Greetings gentle readers! Welcome to part three. If you haven’t read the beginning, stop and read them: https://rantingmedia.com/tales/
THREE
The driveway in front of the hotel was large and spacious; it could hold at least 12 cars at once if everyone played nicely, which in most cases they did not. So when about 30 cars decided to logjam the driveway it was chaos.
Amelia was in the thick of it as she was checking guests in. Smithy and the other bellhop on duty that night, George, were having a miserable time moving what felt like way too much luggage for the weekend for this many people. Apparently, all of the butlers were waiting in the guest rooms to greet them in person, which was not normal but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. Making matters worse, Johnathan Hyde had decided to hold court in the lobby, shaking everyone’s hands and laughing far too loud at every little joke that the guests were coming up with.
She was trying to book people into their rooms as quickly as possible so that the lobby did not become too jammed with people, but the computer was being its usual temperamental self and operating at what felt like 1990s speed. Callaway really needed to upgrade this shit.
There were a few guests that Amelia recognized as she was checking them in–for instance, a famous surgeon that she had seen on the telly. Dr. Joseph Brahmer, with his piercing blue eyes behind half-moon glasses, had his own reality tv show in which he performed plastic surgery miracles on celebrities. He was dressed in a grey blazer and walked very rigidly, with what she assumed was his wife attached at his hip. She was young–far too young for him.
A couple had checked in just before them, both authors in their own right: Madeline and Charles Duvall. She had long black hair tied in a bun, and she was dressed modestly in a white jumper and jeans. She had the sort of calm, serene face that radiated confidence–a good trait to have as she ran an advice column in The Devonshire Sun. Her husband was dressed in a leather jacket and wellington boots, and he looked bored about the whole thing, rubbing his bald head as if he didn’t want to be there. Amelia had read one of his books once–he was a thriller author–and didn’t really enjoy it all that much.
And finally, the last group she recognized was the band Killing Light, a death metal band that had been very controversial a few years ago because the lead singer at the time had decided to cut open a pig’s heart live on stage and then eat it.
The lead singer was thankfully not with the band anymore, but the three men that stood in front of her now as she typed frantically on her keyboard looked morose as ever. The one in the middle was the guitarist and now lead vocalist for the band, Kyle Hammer. He looked an awful lot like the lead singer of Green Day, down to the eyeliner and black shirt with a red tie. His brother, the drummer Ford Hammer, was the polar opposite of him, looking fairly normal with his red buffalo plaid flannel and black skinny jeans. Curly brown hair came down in curtains around his head as he was lost in his phone, presumably tweeting something. The last one, Armie Gold, was their bassist and also the manager of the band. He had a black t-shirt on with choppy black hair that grew in great tufts everywhere. He was short and looked like he hadn’t gotten any sleep in about thirty years or so, with deep bags under his eyes.
“You’ll be in rooms 32 and 33. They’re connected suites,” said Amelia, flashing her customer service smile.
“Gorgeous,” said Kyle with the slightest trace of an Irish accent. “Be careful with my guitar, babes, it’s worth a bloody fortune.”
Amelia’s skin reeled with revulsion. Babes? “We’ll do our very best.”
They moved away from the check-in desk and another group stepped up. Just before they got to the staircase to go upstairs, Peabody was holding out a set of bags with their names. She watched distractedly as they deposited their phones into the bag and he zipped them up, handing off the bags to an assistant. Ford looked very upset at first, presumably because no one had told him about the phone rule. He threw up his hands and then tossed Peabody his phone, shoving him aside as he walked upstairs. Seemed like Hyde was going to get his way after all. The phone would be going to the safe for the weekend…and now that Amelia thought about it, she didn’t even know where the safe was. Note to Peabody: ask him about the location.
The lady in front of her coughed slightly and Amelia apologized, continuing to check her in.
~
There was a cocktail hour for the guests in the ballroom before the show was due to begin, and Amelia poked her head just as it was beginning. The room was humming with excitement, and what appeared to be several people who were not her staff were serving hors d’oeuvre and bubbly drinks. This was probably some sort of another move to remove any leaks from getting out about the show. God damn, Hyde was a control freak. One of the white-gloved waiters quickly walked over to her and she smiled, snapping up a bruschetta cracker of some sort. Suddenly, people began to look at her and she was confused for a moment before realizing what an idiot she was: they were all wearing very fancy gowns and dinner jackets, and she was still dressed in her work polo and khaki pants. Embarrassed, she slowly backed out of the room and ran into the person she was least wanting to talk to: Hyde himself.
“Oh, there you are, Barbara, isn’t it?”
“Amelia,” she said in a flat tone. “Amelia Fletcher.”
He shook his hands. For an author, he was certainly really shitty at remembering names. “Yes, Amelia, sorry. Listen, there’s been some sort of mistake. There are people on my floor.”
She stared blankly at him. “People…on your floor?”
He chortled and gave her a good-natured shove on her shoulder, which just pissed her off even more.
“Yes, silly. The whole floor was supposed to be booked for me, I need privacy as I am not only running this show…but..,” he said, leaning in for dramatic effect. “I am writing my next novel here as well!”
This was clearly supposed to impress her. It did not.
“Right…well…if you paid for the whole floor, it should be booked in our system automatically. No one would have moved them there on purpose.”
Hyde’s smile flickered in annoyance.
“Yes, but somehow, Charles Duvall is on my floor, and I would hate for him to somehow take my ideas and spin them into his new novel. He’s been #34 on the New York Times bestseller list for several months, and I would like to keep him there.”
Amelia was confused. “But I booked him on floor 3…you’re on floor 4.”
“I would LOVE to continue chatting about this, but please–just–fix it,” he said, shooing her away.
He walked towards the crowd which erupted in cheers. “Oh thank you, you’re ever so kind!” he said, laughing.
Amelia resisted the strong urge to flip him off and instead turned on her heel, heading back to the front desk.
Smithy was there, counting invisible figures in the air. “The Duvalls…did we move them for some reason?” said Amelia as she walked up.
Smithy turned to her, clearly coming out of deep thought. “What, boss? What did you say?”
“The Duvalls…Hyde is being a prick and thinks we moved them to his floor when apparently we aren’t supposed to be booking anyone there.”
“Huh,” he said, typing in the query. “Yeah, looks like someone moved them to floor 4 about…an hour ago.”
“Who did it?” she said, now staring at the screen herself.
“Uhh…just says ‘admin override’. I don’t know who has that access,” he said, shrugging. “Notes say there was something wrong with the room.”
“Admin override? No one has that. Can you go find him or Madeline? We need to move them to floor 5. They’re here for Hyde’s event, I’m sure they’ll understand.”
Smithy nodded a few minutes later Charles was in front of her, fairly livid.
“Now you’re telling me I have to move again? What kind of hotel is this? I thought this was supposed to be a premiere destination…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Duvall, but Johnathan Hyde apparently requested that whole floor himself for him and his guests.”
Charles shook his head. “And he had the gall to tell me that was I too rich for my own good. Well, put my room on his tab.”
“I…legally can’t do that,” said Amelia slowly.
“Of course not!” he said, throwing up his hands. “Fine, I’ll go tell him my fucking self. Get someone to move our stuff.”
He began to walk away.
“Uhh…okay. You’re in room 51 by the way!”
And somehow he decided to flip her off.
Smithy shook his head. “Man, they’re a bunch of cunts, the rich.”
“Fucking right,” she said, her blood beginning to boil. “I’ll go move their shit, I can’t get ahold of Anthony on the radio anyways.” Anthony, one of the butlers, was notoriously difficult to get ahold of at the best of times, and he was on thin ice in terms of employment. This evening was going so well.
~
The fourth floor was eerily quiet compared to the chaos that was happening down below her. She padded down the hall as if in a cathedral, unsure of why. She had every right to be there. She got to room 42 and swiped her key card in the door. It unlocked with a click and in she walked into the suite.
The rooms in the hotel were all quite grand, and spacious–bigger than her flat for sure by a long shot. They all were roughly the same layout, with a hallway that had a mud room with a frosted set of doors–one that led into the master sleeping space, the other that led into the rest of the living quarters. Each featured its own living room, stocked bar, and a pantry full of complimentary snacks. There was also a dedicated alcove for working or taking calls that were walled off from the pane of windows that lined the opposite end of the living room.
Amelia opened the door and heard someone scream, causing her to jump several feet off the ground.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” shouted Madeline, who was under the covers in the bed.
“Oh, shit…shit. I’m sorry,” said Amelia, quickly backing up, and covering her eyes. “I thought everyone was downstairs, I’m having to move you to another room. I’m Amelia, I’m with the front desk.”
“Yes, I was there when you checked me in, but why are you here.”
“Listen, this is going to sound dumb, but apparently Hyde paid for the whole floor and is asking me to move you.”
“You’re fucking joking,” she said, laughing coldly. “Well, he can sod off, I’m already in this room.”
Amelia winced a bit. “I’m sorry, but there was some sort of admin error. I’ll be comping your room for you and upgrading you for the trouble.”
After Charles had pissed her off, she wasn’t even going to begin to consider upgrading them but now that she had walked into the guest room without even knocking first…she was in deep shit. Callaway would have been torn halfway through amused and pissed off. This wasn’t like Amelia to be so careless.
Madeline stared at her for a few beats, her nostrils flaring slightly.
“Fine, but I assure you, my husband and I will be writing a note to your boss about this. This is unacceptable.”
“I apologize profusely, this is not our regular service level,” Amelia said, bowing.
There were a few more beats before Madeline coughed. “I need to get dressed. I would prefer that you weren’t here to watch me,”
Amelia flushed red, throwing up her hands.
“Uh…yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’ll wait in the living room next door.”
“Whatever works for you,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “No sleep last night, and apparently no sleep before the show. Thankfully I hadn’t unpacked yet.”
Amelia smiled and moved into the living room, which was untouched except for the bar, which had a bottle of gin and three cans of tonic water cracked open. Presumably, Charles had been pre-gaming it before going downstairs. There was also a notebook on the bar, and shooting a glance over her shoulder, she tiptoed over to it, gently opening it. It was, rather dully, blank…or so she thought. Turning to the fourth page, there was a small scribble, which took several seconds for her to realize was in french: elle connaît. Confused, Amelia flipped all the way through but the rest was blank. Shrugging, she closed it and picked it up, intending to give it to Madeline, who had just walked through the living room door.
She was now wearing a silky cocktail dress that shimmered. “And now I have a headache. What room are you moving us to?”
“Ah, Percheron Suite. 6th floor, number 54. I’ll move all of your things. This is yours?” said Amelia, handing her the notebook.
“No, this must be Charles’ notebook,” she said, looking confused. “I’ve never seen it before though.”
She too flipped through it and got to page four. Her eyes turned wide.
“And…now I think I know why,” she said quietly. Looking at Amelia, she smiled wanly. “Thank you for giving me this. I’m going to go have a long talk with Charles. Hopefully before the ruddy show starts.”
Amelia bit her lip, but she couldn’t help herself. “If you don’t mind me asking, you all are guests of Johnathan Hyde, right? You were invited? You all don’t seem to be enthused that much about the show. I’m not either, to be honest with you.”
“Oh, is it that obvious?” she said, laughing as she grabbed her clutch purse. “Yes, Charles dragged me up here. To what end, I don’t know. Probably going to find some way to ruin the show and write a book about it. It’s all a big dick contest with those two. They’ve hated and loved each other for years.”
“So…you don’t like his writing either?” said Amelia, smiling slightly.
“Oh, I hate both of their writing styles. They’re so full of themselves, it’s fucking annoying sometimes,” said Madeline, now walking towards the front door. “Tell them I said that and you will really wish you hadn’t,”
Madeline then giggled and walked out the front door.
Amelia stopped smiling. Fucking rich people.
“Boss.” her radio crackled. It was Smithy.
“Yeah, come in.”
“The show is about to start in twenty. You good upstairs?”
“Besides getting the shit scared out of me when a client was in their room? Yeah, I’m good. I upgraded them, can you update the system? Percheron suite.”
You could feel Smithy wincing on the other end as he typed on the keyboard.
“Done. Sounds like it was fun. Oh…and we’ve been asked to watch the show too, by the way. Hyde wants everyone to be there. Peabody is insisting.”
Fuck. Now she would have to watch this shitshow, too?
“Greatt….can’t wait.”
Til next time….