by Emma Baird
A by-now-familiar story, Katya phoned Dexter, her forefinger stabbing at the phone’s keyboard in irritation. Straight to voicemail. The words sang out, “Hey, this is Dexter! Gutted I can’t talk, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you soon as.” She wondered if it counted as a crime to stab someone for their answer phone message. She imagined herself in court—putting the phone on speaker mode and holding it up for the jury to allow them to listen themselves. They shook their heads in sympathy, and returned the verdict, ‘not guilty’. She danced out of the Old Bailey a free woman.
Writers. They had trouble reining themselves in. She was just lucky that unlike her best friend, 95 percent of what happened in her head never made it beyond there.
“Do you know any places that might have a vacancy?”
The receptionist rolled her eyes. “Oof, you don’t ask for much! Isn’t it funny that Halloween is now the busiest—”
“Hilarious. Any places nearby you recommend I try?”
The receptionist whipped out her own mobile and put it on the counter so Katya could see the screen. She clicked on her 5 p.m. bookings app, and held the phone up, triumphant.
“You’re in luck—the Rennie Mackintosh in Blythswood Square has its presidential suite free! And it’s only ten minutes from here.”
The hotel was in a small square on one of Glasgow’s hills, its sides dotted with smart office buildings that all advertised law and/or accountancy firms situated within. Its rooms spread over four floors, and the presidential suite took up the whole of the top floor. The ground floor housed a bar stocked with craft beer and artisan gins, a gym and an in-house masseuse who promised her he’d iron out underlying tension in seconds and was available 24 hours...
The staff welcomed her with open arms. Well, they would. At £908 a night (VAT included) and a 50 percent non-refundable deposit required upfront, no wonder they greeted her like the return of the prodigal daughter. Would Modom like a glass of complementary champagne in her room? Yes, Modom jolly well would.
A porter who insisted on carrying her rucksack took her to the top floor. He was silent a second too long when she handed over a tip—five pounds was all she was able to afford—as if it was a note he had never seen before. Then the customer service instinct kicked in and he thanked her profusely if not sincerely.
Upstairs, the room’s luxury soothed her rage. A huge four-poster bed draped in black and silver star-decorated curtains took up most of the space in the bedroom area. In the living room bit, a large sofa, two armchairs, a coffee table complete with an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne tilted at a jaunty angle and two crystal flutes, and a giant-sized plasma TV screen added to the opulence. The en-suite bathroom had a free-standing bathtub featuring copper taps and a power shower that would pummel you mercilessly. The toilet was one any normal person shrank to sit on, too scared their butt cheeks would leave a permanent stain.
Money bought all kinds of things. If Dexter didn’t turn up in the next hour, she promised herself she’d book Mr Masseuse and if he asked, “Anything extra, modom?”, she’d explore that massage cliché in full. No point in wasting all that body waxing. And she would send the bill for all this straight to Blissful Beauty’s office.
Grabbing the TV remote control, Katya flung herself on the suite’s sofa. Seconds later, she padded her way across super-soft spongy carpet to the fridge. The golden rules of hotel stays included Never Help Yourself to Anything in the Mini Fridge, thanks to its extortionate pricing. She took out the 70 percent cocoa solids artisan truffles, the mini bottle of Prosecco, the tonic and the craft gin mini. The coffee table included a room service menu. Mindful that the receipt for tonight’s visit was to wing its way straight to Blissful Beauty, she opened it and laid back on the sofa, crystal flute in hand. Yep, this was the kind of place where you could order lobster. On toast. She made that last bit up, but decided to try it out.
“Hello? Can you mix me some lobster with home-made mayonnaise and put it on a lightly toasted bagel?”
The person at the other end of the line didn’t baulk. “Certainly, modom. Can you allow us half an hour or so?”
As she agreed thirty minutes was acceptable, her phone pinged. Dexter. “Ten mins! Promise!”
Exclamation marks did not make you any more forgivable. She poked her tongue out at the phone.
The bagel arrived at the same time as Dexter, the hotel having a better sense of time-keeping than he did. When the ‘room service’ cry at the door went, she opened it to find him holding a silver dome-covered platter and murmuring “Sorry, sorry” over and over. Tiredness added to Dexter’s sex appeal. It painted black smudges under his eyes that made him look vulnerable and further hollowed out the planes under his cheekbones.
He took in the size and grandeur of the room without batting an eyelid and told her he’d pick up the tab—something Katya had already decided for him. Her card would be refunded in the next twenty-four hours, and he did not understand what happened to the original booking.
“When I checked with my PA, she swore she’d—”
“Your PA?” Katya cursed herself as her voice rose to a squeaky whine.
“Yeah?” he said, putting the plate on the table and offloading his rucksack on the bed. Unlike hers, his didn’t look out of place in the room. No stranger to a five-star hotel, then. “You know I’ve got one?”
But not that you use her to sort out your personal life. Oh, what was the point explaining the distinction? Mr Workaholic wouldn’t know what she meant. Or why it bugged her that he used someone else to book a hotel when she’d pictured him taking the time to phone the hotel himself. “Hi there, can I book a room for Halloween? Yeah, I know... our favorite night of the year, and we can’t wait to spend it together!” She even allowed him the American spelling of the word in the scenario where he booked the Radisson himself. Because he thought it was that important. Hey ho.
She longed to reach out and touch his face, stroking comfort and muttering daft endearments that got him to close his eyes and sigh. But irritation and the time she’d waited for him to arrive had allowed fury to build. Did Dexter imagine he could waltz in late, flop on the bed, drink champagne and that was that?
Bored and restless after a long day travelling and having to move hotels, Katya wanted to dress up and go out. Perhaps they could rescue the night. A few drinks, some Michelin-starred food and hours spent rediscovering how the bits of him and her worked together.
“Shall we go out for a drink?” she said, aware they hadn’t yet hugged or kissed. Pride held her back.
The ‘yes’ came after a pause; he wanted to flop on the bed. But then, was it her fault he didn’t say ‘no’ to that meeting? He worked for a make-up company. Short of news leaking that the company tested their products on bunny rabbits (and they didn’t; Caitlin went on and on about their cruelty-free policies), or poisonous ingredients turning up in their skin creams, Katya doubted anything could be that important. She asked if either scenario had happened to double check, and he shook his head.
“I’ll just get changed,” she said. Gaby’s black velvet trousers worked well with her pink silk jumper and she dressed the outfit up with another layer of make-up and gold hoops. The presidential suite had one of those old-fashioned dressing tables, bow legs and an oval, ornate mirror. When she sat at it to apply make-up and brush out her hair, Dexter took the brush from her and pulled it through the strands at the back, his hands gliding gently through. Later sans clothing, he’d find out the hair on her head was the only stuff left. Their eyes met in the mirror; another person fast-forwarding. Shouldn’t we just...
Say sorry, Katya, the nice bit of her argued, for being such a grump. Say you’re cross he was late, but now you have a whole two nights ahead of you and you will enjoy it. But first, you’re going to remove that jumper and those trousers and jump on top of him.
The words refused to budge from her head to her mouth.
He took her hand as they headed for the lift. “Where do
you want to go?” The giveaway sign he was exhausted right there. Tonight, hyperbole was too much of an effort even for Dexter, the world’s most enthusiastic person.
“I saw a bar down the road that looked cool. And they were advertising some kind of green monster cocktail.”
The night had turned chilly, its coldness a stark contrast to the overheated hotel room. Beside her, Dexter shivered violently. A Texan, he still wasn’t used to the Scottish weather; the damp windy autumn days were a particular challenge.
Geta’s sat at the top of the hill, a basement bar with its entrance reached by stairs. The staff had strung white gauze cobwebs over and across the stair rails. By the time they reached the door, the stuff clung to their clothes. Lord knows how she would remove it from black velvet trousers. Still, it made Dexter laugh and gave what they wore a Halloween air. He squeezed her hand. The night began to look up.
The smokers gathered at the tables outside, with ghoulish faces, fake fangs and face paint. Inside, a DJ played whatever she guessed suited the night. It sounded as if the entire Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack would boom out at some point. The noise drowned out any chat, but now they were here, Katya couldn’t suggest leaving. It had been her idea and her suggestion. Perhaps the green drinks would make it all worthwhile.
“What’s in them?” she yelled at the barman dressed in a skeleton costume. Better than his poor colleague in a Hermione Granger school uniform. He had to shout in her ear to be heard. “Peach schnapps, Midori and Baileys!” he said, leaving her none the wiser. She and Dexter held the glasses and gulped them too quickly, the awkward silence far more deafening than the music.
Katya cursed herself. Why hadn’t she found them somewhere more suited to quiet conversation—a tucked-away booth in a quiet dark venue where she would say, “Dexter, guess what? I’ve moved to Lochalshie so we’ll be able to do this much more often.”
In that scenario, his eyes lit up, and he grabbed her hand across the table. “Amazing! I’ll be able to get up there to see you too. We’re gonna have such fun!”
Two cocktails later and she started to feel queasy. Those drinks had to be much stronger than they seemed. She tilted her head, alarmed at the way the floor rose to meet her.
“Letsh... Let’s get shumething to eat.” Oh dear. Katya’s rules for relationships included never drinking too much in front of a guy. She hated the loss of control. This called for a large helping of something starchy and stodgy, and no more cocktails. Dexter said ‘yes’ quickly, marching them out of the place in double quick time. Outside, the fresh hair slammed into her, but the stairs proved tricky, the spindly heels an unwise choice.
“We could go back to the hotel,” Dexter suggested. “The deal includes dinner, bed and breakfast.”
What a relief.
The dining room on the ground floor screamed opulence. Dark red and gold embossed wallpaper was complemented by a carpet and well-upholstered chairs in similar shades. The waiters glided between tables, discreetly topping up wines and delivering plates of food as if they were competing with each other to do it as silently as possible. Music drifted through from the lobby where a man in a tuxedo played the grand piano.
The maître d’ took the room number and ushered them towards a table in the middle. He pulled the chair out for Katya and she sank into it with too much of a thump, her movements making the cutlery and glassware on the table rattle. The other diners raised heads and eyes in disapproval.
“Bread?” the maître d’ barked, and she nodded vigorously. Her stomach churned alarmingly. Those two bites of lobster mayo bagel had done nothing to fill her stomach, and the thought of seafood made its contents swish and gurgle.
“Are you okay, Katya?” Dexter asked. His words... such pretty words, and that lovely liquid chocolate sense of them... Liquid chocolate—a lake of the brown stuff and the overwhelming vanilla scent of it.
Oh heck, no. No.
Her mouth flooded with saliva, the all-too ghastly tell-tale sign one glass of champagne, two mouthfuls of lobster bagel, four truffles and two dubious green drinks were about to make their way back up her gastrointestinal tract.
Dexter must have guessed it too. He leapt to his feet, grabbed the empty ice bucket on the table next to theirs, and handed it to her. Just in time too. The spasms started and up it all came, a virulent green half-chewed mess. To her relief, she managed to get all of it in the bucket.
Friday evening at the Rennie Mackintosh took on a different slant. Here, people paid good money not to bear witness to the stereotypical Glaswegian night out. Most of the other diners looked at them in horror. Three of them got to their feet and stormed out. The maître d’ and two waiters hurried forward, their pinched faces radiating disapproval. No, this was not the kind of place where diners drank too much and threw up.
The queasiness returned—the bucket no longer in easy reach. Too late. Up came yet more green stuff, this time most of it covering the maître d’s shoes.
If Katya could have listed the top three things to do in public that gave her nightmares, being sick was up there, way ahead of comedy slips on the ground. It topped finding yourself naked in a busy park. At least then you could hide behind a tree. Even Gaby, her daffy best friend, had never done this. If she weren’t so ill and white, her face and neck would have taken on 50 Shades of Scarlet.
“Seafood poisoning,” Dexter told the maître d’, his expression daring the man to disagree. The £908 a night price tag must have allowed for a spot of carpet cleaning. “I’ll take my girlfriend to our room. Send up some ice water for us.”
She hadn’t the strength to object when he took her hand and gently pulled her to her feet, half-carrying, half-dragging her out into the hallway and to the lifts. In the room, he lowered her onto the bed. The movement made her feel sick once more and she only just made it to the loo in time. When she emerged, pale and shaky, Dexter handed her a glass of water.
“Dexter, I...”
“Shush. Lie down. Another couple of hours and you’ll feel much better.”
He was right. She drifted off, awaking at 2 a.m., the full horror of what had taken place the night before hitting her afresh. The lights in the bedroom were off, but she could see the TV on in the living room through the arched doorway.
“Mid-November? That’s earlier than we discussed.” Dexter’s voice was only just audible above the TV.
A minute’s silence, though she heard squawking at the other end.
“Yeah, I know. It is mega important and there is tons of work to do. I assure you, I am one hundred percent committed to this project.”
More sentences at the other end.
“No, it won’t take me long to pack up. I travel super-light. Is the London flat available?”
“Better make it a twelve-month lease, not six. Yeah, amazing. I can’t wait to get started. Goodbye.”
Who wanted a grumpy girlfriend you took out for dinner and who then disgraced you by throwing up in public? Not Dexter, by the sound of things. He’d gone on and on about the launch of Blissful Beauty in South Korea and its ‘all hands on deck’ urgency. Sounded as if he wanted to start afresh by moving to London, just when she’d moved to Lochalshie to be closer to him.
What the heck?
CHAPTER NINE
Katya got out the bed, the noise making Dexter turn. His face fell.
“Excuse me.” Yet another visit to the bathroom to throw up. The face that greeted her in the mirror wasn’t one she recognised, eyes too dark in a white face, tiny spots of red on her cheeks and hair limp, clinging to her skull. The bathtub sang to her—lock the door, fill me up with warm bubbles, sink in and don’t come out for hours.
“Seafood poisoning for sure,” Dexter said when she emerged, mouth rinsed out with half a bottle of mouthwash. “That lobster bagel wasn’t super fresh.” He’d moved from the living room to the bed and patted it. When she got in beside him, she was hit by a bout of violent shivering. He pulled her close.
“I had it years
ago. Oysters in a restaurant in Maine. It goes through your system faster than a speeding bullet. It makes you feel like hell for twelve hours but you recover miraculously quickly. That’s if it doesn’t kill you.”
Almost dry. Almost British irony. And yet, he was willing to give her a ready-made excuse for shame. No, Katya’s keenness to pour champagne and Green Monster down her neck wasn’t to blame for the all-too-public vomit shaming episode. Instead, A Lobster Did It. She didn’t buy it. The lobster mayo bagel tasted fine when she ate it.
“Dex,” she said, and the word stretched out sitting in the space between them. It was what a person said as a gentle preface to the more important. A question, say... do you love me? Or, as it was about to be: “What were you talking about just there?”
She could spot dissembling a mile away—the guy working out what he thought she knew, trying to figure out an excuse that got him out of whatever. The final arrival at the answer: I need to tell some version of the truth.
“Yeah? The stuff about London?”
Katya nodded, the effort compounding an already brutal headache. “Sounds like you’re moving there soon.” Once upon a time, her first-generation Polish grandfather talked to her about what it was like living in a country where you spoke your second language. “Katya, I am always straight. What I say, I mean. But the bloody English—they edge their way around words all the time. And none of them understand grammar. I find myself explaining to them how their language should work all the time, and they maul it anyway.”
Twice as true for Americans?
“So... this launch I’ve been talking about? The ‘Blissful Beauty hits South Korea’ thing? That market is worth—”
“$13 billion,” she cut in. “You said.”
“So super crucial to the company’s plans for expansion. The vloggers and beauty journalists over there are hugely influential. Anything they rave about will have knock-on effects on the US and UK markets too. And Glasgow’s just too...”
