Page 10 of Taste

I didn’t know why my feet refused to follow my intended route back to the dining rooms through the conference suite on the mezzanine floor, but there I was, pushing the swing door to the reception back offices open with my hip, giving Oliver, our resident concierge, a high-five as he passed carrying a parcel under his arm.

“Yo, handsome,” he greeted me, his belly wobbling with his merry laugh. “Haven’t seen you around these parts for a while.”

“Always here, keeping my eye on you,” I said with a wink, feeling a bit more like my normal self. That feeling didn’t last long, though, as Finn Christensen’s stern face appeared before us, making Oliver stand up a little straighter and lose all his friendly charm.

“Oh, Christensen,” Oliver said, with an apologetic sigh. “I meant to say, can you talk to Stewart about Reuben? The kid turned up on time, but he’s out there on the door smoking, instead of running the bags. He can’t smoke weed on the job. Stewart needs to rein that in.”

I sighed to myself, watching Finn’s blatant eye-roll at another shitty conversation to add to his list of jobs, which Oliver could have done himself. He probably didn’t have time, given he was always knee-deep in other people’s business, but he was well connected and a damn good concierge, so I wasn’t going to complain. I’d already spoken to both Stewart and Reuben myself, as they were a vital part of my team too, the first people our esteemed guests would meet as well as the final people to wish them good night and farewell.

The doormen were the inevitable eyes and ears of the hotel, knowing everything before anyone else, hoarding secrets and connections like small diamonds in their deep pockets. Stewart was the cornerstone of this hotel, having manned those fine doors since the three of us were still in nappies. Reuben was his kid, and fucking up was not part of his job description, which didn’t stop him doing it on a regular basis. Even so, I adored Reuben, despite his flighty disposition. He had a wicked sense of humour, and our guests adored his charming, weed-smoking arse.

“I’ll talk to him.” Finn was obviously tired and failed to smile when Oliver patted him supportively on the arm.

“You’ve got this, Christensen. Stewart is too soft on him, but I can’t sit there and watch Reuben bring our reputation down. The Clouds has standards, and the kid stands there like a junkie—”

And there was Finn again, holding up his hand to stop Oliver’s passionate lecture. “Enough, Oliver. Reuben is a valued colleague, and I will ensure he gets the support he needs. No need to lay it on thick, I’m fully aware of the state of our doorman team.”

Oliver scurried away like a frightened rabbit, and I didn’t know what to say. I felt like a rabbit myself, caught in the headlights of the great Mr Christensen. I had no business being here, and I attempted to rectify that, but he crossed his arms, blocking my way to the freedom of the lobby floor.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” There was no friendly banter in his tone, just a monotone, scornful dullness that put me right back to trying to blend into the carpet. I was wearing a bright-red shirt and flared jeans with embroidered dragons down the side seams, teamed with my signature heeled boots. On another day, I’d have believed I looked a million dollars, with my hair slicked back in a ponytail, and would have just brushed him off with a smile and a wink. Not today, though. I was frozen in place, my hands at my sides, digging my fingernails into my palms.

“Just passing through,” I hissed, not knowing where to look.

He said nothing, just stared at me, his face a mess of curious thoughts as I tentatively met his gaze.

“I can’t do this.” His voice was strangely low and calm. “I have thirteen overbookings to displace, and Mrs Khalifa just asked to host a dinner party for twenty-five in her suite, at seven sharp. I can’t deal with you and your drama, not right now. Why the fuck is Reuben back working the door and apparently smoking weed while he’s at it? I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and Eleanor just rang in sick for tomorrow morning. It’s a bit much.”

That little tirade surprised me. Christensen rarely confessed to not being perfectly in control. Yet here he was, looking like a hot mess holding a tablet and a clipboard in his hand with a pen behind his ear, and his phone was ringing, but he made no attempt to answer it.

“I have people I can call in,” I suggested, surprised at my own helpfulness. “It’s nothing we haven’t handled before. Has Mrs Khalifa got a menu in mind?”

Mrs Khalifa and her husband were our full-time residents, an elderly couple who had chosen hotel life after downsizing from their substantial London townhouse. They were pleasant and courteous, and I had no issue with pulling out all the stops to cater to their small whims. But I was nervous, more nervous than I should have been when casually dealing with a colleague. I blabbed on because that was what I did when I was nervous. Talked. Far too much. “And we both know that Stewart needs to get rid of Reuben, because those police visits are becoming the norm now. The kid has had enough chances, however much I love his thieving ass. Stewart is chief doorman. He’s in charge, and Reuben should be in rehab.”

He looked as surprised as me at my subtle attempt at helpful cooperation, nodding as he handed me a neatly scribbled menu on a crumpled piece of paper.

“You OK?” I asked quietly. His presence still rattled me, yet reading through the menu suggestions in my hand, I was suddenly back in control.

He snorted as if he was deriding my question, but I could tell he was anything but. He looked stressed, like someone who needed a hug, and I could relate. Right now, I could think of nothing more calming than having someone hold me, rub my back, perhaps kiss my neck and tell me there was nothing in the world that couldn’t be made better. For a fleeting second, I considered offering the use of my arms and my humble hugging skills, but I didn’t dare. I don’t think I could have handled his rejection and ridicule, not on a day like today where my mind wasn’t firing on sass and sparkles but was instead slowly ticking over on self-preservation and sheer willpower.

“Yeah. Nothing I won’t be able to handle,” he said, still seeming perplexed at the words coming out of his mouth.

“Leave it with me. You know Mrs Khalifa adores Mabel. I’ll send them up to hash out the details and make a plan. I have most of these things available in our chillers, and the dessert might have to be slightly altered but I’ll make a list of alternatives.”

He nodded in a small display of gratitude before his face morphed back to its usual stony self.

“Appreciated,” he muttered. “I’ll deal with Reuben.” Then he turned around and walked away.

I suppose I deserved that, seeing as it was usually my party trick. I would leave him before he could dismiss me. He left me the same way, bewildered and disturbed by my body’s reaction to him. Finn Christensen was an unpleasant human specimen, and as I strode back through the lobby, finding Mabel handling my job like I didn’t even need to exist, I vowed to myself to keep him at a more comfortable arm’s length from now on.

These kinds of impromptu tasks were small mercies that kept my mind from breaking altogether. I would give Mrs Khalifa a dinner party to shout about, and I even smiled as I straightened out the piece of paper, tracing the curls of Finn’s cursive handwriting across the page. I would make him proud, and perhaps we could somehow build a tiny peace treaty based on grilled salmon with a mild lemon glaze followed by English gin-infused raspberry possets.

I let myself get swallowed up in the evening’s work, grateful for the blank slate it left my mind as I leapt minor hurdles, wiping down tables and straightening out tablecloths, picking up plates and topping up wine glasses, always with an easy smile for our guests as the hours passed by until, at last, it was the early hours and I was back in my small basement flat, alone, naked and shivering between my sheets, having taken quick shower to wash the stench of food and sweat from my skin.

I put off returning my mother’s messages, knowing I would have more in the morning if I didn’t check in. I didn’t want to burden her with my illness; she worried enough about me as it was. I was a grown-up, and she was at the age where I should be looking after her instead of asking for yet another weekend trip home so I could morph back into the child that needed coddling into eating his dinner and reminding to switch the TV off at a reasonable time—simple things I suddenly longed for.

They’d already put up with a lot from me, my family. Dropping out of university for culinary school. Coming out as gay then ‘changing my mind’. My mother still laughed about that one, saying I needed my own flag—one for the people who fancied every single human being in the world. I craved attention, seeking it in every part of my life, and I was exhausting. I knew that. I exhausted myself as well.

I lay in my bed feeling my bones ache. However much I tossed and turned, I couldn’t sleep. I could feel the tears coming, but I refused to let them flow.

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