Letting my towel drop to the cold tile floor, I walk over to my adjoining bedroom which is again, large with floor to ceiling length windows that give me the best view in New York. The sun is shining today, far too happy if you ask me.
I walk to the other side of my room to my walk-in closet and glance over the many suits that I own, which are color coded from darkness to light. No surprises, but the lightest color suit I own is navy. I select one of my many designer dark navy suits, a jacket and formal pants and pair them with a white shirt that I leave unbuttoned to my clavicle. After my socks and shoes are neatly put on, I splash on some aftershave and head out into the open plan kitchen/living room where I can hear my housekeeper, Lilian, milling around.
“Good morning Ethan,” she says joyfully. Lilian is one of a very small handful of people I allow into my space. She finishes making my morning fresh pressed juice, as I wait at the kitchen island, sipping on the espresso that she had waiting for me. Lilian is around her early sixties, red hair tied up in a bun, one would say the warm kind of mother everyone reads about in novelswhere the parents are loving and perfect. She turns to face me and smiles a pure smile like she is genuinely happy to see me. I think that’s what it is. Her blue eyes sparkle as the fine lines from years of laughter crinkle at the sides.
“Any requests for dinner this evening?” she says.
“Steak.”
“Again? Do you not want something different? Fish?” she asks frowning at me like I’m an annoying picky eater of a child. Truth is I don’t care about the food. I look at food as something I need to survive, rather than something to indulge in. I force my first smile of the day, which she returns.
“Surprise me,” I say as I down my juice in three large swallows.
“Okay. Have a good day, Ethan,” she says as she waves me off. I nod in response and head toward my large entrance hall and grab my keys and wallet, before heading down in the elevator to the garage, where my driver waits for me.
“Morning David,” I say as the tall man who has worked for me for years opens the rear door. David is in his forties. Grey haired. Tall and slim, with a face that screams elegance. I like him because he doesn’t talk much.
“Good morning,” he says as I step inside the car and he shuts the door behind me before getting into the front seat. It takes about forty-five minutes to get to the hotel. My offices are hidden inside the mainhotel on the top level. He parks at the curb, annoying other drivers as we block their way.
I get out of the vehicle and walk toward the large double doors of my building, taking in a deep breath.
The performance is about to begin.
CHAPTER 3 - LEO
Ifeel sick. I don’t remember ever feeling this nervous before. I try to push away the nausea as I stand on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, looking up at the imposing glass and steel spine of the building, telling myself this is normal. First-day nerves. Everyone gets them. My reflection stares back from the revolving door — tired eyes, borrowed confidence, a jacket that still smells faintly of our apartment’s lemon scented detergent. This is smart for me as I usually dress like an unemployed guitarist from an unsigned rock band. Due to my lack of variety in clothing, I’m pleased we have a uniform so I don’t have to worry about what to wear every day. Sarah still made a fuss though, making sure I was presentable. Gotta make sure I look good for the imaginary career that she thinks will fall onto my lap on the first day. But I can’t think about that right now, I need to get through this first day. The mail room can’t be that bad. It’s honest work. Abeginning.
Come on Leo, it’s time to get in there.
I step inside where the lobby is already alive: rolling suitcases, clipped conversations, the soft music hotels use to convince you nothing bad ever happens here. The reception desk gleams like it’s never known fingerprints. This place screams we only accept the rich who want to spend a limitless amount of money here. A place I certainly don’t fit. I slowly approach the young lady, with long blonde hair, perfect make up and slightly too much perfume who sits like a perfectly trained doll behind the reception.
“I’m here to sign in,” I tell her.
She smiles automatically. “Name?”
“Leo Jones.”
She types, nods, slides a temporary badge across to me. “Mail room is down the service corridor, second left,” she says as she points toward a large door to the side of the foyer with a sign above it saying ‘Service Entrance Only’.
I thank her and use my keycard badge on the electronic lock and walk through and follow the discreet beige hallway that feels like the hotel’s bloodstream — necessary but unseen.
Noise leads me to the mailroom and as soon as I step inside, the smell of cardboard and coffee hits me.
A guy about my age looks up from sorting envelopes. He’s got kind eyes, messy brown hair, and the relaxed posture of someone who has already accepted this job is a fact of life. The way he bounces over to me reminds me of a springer spaniel.
“You must be the newbie,” he says. “Leo, right?”
I blink. “Yeah.”
“I’m Danny.” He grins, reaching out to shake my hand. “Welcome to glamorous hospitality.”
I chuckle and immediately relax. I like this guy and get the sense I will fit right in.
“Come on, Leo. Let me show you how to be the best mail room guy on the payroll,” he says as he pats my back and guides me over to the sorting area.
An hour or so passes as he shows me where to clock in, how to log packages, which bins are for guests, which are for staff, which are for things you’re better off not asking about.
“Most important rule,” he adds, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “never open anything marked ‘private executive correspondence.’ You’ll either get fired or traumatized.”
