I try to speak but nothing comes out. I clear my throat; it’s been a while since I’ve said anything. Big buildup. I nod.
“Thank you, Leila. I really appreciate it,” I rasp. A good cop to Mark’s bad. Poor Mrs. Roberts.
“Could I get a hot tea please, Leila? With sugar and lots of milk. If it’s not too much trouble. Is that all right?” I peer up at her, apologetic. Sorry to be causing a problem.
Leila looks relieved. A friend, an ally. This might all have a positive resolution after all. She might get some great feedback later. A thank-you letter. Employee of the month. She smiles.
“No problem at all, Mrs. Roberts. I’m going to go and fetch it myself. Please just make yourselves comfortable and I’ll be back shortly.” She checks for Mark’s approval before swishing out the door of the VIP check-in room, through the back room, and out into the lobby. The door shuts behind her. I jump to my feet and run out of the VIP room and into the back room. Mark stands in the meeting room doorway watching me. I get to the CCTV monitors in time to see, on the screen, Leila round the end of the lobby corridor off on her way to the bar. On the computer screen I minimize the windows and find the archived days. Sixty days’ kept footage. Should I clear all? No. Just our stay? No. A month is fine. I highlight mid-August to mid-September and click delete. Am I sure I want to erase these files? the program asks. Yes. Yes, I am. I click. I then go into options, erase trash. Done. How are we doing? I click on the minimized screens. No sign of Leila yet. My heart is thundering. I go back into the program. Scroll through the options. There it is. Settings. Keep files for sixty days. I change the settings to six days. That should muddy the waters. By the time someone checks the archived data, they’ll think it’s a settings error. No one watches back hours of CCTV footage unless they’re looking for something. I check the screens. There’re no cameras in this room. We’re fine. I return the screen to its original setup. Still no sign of Leila. I want to do one more thing. I scan the room.
“Have you done it?” Mark whispers, urgent. “Erin?”
“Yes, but one more thing. One more…” Then I see it. A filing cabinet across the room. I check the screen. Leila is leaving the restaurant bar, cup and saucer in hand. I’ve got less than a minute. I sprint across the room, dodging chairs. I yank open the R drawer and flick through the files. Roberts. There it is. I reach in and grab our passport photocopies. Our address forms. I hear heels tapping loudly across the marble lobby. Shit. I slam the cabinet shut and sprint back to the VIP room and dive into a chair. I shove the papers down the front of my shorts and Mark sits beside me as Leila opens the door. She enters with a warm smile.
“Here we go. Nice hot tea.” She peers at me, concerned.
I’m breathing pretty erratically now due to the running and the adrenaline. I look terrified and sweaty. In a way I look perfect.
I wobble to my feet.
“I’m so sorry, Leila, but I really need to use the restroom again. Which is the nearest?” I implore breathily.
She puts the peace-offering tea down and instantly gives me an understanding smile. I suppose we’ve all been there.
“Just next to the library, on the right. We’ll be in here when you’re done, if you’re up to it, Mrs. Roberts,” she adds.
What a nice lady. I will leave feedback.
As I stagger out, hand lightly placed on the front of my shorts, I hear them start to duke it out over our imaginary grievances. Well done, Mark. Keep it up.
I waste a good ten minutes in the bathroom soaking the papers, then balling them into mush. I deposit them into separate sanitary disposal bins before heading back to our room.
Eventually Mark bowls back into our suite, full of energy.
“Done.”
He plops down on the sofa next to me. I let my head fall onto his shoulder, exhausted from the waiting, from the tension. I think we’re friends again. Fight-or-flight stress endorphins have healed the rift I made by using the iPhone earlier. We’re a team again. The Robertses versus the world.
“Great work,” I breathe into his shoulder. I kiss it softly through his T-shirt.
“How did you leave it?” I ask. It doesn’t really matter, I just want to hear the sound of his voice, the vibration from his chest. I already know he will have played it flawlessly.
“Very well, thanks. Leila and I are best friends. She’s given us a letter for two free nights in any Four Seasons we choose. And I told her she was a credit to the hotel and we’d be passing that on to the manager. She seemed pretty pleased in the end.” He kisses my temple.
“You did great, Erin,” he says, tilting my head back to look up at him. “Seeing you like that…with the CCTV. I’ve never seen you like that. I can’t believe we managed it. You got our ID’s too, didn’t you? I didn’t even think of that. You did great. So great.” He bends to kiss me.
Those were the only links to us being here. If they come. If they even come for us. The important thing is the hotel no longer has copies of our passports or London address on file. If anyone comes looking, then they won’t be able to find any ID for us. Plus, the footage of who used the computer this morning no longer exists. A ghost took the phone and there will be no way to find the guests who stayed in our room except…it suddenly occurs to me. A terrifying flash out of nowhere.
My eyes flick up to Mark. “I forgot about the computers! Their computer system. We forgot! They’ve almost definitely put our check-in info on their system already, Mark. It doesn’t matter that we took the file; they still have all our info.”
He breaks my gaze, leans away from me. We have to go back. Shit! He knows it. He stands and starts pacing. We have to go back and somehow erase those files. Shit shit shit. And I thought we’d both done so well. I thought I’d been so clever. But in fact all we’ve been doing is making it more obvious. Highlighting who we are, who did it. If someone comes looking. And someone will come looking. They won’t see our missing files, but they will find our details on the hotel database and they will know we tried to cover our tracks. We have flagged ourselves, nothing more. Unless. Unless we go back to that office right now and delete our names from the system completely. Unless one of us does that.
Mark looks down at me again. A thought is solidifying in his mind. He has to go; he has to be the one this time. I can’t go back to reception. I’m supposed to be on my sickbed; that’s the story we’ve sold. I’ve made my sickbed and now I have to lie in it.
Mark slowly paces, thinking. After a few minutes he heads into the bedroom and comes out holding an earring. One of my emerald earrings, a birthday present from the year before. He holds it up.
“You lost an earring. That’s what’s happened. I’ll go and find it, shall I?” He nods. There’s a finality to it. “Yeah, I’ll go.”
* * *
—
Forty-three minutes later he’s back in the room.
“It’s done. I changed our names, numbers, emails, and address. All of it. Done.” He looks exhausted but relieved.
God knows how he did it but I knew he would. Thank God. I smile.
“We need to talk about the guy-on-the-phone problem, Mark.” Time to stop congratulating ourselves and get back to the situation at hand. Since he’s been gone I’ve been running it through in my mind.
He nods and sits down next to me on the sofa. He moistens his lips.