Lost in Hotels

by Martin, M.

  As much as I’m running to see David, I’m also fleeing everything I face back in New York. I rush to the office in the morning and linger in the evening to avoid the vacuous stares of my husband who doesn’t know what I’ve become, only that the person he’s known and loved is absent. In my mind, I justify this treachery, believing that I deserve to be loved and desired regardless. It has been almost a month since Matt has touched me; I fend him off with a mixture of excuses. I blame a delayed postpartum depression, I claim resentment toward a husband unable to support his family, I fault a work environment that only gets more stressful as even I seem to lose track of what is true and untrue in this haze of lust and lies and love.

  Arriving on a Wednesday, I didn’t expect David to pick me up from Heathrow, and in fact, had said my work had organized a driver, even though I’m doing this whole trip on a tight, personal budget and with the masses on the Heathrow Express. It’s not such a bad means of transportation. I enter the familiar train with its TVs that roll prerecorded advertisements as young teenagers with packs slung on their backs pass in front of old women who struggle to their seats among a swarm of businessmen. The doors slide shut in unison with a hiss of air jetting through the springs, and the train slowly shimmies toward full speed. The windows light up to a scene of London done backward, from the midrise suburbs with their busy balconies and rooftop satellites tipped to the sky, interrupted by tunnel darkness and indiscriminate rail stations that we will never get to know or stop at.

  London seems to arrive without announcement; a succession of old brick crossings and church steeples of a different age as the rail tracks become more removed and the buildings facing them encroach closer and closer with their graffiti faces seeming to cry in forgotten laundry and barbed wire. Paddington Station seems to always be bathed in half daylight; a five-minute rolling stop as the flurry of readied travelers repeat itself through the opening glass doors that let in the crisp smell of London that infiltrates even the depths of its busiest rail station. It’s impossible not to feel more alive for those first few strides in this familiar town. A coffee shop beckons you just next to the doorways that lead to the taxi line that will inevitably be twenty people deep with pushy sorters who tell you which of the six stopped cabbies to get into.

  “Two feet planted square in your city. Can’t wait to see you.” I send David a text and a photo of my bare legs propped up in the back of a city cab with its bulky passenger area and flop-down suicide seat behind the driver.

  Despite the calendar that says August, London has a mind of its own when it comes to weather; the sun attempts to fight back the dark thunderclouds that seem to say, “Don’t go rushing out of the house just yet this day.” The taxi zips through various side streets and alleyways that make this part of London so confusing to navigate, even after all these years. Just when I think I know an area, I’ll inevitably get lost on my return from shopping or from a late dinner. I used to be a Soho girl, but recently, the literary side of me has gravitated to the more gentle hum of Covent Garden with its fairytale bookstores around Seven Dials and ten-person restaurants that lend themselves more to discussion versus yelling across a bar.

  Though today, it is mostly known as the hub of the West End and London theater district, it’s hard to believe that Covent Garden was once an agricultural area tended to by Westminster Abbey. This before being annexed by King Henry VIII and gifted to the earls of Bedford, who built streets of exquisite mansions that surround a central commercial square that eventually became the urban model for the wider city. It’s along the narrow Monmouth Street that the taxi tires squeak to a halt on the cobblestone street in front of the red brick sarcophagus of this former French hospital now known as the Covent Garden Hotel, its glossy black windows covered in a moss-gray striped awning.

  It’s one of several London hotels owned and designed by Kit Kemp, but this one is my favorite. My eyes adjust to the darker interiors as the clank of my heel reverberates over the ashy wide-plank wood floors. Glossy black thresholds evoke a Victorian moodiness as an elaborate iron and stone staircase rises above the carved wood reception counter exuding British countryside glamour. A clock ticks above an old bookcase with numbered slots that refer to another time of forged keys, delivered telegrams, and handwritten notes.

  The lobby is quiet in this hour between lunch and happy hour, and a downpour of rain engulfs my wake as a gentlemanly bellman grabs my one bag and the cheery receptionist disrupts her busied idle.

  “Welcome to Covent Garden Hotel. Could I please have your last name?” she says with a faint Eastern European accent.

  Our conversation is brief as she swipes my debit card that always has me concerned my bank will decline it with a too-hefty deposit, but my own credit card is still unpaid from my last trip that’s awaiting reimbursement from work. Without a word, the receptionist hands my bellman a metal key with chunky chain, and we make our way to the elevator among a conclave of floral swag drapery with lazy pleat and a circular wooden settee with subtle satin pillows and a precious rattan back.

  A series of private drawing rooms offer a communal living space for guests with an intricate French stone fireplace against a wall of carved wood paneling and an open bar where honesty isn’t questioned. Fashionable women sit hunched over metallic laptops and a cluster of gays watch my footwork as we vanish behind the accordion double doors of the elevator; the bellman with his heated breath exhaled on my bare arm. A quick glance at my phone reveals no reply from David; I even double-check to make sure I sent it, which I did. I assume he’s neck-deep in work, which is refreshing in a man, but at the same time, a burden not to read into his silence.

  With a sort of vibrato, the bellman pushes open the heavy wood door that seems to keep out as much as it secures from within. There’s tranquility to the room despite the commotion that waits just beyond the heavily sash windows and drapes that have their own woven sunshine against the gloominess that looms from the sky. A coin tip would be greeted with a scowl in the states, but a small £2 currency still jingles happily between hands in the UK as the bellman backs away without turning around, in old servant style, and he exits the room.

  I contemplate opening the computer and checking on work, or even beginning the quick London writing job I took for an online travel magazine that will at least partly make up for the cost of the trip. Instead, I make my way into the comfort of my speckled gray bathroom. Its uniform granite soothes my bare feet and eases my eyes as it rises along the walls; the scent of lemon leaves hangs in the air from the Miller Harris toiletries that are like an aromatic postcard of my London. The simple white sink comforts both my hands as I lean in to take a close look at my tired face, bordering old with fading eyes from a long flight and incongruent life that leaves me sleepless most nights and restless throughout my days. Yet, here I am again.

  A warm bath soothes my nerves enough to nap for an hour or two in the complete darkness of a drawn hotel room. I am awakened by a text that jumps me out of bed and to the desk.

  “Hey sexy, welcome. Can’t wait to see you tonight.”

  His text relinquishes any hope I had for an earlier rendezvous with no attempt to be spontaneous or impulsive for a hotel drive-by that I yearn for so desperately. I imagine his warm body next to mine in this terribly large bed; its perfect pillows and sheets tucked and topped with a fluffy quilt that hugs my body. The room is built for a woman; its pastel accents and soft floral prints lift my mood with an adoring female dress form that watches me from afar, as in all of Kit Kemp’s rooms.

  In lieu of lingering in the hotel room and waiting for David to break free of his work, I suit up in my London street clothes and emerge from my jet lag coma and into the roaring after-work scene of packed corner pubs and suited workers. On the path, I weave through Soho, along Carnaby Street, across Oxford and onto Conduit Street where the shops like Vivienne Westwood and Nicole Farhi are still alive in the early evening, and a lingering cloud
cover makes it feel far later than it actually is.

  I pop into the first-floor tearoom of Sketch, with its white townhouse facade and posh Alice in Wonderland decor, where teacakes are stacked like returned library books on perfect white platters and waif-thin women sit on whimsical rattan chairs.

  “A table for one, please.”

  “Are you here for high tea?” the hostess inquires. She’s in a black turtleneck that defies the season but accentuates her already flawless figure.

  “Actually, I’ll just have a drink at the bar.”

  I change my mind from cakes and sandwiches in lieu of singular vodka cocktails that will keep me from packing on the pounds while away. I’m the only one at the bar with the lone bartender who looks me over with pity or annoyance upon his approach.

  “A woman who snubs high tea, she must be American,” he says, grabbing a wine glass from under the bar.

  “That obvious?” I say.

  “Let me guess, glass of Pinot grigio?” he says instinctively.

  “Ouch. Actually, I’ll have a Ketel One martini on the rocks.”

  “Even better, a New York girl,” he says in a forced American accent while grabbing an ice pick with his thick veiny hands. I notice an indistinguishable tattoo that begins at the wrist and vanishes up under his starched white shirt.

  “Do you work over all your patrons this way?” I ask.

  “Only the pretty ones, my lady,” he says. His deep brown eyes and tossed hair falls over his ears; the kind of guy you could get into a lot of trouble.

  The busyness of the café makes the isolation of just us two at the bar more intense. I restrain myself just a moment as my hand touches the stem of the martini glass, its opaque edge dripping in condensation that falls down my cheek. His stare lingers in front of me.

  “How is it?” he asks.

  “Refreshing, and just the right amount of dirty.”

  “Oh, I can make it dirtier,” he leans in with a smug smile.

  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” I say with a grin, but also with an element of directness that seems to catch him off guard.

  “So you’re one of those. Then I’ll leave you be with your martini,” he says as he turns and tends to the end of the bar. His shirt is untucked from the back of his black trousers that wrap around his thick athletic body with a white waiter’s sash and scuffed dress shoes.

  And leave me alone he does, chatting with other male servers without lending even an eye in my direction. He’s even more interesting to me like this, not ruining the brief chemistry with an awkward comment or an out-of-place word. He returns only momentary placing a small white bill in a metal clip in front of my empty drink without asking if I’d like another or even reinitiating eye contact. I pay without hesitation and make my way out of the bar.

  Then the countdown to seeing David begins. I meander back to the hotel and freshen up before calling a car to take me to Belgravia for our 9:00 p.m. dinner. I want summer chic, so I wear a vintage pink Balenciaga puff dress that ties at the waist with a white knit sweater that I throw over my shoulder as I glide through the lobby to grab the awaiting cab. It’s a little chilly for such a short dress. I sit in the back of the cab that buzzes through the pedestrian streets and congested thoroughfares of the city. London makes the mundane and ordinary seem privileged and civilized with its oversize advertisements and manicured urban parks wrapped in perfectly painted black iron.

  “I’ll be ten minutes late, have a drink in the bar, and I’ll see you shortly. Work nightmares,” David texts as the car approaches The Arts Club, a London member’s club he’s chosen to have dinner. Its imposing townhouse facade of red brick and perfect white windows rise several stories. A cluster of attendants opens a succession of sedan doors and mine, the lone taxi. I exit as gracefully as possible trying not to pull or snag my incredibly poufy dress. I think of how ridiculous I will look standing alone in the bar, me and this dress, waiting yet again on David who is not here when he really should be, whether out of love or sense of respect for this single woman in a foreign city all by herself.

  The Arts Club is David embodied in every way, from the distinguished first impression of the entrance foyer. Its classic black and white marble floors and swooped iron baluster stands almost to attention while tracing the strong, tempered spine of the building. It tangents out into various floors that I explore from the basement dj lounge to the mannered dining room and studied library that has hosted patrons dating back to its original founders including Charles Dickens. I don’t feel as out of place as I expected among the contrasting white Greek revival columns of the otherwise formal English space where I bide time at a bar once more.

  “Let It Be” plays on a house track to the handful of guests in the lounge as my nerves alas relent, and the words sit down with me lingering in my mind to just continue this path to its ultimate outcome. The bartender pours my martini over ice in front of me without uttering more than the obliged word. My eyes struggle to take in all that is around me; an otherworldly place of the elite that’s usually off limits even to me. I would rather be nowhere else than right here waiting for him.

  “So embarrassed, I’m there already in heart. Fifteen-minutes max. In the car,” David texts. My heart drops, and I sell myself on just a few minutes more of waiting. My thoughts turn to what life would really be like with David: long workdays that turn into weeks of him being gone, that insatiable appetite for sex, and always that wandering eye beyond the grasp of my watch or control. How scary life would be at this point in my life, giving up a sure thing for a maybe with someone so unpredictable. As I begin to drop in spirit and expectations, someone taps my shoulder. A turn of my head queues that rush of passion and adrenaline as his grinning eyes meet mine. I lean in for a kiss that begins this entire cycle again. My arms wrap around his silky-soft blazer, and my face finds that exposed skin just above his sweater where I’m able to grab his scent that is unlike any other I have smelled.

  “Look at you. You’re going to make the chaps here seethe with jealousy. You look sensational, Catherine.”

  My name even sounds better when he says it. I stand in stillness, unable to look away from him, the way his forehead wrinkles when he laughs and his eyes squint at the light above. I feel more beautiful with him here next to me, by my side, and it feels as if I am something altogether more, better, and complete. My life was supposed to be like this; this was the person meant for me, to be with and evolve as a person by his side.

  “I apologize for leaving you here waiting. I hope it wasn’t terribly uncomfortable,” he says, nose to nose as the bartender hovers next to us waiting to tend to David’s order.

  When David is near, it’s like everything else that was before or that is to come, is a blur, as if it doesn’t matter or exist at this moment.

  “I love this place. It’s so pretty, and I had no idea what a literary haunt it was.”

  “I didn’t really think about it, but it’s really perfect for you as a writer.”

  “Although Charles Dickens wasn’t really the struggling artist; he was one of the few writers of his time to have tremendous financial success during his lifetime.”

  “Are you saying he was an elitist bastard?”

  “No, just that not all writers were able to afford such an extravagant lifestyle,” I say.

  “Would you prefer to go somewhere else?”

  “No, no, not at all. That’s not what I meant. Forget it, I love it, and I love it even more now that you are here.”

  “Shall we go into the dining room,” he says with a mere look at the bartender who lingers on him without initiating verbal dialogue.

  “Sure, yes, let’s. Can I close my tab?” I say to the bartender.

  “It’s already taken care of, Miss Klein,” he replies.

  Klein is my last name, but I had never given it personally.

  “Da
rby, we are going to go have dinner, but good seeing you, mate.”

  “As you, Mr. Summers,” he replies as David leads me away from the bar with a gliding push of my lower back.

  David seems tired or distracted as we walk silent between the rooms of the club and into the dining room that’s brighter than I imagined. Its white cornice ceiling and veiny marble floors take some gentle steps to walk on. He chats to the maître d’ as if he’s there on a daily basis, but without introducing me. I stand attentive to the conversation, but the two men completely exclude me. Then the regal man with silvery-gray hair leads us past a group of packed tables to a large silvery-blue banquette that could easily seat six, but with just two place settings cozily arranged next to each other. I thought that even if the mood isn’t perfectly romantic so far this evening, the backdrop couldn’t be lovelier.

  “So, I’m still a little cross that you wouldn’t stay at my flat.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, I’m just a little disappointed you didn’t choose to stay with me,” he says with a whispered restraint.

  “You know I would love to; it’s just I am here for work, and they tend to call and fax directly to my hotel. It would appear as though I was goofing off to not actually be staying in the room.”

  “There’s also another version of the story that goes, ‘this incredibly lovely guy who never invites women to his flat finally found someone who he actually wanted to stay the night, and she shot him down.’”

  “David, I didn’t shoot you down. We have the whole weekend in front of us. You could just as easily stay with me at the hotel.”

  “Except for the one pesky word … job,” he says in reply. “I have a seven o’clock meeting tomorrow morning, and the office is a good hour commute from your hotel in Covent Garden.”

  “Well, then, you understand my situation exactly,” I say, taking his hand and holding it in my lap.

  “It’s just this is my hometown and that’s my home, but I get it.”