I roll my eyes, determined not to crack a smile. Reluctantly, I shake off my coat to reveal a fitted purple Wyst-branded T-shirt and jeans underneath. They both have residual wet patches on them, but they are salvageable. He assesses the stains and raises an eyebrow in question, creating a crack in my resolve. “I am not starting this trip off by stripping in the lobby.”
“Weird, that’s how I usually prefer to kick things off.” He tilts his head, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth. He waits for my reply, but I just stare at him, trying not to blush. “Just the coat then.” He nods as I place it over his gesturing arm. “I’ll ask them to leave it at the front desk when it’s clean. What name should I put it under?”
I’m about to speak, but we are interrupted by three angry janitors holding mops andWet Floorsigns.
“Sorry, guys, thanks.” Coffee Assailant looks sheepish as he slips one of the men a twenty-euro note.
“Sorry,” I repeat, wincing for effect as I pick up my bags and drag them into the elevator.
Instead of giving me my suitcase back, he rolls it into the elevator, standing next to me.
His hazel eyes lock back on mine. “What floor?”
I readjust my bags and dig the still-wet key card out of my pocket. “Three.”
“Same as me. Assistant or intern?” He’s definitely American, but can I detect a tiny hint of an English accent?
The doors slide shut with a dull thud. “Why do you think I’m either of those?” I ask.
His eyebrows crease ever so slightly as he lowers his chin to meet me, gesturing to my key card. “Because you’re in the cheap seats.”
I go to protest, to say I’m neither, but the plan kicks in.A good lie is a consistent lie.“Assistant. Are you one too?” I clear my throat, not quite comfortable at swallowing the truth.
“Unfortunately.” He straightens his broad shoulders, making me realize how much space he takes up in this tiny Italian elevator. “I hate having to come to these things, having to wear a suit at all times.” He gestures to his stained attire, and I feel my cheeks go pink.
He stretches out his hand as we come to a stop, offering for me to leave the elevator first as it pings on the third floor. We awkwardly pace over the red and brown geometric-patterned carpet in the same direction until I can’t stand the silence.
“You come to these events a lot?” I say over my shoulder, my bags taking up all the space in the corridor so he has to walk behind me. The overhead lights cast his cheekbones in sharp contrast.
“Yeah, part of the gig.” He starts to slow down, reaching his room.
“It’s my first time,” I say, immediately regretting the turn of phrase.
He smiles, eyebrows raised, lines forming in the corners of his mouth. “Well, at least you’ve got the hazing out of the way,” he says, glancing at my stains. He raps a knuckle on his room door before sliding the key card into the scanner. “My apologies again.”
“Thanks.” I smile back, lips tight.
The security light on his door goes green, and he pulls down the handle, then hesitates. “Hey, ummm, tomorrow night, once the big cheeses have gone to their dinners, the assistants are throwing a night-off party at this dive bar a few doors down... if you’re free.”
I freeze and laugh nervously. “Oh, I think I’ll probably be busy working, but thanks.” I use my head to gesture to all my bags, only now realizing I’d come to a complete halt to continue talking to him.
His smile falters from genuine to rebuffed but polite. “Oh, right, yeah. No problem. Okay, well, see ya.” He jumps into his room.
“Bye—” I say as his door clicks firmly shut.
An hour later, I’ve showered off the coffee and airplane, hair and makeup are done, and I’m lying in a robe on the bed, looking through my notes for Spencer. When Coffee Guy described this floor as the “cheap seats,” my expectations plummeted, imagining a budget-friendly airport hotel vibe, but even the cheap floors in the really, really nice hotel are comfier, airier, and better designed than my London studio flat.
My phone vibrates across the fluffy cotton duvet.
“Ciao!” Cecily’s voice echoes down the line. I can hear the faint sound of pounding techno music in the background.
“Ciao,” I reply. “Where are you?”
“At Spin, just getting ready to go in. How’s it going?”
I get up and pad toward the wardrobe and scan the array of shirts and sensible trousers I packed. “It’s going well, I think... I successfully lied to a guy in the elevator; he even invited me to an assistants-only after-party tomorrow.”
In hindsight, even if I was being awkward and weird, he’d have no reason to think I’m lying. When people lie about their career, it’s usually with upthrust, not demotion.
