Lost in Hotels

by Martin, M.

  “It’s very hot, so just tell me where to put it,” he insists.

  He surveys the room and sees the lone housekeeper with a spritz bottle in her hand laboring over the glass coffee table and looking at both of us.

  “Actually, just follow me and put it in here,” I say, turning and retracing the steps to my bedroom well aware of what the housekeeper is thinking.

  “You can just put it right there.” I gesture toward the side table.

  He takes instruction quickly and turns abruptly with a bill to sign.

  As he approaches, he studies my body with such severity that his gestural statement takes me aback. He looks at my stomach, my underwear, and then my chest without looking into my eyes again.

  “I guess I should sign that,” I say, taking the bill from his hand.

  His gayness catches me off guard, straight appearing and total-guy acting in almost every way. I’m complimented and almost a bit smug by the attention of someone almost half my age, and twice as attractive as I am. Without a word, he stares into my eyes as I grab the pen, sign, and hand the bill back to him.

  “My name is Sam. If there’s anything you need or want during your stay, please ask for me directly.”

  Sam gazes down at me once again, objectifying me just enough to have me backing into the main room and seeing him to the door. Without my replying even a thank you, Sam scampers away to leave me with my espresso and disappointed housekeeper.

  After a shower and a morning of work, I make my way down to the lobby. The corridors of the hotel linger in near complete darkness despite the afternoon hour. The city sits under a blanket of gloom that will at least dissipate from my mind with the arrival of Catherine. I crave her conversation, the sight of her face that lights up in a story where my mind doesn’t retreat into my own thoughts, and instead hangs on her every word.

  My clothes are strategic, a long-sleeve knit polo shirt in sky blue that reflects a husband-like glow in my eyes with arms that are soft to touch and potentially cuddle over black denim jeans, and black sneakers you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in any London hotel. The lobby is empty, just the way I was hoping, a cozy corner facing away from the entrance would allow us some privacy. Despite the soggy weather, the patio still manages a crowd for a late lunch, but I still want the comfort of those bouncy sofas that soothe my hangover.

  “Can I get you a drink?” the same waitress with the statuesque shoulders from the previous night inquires.

  “Actually, just a hot tea would be lovely.”

  “Any particular kind? We have Earl Grey and English breakfast and chamomile, I believe.”

  “A green tea would be perfect if you have it.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, but chamomile if not?”

  “Actually, an espresso if not,” I correct myself.

  Without a moment to spare, I see her circling the lobby looking every bit the celebrity with her black sunglasses and impeccably tailored leather jacket over two long legs kissed in flowing black pants of an avant-garde cut above boots that stretch for days in front of her. She’s far more glamorous and sexy than even I remember. Her eyes have been on me awhile, our gaze connecting in an instant without her pretending to look around the room or searching as if she hadn’t seen me. There’s realness to Catherine that’s refreshing, she doesn’t partake in those typical relationship games. She looks stunning as she nears; her hair is a bit lighter than before. She pulls off her glasses and reignites that feeling I get inside since the first time our paths crossed in that Rio airport.

  I remain seated, almost straddling her with my legs apart as she approaches the final few steps. I jump to my feet and grab her around the waist as a whiff of fresh leather lingers on her with an underlayer of that citrusy fragrance. I jostle my nose into the cold flesh of her neck and take a bite with my teeth. She pulls away at the forwardness of my hug.

  “David Summers, I’ve missed you.” She gazes into my eyes while holding both my elbows in the cusp of her hand.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I am that you are here. I’m so excited it all worked out.”

  “How could I not come see you while visiting my country?”

  “You seemed so busy, I wasn’t sure it would actually happen.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have been able to stand the thought of you staying at the Chateau without me.”

  Her eyes hover over mine like an artist tracing on parchment. My eyes move from her stare to take in her body that’s a fair amount thinner than just a month ago, even in her New Yorker winter clothes.

  “Are you tired? I always forget what a hefty flight that is from New York.”

  “I was able to sleep most of the way, with a little work in between.”

  Our conversation seems to detour almost immediately into small talk, as if what we had in Paris and Rio didn’t translate over time and distance. She talks of interviews, office politics, and New York weather before asking the obligatory question of me in each area. She settles into the couch. I scoot in closer catching her off guard as she oddly moves away as if the intimacy makes her uncomfortable.

  “I have to tell you, I’ve really missed you since Paris. I’ve thought about our time there almost every day since,” I say.

  “I had such a great time; it was so unexpected.”

  “I’m so happy you could make this weekend work. I only have some quick work on Monday morning, otherwise, I’m all yours,” I say.

  “That works fine because I have to be on the red-eye back to New York on Sunday night. So once again, we will have to make the most of the short time we have together.”

  She loosens up just a bit, delivering bad news and shortening her stay by an entire two days without mentioning it in advance or even offering it in its own sentence.

  “No, of course, work comes first. I’m totally keen on making the most of whatever time we have together, whether it’s our time here in LA, or elsewhere.”

  Quietness lingers between our words in a disjointed series of questions and answers that make each of us unsettled. I look around the room wishing the chemistry had ignited as fast as in our previous meetings.

  “So why are you here in LA again?” she asks.

  “Oh, you’ll love this. There’s this whole phenomenon here with these popcorn crisps, have you heard of them?”

  “Air Chips?”

  “Yes, exactly. They are trying to find a partner to fund a few other ventures with the intention of selling or making a public offering somewhere down the road.”

  “Have you tried them? They’re really good. Barbecue is my favorite,” she says.

  “Yes, although you Americans fancy the weirdest of flavors, like sweet potato, or even worse, cheddar.”

  Lightness ensues within the conversation. I notice Catherine’s manner relax and her arms loosen from her torso.

  “You don’t seem the type who would eat a lot of chips and junk food,” she says.

  “I’ve had a fair amount of crisps in my day, but it’s usually when I’m too hungover to venture out of the house.”

  “So you eat them often?” she jabs.

  “Exactly, just had some this morning.”

  The waitress returns with a silver platter of tea and a white plate stacked with an assortment of American-looking biscuits. The waitress steadies in on my eyes. I feel Catherine follow the direction of my stare that looks away as the waitress leans forward to rest the tray on the table, her white blouse revealing a well-filled, lacy cream-colored bra.

  “Just a light afternoon snack, I see,” Catherine mutters as her hand drifts to my knee for only a moment, long enough to assert her position over the waitress.

  “Actually, I only ordered tea,” I say.

  “Yes,” the waitress says, “but I figured you both might like a little snack, or biscuits as you call them.” She smiles pleasantly
and removes a pad from the pocket of her white smock.

  “And may I get you something, Miss?”

  “Um, actually I’m not going to be here long, so I’ll just nibble off his.”

  “Are you sure? Not even a sandwich or salad or something?”

  “No, really I’m fine,” Catherine insists.

  “Great, well let me know if you need anything else.”

  As she turns away, I can feel Catherine’s hand move away from my knee, and the conversation begins again with the waitress now a safe distance away.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for the weekend?” she asks.

  “Well, tonight we have a dinner party my friend is having here at the hotel that should be right good fun.”

  “Meeting the friends already am I?” she asks.

  “No, no, not like that. It’s just a fun crew, and I think you’ll enjoy meeting them. They’re terrific lads and very aware I haven’t sunken my teeth into you yet. As far as they know, we are just friends.”

  “Just friends? Is that what we are?” she asks as if offended.

  “Well, friends are usually easier to get a hold of than you are, my dear, but let’s just leave it at that.”

  “No, I’d love to go, and I’m sure it will be a fun time.”

  “And best of all, the party is here in the hotel, so you can drink like a fish and not have to worry about hiring a car or fetching a taxi.”

  “And what’s the attire? I’m afraid I didn’t bring too many options.”

  “They said royal-chic, but I’m sure anything black will do and will match my outfit splendidly.”

  The more she relaxes, the more she resembles the woman I fell for in Rio and Paris. Perhaps she seems a little out of her element in this new Hollywood backdrop, or uncertain how to pick up where our incredible chemistry in Paris left off, or if it was just a one-time thing.

  “So, I’m going to have to run out for my interview, and you’re going to have to keep yourself busy for the next few hours.”

  “You mean you’re doing it today?” I ask.

  “Absolutely, the faster it’s done the sooner I can enjoy myself.”

  “And who are you interviewing this time?”

  “Jessica Biel. Or is it Jessica Alba? It’s the more relevant one of the two who’s married to the former boy-band guy.”

  “I have no idea, but it sounds painful,” I say.

  “She climbed Kilimanjaro.”

  “My grandfather did too, and enjoyed nightly buffets and morning massages along the three-day journey.”

  “Wait, so it’s not like Everest where people die and stuff?” she asks.

  “It’s like going to a top floor of a mall, but taking the stairs instead of the elevator.”

  “Ouch. I’ll be sure to mention it to her. But listen, I really have to run, so let’s meet up around seven o’clock for a drink and then head to your party.”

  “No, don’t let me keep you. I’ll see you here in a bit, love.”

  “Perfect, and don’t get into too much trouble,” she says.

  We both rise and face each other in an awkward good-bye that feels to warrant more than a hug but less than a romantic kiss. I, however, grab both of her cheeks with my hand and kiss her on the mouth. My lips wrap almost perfectly around hers as she is caught in the moment, trailing again with her own-mouthed reply that passes in an awkward instant.

  “Don’t be too long.”

  She pulls away from the table and leaves in much the rushed pace at which she arrived.

  Maybe my residual regret of the previous night or the great expectations that linger from Paris and Rio, but I sense there’s something off. I expected her to seize every precious moment we manage to find together, but instead she runs off almost as soon as she arrives. Something feels not quite right between us. Perhaps she met someone else in the meantime, or maybe I’m not as charismatic after the prize has been had.

  By evening, the allure of the Chateau is in full swing. Virtually the same glamorous people with different faces make their way up the stairs, through the lobby, and into the garden like a cloned procession of perfectly tight denim jeans, edgy eyewear, and scruffy faces. I opt for a dressier look of a white dress shirt and a Balmain tux-jacket with black jeans given the host’s request for imperial attire, which in LA can simply mean a long pair of pants. My skin still smells of chlorine and feels the chill of the poorly heated Chateau pool that I couldn’t help but take a dip in despite the gloomy weather and water that hadn’t been cleaned since the previous evening’s windstorm.

  True to form, Catherine makes her entrance at 7:28 p.m., emerging from the dimness of the staircase to the almost-perfect white light of the lobby that reflects off her long legs. Those legs vanish under a voluminous black skirt with a creamy underlayer that collides at her svelte hips and wraps her breasts and arms in a tailored silk armor. Her hair is slicked back as I’ve never seen before, and without any jewelry, this incredible beauty emerges and everyone around her seems to disappear. Like the only electrified house on a city block of darkness, she arrives to the table without any pretense or awareness of the scene she’s just created for me.

  “Look at you, all handsome in your suit,” she says with a girlish excitement completely unaware of herself.

  I rise to look into her eyes for some sense of smugness, impressed that she shows no reaction to my astonishment, and proving that she’s either the most modest person I’ve ever met or the best actress I’ve ever seen.

  “I’ve long been a student of beautiful women, but I have never in my life been witness to quite such an entrance as you just made looking the way you do tonight.”

  “What are you talking about?” she gushes and conceals her smile behind the hand she holds in front of her mouth. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Summers?”

  “No, stop right there,” I say in a hushed tone, placing my long index finger against her mouth. “Please, hear me out. You look absolutely stunning tonight. You make every single thing in this place look better, including me.”

  Her gaze becomes more serious as she goes from listening to hearing.

  “You literally took my breath away.”

  Catherine leans in with closed eyes to kiss me, a soft gentle kiss from her soft lips the color of coral and flesh that lingers and goes all the way to my heart.

  “So should we have a drink here first, or do we need to be on time?” she asks.

  Catherine seems uncomfortable with the compliments, shying away with a blush that she conceals by moving away from me as well as the emotion.

  “I don’t want to be rude, so let’s get going. I’m sure we’ll have a drink in hand fast enough if I know those guys.”

  We make our way away from the bar as I begin to tell Catherine the background of Harris and Dudi. They’ve become my best friends in LA, and probably some of the best people I’ve ever met. We met while I was working for an investment company that was negotiating the sale of a restaurant group they owned. Harris is a savvy business guy who can smell a distress sale from a mile away. They do incredibly well and continue to buy and sell businesses with incredible rigor even though they are too cheap to use my company.

  Dudi is the social one of the two, a dapper and boyish Brazilian who brings his passion for life to everything and manages to attract a legion of friends and fans wherever and whenever he chooses, me now included. They have these legendary Hollywood pool parties in the summer that are like nothing you’ve ever seen, and then they have theme dinners throughout the colder months of the year. Usually, they take place at their house, but it’s currently under construction, so they decided to have it at the Chateau this year.

  “And when it comes to Harris and Dudi, only the penthouse will do. After you,” I say, guiding Catherine toward the elevator.

  The Chateau elevator is faster this evening. I sli
de my hand down the backside of her dress that unfortunately covers every inch of her upper body and separates my hand from her skin.

  “I have to tell you, I’m not sure if I want to stand back and stare at you or just have you here and now,” I say as my attention turns from facing forward to hovering right next to her.

  “I don’t think this is the type of elevator you can stop and not expect it to go crashing into the basement,” she says with steady contemplation in her eyes.

  “I’ve inspected your dress without you knowing it, and I have to say I’m not seeing the easiest entrances for sneaking touches throughout the night.”

  She looks down at her impossibly fashionable dress that seems to cover her body almost entirely, and then she takes my hand. “You’ll have to get creative.”

  She glides my hand up her leg as my mind travels with it to the top of her garter and onto a warm swathe of her perfect skin that makes me want to take her here and now.

  “You just gave me hope,” I whisper in her ear.

  Normally at this moment, I’m worrying about what my date will be like in a social setting of people whom I know and respect. I’ll worry that she’ll talk too much or too little, or use big words in the wrong way that will result in a flurry of texts asking, “Does she get lost on the catwalk as well?” or “And by fruitation, does she actually mean that her dreams result in an apple or an orange?”

  A long corridor leads to a door where a burly guard stands holding a clipboard. He says not a word to Catherine as the door opens behind him and his bulky body shifts to the side. At the end of this checkerboard-floored corridor, stands a fireplace that roars in the middle of a grand parlor accented in powder-blue furnishings and a wide doorway that seems came long before the bejeweled skyline that lurks beyond in a trace of fog just starting to blow in from the ocean.

  At the piano sits a shirtless man wearing only a broad fur hat à la Peter the Great and strumming Tchaikovsky on the piano. A glamorous chatter fills the air and waiters dressed as Russian soldiers pace the room with troughs of silver caviar in hand. Then I see Dudi.