Something in the Water(44)

Plan B is I have food poisoning and Mark wants to make a complaint. Hopefully, we’ll be ushered into the back room so we can check if the system is in there. If it is, we’ll need to get rid of the receptionist for a minute and deal with the footage. It’s not foolproof for sure but I’m a film grad and Mark’s an unemployed banker, so cut us some slack.

“Look sick,” he whispers. I tilt my head back and inhale noisily through my nose. I put my hand to my head and exhale slowly through my mouth. Like someone desperately trying to hold it together. I look around for a seat. Mark plays the concerned husband. Where do I want to go? What do I need? I am silent, I am pale. It must be bad, my illness. I sit gingerly down on a chair outside the hotel library. One of the receptionists glances up at us. Reads the situation. She throws a look to her colleague, who is slightly older, maybe her senior. The older woman nods, You can deal with it, then dips back into her paperwork. The younger receptionist makes her way over.

Here we go. My part here is easy, I just need to look distant and breathe deeply. Mark has the hard work.

He starts before she makes it to us.

“Excuse me. A little help here would be great if you’re not too busy?” His tone is curt, tight. He’s going to be difficult. A difficult customer.

The receptionist breaks into a dainty trot in order to get to us faster. Behind her the other woman, who can clearly see a shitstorm brewing, gathers up her papers and quietly heads off down the opposite corridor. I bet they get a lot of arseholes here.

“Sorry, sir, is everything all right here?” Her tone is warm, an American accent.

Mark looks annoyed. “No actually, no, everything is not all right, to be honest with you…” He squints at her name badge. “Leila.”

I see her sigh inwardly and steel herself. Credit to her, she keeps smiling.

“My wife and I are meant to be on a five-star honeymoon but we’ve been shut up in our room now for two days due to the food poisoning you’ve decided to give us. I don’t know what kind of outfit you think you’re running here but we’ve had just about enough of it.” This Mark is a genuine arsehole.

“I’m so sorry, sir! I wasn’t aware of the situation. The issue hadn’t been brought to my attention but I can guarantee you now that I will sort this all out for you and we’ll make sure that whatever needs to happen happens.”

“I appreciate that, Leila, and I know it’s not your fault as such, but you should have been informed, really, shouldn’t you? I raised this issue yesterday and no one has got back to us. Nothing has happened. This is supposed to be a luxury five-star resort but I honestly don’t know how you managed to get those stars if you (a) don’t communicate with each other and (b) ignore customers’ complaints when they don’t suit you. It’s disgusting! Look at my wife, Leila. Look at her.” His voice is raised now; it’s very loud. I think we can officially call this a scene at this stage. Leila looks down at me. Somehow I’ve started to sweat; it’s probably the stress of our plan but I’m guessing it looks pretty damn convincing. I stare up at her, dazed. She makes a decision.

“Sir, if you’ll just come with me, we’ll go somewhere a little quieter and perhaps I can fetch a glass of water for Mrs….?” Leila’s doing really well. Extremely professional. God, this is a good hotel.

“Seriously? For Christ’s sake, Leila. Roberts. It’s Roberts. Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. Bungalow six. Jesus fucking Christ.” Mark exhales loudly through his nose. A man contending with himself, staying just the right side of exasperated. Mark’s good. If the banking doesn’t work out, he could always be an actor.

“Mr. Roberts, of course! Well, if you would just come with me now, I’ll make sure we get this all handled for you. Let’s get you something to drink, Mrs. Roberts.” Leila beckons us to follow her. Mark hoists me tenderly from the chair, supporting my weight, his hand bracing me under my armpit. We follow.

The back room is bigger than I’d imagined. Open plan. There’s a door just off it that Leila leads us through. Into a plush, well-appointed meeting room. A special complaints room? More likely the VIP check-in room. For high-profile guests, the people that other people might want to stare at. I’m getting used to this world now, how it operates.

We sit. Leila turns the blinds on the windows that look back into the back room, slowly. As they close I catch sight of a black-and-white CCTV monitor and then it’s gone.

She sits down in front of us.

“Okay, first things first, Mrs. Roberts, can I get you anything? An iced water? Something sugary? Anything at all?”

I try to speak but nothing comes out. I clear my throat; it’s been a while since I’ve said anything. Big buildup. I nod.

“Thank you, Leila. I really appreciate it,” I rasp. A good cop to Mark’s bad. Poor Mrs. Roberts.

“Could I get a hot tea please, Leila? With sugar and lots of milk. If it’s not too much trouble. Is that all right?” I peer up at her, apologetic. Sorry to be causing a problem.

Leila looks relieved. A friend, an ally. This might all have a positive resolution after all. She might get some great feedback later. A thank-you letter. Employee of the month. She smiles.

“No problem at all, Mrs. Roberts. I’m going to go and fetch it myself. Please just make yourselves comfortable and I’ll be back shortly.” She checks for Mark’s approval before swishing out the door of the VIP check-in room, through the back room, and out into the lobby. The door shuts behind her. I jump to my feet and run out of the VIP room and into the back room. Mark stands in the meeting room doorway watching me. I get to the CCTV monitors in time to see, on the screen, Leila round the end of the lobby corridor off on her way to the bar. On the computer screen I minimize the windows and find the archived days. Sixty days’ kept footage. Should I clear all? No. Just our stay? No. A month is fine. I highlight mid-August to mid-September and click delete. Am I sure I want to erase these files? the program asks. Yes. Yes, I am. I click. I then go into options, erase trash. Done. How are we doing? I click on the minimized screens. No sign of Leila yet. My heart is thundering. I go back into the program. Scroll through the options. There it is. Settings. Keep files for sixty days. I change the settings to six days. That should muddy the waters. By the time someone checks the archived data, they’ll think it’s a settings error. No one watches back hours of CCTV footage unless they’re looking for something. I check the screens. There’re no cameras in this room. We’re fine. I return the screen to its original setup. Still no sign of Leila. I want to do one more thing. I scan the room.