“Alice!”
She opens her eyes and sees the young man who sat next to her on the plane waving. They’d talked briefly—he had woken her up when the flight attendant passed through the cabin with cups of lukewarm coffee—though she can’t remember his name for the life of her. He’s some sort of consultant—that she knows—and he travels often, he’d mentioned that during their short conversation, but God, what was his name? It sounded like a consultant’s name, she remembers. Something inoffensive and milquetoast and easy to pronounce. Daniel? David? Or, no: Dennis. It was Dennis.
He maneuvers around a man unfolding a stroller and makes his way to her.
“I was getting worried they’d detained you back at immigration,” he says. His voice has a friendly, Midwestern lilt.
She smiles, wanly.
“I, uh, I guess I got stuck in the back of the line.”
Cracking his knuckles, he reaches into his back pocket for a piece of gum. He offers one to Alice, but she declines.
“Really? I’ve always got the worst taste in my mouth after those long flights. Anyway, the trick to immigration is not to hit the bathroom between the tarmac and customs. People always want to stop in, wash their face, brush their teeth. All that kind of stuff, particularly on these red-eyes. You’ve gotta just plow through, though. Otherwise you get caught waiting for an hour just to have your stupid passport stamped.”
Alice nods and raises her eyebrows.
“Platinum status on Delta, remember?” He winks at her. “I’ve got all kinds of secrets.”
How old is he? Alice thinks. When they were in the air she pegged him as mid-thirties—but that was under the weird, blue glow of airplane lighting, where everyone, with the exception of the very young and the very old, bears the same tired pallor of middle age. Now, on the ground, she’s sure he can’t be older than twenty-three. His clothes—a pair of gray work slacks and a blue button-down with a faint sheen—look vaguely expensive, and nice, but nice for a fifty-something white guy who’ll never climb above middle management. Alice guesses that his dad bought him the outfit—a sort of go-get-’em-son present for Dennis’s first job after finishing undergrad. From his shoulder hangs one of those tech-y messenger bags that consulting firms always give to their employees so they’ll appear hip or edgy when they’re competing with Google, or Facebook, to recruit new talent from business schools. Alejandro used to bitch about his all the time, Alice remembers, but that didn’t keep him from lugging it to every corner of Mexico City.
The same black roller suitcase, marked by a silver ribbon tied clumsily around its handle, begins another lonely rotation along the conveyer belt. Alice wonders how many times she’s seen it. Three, she thinks. Maybe four.
“I forgot how annoying it is to wait at baggage claim,” he says. “Normally I’m only at a project site Monday through Thursday, so I just need a carry-on.” Next to him, a woman’s suitcase topples over. Alice reaches down to help right it, and Dennis keeps talking. “But this time I’m going to be here for two weeks. Because it’s an international project. Man, the points that I’m going to get from this thing.”
Alice grins again and grants Dennis a small laugh. He’s got a gash of razor burn just beneath his chin, and he’s smiling more than any adult should. Maybe he’s cuter than she initially thought he was. Maybe the airport has lowered her standards of cuteness to a thrilling level of mediocrity. Either way, he’s noticed her staring. She reaches down to adjust her shoe and, in doing so, balances herself on his shoulder, kneading his muscles slowly with her fingertips as she stands up straight again.
She feels compelled to say something.
“Where are you staying?” she asks.
“The W. Leicester Square.”
This makes sense, Alice thinks. She’d originally predicted the Westin, or maybe a Sheraton. But the W: this makes sense.
An electric siren whirs, and new bags join the black roller suitcase with the silver ribbon. They tumble forward on to one another at awkward angles. Passengers jostle for a spot along the belt. Alice watches as, within seconds, a hundred little traffic jams erupt.
“How about you?” Dennis says.
“Claridge’s.” Alice clears her throat. “In Mayfair.”
“Whooooooa.” Dennis winks again. “Fancy.”
Alice smiles again, this time genuinely. Claridge’s. It is fancy, isn’t it? She pictures the website where she’d booked her room: rotating pictures of the hotel’s grand brick fa?ade, a line of Maseratis and Bentleys and Rolls-Royces guarding the entrance. Tiled interiors spotted with fresh flowers, leather armchairs, and portraits of British Ladies with tight faces and round asses. The room costs upward of six hundred pounds a night, which she can’t afford, particularly given that she’s staying for the full week before trekking down to Dorset. She suspects, in fact, that once she pays the final bill, her debt, which has already settled solidly around twenty thousand, will teeter over toward twenty-six thousand dollars. She feels a sudden tug of anxiety, but she calms down by focusing on Dennis, and by telling and retelling herself that the debt’s worth it; that if Claridge’s won’t impress Eloise, then nothing will.
When her sister had first invited her to be in the bridal party, Eloise insisted that Alice bunk at her flat in London for the week preceding the wedding.
“It’ll be fun,” Eloise had crooned. “We’ll get ready for my hen do together and go to yoga in the mornings. It’ll be like when we were kids.”
Alice had politely declined, and reminded Eloise that they had never done yoga together. Not even once. A week later, she phoned her back to tell her where she’d be staying.
“Claridge’s!” Eloise had exclaimed. She relished the shock and undertones of envy in her sister’s voice. “How … my God, how lovely!”
“You’ll have to come over one afternoon for tea,” Alice said. She was still clicking through images of the hotel on her computer screen. She wondered how the doormen and porters would be dressed during the summer. She hoped they’d still wear their wool coats.
“If you’ll have me!” Eloise laughed. “I haven’t been to tea at Claridge’s in years.”
Alice promised her sister that of course she’d have her—that it would be her treat—and then hung up, feeling warm and satisfied.
Dennis threads his way through the crowd and returns with a bulky gray duffel bag.
“You see yours?” he asks.
She does: on the far side of the conveyer belt, a black, expandable upright, buried beneath a purple backpack.
“There it is.”
“Which one?” Dennis says. “Let me—”
“I can get it.” She touches his wrist, stopping him. “I’ll just wait for it to come back around.”
Dennis nods. “Claridge’s. Nice.”
Alice tucks her hair behind her ears. The suitcase disappears around a corner. She says, “Want to come see it?”