Sure, I look far from my best, but wouldn’t anyone whose flight from LA was delayed for three hours and then found out their luggage was still five thousand miles away when they arrived at their destination?
“Sorry, sir, and welcome to the Landmark Hotel.” His face softens as the words tumble from his mouth, and he finally pulls the wooden door open and steps aside to let me through.
“Check in is on the other side of the hotel,” he says as I enter.
I roll my eyes at yet another inconvenience. Maybe the taxicab driver knew about my preference for the rear entrance. The corner of my mouth lifts at the thought.
As I walk through the halls to the front desk, I breathe in the familiar samphire scent that reminds me of childhood summers with my grandma. The long journey through the corridors, with their mix of marble flooring and Persian-style carpentry, makes me want to shoot myself in the head, until I’m taken aback by the familiar sight of palm trees and a scattering of decorations.
It’s almost symbolic, if I believed in such things. My current life in LA, embodied by the palm trees in the atrium. And my former life in northwest London, represented by chandeliers, flower vases, and an old-school landline phone with a rotating dial.
The night manager greets me as I reach the reception desk. Her pearly white smile stands out against her golden-brown skin and black uniform.
“Welcome to the Landmark Hotel, sir. How may I help you?”
“I’m here to check in; Christopher Foster,” I say, removing my backpack from my shoulders, retrieving my passport, and passing it over to her. The passport looks even more worn out and beaten-up than I feel.
“Just one moment, sir, while I pull up your reservation.”
As the woman looks through her computer, I take a moment to center myself and breathe. I’m here now. The nightmare journey is over.
Yes, I may be sleep deprived.
Yes, I may have missed catching up with my best friend Stephen over dinner.
Yes, I may be without clothes until my luggage catches up with me, but I am here now, and that’s all that matters.
“I can’t seem to locate your reservation, sir. Could it be held under a different name?”
“Why would my booking be under a different name?” I respond sharply, catching myself as I do. Once again, my mum flashes into my mind, and how she would have reprimanded me for speaking so rudely to someone who was only trying to help.
The night manager laughs. “We tend to have a lot of famous people staying here, and they all stay under pseudonyms. You wouldn’t believe some of the names they use. Robert Downey Jr. stayed here as Tony Stark once, and Daniel Craig’s team made me put him down as Minnie Mouse.”
Her eyebrows rise alongside her smile, immediately diffusing my frustration. I guess I’m not the first angry guest she’s had to deal with today, and no doubt I won’t be the last.
“I’m sorry, it’s been a hell of a day,” I say. “I’m here for my sister’s wedding next weekend, and her fiancé took care of all the hotel arrangements. The booking may be held under Daniel Reed.”
“Ah yes, here we go.” The night manager clicks her mouse and prints out a document.
Well, at least one thing of mine has been found today.
“I have one booking here under Daniel Reed for ten nights, which I am assuming is yours?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Great. If I could just get you to fill out this form, please, and also if I could get a credit card for any incidentals.” She slides the paperwork across the counter and hands me a weighted pen as I pass over my credit card and start completing the form.
Surely this should all be automated by now.
After I hand back the paperwork, she returns my credit card and passport and starts going over all the hotel details. I have no patience for it at this ungodly hour. But the nagging voice of my mother, telling me to show some respect, reappears once more, and I force myself to smile and nod along.
“Breakfast is included in your booking and is served from 7 to 11 a.m. in the atrium, just up on your left where the palm trees are. The gym and spa are open from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. and are located one floor down. The elevator to the fifth floor is just across from us on the right. I’ve noted the Wi-Fi details down for you on the inside of the room key holder.” She hands me the key. “Do you have any questions?”
“I’ll let you know if I need anything,” I reply. I won’t. I can think of very few circumstances in which I’ll need her help, but manners don’t cost you anything.
A yawn escapes my mouth as tiredness washes over me. All I want to do now is creep into bed and pull the duvet over me.
“Will you be needing any help with your luggage, sir?” She nods at the bellboy standing behind me at the concierge desk.
