Keeley came out of her reverie pretty quickly at that shout. Rach was pushing at the glass again, but this time Keeley could see that her friend’s hair was caught somehow in between the glass and the rubber seal. Was there an emergency button? Not that was immediately obvious and this was a door not a lift. It should have been a case of walking into reception with ease, not high drama.
‘Keeley! It’s pulling my hair out and my head is getting closer to the glass! Keeley!’
Rach was really, fully panicking now and Keeley didn’t know what to do. If she pushed one way it would make things worse. If she pushed the other then would it make things better? What happened if two people got trapped in a revolving door? Then, suddenly, before she could think about moving at all, a man appeared. Next, the revolution of the glass panels stopped immediately. In a flurry of manual pushing, Keeley watched as Rach’s hair was delicately released and her best friend stepped out into the foyer, conversing brightly and flicking around her blonde hair in a way that was not at all like someone who had potential scalp chafing. And Keeley was still in here. She pushed the glass and let it swing around until the welcome opening appeared.
‘I’m Rach, by the way, and this is Keeley.’
Keeley observed their door saviour. He was over six feet tall with neat, short, blonde hair and the build of someone who went to the gym or played sports – maybe basketball given his height. He was wearing smart black trousers and a cream-coloured thin-knit jumper.
‘Bonjour,’ Keeley greeted. Instantly, as the French word came out of her mouth she regretted it. She didn’t even know if this man was French and, if he was, all the French she had left to use were the other nineteen top phrases in that Eurostar magazine…
‘Bonjour,’ he answered. ‘Ça va?’
Keeley could feel her cheeks warming to being-able-to-cook-steak levels. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I… think so.’
The man smiled at her, a small laugh escaping his lips. But it didn’t sound like it was a laugh meant to embarrass her any more than she was already embarrassed. She had only been here minutes…
‘It was nice to meet you both,’ the man said, ducking a little like he was paying reverence in a bow.
‘Thank you,’ Rach said, smiling widely. ‘For being the prince to my Rapunzel.’ Keeley watched Rach boost up her hair and shake her shoulders a little.
‘À bientôt,’ the man replied, heading for the door.
He’d barely gone before Rach made a sound someone might make in the middle of a booty call.
‘What is it with this country? Sebastian was hot. Mystery-Hair-Hero is hot. Are all French men hot?’ Rach asked.
‘Excuse me!’
It was another male French voice that seemed to be directed at them and it was coming from the lips of a slim black man stood behind the reception desk. He was wearing a pristine dark suit with a red silk tie resting on a bright white shirt. He was beckoning them now, with all the finesse of someone experienced in semaphore.
‘Hello,’ Keeley greeted, walking over the marble tiles towards him. This area was all high sheen on the floor and antique decadence making up the rest of it. Parisian scenes in thick acrylics were framed in regal gold, the wallpaper was pale with small golden trees in its pattern and rich oak sideboards held the tourist information material. The reception desk was bare of everything except one highly polished chrome bell. ‘My name’s Keeley Andrews and we have a room booked. It’s possibly in the name of—’
Rach banged her fingers on the bell and giggled as it chimed. She hit it a second time.
‘Why are you pressing the bell?’ the receptionist asked very stiffly. He was actually looking at Rach like lasers were going to shoot out of his eyes and carve her down the middle.
‘It sounds nice,’ Rach replied with a smile. ‘Old-fashioned.’ She rang the bell again.
‘The bell,’ the man told them, ‘is to attract my attention.’
‘Thank you,’ Keeley answered. ‘Sorry.’
Rach rang the bell a fourth time.
‘What is your problem?’ the man exclaimed, looking as exasperated as he sounded. ‘At first you cannot manage to get in through the door and I have to stop the operation of it. Then you think it is amusing to ring my bell.’
Keeley looked at Rach. ‘We’re sorry and…’ She saw Rach’s fingers flex like she was going to chime the bell again, but before she could make a move to stop her, the receptionist had swept the bell off the desk and onto his workspace below. Gone and now completely out of reach.
‘The bell,’ he said again, seeming barely able to hold his temper, ‘is to attract my attention… when I am not here!’ The final part of the sentence was barked like an angry Royal Marine commander.
‘Alright… Antonie,’ Rach said, reading the man’s name badge on his jacket. ‘Take a chill pill. It’s nearly Christmas.’
‘It’s ANTOINE! Not Antonie!’
Keeley shifted a little, making sure she was in the man’s line of sight and Rach… wasn’t. ‘I apologise, Antoine. Let me start again. My name is—’
‘I know who you are,’ Antoine told her. He began clicking with his mouse, eyes dropping to the screen of his computer. ‘You are guests of Madame Durand.’
‘Yes,’ Keeley answered. ‘That’s right.’
‘You are in one of our best suites on the top floor. Here are your room cards and all the information you need for your stay will be in your room.’ He placed two key cards on the desk.
‘Is there a bell in our room?’ Rach asked with a grin.
Keeley poked her in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Thank you,’ she answered Antoine, picking up the cards.
‘The lifts are over there.’ He pointed with flair. ‘I will arrange for someone to bring up your luggage. Madame Durand has booked you in for our world-renowned afternoon tea at 3 p.m. Do not be late. It is very popular.’ He set his expression to deeply serious and Keeley prayed that Rach didn’t laugh. ‘Breakfast is from 6 a.m. until 10 a.m. on weekdays and from 7 a.m. until 11 a.m. at the weekends. Dinner is 6.30 p.m. until 9.30 p.m. every day. I hope you enjoy your stay.’
‘Oh, we will,’ Keeley replied. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thanks, Antonie,’ Rach said.
‘Come on,’ Keeley ordered, grabbing Rach’s arm. ‘Let’s get to our room before you upset anyone else or get your hair caught on something.’
‘Like on Antonie’s stiff upper Poirot moustache?’ Rach whispered.
‘It’s ANTOINE!’
Eleven
‘This isn’t a hotel room,’ Rach announced, throwing open the balcony doors and letting in a blast of frosty air. ‘This is like an apartment!’
Keeley couldn’t deny it. This suite was as palatial as it got. Not that she was one to judge hotel suites as she hadn’t actually ever stayed in one before. The hotels she had stayed in were usually either something cheap and cheerful her dad had managed to get at an even cheaper price thanks to collecting tokens from the newspaper, or they were not really thought about as destinations themselves, more for practical purposes. Like when she had travelled up to Birmingham to an expo on home design. Bea had gone with her. They had eaten all the free biscuits in their room and Bea had encouraged the drinking wine out of the hotel mugs. And they had eaten pizza and chips at midnight, watching Naked Attraction and being horribly judgemental about the contestants’ body parts while mozzarella grease got all over the duvet covers. Bea had always gone with her to shows when she wasn’t working – which wasn’t often when you were someone in charge of designing bridges and roads. Her sister had been clever and brilliant and often Keeley had felt pride oozing from her when Bea talked about her career. Those weekends with Bea were the ones Keeley had looked forward to the most. Arriving at an exhibition, Keeley would always look at everything from a home interiors angle – smooth arches and fluffy cushions – whereas Bea would be there eyeing up a standard lamp and telling Keeley how bright a wattage you could get away with before the shade would catch fire. Bea had always been as practical as Keeley was creative. Not that Bea wasn’t creative, they just went at things from different perspectives… and Keeley missed that. She shivered, in the midst of her unpacking.