‘What’s his name?’ says the man, smiling indulgently.
‘Iain Hart,’ I say. ‘That’s Iain spelled I, A, I, N.’
The man taps a keyboard and looks at his screen.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a guest at the moment under that name.’
‘Oh! That’s fine, he’s maybe arriving later tonight then?’ I turn and address Finlay who mutters: ‘Yes, must be.’
‘Thank you anyway,’ I say.
‘I shouldn’t strictly do this,’ the man leans toward me, ‘but if you give me your room number, I can let you know if anyone does arrive with that name. I wouldn’t be able to tell you his room number but I could contact him on your behalf, once he’s settled in?’
‘Oh sure yes, definitely,’ I say. ‘Thank you! I’m Evelyn Harris in Room 166 and this is Finlay Hart. Room …?’
‘312,’ Fin supplies.
‘Got it,’ the man beams, marking it down on a notepad. ‘Have a lovely stay.’
As we walk to the lifts, Finlay says: ‘That was genuinely impressive. I’m impressed.’
‘I used to be a reporter at the local paper. The base machinations and grubby audacity never leaves you.’
‘Probably helps to have charm, too,’ Finlay says.
‘Oh …’ I startle a little at an unexpected compliment. He thinks I’m a presumptuous irritant, doesn’t he? ‘All part of the … routine.’
‘If it’s an art, I’ve never mastered it,’ he says, with a twitch of lips, as we step into the lift. He punches the first and third floor buttons respectively.
‘Thing is,’ Fin says, after a short silence, ‘I’m not criticising your methods. To me this makes it even more impressive. But why would you turn up for your dad’s seventieth as a surprise, and then have a receptionist tell him you’re in the lobby? That’d ruin it, no? You do the big reveal when dinging a champagne glass with a fork, in some restaurant, surely?’
‘Aha, any card sharp could answer this. Cons don’t work because they’re clever, they work because they’re fast.’
The lift doors slide open at my floor.
‘You’re full of surprises, Evelyn Harris,’ Fin says, as I step out, and I wonder what the other ones were.
My room is the size of a London flat, a tundra of cornflower-coloured carpet and milky coffee-coloured expensively hewn fabrics, a bed the size of Italy with starchy, crease-free, snow-white pillows in upright rows. When I twitch the curtains, I have a plum view of the illuminated castle. It’s Instagram brag crack cocaine, except I’m not minded to advertise this online and be asked why I’m here.
I try not to be so vulgar as to dwell on the spend, but I have a sense that consecutive nights here, multiplied by two, must be six months of my mortgage payments.
I must remember to text Ed. But … on reflection, what right does Ed have to make me feel, albeit subtly, with the cover of good intentions, as if he has some sort of ownership of me? He’s engaged to his long-term horror and he slept with my late best friend.
Late best friend. I stare at the remote controls lined up on the walnut side table and, for once, I’m shocked at these words, not because they are surprising to me, but because they aren’t.
Susie’s deadness has crossed an invisible line, passed into an unexceptional fact I can rehearse as part of my mental furniture, as much prosaic scenery as the mini fridge and the safe for valuables over there.
I know this is only true right now, in this particular moment. It’ll astound me again, at another time in the near future. But gradually that will happen less and less, and this will happen more and more, until it’s simply always ordinary.
One day, I might be looking at photographs with my currently unlikely kids, and they’ll say: ‘Who’s that?’ and I’d say oh that’s my dear friend Susie, she got hit by a car and died really young. They’ll peer with renewed interest due to this macabre backstory, and then, because she was never Aunty Susie and they never met her, turn the page in the album. I feel an indignation that’s almost anger at this prospect. It’s a lie, that obituary. Susie is not a sad short story. Susie is not a tragedy. She was a long lively story, cut unnaturally short.
With some secret chapters I hadn’t seen. Footage left on the cutting-room floor.
I unzip my trolley case and yank my toiletries bag from it and have a shower that’s long and scalding enough to make up for the lack of one earlier. I raid the complementary toiletries and dry my hair section by section on a big round brush in front of a vast mirror, rolling my wrist as if I’m in a salon. I’ve not thought about my appearance for months. All of a sudden, I want to look nice. I think it’s the surroundings, and being here for my fake father’s fake seventieth with my fake brother. I wish I were living her life, the goofy, loaded, carefree liar.
A knock at the door and my dinner arrives, thrillingly under a silver tureen.
As I dip the last French fry in the dainty ramekin of ketchup, my phone lights up with a message from Ed … Oh God it’s half nine!
Hi! Remember me? Remember that thing we talked about?
I wipe my greasy hands hurriedly on the thick linen napkin.
Argh sorry sorry it’s been crazy – the car broke down and we’ve got to the hotel late, but the good news is, it’s The Waldorf
Wow sounds like my worries were misplaced! One big suite is it? Michael Bublé on the Bose and roofie fizzing like an Alka Seltzer in the Laurent Perrier
I should’ve known he’d equate the outlay with a Finlay Hart scheme to lay me. He’s met Finlay, how can he seriously think ‘desire’ features?
Uhm no, separate rooms. Sorry I forgot to say hi, I’ll remember tomorrow
Mind that you do. N’night, Harris x
My phone blinks with light again.
PS: I’m sure you know this, but. If you need me to come and get you as a matter of urgency at any point – call me. I will be straight there, no questions asked. Do not let pride stand in the way of help. X
Of course, thank you. (you would ask questions though) x
OK yes I would X
By the light of a lamp, I lie on the bed and gaze up at the ivory ceiling’s cornicing, pristine and unblemished, like a roll of marzipan icing.
Ed is jealous. I repeat that evident truth to myself. I’d sensed it during his previous tirade, but not so clearly registered it until now. I try to work out what to do with it.
27
After unwinding a croissant and sipping the sort of black coffee that reminds me how coffee is supposed to taste in a metro-tiled breakfast room that was absent of Finlay Hart, I go back up to my room, brush my teeth and head down for nine.
Finlay’s an imposing, ink-blue figure against all the wedding-cake white – unsmiling, hands thrust in pockets in his trench coat. He’s not unfriendly, exactly, but seems a little antsy, brisk, eager to get on. I shouldn’t mistake the splendour of our hotel for any pleasure he’s taking in this.
‘Tourist traps, then the family addresses, is the plan,’ Fin says, sounding stiff and somewhat disenchanted, as we emerge into the cold snap of Princes Street. ‘Following the plan set out in my father’s note.’