Peeling the cotton-spandex-blend cling film leggings from my body, I open the temperature-controlled smoky-mirrored wardrobe to find two white fluffy bathrobes. I hang my clothes to dry and slide into my new sheep cosplay outfit, sinking my sore feet into the doughy cushioned matching slippers, revelling in the new experiences.
It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve ever stayed in a hotel, but this is the first time I’ve ever stayed in a “capital H” hotel. My first girls’ trip to Mallorca before all my friends and I separated off to different futures was in a hostel that smelled different every night but somehow always reminiscent of vomit. The student-friendly long weekends in shitty Airbnbs in the country William and I took when we were at university. Then finally the trips to budget hotels, which in comparison to the shitty rentals of uni days felt like living in luxury. After William and I moved to the city and started careers our schedules hardly ever lined up, and when they did it would always include me having to answer emails at least once a day. My “out of office” autoreply exuded “no worriesif not” energy, rendering it pretty useless. This would inevitably turn into an argument with William about how I couldn’t be “present and in the moment.”
William’s job in the finance industry was a cut-and-dry nine-to-five. Every day was the same: clock in, push some spreadsheets, clock out, collect £350 and pass go. When he wanted to drop everything and have some R & R, there was a myriad of similarly suited men in their early to mid-twenties eager to take work off his plate for a few days. There was no one to replace me. There still isn’t. Susie was meant to hire an assistant but never did, choosing instead to dump those responsibilities onto my already overloaded plate. Trying to explain to someone who can’t or refuses to imagine anything different from their way of life took more energy than it was worth. After a while, I gave up my attempts, instead choosing to hide my laptop and phone away and waiting until he fell asleep to respond to a deluge of emails, tasks and requests; countering my exhaustion by pounding espresso at breakfast with a fake peacekeeping smile plastered on my exhausted face.
My slippers slap against the shiny wood floors and thump on plush wool rugs as I make my way over to the kitchen. Yes, this place has a fully stocked kitchen. Black lacquered cabinets with brass handles and onyx countertops veined in gold and gray span the room, the shiny surfaces reflecting a floor-to-ceiling window’s view of the cityscape. I watch as familiar dark clouds begin to block out the sun once again, a rumble cryingout in the distance to announce an encore of earlier potent thunderstorms.
I practically dance around with excitement when I see free champagne in the wine fridge, and grab the chilled bottle. Due to the sheer amount of events I manage for Fate, I have become a pro at popping any form of sparkling wine. I sip from a crystal flute feeling fancy as fuck as the bubbles immediately ride down my throat and back up to my brain. Maybe Bancroft is onto something with his whole “grabbing opportunities” mindset? I write a mental note to make it my new mantra.
I check my phone to find an Ignite notification:
Jack: Looking forward to tomorrow :D
Feeling content for the first time in weeks, I replyMe too :)and flop onto the bed with an oomph. The combination of a plush robe and five-star bedsheets is better than I ever could have imagined, like lying down on top of a giant soufflé and being enveloped by warm, soft sweetness. Struggling to move, I convince my body to roll over toward the hotel phone and call down to room service. I order dinner and an ice bucket for the champagne, then I flop to the other end of the comfiest surface on earth to run a bath.
While the steaming water fills the marble bathtub in the even more marble-coated bathroom, I pull out my laptop and notebook to assess the state of my Ditto presentation. We’re two weeks out from the deadline and it’s bare bones right now, lacking the visual flair it needs to pull ahead. I study the notes on each slide,breaking down my thoughts about how Ditto’s target users thrive off more than a sit-down dinner and don’t want cookie-cutter experiences. They don’t want to feel as if they are going on the same first date over and over and over. They don’t want massive chains and copy-and-paste encounters that everyone has experienced. They just want dates as interesting as they are, just as varied as their lives are, and just as eclectic as their taste in music, film and art. My thoughts are like kernels of corn in a blazing hot pan.
Maybe that’s it? I type outfirst dates as unique as youin bold font, smile at the words and for the first time since that day in Catcher’s office think to myself:I could win this.
I spend another few minutes flipping through the black and white slides, splicing in Yemi’s data from Fate and Ignite in graph form to back up my claims until a noise jolts my head toward the penthouse entrance. I hear what sounds like shuffling feet right outside the door and my mind flashes with horror stories from women alone in hotel rooms. I push the fear down and remember my order. This must just beveryspeedy room service—it is a five-star hotel after all. Pushing off the bed and pulling my robe tight, I see off the rest of my champagne glass, turn off the bath and glide through the mid-century living room. Attempting to flatten my frizzy post-rainstorm hair, I fling open the door to find a familiar black leather duffel bag and Bancroft bentover looking intensely at his shiny bronze key card, as if trying to work out which side to swipe first.
My mouth immediately opens wide to chastise him for going back on his word. That is until I descend from my high horse into my white robe–clad body and realize I’m standinginthe penthouse suite of the Heimach Hotel half-drunk on one glass of very expensive champagne when he has just arrived. His narrowed eyes gather a glint of amusement as they slowly make their way from the key-card scanner up my fluffy torso, over my just-emptied glass and land on my sheepish, beetroot face, soaking up the view.
“Fancy seeing you here, Hastings.”
24
A dimple appears on his left cheek for a fraction of a second as he fixes me an amused stare.
“I thought the idea of one thousand thread count sheets made you nauseous?”
“Nauseous and sleepy,” I say, laughing nervously and pulling my robe as tight as possible. “What are you doing here?”
He sighs, flapping his arm out in exasperation. “The thunderstorm cut out the internet for my entire building. I need a place with decent Wi-Fi to work on my Ditto presentation for a few hours.”
“Maybe a cafe?” I drawl half-heartedly, fingers gripping firmly on to the door as a blockade.
He looks at his Moncler wristwatch and then back up to me. “Closed.”
“Bar?” I offer.
“This work is confidential.” He shoots me an accusatory look, as if I’ve been hosting a nightly stage show about Catch Group’s plans for dating-app world domination.
I sigh, accepting my fate and flinging the door wideopen. “OK, Bancroft! Come on in!” I throw my arm out to welcome him inside.
He studies the room. “You made yourself at home quickly.”
My stomach cringes as he moves his gaze over the contents of my bag strewn across the living room, clothes thrown over the bedroom armchair and laptop open on the bed. Pieces of the champagne bottle top are littered across the kitchen counter; with one arm I wipe them all into the sink.
Bancroft tries to stop the corner of his mouth from tipping up as he crosses his arms. “What did you do—hide in the bushes until I left the building then sneak back up here?”
Picking up my stuff and throwing it onto the bed, re-establishing my territory for the night, I say innocently, “I was on my way home and then I recalled some advice about taking opportunities when they present themselves.”
“Hmmm, good advice. What stunningly intelligent person told you that?” he deadpans, pivoting on his heel as he watches me frantically move from room to room.
“Some guy at work.” I shrug. “A colleague.”
He cocks his head to the side, pouting slightly. “Sounds like more than just a colleague.”
