Page 18 of Taste

I wasn’t a catch; I was fully aware of that. There were no muscles left on my once-buff body, because the gym was for people with energy and time, things I didn’t currently possess. I was a fragile mind in a body that changed as quickly as my moods, going from skinny to chunky within weeks depending on how good I was at putting a fork into my mouth. I was in the middle of planning a restaurant kitchen redesign without an approved budget, since we could no longer get spare parts for our cheap cookers and our hotplates needed replacing before the bases collapsed with rust. We were also struggling to clean underneath our badly designed work areas, and it was only a matter of time before we had a serious vermin problem on our hands.

We had permanent roaches squatting under the floors—every bloody place did, however clean you kept it—and there were times when the waiters were catching bugs on the tablecloths and rats were running along the corridors at night. This was all completely normal for a busy, inner-city property where humans shared the space with critters and with no chance of ever getting the upper hand.

And here I was, trotting around barefoot on a carpet that held untold grime in its bright-blue fibres.

I was freshly showered yet felt dirty. My stomach was a little too saggy, and the skin on my neck showed its age as I chanced a look at myself in the mirrored door plaque that readRoom 217. An unkempt goblin-like creature stared back at me. My skin was pale with grey patches, my hair in need of a trim. I had grey streaks in my once meticulously maintained brown locks, and my lips were chapped to bits.

I looked a mess, and I knew it.

The door to room 217 was laughing at me, I was sure of it as I stood outside with my forehead pressed against the wood, breathing heavily as I tried to muster the courage to open the damn thing so I could slip in and force myself to sleep.

I wouldn’t sleep, though. I knew I’d be lying there with my thoughts churning, and if I got an hour of blissful rest, I would be lucky. I contemplated going over to the conference hall instead and bedding down on the floor next to Mabel. Not that I would put my staff through the shock of a half-naked Quinton bursting into their impromptu sleepover fun. I had snuck them a couple of beers and a catering pack of crisps and had no doubt they were all having a right laugh up there, putting the world to rights, sharing cheerful banter and juicy gossip. They were all good people and would have welcomed me, dressed or not, but I just couldn’t. I was too raw emotionally to be both sociable and fun and, well, be me. The Mark Quinton they always expected.

Funnily enough, going into room 217 and getting the silent treatment from Christensen seemed like the safer option. I knew where I stood with him. I almost felt safe in the knowledge that he would let me be. Let me lie there and stew in my head with nothing but his silence and occasional sighs to keep me company.

The door slid open with a swift tap of the key he had given me, leaving my master key off the hook as regards to where I’d spent the night. Any use of those keys was both logged and examined, and I had caused enough trouble for myself by using the spa and trundling around the back corridors to let another reason to scold me linger as evidence. Instead, I thanked him in my head for helping me avoid one more bollocking and slipped quietly into the cool darkness of the room.

There was no carpet covering the bare concrete floor, just as he had said, and the drips from the faulty toilet echoed through the unnerving silence that was only broken by the sound of wind gusting outside. Droplets of rain on the windowpane cast a soft sheen over the double bed in the middle of the room where I could just about make out the shape of his body under the duvet, his shoulder moving as he tucked the covers tighter around himself.

He didn’t speak, and neither did I as I put my clothes on the desk, let my shoes drop to the floor and poked my charger lead straight into the socket without even looking. With a click, I silenced my radio, placing it carefully next to my phone, which lit up the room and vibrated startlingly as it sprang back to life now it had something to feed off. I quickly turned off notifications and locked the screen.

I didn’t even pretend. Just dropped the towel, whisked back the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed, naked and wishing I’d at least attempted to dry my boxers. Well. Fuck it. It wasn’t like we were going to be anywhere near each other, and I always slept naked. He’d seen most of me anyway, and it wasn’t like he was wearing clothes lying there in the bed tugging at the sheets, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of sleeping on that foul-looking chair. We were sharing a room, and I was going to grab my meagre measure of sleep in a proper bed.

“You killed my phone, you fooking plank.”

His voice was laced with an anger that permitted his northern accent to shine through his normally carefully controlled pronunciation.

“I’m sorry,” I said. The silence swallowed my sigh. I rolled in under the duvet, kicking aimlessly until I got comfortable on my side with his back to me.

“You’re a fooking twat.”

“Why are you so hard, Finn?” I couldn’t call him Christensen. Not now. Not when he was getting on my nerves and I just wanted him to be quiet and not cause any more grief. “Why are you so full of angles and prickles and shit? It’s like you just hate everything. Like you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you…Mark.” He spat out my name like it was poison on his tongue. “We go over this every time. I don’t hate you. You don’t hate me. Then we somehow end up half fucking each other in anger, and it’s tiresome. You have to fucking stop getting on my nerves at every fucking moment.”

“I have to stop getting on your nerves?” I laughed. “That’s rich! It’s like you were never cuddled as a child, pushing everyone who gets close to you away. Have you completely forgotten how to be human? You’re allowed to be nice, perhaps even kind. Why can’t you just be nice to me? We could try talking to each other like normal people, perhaps even manage whole conversations without sticking our tongues down each other’s throats all the time.” I was just as prickly as him, and here we were again, shooting arrows across the darkness with badly chosen words.

He didn’t reply to that. Just huffed into the cool, damp air, swallowing something that might have been a giggle as I shifted uncomfortably between the starched sheets.

“Tongues down our throats seems to be the only thing we’re good at these days.”

His candour surprised me. I also had the impression he was trying to make me laugh.

“Wearegood at that bit,” I agreed. “Less good at being colleagues.”

“We’re not friends.”

“No, we are not.” I shifted into a more comfortable position. “First time we agree on something, I think. Perhaps a celebration is in order.”

“We should celebrate this historic milestone by just going the fuck to sleep.” He sounded tired, but this conversation wasn’t over, not for me. The way his body was still a tensed-up ball of fury and swearwords meant it wasn’t over for him either, so his attempt to get me to be quiet had epically failed.

“Why hasn’t this room got carpet? Did someone die in here or what?”

He snorted.

“I hope not. Can’t bear the thought of us having another haunted room. It’s bad enough the Princess Anne Suite is haunted by some grey lady in a cardigan.”

“Grey lady in a cardigan? Never heard that one.” Not what I wanted to talk about, but at least he was speaking to me.

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