Page 47 of The Suite Life
He rushes over, holding a pile of newspapers.
‘Your business papers, for the morning,’ he says breathlessly. ‘I was going to drop them later but, if you’re here now…’
I offer a grateful smile, taking the stack of papers from him.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I reply as he hands them over.
I did notice that on a morning there are these huge newspapers left for me in my suite, but nothing fun or gossipy or anything I would be remotely interested in. Just business – although I suppose that’s for the sort of person who usually stays in a room like this. Still, I politely take them with me. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t want them, not when he went out of his way to get them to me.
The hotel corridor stretches ahead, the subdued lighting casting shadows that seem to dance alongside my steps. As I navigate towards my suite, I can’t shake off the nagging feeling that something is off. I’ve definitely creeped myself out.
The papers briefly slip from my grasp so I grab hold of them and, as I do, I spot something that sends a genuine shiver down my spine. I close my eyes briefly, as if attempting to erase the words that have appeared on the page. But when I open them again, the headline is still there:
Where is G.G. Marsden?
I hurriedly read the article, trying to take it all in.
As far as I can tell, it turns out that when Martin Savage – the head of huge media corporation Mediworldwide – passed away earlier in the year, his two kids were set to inherit everything. That is until it came to light that he had a secret third child, who never even knew they were related to the tycoon until he passed away. Obviously the business world is going mad, trying to track this person down, and all of the rumours are saying that they reckon the unknown Savage child is checking into somewhere private, to hide out. Not only is the Grand Palm Resort floated as one of the most exclusive resorts on the planet, but at some point a name, from an unnamed source, has been thrown into the mix of rumours, and that name is G.G. Marsden.
Shit. So that’s why I’ve been getting special treatment, and a suite, and why so many eyes are on me. Hotel staff, who have been told to look out for someone called G.G. Marsden, heard me give my name and just decided that I’m the elusive heir to the Mediworldwide empire. Yeah, right. Do I look like I’m rich? I mean, okay, obviously I do right now, but they’ve made me this way. Then again, I suppose that’s the point. The newly minted G.G. Marsden could be anyone, from any walk of life. I’m as much a contender as anyone.
I can’t believe they think it’s me. None of this is my fault, right? I didn’t pretend to be anyone, or suggest I was anyone, I simply gave my name when I checked in, and the rest was down to them. If the hotel, and everyone in it, is jumping to the conclusion that I am G.G. Marsden then that’s on them, not me.
Still, I suppose I could come clean, and tell them their mistake, but if I do that then I can kiss goodbye not only to my suite life here, but to everyone in the wedding party thinking that I have some mysterious sugar daddy wedding date who is keeping me in my new lifestyle.
I should sleep on it – I’m too tired to make any big decisions now. I need to think long and hard about what to do and I can’tdo that with a clear head now, not at this time. I’ll decide it in the morning, after a good night’s sleep, in my glorious super-king bed, in my wonderful, beautiful suite.
I’m not coming clean, am I? Not a chance.
24
The Hawaiian morning sun is something that I could seriously get used to. How does anyone ever have a bad day, when they kick things off bathed in such a warm, glorious glow? I could actually be a morning person, for weather like this, which is something I never thought I would say, because I’ve always considered myself to be a night owl.
I’m making my way through the hotel, to the outdoor restaurant where breakfast is served, alone, because I’m still desperately trying to avoid anyone from the wedding party, lest I have to explain myself.
It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with them – of course I do – but it’s getting harder and harder to dodge the awkward questions. It was hard enough when I was dodging questions about this (non-existent) super-date I’m supposedly bringing to the wedding, but now that I know why I’m getting such special treatment here at the resort, I feel like I need to dodge their prying questions about that too, at least until I figure out what I’m supposed to do about it.
Oh, and I do still need to find a date, which is not only time-consuming (who knew?) but also isn’t something I can do in front of my family, for obvious reasons.
I just need to work out how to play this, because right now I seem cool, and interesting, and desirable, and I can tell that my family and friends think something exciting is going on for me. Just imagine, if they found out that not only am I pretending to have a date when I don’t have so much as a sniff of one, and that my super-special resort treatment, and my fancy suite, were down to nothing more than a classic case of mistaken identity. It would take this whole thing from absolute magic to totally tragic. Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible for me to look like more of a loser in this whole ‘ex at the wedding’ situation – which is why I’ve been trying so hard to find a date – but if people found out about all of this, I really would look like an extra-special sad sack – and a sociopathic one at that.
The hotel lobby is a scene of pure luxury and tranquillity, as always. The scent of fresh flowers lingers in the air pretty much everywhere you go here, which isn’t something anyone can claim about London, and the combination of the warming morning light and the gentle cool breeze drifting in through the open bifold doors is the best cocktail to start the day with.
As I step outside, getting closer to the outdoor restaurant, the peaceful ambience is almost meditative. The rustle of palm leaves and the distant murmur of the ocean sound suspiciously perfect, like this whole place is a simulation designed for relaxation. It’s hard to believe somewhere could be so flawlessly soothing on the senses.
It’s a jarring change, and a burst of life back home, when my Zen moment is abruptly shattered as a man’s body collides with mine. It’s not just any man, it’s Gary Garrie, and he is almost certainly drunk.
‘Whoa, sorry about that.’ Gary slurs his words, offering a sheepish smile that his confused eyes can’t seem to get on board with as they dart nervously from side to side.
‘No worries,’ I tell him, picking up the key card that he just dropped. ‘I think this is yours.’
I hold the card out for him to take.
‘Which one?’ he asks, puzzled.
I laugh as I take him by the hand and press his key card into his grip.
‘This one,’ I say. ‘Are you on your way to bed, or is the day just starting for you?’
