Love, Rosie

by Cecelia Ahern

  Rosie: Well you’re not so much losing an accent as gaining an accent. Anyway 20 years . . . how did that happen?

  Alex: I no, time flies when you’re having fun.

  Rosie: If you call the last 20 years fun, then I don’t want to know how fast time goes by when you’re really enjoying yourself.

  Alex: It hasn’t been so bad for you, has it Rosie?

  Rosie: Define bad.

  Alex: Oh come on . . .

  Rosie: No it hasn’t but I wouldn’t complain if it became a whole lot better.

  Alex: Well, none of us would . . . the job must be exciting for you.

  Rosie: It really, really is. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve! I haven’t felt like that for a long, long time. I know the job is temporary and that I’m only in training but I’ve waited a long time for this opportunity.

  Alex: You’ve waited too long for it. I of all people no how much you’ve wanted this. I used to hate it when you made me play Hotel.

  Rosie: Ha ha, I remember that. I was always the person in charge and you had to be the customer!

  Alex: I hated being the customer because you would never leave me alone. You kept fluffing my pillows and lifting my feet up on stools for the customer’s “comfort.”

  Rosie: My god, I’d forgotten all about that! I used to try to be like the guy on Fantasy Island who looked after his guests so much he would use magic to give them their dreams.

  Alex: I don’t call forcing me to go to bed at two in the day, tucking me in so tight that I could hardly breathe a comfort/dream-providing service! I don’t no what type of manager you were trying to be but if you behave like that with your real customers then a few of them will have restraining orders against you.

  These days people don’t generally like being given daily schedules by their manager of what they have to do for their day in the hotel. (And if they don’t obey the list, their manager will go home in a sulk and stay that way all day until the customer apologizes.) The phrase “The customer is always right” is one you’ll need to remember Rosie.

  Rosie: At least it wasn’t as bad as playing Hospital.

  Alex: Now that was a game and a half!

  Rosie: It was a stupid game Alex. All it involved was you trying to trip me up in the school yard so I would cut myself and you would have to tend to me. Mum and Dad used to wonder where I was getting all the cuts and bruises from.

  Alex: Yeah it was fun wasn’t it?

  Rosie: Well you have a distorted idea of what fun is. Like the last 20 years for example.

  Alex: Obviously not all fun for either of us.

  Rosie: No . . .

  Alex: Hospitals and Hotels eh? Sounds like some kind of porn movie.

  Rosie: You wish.

  Alex: I do wish. I have a 4-year-old son who likes to get out of bed at 5 a.m. and sleep in between me and Beth. Any sex at all is like porn for me these days.

  Rosie: Well a man smiled at me the other day and I crossed my legs. That’s porn enough for me. I could join the nunnery and I don’t think it would bother me in the slightest.

  Alex: Oh I disagree!

  Rosie: No really, trust me Alex. After the men I’ve been with, celibacy would be like a gift.

  Alex: It wasn’t the celibacy I was referring to; it was the vow of silence that would kill you.

  Rosie: Funny. Well believe me Alex, there are certain kinds of silences that make you walk on air.

  Alex: That, I no.

  CHAPTER 46

  Hi Mum,

  Just a quick note to wish you luck (not that you need it) on your first day of work tomorrow. Your new suit sounds gorgeous so I’m sure you’ll knock ’em all dead!

  Best of luck,

  Love,

  Katie

  You have an instant message from: RUBY

  Ruby: Well Ms. Assistant Manager, tell me all about it. How’s work going?

  Rosie: Very very sl o o o o o wly.

  Ruby:Should I ask why?

  Rosie: Are you ready for a rant? Because if you’re not I’m giving you the opportunity now to get out of this conversation while you can.

  Ruby:Believe it or not I came into this conversation prepared. Fire ahead.

  Rosie: OK so I arrived on the road the hotel was situated on nice and early and proceeded to walk up and down the street for three quarters of an hour trying to find the very beautiful and Grand Tower Hotel. I asked shop owners and stall owners but none of them had any idea where this hotel was.

  After ringing the course director almost in tears and in a complete panic over the fact that I was late for my first day of work, I also succeeded in accusing him of giving me the wrong address. He kept on repeating the same address over and over again which I told him couldn’t be possible because the building in question was completely derelict.

  Eventually he said he’d ring the hotel owner and double-check the directions with him so I sat down on the filthy front steps of the derelict building (dirtying the bum of my new suit) and tried not to cry about how late I was and what a bad impression this was making. Suddenly the door of the building behind me opened with a very loud farting noise at the hinges and this thing looked out at me. The thing spoke in a very strong Dublin accent, introduced himself as Cronin Ui Cheallaigh, the owner of the building, and insisted I call him Beanie.

  At first I was confused by his nickname but as the day wore on it all became very clear. The hinges of the front door were not what made a farting sound; it was indeed the gaseous behind of Beanie.

  He brought me inside to the ancient, damp building and showed me around the few rooms on the ground level. He then asked me if I had any questions and I of course wanted to know why I was in this particular building and when was I going to see the hotel. To which he replied proudly, “ ’Dis is de bleedin’ hotel. Nice, wha’?”

  He then asked me if I had any ideas on how to improve the hotel after my first impression and I suggested displaying the actual name of the hotel on the actual building so as to make it easier for the guests. (Although not doing so was also a good marketing ploy.) I also suggested spreading the word of its existence among the surrounding businesses so they could help advertise the hotel (or at least be able to help give directions to completely lost tourists).

  He studied my face very hard to see if I was being smart. Which by the way I absolutely wasn’t. If my ideas seemed ridiculous to him then the fact that I had to even raise them was even more ridiculous. I’m currently waiting on a sign for the front of the hotel to arrive.

  He then gave me a name tag which he insisted I wear. His reason for me having to wear this was so that if customers needed to complain, they would know whom to blame. A very positive-thinking man, as you can see. The problem with the name tag (other than having to wear it) was that he appeared to have misheard the spelling of my name over the phone.

  I have been walking around the entire week as “Rosie Bumme.”

  Something that Beanie seems to find incredibly humorous. Although after he had gotten over his laughing fit he was slightly disappointed. That alone is an example of his level of maturity and the seriousness with which he takes his job and general running of the so-called hotel.

  How it has remained open up until now is beyond me. It is one of those beautiful houses that in Victorian, Georgian, Edwardian times (they’re all the same to me) would have been extremely grand but that has been left to rot away. It’s probably decaying underneath the floorboards with whatever else is causing the smell.

  It was once redbricked but is now dirty brown. It has four levels and on the underground level, I have now learned, is a lap-dancing club also owned by Beanie. As you enter the ground level of the hotel, you are greeted by a tiny little desk made of dark mahogany wood (as is all the wood in the building), behind it is a messy collection of former guests’ hats, umbrellas, and coats that are currently collecting dust.

  The walls are wood-paneled from the floor to halfway up the wall which is a nice feature and the walls which wer
e probably once a rich olive green color are now a more moldy green. Small lanternlike lights adorn the walls and throw out absolutely no light at all. The place is like a dungeon. The carpets look like they were laid in the ’70s, they’re dirty and smelly and have cigarette burns, black patches of stuck on chewing gum, and other stains the smell of which I don’t wish to know.

  This long corridor leads down to a large bar area which contains the same dirty smelly carpet, dark wood, paisley-covered stools and chairs, and when the sun shines through the tiny, paint-flaking window all you can see is the air thick with wisps of smoke probably still there from the old man who used to sit there with his pipe 200 years ago.

  The dining area has twenty tables and a limited menu. It has the same carpet except it has the added feature of food stains. There are brown velvet curtains, and net blinds; the tables are covered in what was once white but now yellow lace tablecloth with rusty food-stained cutlery. The glasses are misty, the walls are white, which makes it the only room with light but no matter how much the heat is turned up it feels cold.

  But the smell. It’s like somebody died and was left to decay. It has since been absorbed into the furniture, the walls, and into my clothes.

  There are 60 rooms, 20 on each floor. Beanie proudly announced that half of them are en-suite. You could imagine how happy I was to hear that, thinking immediately that I should ring up the TV and radio stations to advertise this wonderful feature. The fact that some bedrooms have bathrooms.

  Two wonderful women, Betty and Joyce, each aged about 100 years old, clean the rooms three times a week which frankly I find rather disgusting. And given how slowly they move, I’d be surprised if they cleaned the room even that often.

  I was also beginning to wonder what kind of customers a hotel like this would attract but it all became clear to me as I worked the late shift one night. As the lap-dancing club finished downstairs, the party continued upstairs. This gave me all the more reason to employ more chambermaids.

  The place is far from being luxurious and I’m far from being the wonderful host welcoming the guests to paradise as I so desired to be. The only way someone would find a chocolate on their pillow is if the previous guest spit it out.

  The only reason someone would wear the shower cap would be to protect their head from the yellow water that runs through the pipes (though probably safe, I’m sticking to my bottled water).

  Last week a radio station rang up to ask if the hotel could be part of a competition they’re running. I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to say no. People had to write in and explain why they deserved a weekend of pampering in Dublin. They would be treated to a night at the theater, an expensive meal, a day out shopping, and two nights bed and breakfast at a central hotel, all expenses paid. It was great for the hotel as we were advertised all week on the radio and we got a good few guests as a result.

  The people who won had the most touching story of all, I was nearly crying listening to their story on the radio. So I had the honeymoon suite (completely the same as all the other rooms but I told Beanie to put a sign on the door to make the winners feel special. He ended up stenciling it on himself and spent an hour with a black marker in his hand with his tongue hanging out in concentration) filled with beautiful flowers and left a complimentary bottle of champagne for them. I really tried my best with the room, squeezing enough money out of the budget for new bed linen, etc., but there was only so much the meager profits could get me.

  Anyway when they found out they won, they were so excited they kept ringing the hotel every day before they got here asking questions and making sure everything was still OK. They walked in the door, took one look at the place, and left within fifteen minutes.

  Ruby, the people had lost their home, the husband had lost his job, broken both his legs, lost their car, and had to leave their village. They had been given an all-expenses paid weekend and could stay in the hotel absolutely free and still they didn’t want to stay. That’s how bad this hotel is.

  I think that train ticket I worked so hard to buy has left me stranded somewhere under a dark tunnel. The train is fine, it’s the track that’s broken and I have to wait while work is done before we can move. I’m hoping this won’t be too long of a delay. I’ll be back on track in no time, ha ha.

  Rosie: Ruby?

  Rosie: Ruby, are you there?

  Rosie: Hello? Ruby, did you get all that?

  Ruby:Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Rosie: Ruby!!

  Ruby: Oh what?! Did I miss something? Sorry I must have nodded off about an hour ago when you started telling me about your job.

  Rosie: I’m sorry Ruby but I warned you.

  Ruby: Don’t worry I managed to wander off and make myself a cup of coffee and came back when you were talking about olive green walls and decomposing bodies.

  Rosie: Sorry it’s been one of those months.

  Ruby: Not all jobs turn out to be what you think they’re going to be. Anyway would you rather be a secretary at the Randy Andy Paperclip & Co. or Assistant Manager of The Grand Tower Hotel?

  Rosie: Oooh definitely assistant manager of The Grand Tower Hotel.

  Ruby: Well there you go Rosie Bumme, life could be worse then couldn’t it?

  Rosie: I guess so. But I do have one other slight problem.

  Ruby:Can you tell me what it is in less than 1,000 words?

  Rosie: I’ll try! Alex is coming over for Julie Casey’s retirement party in a few months and he’s bringing Bethany and they’ve booked themselves into the hotel for the weekend. You see I kind of told him that it was really nice . . . and they specifically requested a room with a view. At this stage I’m hard pushed to find a room with a window (OK not really) but under the circumstances, we at The Grand Tower Hotel consider a special request to be a room with a bathroom.

  I mean, view-wise, which do you think they’d prefer, a view of a butcher’s or a view of a scrap yard?

  Ruby:Oh dear . . .

  You have an instant message from: ALEX

  Alex: Hi Rosie, you’re up late.

  Rosie: So are you.

  Alex: I’m 5 hours behind, remember.

  Rosie: Katie’s debs ball is on tonight. She’s there right now in fact.

  Alex: Oh I see. Can’t you sleep?

  Rosie: Are you mad? Of course I can’t sleep.

  I helped shop for the dress, helped her get ready with her makeup and hair, took photographs of her being so excited on her special night. The night when she will see friends she probably won’t see again for years or never again despite promises of keeping in touch. It was me and Mum twenty years ago.

  I know she’s not me, she’s her own person with her own mind but I couldn’t help but see myself walking out that door. Arm in arm with a man in a tuxedo, excited about the night, excited about the future. Excited, excited, excited. I was so bloody young. Of course I didn’t think I was at the time. I had a million plans. I knew what I was going to do. I had the next few years of my life all figured out.

  But what I didn’t know was that within a few hours all those plans would change. Ms. Know-it-all didn’t quite know it all so much then.

  I just hope Katie comes home tonight when she should.

  Alex: She’s wise Rosie and if you’ve raised her the way I think you have, then you have nothing to worry about.

  Rosie: I can’t fool myself, she’s been with her boyfriend for nearly 4 years now so I don’t exactly think they’ve been holding hands all this time. But for tonight at least, on the night that changed my life, I wish her home early.

  Alex: Well then I’ll just have to distract you until she comes home then, won’t I?

  Rosie: If you wouldn’t mind.

  Alex: So how is our hotel room set for next month? I certainly hope the manager can arrange the very best for us!

  Rosie: Well I’m actually only the assistant manager, remember, and the hotel isn’t exactly . . .

  Alex: Isn’t exactly what?

 
Rosie: Well it’s not as snazzy as the ones you’re used to when you travel.

  Alex: Well this one will be extra special because my best friend will be running it.

  Rosie: I wouldn’t want to take much credit for the general running of the hotel . . .

  Alex: Oh don’t be silly, you never give yourself enough credit for what you do.

  Rosie: Oh no really Alex, I wouldn’t want to accept any responsibility for this hotel at all. You know, I’m only there a few months, I haven’t had a chance to put my stamp on it at all. I only follow orders . . .

  Alex: Nonsense. I can’t wait to see it. How funny would it be if someone was poisoned in the restaurant and I had to be the in-house doctor that saved the day? Remember that was our plan when we were kids?

  Rosie: I remember alright, and it may not be too far off a possibility. Wouldn’t you and Bethany like to eat out that night? There are so many beautiful restaurants you haven’t been to in Dublin.

  Alex: We might. I tried looking the hotel up on the Internet but nothing came up.

  Rosie: Eh, yeah, the site is being updated right now. I’ll let you know when you can see it.

  Alex: Great. It’ll be weird seeing Ms. Big Nose Smelly Breath Casey again. It’s about time she retired. The children of the world need a break from her.

  Rosie: Her name is Julie, remember that, and do not call her by the other name. And she has been very good to me over the past few years so please be good to her.

  Alex: I will, I will. Don’t worry I have been out of the house before, I do no how to deal with people.

  Rosie: Of course you have Mr. Socialite Surgeon extraordinaire.

  Alex: Whatever image of me that you have in your head right now please get rid of it.

  Rosie: What? The naked one? You can’t tell me to get rid of that.

  Alex: Ha ha. Well whatever image that is increase the size by ten.

  Rosie: Jesus, ten inches, Alex?

  Alex: Oh shut up! So how’s your mum these days? Any word back from the hospital about those tests?