‘WINDOW. OKAY. GOT IT,’ I shout breathlessly, thinking, please for the love of God don’t let it come to that.
‘Also, you need to instruct staff to close all doors and tell guests to keep their heads down low if there’s smoke …’
‘YES, WE’RE ALREADY ONTO IT –’
‘And make sure to check the kitchen area, closing all doors there behind you. Most hotel fires start in the kitchen. We’ll be with you in five.’
The rest of what he says to me is totally drowned out by the roar of a fire brigade siren, so I click off and finally get to my station on the top floor, just like we drilled.
I bump into Liliana from Reception already knocking on bedroom doors as I immediately start helping to evacuate guests from their bedrooms. ‘Kitchens are cleared, Chloe,’ she has to shout at me to be heard. ‘And there’s definitely no fire there. My guess is it has to have started upstairs, probably in one of the bedrooms.’
As you’d expect, a lot of guests have already been disturbed and are sticking anxious heads round bedroom doors, wanting to know exactly what’s going on. But this is all part of our training and all around me, I can see the whole team quickly and efficiently dealing with this. Urging everyone to remain nice and calm, to leave all personal belongings behind and to follow staff outside to our assembly point. Big, calm smiles everywhere you look, notwithstanding the blaring that would make you wish for a pair of earplugs.
‘Oh my lord, this is such an adventure!’ I can hear Jayne drawl in the Noo-Yawk accent. I catch a quick glimpse of her on the landing in her dressing gown, the head of platinum hair covered in a net and clutching an old-fashioned vanity case, as one of the lounge staff guides her towards the emergency stairwell.
‘But if you think for one minute I’m leaving this little beauty behind,’ she says, patting the case and circling a protective arm around it, ‘then you’ve got another thing coming. Every single piece of jewellery that I own is in here. Everything Larry ever gave me. And you’ll have to prise it outta my cold, dead hands to get it off me!’
All of my couples from Germany and Finland are already out of bed and leading the way downstairs and from all corners of every corridor, guests are streaming out of their rooms and following them. And aside from the din the alarm is making, everyone’s being reasonably calm, thankfully. So far.
I knock on Andrew Lowe’s door, but no sooner do I rap against it, than he steps out, wearing a paisley dressing gown so expensive looking that the only other person who might possibly wear it is Noel Coward.
‘Fire alarm?’ he asks, looking pale-faced and exhausted. ‘Do you know where it’s broken out?’
‘I’m afraid not yet, Mr Lowe, but there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, it’s just standard procedure that we evacuate all guests downstairs.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘If you’ll just make your way to the fire exit, that would be terrific, thanks …’
‘But Lucy – my wife –’
‘Don’t worry sir, I’ll personally see to her.’
The next door I hammer on is Dave’s and there’s a quick, ‘gimme a minute!’ before he opens up and comes out barefoot, dressed in a pair of boxer shorts and a Bruce Springsteen t-shirt, hair glued to the side of his head and standing up on end, like he’s just stuck two fingers in a plug socket.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you …’ I begin to say, but he interrupts, practically sleepwalking past me in a somnambulant state. ‘S’alright,’ he groans. ‘But if this turns out to be a hoax, then Ferndale Hotels can send me on an all expenses paid hollier to Vegas. At the very least.’
Then a white-faced Dawn comes racing out of her room, looking like a waif from a Victorian melodrama in a long white nightie.
‘I heard the racket; is it the fire alarm?’ she asks worriedly.
‘Absolutely nothing to be concerned about, everything’s under control,’ I tell her. ‘Now all you need to do is follow me to the emergency stairwell and make your way outside. Don’t worry, staff will be there to guide you and this will all be over within no time.’
Jeez, it’s astonishing how much more blasé and confident I sound, than I actually feel.
I guide Dawn to the stairs, where big, burly Tommy, bless him, is waiting to show her the rest of the way and it’s Jo’s door next. I rap briskly against it, but she’s a step ahead of me and has it opened instantly, the only person to come out fully dressed and trailing a wheelie bag efficiently behind her. Suit, tights, the whole works, looking like she’s on her way to a corporate takeover meeting, unlike everyone else, drifting around in various states of undress and low-level panic.
‘I wasn’t asleep anyway,’ she says a bit waspishly, ‘but if this doesn’t turn out to be a hoax, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid Ferndale Hotels will be hearing a lot more from me.’
And not for one second do I doubt it.
‘Standard procedure,’ I smile at her and guide her safely on her way. ‘But it would be best if you leave your bag behind.’
‘Sorry, but it’s out of the question. No, not even for you, Chloe. Everything I need to get divorced is in here and if it goes up in flames –’
She doesn’t even finish the sentence. Like the very thought propels her to get the hell out of here as fast as is humanly possible.
Lucy’s next. Takes a few goes, but she eventually answers, without my having to resort to using my passkey. She’s groggy and a little red-eyed, but still looks a helluva lot more presentable than I would, given the state the woman was in a few short hours ago.
‘Feck this anyway. What’s up now?’ she asks me, blunt as ever.
‘Nothing to worry about, but the thing is I just need you to …’
‘Fire alarm?’
‘I’m afraid so, but this is just a precaution –’
‘Shite.’
‘I know, but I really have to insist –’
‘Ahh come on Chloe, do I have to go too? It’s just my head is pounding.’
‘I’m afraid all guests must be evacuated immediately, so if you wouldn’t mind just –’
‘Bugger it anyway. And when I get to the evacuation point, I suppose HE’LL be there?’
Fire drill in progression or not, there’s no denying the full import of what she’s asking me.
‘All guests are required to be outside at this point, yes.’
‘Fair enough,’ she groans, then goes back inside to change. I knock on the door beside her and a heartbeat later she reappears, dressed in the most immaculate nightie, long, silky and flowing, that honestly makes her look all tall and gorgeous, like a Helen of Troy about to grace Fitzwilliam Square with her presence.
‘Right then. Which way?’ she asks, betraying absolutely no sign that she must currently be nursing the hangover from hell. I point her in the right direction and she’s on her way.
Last and final room on this floor. Kirk. Who knowing him, probably could answer the door stark naked on account of he’s doing nude yoga or something. I brace myself and knock.
No answer. Knock again. Still no answer.
Right then. Sorry, but this is what happens in an emergency and I’ve no choice in the matter. I whip my passkey out of my jacket pocket, swipe it and barge my way inside.
And lo and behold there he is, with his iPod headphones glued to his ears, completely tuned out and utterly oblivious to all the racket and panic. He’s perched on the windowsill, with the window thrust wide open, smoking out of it and blissfully unaware that the whole room is thick with smoke by now. In a flash, the smell alone tells me what it is he’s been puffing away on.
Dope. I’d know it a mile off and not just from a couple of misguided puffs at college either. And now suddenly, it all makes sense. The smoke detector in his room is blaring away and of course, this automatically would have triggered off the main smoke alarm.
It all started in here, I think, instant fury flooding through me. There is no shagging fire and there never was. It’s
just Kirk and his bloody spliff.
And right at this moment as I look at him, all calm and cool, peacefully looking out the window with his earphones plugged in, I happily think I could shove him out the window and just be done with it. Dawn would probably hand me a medal and it would serve him right for jeopardizing my entire career.
Kirk clocks me instantly, but instead of stubbing out the joint and looking guilty, like any normal person would, he just nods at me benignly, gesturing at me to join him.
‘You gotta try some of this grass,’ he half whispers, his eyes all blurry as he attempts to focus on me. ‘It’s seriously good stuff.’
Not a bother on him that the hotel manager is hovering over him, arms folded, with a thunderous expression that might as well say, ‘Start packing your bags now, hippie boy.’
He can’t hear a word I’m saying, of course, with the headphones stuck in his ears, so I’m forced to lean into him and physically click off his iPod. In a split second, he registers the blaring alarm, but instead of hopping to, like a normal person, instead he just shrugs and says, ‘That me who set it off, huh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say as politely as I can, given that my teeth are clenched tight. ‘I’m afraid it was, and now I’m going to have to ask you to evacuate the hotel. Along with the rest of our guests who are all making their way to the outdoor assembly point, right now.’
‘Bummer. Sorry if I caused you any hassle.’
If? I want to yell at him, as I follow him out of the bedroom and guide him downstairs. If you caused me any hassle? Because of you, on our very first night, every single guest and member of staff are currently shivering in their night attire out in Fitzwilliam Square and you’re asking if you might have caused hassle?
I don’t though. Instead I stay tight-lipped and quietly furious as I escort him off the premises. We’re the very last out of the hotel, so I guide Kirk towards where everyone else is standing at the assembly point, just in front of Fitzwilliam Square, directly adjacent to Hope Street.
Staff are efficiently buzzing around everyone, assuring them that they should be able to re-enter the hotel shortly, while guests stand around looking a) the way anyone would look after a broken night’s rest and b) extraordinarily pissed off.
‘All present and correct,’ Chris tells me breathlessly. ‘I’ve just done a full headcount.’
I’m just about to thank her and all the team for a job so well executed, when two things happen simultaneously. The fire brigade swoops round the corner and lands outside the hotel, all sirens blaring.
Then a taxi pulls up right alongside it.
Red-eyed and a little bleary, like he’s been travelling all day and still hasn’t come up for air, out steps Rob McFayden.
*
The second handwritten letter had been shoved under her door just before dawn.
My darling.
Do you remember our very first holiday together? We rowed about it, I’m pretty confident from the whole idea’s first inception. I was, ahem, let’s just say a tad limited when it came to matters monetary, whereas you didn’t particularly give a rat’s arse where we went as long as it was in a five-star hotel somewhere on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. They were your conditions.
My humble suggestion was that we should head to Edinburgh for festival week and catch a few shows. Scotland, I thought. You’d love that, I figured. Who wouldn’t? Theatre and romance and a few boozy nights all combined with a bit of culture. I thought that would surely appeal to my highbrow amour? After all, it was our very first holiday together. Vital to get it right.
Row one was when you point blank refused to consider it, claiming that the only shows actually worth seeing would have been booked out way in advance, which meant we’d be left sitting in damp cellars watching would be stand-up comedians recycling stale gags, in the hopes they might end up winning a coveted slot on Mock The Week.
But you wanted to go to Manhattan, you insisted. So what part of ‘I’m stony broke,’ don’t you understand, was my counter argument. Hence row two. Which if memory serves, lasted right up until I came up with a plan that I thought was the answer to our prayers. Unknown to you, I’d trooped to a letting agency and managed to get a short lease on a tiny holiday cottage down in the wilds of Wexford. Why not give this a whirl? I asked you, presenting you with a fait accompli. Romantic log fires, I pitched. Long, lazy strolls down winding country lanes through the mist, I told you. We’ll be like a couple in an ad for Bord Na Móna peat briquettes.
You reluctantly agreed, and even though I could tell you weren’t all that keen, I knew you did it for me. God, I loved you for it. For not making me feel in any way embarrassed just because I didn’t exactly have the same financial clout as you did. For not judging me, just because New York was out of the question.
I think row three broke out by the time we got to the far side of the M50 and you lost all signal on your phone. Be patient, I kept telling you from behind the wheel, do you remember? I got the smile back on your face by painting you this bucolic picture of the two of us sitting in quiet country pubs, drinking hot port and dining out on organic local produce and fish freshly brought in off a trawler only that morning.
But it wasn’t to be. You will perhaps recall things decelerating even further when we actually arrived at the cottage. ‘Bijou and artisan,’ was how the letting agent had described it. ‘A perfect romantic bolthole,’ he’d told me.
Lying fecker. No sooner had we crossed the threshold when I saw that dark, troubled look crossing your face and I instantly knew I’d backed a loser. ‘Bijou and artisan’ turned out to be estate agent-speak for ‘filthy and freezing’. And ‘romantic bolthole’ turned out to mean, ‘in the middle of a deserted ghost estate of long abandoned holiday cottages in even worse nick than this one, with the nearest Centra a good five mile drive away.’
Stout heart that you are though, you put a brave face on it and claimed it was perfect, even though you’ve got a slight ‘tell’ when you lie, as you’re unable to make direct eye contact. But how long did you last before eventually cracking? My darling, I could almost have timed you. I’m certain it was after we drove for miles trying to find a gastropub where we’d visualized having that cosy, romantic dinner together. However, the only ‘gastropub’ we could find turned out to be a spit-on-the-floor old man bar, pitch dark, with diddly-aye bodhran music in the background, with a choice of either Tayto cheese and onion crisps or else smoky bacon for dinner. The look of the owner’s face when you politely inquired about his à la carte menu is to this day, still etched in the ‘all-time great comic moments’ quadrant of my brain.
Do you remember what happened next? You snapped, abandoned me in the bar, took off in the car and were gone for so long, I honestly thought you’d hightailed it back home, with a catalogue of holiday disaster stories to entertain all your colleagues with at work. But come back for me you did, all of about two hours later, wreathed in smiles so wide it gladdened my heart to see.
You’d driven all the way into Wexford town, you told me. And found an internet café for yourself. Not only that, but with a few clicks of a mouse and a quick flash of your credit card, you’d gone and booked us two seats on the following day’s flight to New York JFK. Airmiles upgrades, the whole works.
My darling, how could I possibly argue with that beam on your face? I grandstanded a little about how I’d insist on paying you back next time a gig came in for me and you were sensitive enough to act like that could possibly happen any day soon. And so the following morning, there we both were, ‘turning to the left’ as we boarded our flight from Dublin to NYC, sipping chilled champagne and toasting our lucky escape from the holiday from hell.
I thought I’d use a discount card I had to treat you to a few Broadway shows that I thought you’d like, but it wasn’t to be. Because the minute we checked into that extravagant suite you’d booked at the Waldorf, that was the end of it. Did we even come up for air for the first three days? Not in my memory. Day four an
d a chambermaid politely knocked on the door, wanting to change the sheets.
‘Are you and the pretty lady enjoying your honeymoon?’ she asked in a Czech accent.
And we laughed. Surely you must remember. And you’ve got to give me at least this much. We were happy then. Weren’t we? I really do think so, my love. You’ve got to be Meryl Streep to carry off fake happy and sadly you, my darling, are no Meryl.
My darling, please forgive me. If I could turn back time, believe me I gladly would.
Yours now, yours always.
Whatever the outcome of the next few days.
SATURDAY
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jo.
Of course, as Jo could have predicted, the whole thing had all turned out to be nothing more than a false alarm. Something to do with that weirdo hippy-dippy looking fella, the guy who’d been streeling around the hotel the evening before in his bare feet, with hair far longer than her own.
Oddball. Didn’t quite fit in. He looked all wrong here, she clearly remembered thinking when she bumped into him earlier in the lift. And it seemed his ex, or rather his ex-to-be was that slip of a thing in the room right next to hers, a kid who looked like she’d barely done her Leaving Cert. Dawn something or other.
She and Jo had nodded brief hellos at each other as they’d met on the upstairs corridor and Jo remembered feeling the hugest pang of sympathy for her. After all, she herself was a grown woman scarily late into her thirties, and having a failed marriage behind you at that hour of life was fairly acceptable, if unfortunate.
Whereas poor Dawn just looked far too young to cope with all this. The girl was mid-twenties at most, at a time of life when she should be all happy and in the first flush of love. There was just something about her being a guest here that seemed wrong on every level.
Anyway, it turned out that Dawn’s ex was the root cause of all this malarkey, though God alone knows what he’d been getting up to. Having some kind of New Age ritual in his room that involved burning things? By the look of him, you certainly wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, maybe now it wasn’t so hard to see why Dawn was divorcing him in the first place.
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