Room 702

by Benjamin, Ann

  “Here,” Camille says as she passes the water across.

  “What’s your name? I like you.”

  “I’m Camille,” says as she takes a seat in the large leather chair. “What’s your name?”

  “Jill.”

  “And Jill, can I ask why exactly you’re here?”

  Jill pauses to consider the question, and then giggles and says in a sotto voice, “I’m hiding.”

  “From what?”

  Rather than explain herself further, in a very serious tone, Jill asks, “What if we just stay here?”

  Too tired to do anything but continue the conversation, Camille slouches and asks, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s…suffocating.”

  “Suffocating, like, you want to do something else?” Camille’s skills from her former life as a bartender shine through. Jill must be a contemplative drunk – someone who gets deeply philosophical when intoxicated.

  “I don’t know. Do you have children?”

  Camille thinks of her hectic life on the road, putting major events together, setting up conventions, making sure things run efficiently. There hasn’t been time for children, a boyfriend, or even a pet. The plants she has usually end up dying. Camille doesn’t have regrets, but she understands how people on the outside might view her life as empty and shallow. Camille smiles and answers, “No, I don’t. Do you?”

  “Two daughters, a guinea pig, a turtle and some fish.”

  “And what are you suggesting exactly? You’d walk out on those beautiful children of yours?”

  “I don’t know. Part of me thinks maybe I should, or could…I don’t know. How do all these other parents make it look so easy?” Jill glugs some water.

  “Do you want my opinion?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked you, would I?”

  “Did you ever think they are wondering the same thing?”

  “Maybe, but Patty down the street wouldn’t. She’s just got everything figured out. I kind of hate her.” Jill lets out a series of giggles and announces, “I haven’t told anyone that before! She’s even in my book club!”

  “Listen, I don’t know this Patty or anything more about your life, but what I do know is that you should take a moment and be thankful for all that you have.”

  “It’s just not how I thought it was going to be.”

  “What did you think? That it would be easy? That raising children was going to be a walk in the park?”

  Already melancholic from the three double Jack and cokes at the bar downstairs, Jill begins to weep, quietly. Wiping her tears, she asks, “Do you remember what you were like in high school?”

  Camille thinks of the slightly overweight, hopelessly awkward young woman she was and answers, “Yes, and I’m glad I’ve moved on. What are you asking about high school for?”

  “Do you remember what you were going to do?”

  “Get the hell out of town. Make something of my life. So far, I’ve done exactly that. What were your plans?”

  “I was going to travel.”

  “Are you from here?”

  “Where?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Actually…not too far away. A terrible little town in Lancaster.”

  “Where were you going to go?”

  “I wanted to see the world.”

  “So what? Everyone wants to do that.” Camille, wanting to keep things optimistic, says, “Anyway, I bet you’ve seen more than a lot of people. Furthermore, why the hell not just travel with your kids? Show them the world!”

  “That’s just the point!” Jill suddenly yells. “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “At least not all the time. Can’t I get some part of my life that’s just for me? Does that make me a bad mother?”

  “You’re clearly asking the wrong person. Anyway, why don’t you try and explain yourself? I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with a bunch of reasons as to why you’re a great mother.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because at the Winchester, I am not me.”

  “Then who the hell are you?”

  Jill pauses to drink more water and answers, “I mean, just me. Not a wife, not a mother, not someone with a million expectations.”

  “So, you like being this Jill rather than the one back home? News flash, everyone likes themselves better in a hotel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Take it from someone who spends a hell of a lot of time in hotels, I’ve seen it all.” Camille taps her lips thoughtfully and adds, “Although you are the first to try and come into my room. Anyway, staying in a hotel is a temporary suspension from reality. No matter how short the stay, it’s like people just instantly check out of their lives as soon as they check in. I’ve witnessed it again and again. They come up with different personalities, different versions of themselves. People convince themselves of all these things they could do or be. They spend money they don’t have. Believe me, the more expensive the hotel, the more I see these behaviors in action.”

  Jill looks away and says, “I can see what you’re saying, but, what you don’t know is this moment isn’t something I’ve come up with on a whim. This is something I’ve been thinking of for a long time.”

  “Does your family have any idea?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Why not? You’re going to tell me that no one in your life knows you’re unhappy enough to leave them. What about your husband?”

  “There isn’t time. Between his travel and the kids, we don’t have more than perfunctory conversations – who’s doing the shopping, who’s picking the kids up from school, if we have any commitments over the weekend. Whether his parents are going to drop in, what we’re going to do for the kids’ birthdays, what we’re going to do for our kids’ friend’s birthday – it’s exhausting.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What are you doing here tonight at the Winchester?”

  “I had to drive in early for a work thing tomorrow morning.”

  “You still live in Lancaster?”

  Jill looks down and admits, “Yes.”

  “Okay, so, I’ve not been in a relationship for awhile, but doesn’t this basically all come down to communication?”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you think he’s happy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “No.”

  “Shouldn’t you do that before you do something you regret?”

  “I guess.”

  Jill, coming towards sobriety, seems to realize she’s in a stranger’s hotel room and flustered, says, “Listen, I’m sorry I came here in the first place. I think I’m a floor below.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Jill.”

  The woman locates her handbag and begins to move to the door. Camille, seeing tears in Jill’s eyes, says, “Sit back down.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re in no place to be by yourself.”

  “You’re right, but…”

  “But what?” Camille asks.

  “Don’t you have work to do? Aren’t I interrupting something?”

  Camille thinks of what she needs to do the following morning, and knows she can do it in her sleep. Truth be told, this is one of the most interesting conversations she’s had in ages. Camille answers, “No, in fact, I was just about to pour myself a glass of wine. Can I get you something?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Why? Aren’t you someone else tonight?”

  “Fine, I’ll have a Jack and ginger if they have it.”

  “Coming right up.” Camille fixes the drinks with ease, hands the requested beverage across and sits back down. “What shall we toast to?”

  “To stolen evenings and new friends.”

  Camille re
aches across to clink her glass and says, “Cheers!”

  “I like you, Cami.”

  “Thanks, but I think we need to get back to sorting some of your issues out.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “I think we should. Your life is infinitely more interesting than sorting out purchase orders.”

  “At least I have that going for me!”

  Cami says, “And that’s a fantastic place to begin. What else do you have going for you?”

  “My health and the health of my family. I know I shouldn’t take it for granted.”

  “You’re right. Anything else?”

  “I have a job that I more than tolerate.”

  “That’s more than a lot of people have. You’re already ahead of the game.”

  A trilling sound from Jill’s discarded purse on the floor catches both of their attention. Jill scrambles through the accoutrement of her bag and plucks out her smartphone, answering the call, she says, “Hey baby.”

  “I know, I meant to call you.” Jill mouthes the words ‘I’m sorry’ to Cami, who shrugs the apology off. Focusing on whoever is on the other end of the call, Jill says, “Do you really need that?”

  In a warbly tone, Jill sings ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ then says, “Can you go to sleep now?”

  “Okay, night night − I love you.” Jill hangs up the call and stares at the phone in her hand. Looking back up at Cami, she says, “I’m kind of an idiot, aren’t I?”

  “It sounds like you have a lot to be happy for in your life.”

  Jill sighs, then begins collecting her things. Once she has everything, she says, “Cami, this may sound forward of me, but can I get your e-mail address or something?”

  “Of course you can, sweet pea, although the best way to get in touch with me is What’s App. And I’d have to warn you that I’m often in strange time zones.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Cami stands up and walks her new friend to the door. She asks, “You’re going to be okay, right?”

  “I am.”

  “And you’re going to go straight to your own room?”

  “I will.”

  “The next person might not be as friendly.”

  “I know.”

  “Take care of yourself, Jill.”

  No longer strangers, the pair hug, and as Jill steps through the threshold, she looks at the numbers on the door and says, “What do you know? This isn’t my room!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  August 27, 9:00 P.M.

  Jack Beaumont sits down on the couch, loosens his tie, and pours himself a double scotch on the rocks. After a healthy swallow, he wonders if she is going to show. More than that, he isn’t sure what he’s getting himself into.

  After five years in Sacramento, the handsome state senator has recently announced his bid for an empty congressional seat near his hometown of Modesto. He is currently doing very well in the polls, and hopes to win the Democratic primary later in the year.

  At the moment, however, points, approvals, donors and the campaign are the last thing on his mind.

  He is more concerned with the arrival of his anticipated guest.

  She is the only daughter of one of the Republican kings from Orange County, a widower driven by power. She comes from a dynasty of wealthy conservative politicians. Jack is a self-made man with natural charisma, a man who believes he can do something to help his fellow American. From humble beginnings, Jack secured scholarship playing soccer for the Citadel. During school, he worked the wrong thirty hours of a week, pulling time on the graveyard shift to earn extra money.

  He sips the drink again and thinks about how they met.

  He knew her face from countless tabloid photographs. Something of an heiress (but without the slutty reputation), she had just finished her pre-med undergraduate work at Stanford and had been dragged along to an event in Sacramento with her father. Dressed perfectly in couture (no doubt in a garment that made up his entire wardrobe budget for the year), she was polished, sophisticated and had more innate class at twenty-three than he would probably accumulate in his entire life.

  Unable to take his eyes off her, Jack had watched her walk through the room, greet various people and then lost sight of her until, during some presentation or another, he had excused himself to refresh his drink and step outside and check his e-mail – he was expecting something confidential from his campaign manager. Finding a hidden terrace, he never expected to meet her there, and especially not smoking.

  She looked up at him, and asked, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Those things will kill you, you know that, right?”

  “I know. Terrible habit.”

  “Mind if I bum one from you?” Jack hadn’t known what had made him ask the question. He had given up smoking years ago.

  “You can finish this one, if you want.”

  He walked over to her, on the balcony of the Citizen hotel and took the lit cigarette from her outstretched hand. Putting the rolled paper darkened by red lipstick in his mouth, he offered his hand and said, “Jack Beaumont, very nice to meet you.”

  “Oh, I know who you are Mr. Beaumont. Furthermore, it goes without saying you know who I am.”

  “You can’t blame me for that, you’d have to fault the media.”

  He enjoyed the nicotine filtering into his lungs and she waited next to him in silence. Unsure what or why, he didn’t want her to go. He wanted to stay in her presence, if only for a few minutes longer. Having honed his conversation skills over the years, he was surprised to find himself without a topic to discuss. She had, in a matter of moments, verbally disarmed him.

  “So, what brings you to fair Sacramento?” he finally managed to ask.

  “It’s a deal I have worked out with my father.”

  “Really?”

  “Basically, I play my part a few times a year and bang, unlimited funds for my own pocket.”

  Jack chuckled and said, “Wish I had something similar worked out.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you were me.”

  “Why not?”

  “My father and I haven’t agreed on politics since I asked him why we weren’t recycling when I was five years old. And yet, I’ve respected him as my father and kept my opinions to myself. Don’t want to be an ‘embarrassment’ to him or the rest of his cronies.”

  “Miss Hartley, are you trying to tell me,” Jack dropped his voice very low and continued, “that you might be a Democrat?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “The only thing I am is disillusioned.”

  “That’s disappointing to hear.”

  She tucked her arms around her small frame and said, “It’s the truth.”

  “I take it you’re not going to follow in the family tradition?”

  “I spent most of college fighting off men who perceived themselves to be heirs to the proverbial throne. My antiquated hand in marriage would have easily been their meal ticket to a better life.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “It isn’t if it’s true.”

  “So, no one actually liked you for you? I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?”

  Suddenly, the grass didn’t look so green. Rachel filled the silence by pulling an additional cigarette from her purse. Putting the unlit Marlboro to her mouth, she offered Jack the lighter, which he was only to happy comply, flicking the flame near her delicate lips. Clearing his throat, Jack asked, “And now?”

  “Even after turning away scores of rich and connected boys, Dad’s trying to push his campaign advisor on me.”

  “Karl Simpson?”

  “The very same.”

  Jack knew Karl. In fact, knew him too well. They had been in the same masters program at Harvard. From what Jack could recall of the man, Karl was a narcissistic asshole who had little actual skill. The man survived on his good looks and innate charm, but lacked any tangible qualitie
s. Karl wasn’t a game changer or a rainmaker, didn’t see the big picture and furthermore, Karl was only looking out for one person in his life, and that man was Karl Simpson.

  “Stay away from him.”

  Rachel’s dark eyebrows went up and she asked, “You sound pretty sure about yourself.”

  “Just trust me.”

  “Anything I should warn my father about?”

  “Even if I don’t agree with most of his platforms, your father is a smart man. If he didn’t do his homework, then that’s his own fault.”

  “Any other advice?”

  “You could give me your phone number.”

  “I could, but should I?”

  “You strike me as the Blackberry type, why not just add me to BBM?”

  “You know what you want, don’t you, Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Most of the time.”

  She looked up at him, and studied his face. Finally she gave him the details which he quickly added to his own device, then said, “I need to get back.”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  “You hope,” she’d concluded, gifting him half of the unsmoked cigarette.

  In the Winchester, Jack pours himself some more scotch. Since that night six months ago, they had developed an unorthodox relationship. Sometimes he would go days without hearing from her, other times she was the last person he messaged before going to sleep. In today’s world of digital scandals, they are both careful to never exchange pictures – their conversations remain vague and rarely refer to any actual names. After having fought his feelings for months, he finally admitted to himself that his interest in Rachel Hartley was more than just friendship. Jack vacillated believing she had real feelings for him or she was just a spy for her father and had no interest in him.

  There is a knock on the door.

  Jack calmly put his glass down and walks over to answer it. Looking at the reflected peephole image, he is pleased to see a familiar young woman standing in front of him. Unlocking the door, he opens it and she walks through, silently, looking around.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Jack walks over to the mini bar and pulls out a small bottle of whiskey, then pops a coke and mixes the two together. Stirring the drink, he says, “Sorry, they don’t have any lime.”