Page 11 of Taste

I had the kind of life other people only dreamed of. I owned a central London flat and had more friends than I could handle, hook-ups on tap if required and a career that served me well. Yet there was nobody I could call to quiet these demons in the dark. Nobody to come and hold me because that was all I needed. Someone to stroke my back and tell me everything would be okay. Instead, I lay there, hyper aware of how my mind and body were failing me, and I felt like the loneliest person in the world.

FINN

Winter rolled in from the sea, and the storm warnings blasted out by the news channels made us all sigh with inconvenience rather than fear. It was a Sunday evening, and the current weather system was appropriately and amusingly called Storm Quinn.

We were full to the brim, hosting not just one but two conventions. There was a concert at the O2 Arena and several Tube lines were shut due to flooding, trains and planes cancelling faster than we could saysorry, we’re fullto the walk-ins off the street. And the rain continued to fall as the doormen worked tirelessly, trying to keep the people in and the water out of the now muddy lobby. The Thames sat high and imposing on the banks, creating waves of murky river water that crashed onto the road in front of the hotel entrance. Wind howled through the automatic doors as the housekeepers laid out more dry rugs on the floor that was relentlessly being covered in dark, depressing puddles.

I was run off my feet, shivering in my thin suit and wishing I’d brought a jumper. Oliver, the concierge, was fighting a losing battle with a leak through the roof lantern over his desk as I led an incoming airline crew through a dry patch towards the queues in front of the seemingly understaffed reception.

We were painfully under-prepared, but I was managing to keep us afloat, one small catastrophe at a time. Having safely despatched the airline crew to their rooms, I smoothed down my jacket, swept a stray hair from my forehead and took over from a colleague who hadn’t had a break in hours. He was manning the phones and changing printer ink while one of our regular guests gave him an earful. I needed to go and sort myself out and get something to eat, and I definitely needed to change my shirt, but the stream of guests was as relentless as the never-ending rain, so I pushed my colleague out the back door with a stern order to take a break and effortlessly took his place.

“Excuse me, my room hasn’t got a view,” a woman complained from the other side of the desk.”

“I’m terribly sorry, madam, can you explain further? Which room is this, the one with no view?” I may have sounded nice and polite, but I was feeling anything but.

“We ordered a room with a view of Big Ben, just like the pictures online showed. We booked this hotel because you have views, but the room we’re in overlooks some side street. It’s not right! We paid a lot of money for this holiday!”

One of those kinds of customers then. I logged into the system and brought up the room folio matching the key card the woman was waving in my face.

“Ah, Mrs Pruitt?” I smiled. She didn’t. “I see here you ordered and paid through your travel agent for a twin room with our leisure economy rate. This rate gives you access to our free breakfast, use of the pool and gym and, of course, a spacious room…with a side street view. It’s all explained in your confirmation email.”

“I never got a confirmation email.” The woman slapped her key card on the desk. “I demand my money back.”

“Mrs Pruitt—”

“My husband is asthmatic. The dust from the street is causing him great distress. We need to be moved!”

“Mrs Pruitt, you’re on the twenty-nineth floor,” I pointed out—politely.

“But I want the river view!” she shrieked.

I glanced towards the door and the dark skies just visible through the hurtling rain.

“Mrs Pruitt, I doubt there is much of a view currently. The weather is a bit temperamental right now. Perhaps I can ask our concierge to arrange for a dinner reservation instead?”

“I can’t believe you are being so stubborn. What happened tothe customer is always right? We’re unhappy with our room, and demand to be moved. I want to speak to a manager!”

“Iamthe manager.” I was tired. I was sooo bloody tired.

“THEN GET ME YOUR MANAGER!” she screamed.

I leant in and beckoned her closer. “Mrs Pruitt, please calm down. There is nothing here we can’t solve, but please keep your voice to a pleasant level. I understand you’re disappointed not to have the view as advertised online, but it clearly says that the photo depicts a Riverview room and the advertised rates for both those and our standard rooms. Now, unfortunately, our Riverview rooms are immensely popular and currently all occupied. Can I calm your disappointment and perhaps offer you a free drink in our rooftop bar? I’m sure your husband would appreciate the views from one of our cocktail tables there. I will call my colleague and let her know to expect you. One drink each, on the house.”

I smiled sweetly, looking over at the entrance, where another rain gust had just drenched the poor doorman.

“I want a refund!” The pout on the woman’s lips reminded me of a spoilt child, and I clocked who must have been her husband looking mortally embarrassed behind her.

“Just take the free drinks, Eileen,” he muttered.

“I’m not letting this go,” she warned, snatching the two vouchers out of my hand and stomping away, her husband a step behind.

“Have a lovely evening,” I called after them, grabbing the phone to call Claire upstairs to warn her of the imminent arrival of two delightful guests, who should be given one drink each, and nothing else. But then Eileen was back in my face, and my fake enthusiasm was waning fast.

“I would be very careful if I were you,” she growled at me menacingly. “Your customer service here is shocking, and Iwillspeak to your manager in the morning. If you’re not careful, young man, you’ll be out of a job by Monday!”

She was clearly on a roll, so I just nodded and gave her a cheerful wave as she dragged her poor husband away, swiftly disappearing into the rooftop bar lift.

By eight o’clock, we closed the main doors and directed the last few incoming guests through the side entrance. The wind was too strong, and the water was building up thick and fast on the pavement outside. The usually busy rooftop lounge was flooded, and Claire had reluctantly sent the staff home and was currently laying towels on what was left of the carpets in the indoor space. She said she’d already cleared staying the night with Quinton and would be down to help him open the breakfast room in the morning. There was just no way we would reliably get the staff in with this weather and the chaotic public transport. Even the buses were reportedly running on a limited schedule.

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