This wasn’t just a good drink; it was a goddamn brilliant one. I finished it off even quicker than I had the whiskey which, if you knew me better, would say something pretty strong.

  I was about to call out to the bartender for another (and ready to ask him if he’d seen that coming) when something in my gut made me look at the clock again.

  Half past nine. It was still a half past nine.

  I was sure the clock hadn’t stopped - in fact, I could see the pendulum swinging within its glass case. And I knew that I hadn’t read the time wrong the last time I’d looked… I just knew it.

  Perhaps I’d had too much to drink, or so I thought. And with two and a half hours to go until midnight… Did I expect to spend it all here, in the bar?

  And who knew how long it might be.

  So I wondered where I else I could go at such an hour, and where I might be left alone.

  ‘Hey, barkeep,’ I said, pit
ching my voice loud enough for him to hear. He stopped hanging wine glasses from the rack above the bar and walked over, ready to take an order. When he was close enough, I said in words just above a whisper: ‘How do I get to the spa?’

  He looked at me with a straight face for a little over a second, and then a little smile crept into the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Bit late in the day for some pampering, but to each his own. Head back out the way you came, then turn right towards the lounge at the lobby. Hang a right past that, then take the stairs one floor down. Just the one flight mind you, otherwise you’ll end up in maintenance, and you’ll never find your way back up from that labyrinth, believe me. From there just follow the signs. It’ll be a graveyard down there, mind. Nobody covers the night shift.’

  ‘Good thing I’m not looking for a midnight massage then, isn’t it?’

  I got off my stool and walked through the exit, not needing to look back to know that Mr. Boyle wasn’t following and not daring to look at the clock in case its hands had started to crawl backwards.

  It didn’t take long for me to find the stairwell, and even less to reach the floor below. Even a single level down from the lobby - still busy with late arrivals and guests ready to taste the Soho nightlife - the subsequent corridor seemed unnatural and haunted, the way a hospital would feel without doctors or patients, or one’s old school after all the teachers and kids have gone home.

  There was a set of double doors at its end, their glass frosted and obscure. Above them was a sign; Spa it said, in cursive.

  They opened with a sucking pop, like a champagne cork being eased out of its bottle. Rich, humid air billowed out, and I stepped in.

  The bartender hadn’t been exaggerating; it really was a graveyard down there. Each step I took on the tiles was whispered right back to me by the expanse of classical pillars and arches. The sound of lapping water whipped and wound its way around me, ricocheting this way and that like an ocean in a cave.

  The whole spa had been modelled after the Roman bathhouses, with a set of three square pools - about four by four metres each - all along the left, and jacuzzis built into the floor along the right. Wooden benches circled around the marble pillars, towels piled high along them. And further to the right were wooden doors, made to look as if fashioned from thin trunks of trees roped together, leading to the male and female changing rooms, and between them to various saunas. Natural lamps were embedded into the ceiling, which curved in line with the arches between pillars and kissed shimmering light across the calm rocking of the water.