Listening. Breathing.
The hum of voices provides a constant buzz alongside the clinking of glasses and the scratch of cutlery. There’s a low undercurrent of innocuous, inoffensive elevator music. It’s nothing memorable as such – but I feel myself drifting back to the other night. It’s the same melody; gentle and pleasant, like being rocked to sleep.
‘You all right?’
I jump, opening my eyes and momentarily disorientated as someone touches me on the arm. I wince away, taking in a man in an ill-fitting suit. He’s older than me, perhaps early fifties, with his top button undone and his tie loose.
‘Steady on, love,’ he says.
‘I, um…’
‘You were wobbling there.’ He nods at my glass of water. ‘Bit too much of the hard stuff?’
‘Something like that.’
He swigs from a pint of dark amber liquid. ‘Gotta pace yourself on days like this. Long night ahead.’
The man laughs at his own joke, though from the way he’s rocking on the stool, his pace seems to be going hard and going early.
‘Which wedding are you with?’ he asks.
I hold up my left hand, showing my wedding ring. The only reason I still wear it is that it’s too difficult to take off. I’ve tried washing-up liquid with dental floss but it’s stuck hard. Ellie told me something about putting a hand in a tray of ice and having a go but I’ve not got around to it.
‘I’m here with my husband,’ I reply.
He grunts something I don’t catch and then adds, ‘Right you are then’, before shuffling to the other side of his stool.
Through the window, I can see one of the wedding parties beginning to form by the chapel. The groom and best man are making nervous small talk with the registrar at the front as the trussed-up guests try to figure out where they’re going to be sitting.
I take that as a sign and head back through to reception, which is decidedly emptier than it was before. A lone bellboy is busy wheeling various cases up and down the floor, the wheels creating something close to an atomic boom. I dodge around him and head to reception, where the queue has disappeared to nothingness. A twenty-something man in a sharp grey suit is busy typing on a keyboard but looks up and smiles with practised charm when I approach the desk.
I get the full-on ‘madam’ treatment, before I explain that I stayed here on Monday night.
‘I made friends with someone in the bar,’ I say. ‘Another guest. He left behind his petrol station loyalty card but I didn’t realise until it was too late. His name’s Stephen. I was hoping you might be able to help me track him.’
The receptionist has one of those smirks that has a barely concealed ‘get stuffed’ directly behind it. He smiles as he explains that he can’t do anything, throwing around words like ‘privacy’ and ‘data protection’ liberally.
‘Is there no way you can check?’ I say. ‘I’m only asking for a name, perhaps a telephone number…’
A shake of the head. ‘Sorry, Ma’am.’
‘Just his name?’
‘I wish I could.’
I bet he does.
I dig into my bag and remove my purse, delving around for a scruffy folded-up twenty. ‘I don’t suppose this would help, would it?’
His name badge reads Peter and his eyes narrow as he takes in the allure of the purple paper. He checks over his shoulder and then snatches the note away. He types something into the computer and then frowns.
‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Stephen.’
‘There wasn’t anyone here called Stephen staying on Monday.’
He twists the monitor so I can see. There’s a list that’s sorted by first name which jumps straight from Sonia Somethingorother to Terry Thingamabob. No Stephen, regardless of the spelling. No Steves, either.
‘Do you want me to check another name?’ he asks, the data protection act seemingly long forgotten.
I shuffle on the spot, trying to think. He definitely said his name was Stephen. He even said ‘with a P-H’ when I asked about the spelling. I’d forgotten but the memory is now as clear as if it had just happened.
‘I suppose he could have checked in on a different day…?’
‘This is a list of everyone staying here on Monday, regardless of which day they checked in. Was he definitely a guest here?’
I remember that, too. He said he was on the third floor. I didn’t ask about a room number but he told me he had a good view of the gardens.
‘Is there CCTV I could check?’
His smile loosens at this. ‘I really don’t have access to that.’
A woman appears a little behind, wielding one of those massive cases that somehow still count as hand luggage. It’s the type of bag someone spends half an hour trying to shove into an overhead bin on a plane as everyone’s waiting to take off. She hefts it along in front of her with an enormous sigh.
The receptionist glances to her and then gives me his best get stuffed smile. It’s even better than last time and, on this occasion, I take the hint.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I’m a little lost on what to do as I crunch across the car park. I have more knowledge than I did this morning – of the man I was with nights ago – but I have no idea how I might track him down. I can picture his face, the rash of dark black stubble peppering his cheeks and chin, plus the matching glossy dark hair which was that perfect length of smart but not quite shaggy. He had thick eyebrows but clearly waxed or did something similar to keep them tidy. His eyes were dark brown, a little set back, with that smouldering stare that makes a person feel as if they’re the only one who matters.
In my mind, he was one of those handsome young guys who create a start-up company and make millions right away. Either that, or an aspiring actor. He was handsome, funny and, better than all that, he actually wanted to talk to me.
I’m most of the way back to the car when I spot a young man struggling to do up a pair of cufflinks as he hurries in the opposite direction. He’s wearing the same black trousers and maroon staff waistcoat as the other men at the hotel. We’re almost past each other when our eyes lock and there’s a moment of recognition. He’s someone I’ve met before and I can see that he knows me, too. He has freckles and short red hair but is otherwise unremarkable.
I reach out a hand towards him and say hello.
He stops and turns until we’re facing each other.
‘I know you, don’t I…?’ I say.
His gaze darts away towards the hotel as he mutters a brisk, ‘Don’t think so.’
He takes half a step but I reach out and catch his arm. I don’t grip tight, just enough to stop him. His name badge reads ‘Gavin’.
‘I was here on Monday night,’ I say. ‘I was in the bar. You were here, too.’
He shrugs. ‘I work here.’
‘Right… but you do recognise me, don’t you?’
A smirk drifts momentarily across Gavin’s lips before he conceals it by scratching his nose. ‘I served you drinks,’ he says. ‘I’m running late. Sorry. I’ve got to go.’
I stop him once more. ‘Sorry, I’m not a nutter… I mean, I know a nutter would say that, but I’m honestly not. I’m trying to remember someone I was with on Monday. We were both in the bar together. Can you help me?’
‘Who?’
‘His name was Stephen. He had dark hair, stubble, about six foot and a bit.’
Gavin nods dismissively but I’ve dealt with young people who don’t tell the entire truth way too often to miss the nose scratch.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ he says.
‘Please. It’s really important. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’
He bounces from one foot to the other; me on one side, the hotel on the other. ‘Ah, forget it,’ he says, angling towards me. ‘I’m late anyway. Another ten minutes won’t matter.’
Gavin digs into an inside pocket and pulls out a pre-made roll-up with a lighter. ‘You smoke?’ he asks.
‘No.’