And right there was his in: he looked so embarrassed, I felt sorry for him. I think he was even blushing slightly—God knows how he pulled that off.
“Meeting someone?” I said, regretting my suspicion.
He looked smart, date-ready, in a light denim shirt, a conspicuous watch peeking out from beneath one cuff. It was the biggest, chunkiest timepiece I’d ever seen, the kind of thing most people would need a small mortgage to afford. He grimaced, lifted his wrist. “Well, I was. An hour ago. You were my last hope.”
I winced an apology. “Sorry.”
“No,I’msorry. For disturbing you. Have a great night.”
I watched him head over to the bar, shaking his head, putting one hand to the back of his neck, making a call on his phone. Looking back—because this part remains so clear in my mind to this day—he played the role of the hapless, handsome stranger to perfection.
After twenty minutes or so he passed by my seat again, presumably on his way home. He looked up, snuck me a sheepish expression, paused.
“British?”
I nodded, feeling slightly shy.
He smiled, then hesitated, matching perfectly my timidity. “My aunt lives in Bath.” (Another genius move: who doesn’t love Bath?)
“Oh, really? Bath’s lovely.”
“It is.” He hesitated again, as if he were entirely unused to chatting up girls in bars. How the hell did I fall for it? “Can I... get you a drink?”
I have replayed that moment over and over in my mind in the years since it happened.Say no. Wish him a good night. Get up, walk away, and don’t look back.But I didn’t, of course. I just felt flattered that this sharply dressed Australian with the killer tan and magnet eyes and kindly auntie in Bath wanted to buy me a drink.
When I asked what he did, he even rummaged in his wallet for a business card, which purported to show he was senior management at a well-known bank. It turned out afterward, of course, that they’d never heard of a Nathan Drall.
“Call me Nate,” he said.
And not long after that, my memories cut out completely, like he’d knocked me to the ground with a single punch.
—
I woke the next morning—at least, I assumed it was morning—with a stiff neck and a headache that felt like my skull was being dismantled. I felt disoriented, unable to place where I was.
The room was dark, but it wasn’t the hostel. I knew that instinctively. It was too quiet, too still. Too air-conditioned.
Something was wrong. I felt panic scramble up my throat.
And then: the blast of a bell sounding over and over, a discordant jangle so sudden and urgent it sent my heart catapulting from my chest. It took me ten seconds or so to realize a phone was ringing.
“Good morning,” said a smooth voice, when I finally picked up. “This is a courtesy call to advise you that checkout is eleven a.m.”
Checkout?
I mumbled something, then blinked and hung up, struggled into a sitting position. The pain in my head was getting worse.
A hotel. I was in an enormous bed, the curtains tightly drawn. The room had the hushed, unventilated feel of an airline cabin. I was still fully dressed, in the same clothes I’d been wearing last night.
A chill passed through me.
Nate.
Where was he? Was he still here? Why wasIhere?
I switched on a lamp, scanned the room. It was large and disconcertingly messy—there were empty bottles and glasses on a coffee table, two room service trays. I had no recollection of any of it. I wrinkled my nose and inhaled, maybe for the first time since I’d woken. The air smelled of fried food, and something else. I tried to find my phone, but couldn’t see it anywhere.
I climbed out of bed and made my way unsteadily to the bathroom, but the stench made me recoil. The sink was full of vomit.
