Hotel 21, page 26
Mum scoots in beside her and gently pulls her away from the window, telling her not to put her mouth on the dirty glass. The little girl looks out at me and waves. I wave back. Dad sits down across from his daughter and they look out to see who she’s waving at. I feel my cheeks redden, not because I’m waving but because they’re all looking at me. They smile at me too.
Mum produces a carton of juice for the little girl and helps her open it so she can drink it. She takes a huge mouthful and some dribbles down her chin. Dad wipes it away. They’re a real family, I think. But not everyone has that.
“The train now at platform eight is the 9:15 to Edinburgh,” booms the announcer’s voice, echoing around the station.
Passengers stream down the platform to board the train. Some run past me toward the front of the train, worried the train will leave without them. An older man stops and beckons to his wife trailing behind him. She waves him on, irritated by his fussing. He carries on past me. The couple remind me of Monica and Rose.
A train guard walks along the platform jangling keys on his belt, getting ready for the train to depart. It’s time to get on the train, but I’m glued to the bench.
A whistle blows—the first warning. The next whistle will signify the doors closing. A huge hissing sound escapes from underneath the train. Get on the train, I say to myself. You’ve got nowhere else to go.
I look at the little girl in the red dress again. She has a book out on the table now and Dad is helping her put stickers in it while Mum tends to the baby, who is also looking out of the window or at least its face is turned toward me.
The pressure behind my eyes builds again, stronger this time. I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. But the more I watch this family together, the more the pressure mounts. I flinch with pain and look down at my hands now gouged and bleeding from my nails. I need to get on this train, but my body won’t respond to the instruction.
The whistle blows again followed by a loud beeping sound as the sliding doors to the carriages all shut at the same time, synchronized and perfect, like the family sitting in the window.
The train creaks and then emits a quiet hum as it launches forward, gathering speed, snaking its way out of the station. The little girl waves out of the window at me. I wave back. The rest of the carriages whoosh past me until the last one whips by with a gush of wind, ruffling my hair. I look on as the back of the train disappears into the distance, on its way to Scotland.
I stare down into the tracks. I can’t stay. I can’t go. Maybe I’ll just sit here, on this bench until I waste away. Or die from hypothermia. It happens to homeless people all the time. I’m homeless too. In fact, I’ve always been homeless. Having a place to sleep at night doesn’t mean you have a home.
My feet are cold now. Good, I think, the colder the better. No one will bother me sitting on a bench. It’s a free country. I’ll just stay here until I slip away. Girl found dead on a bench from the cold. No one will care. No one will notice. And the local authority can take care of my remains.
“It’s the wrong fucking platform!” A familiar voice pierces my thoughts.
“That’s platform eight. This is platform six.” I follow the voice, peering over the tracks to platform six across from me.
It’s Mali with Phil, Gaby and Rose, all wearing their Magnolia uniforms. They’re pacing and catching their breath. Phil has her hands on her hips. Gaby, bent over, wipes sweat from her brow. Rose taps her foot, mop still in her hand. Mali points to the large number six sign on the concrete pillar on the platform.
“See? Six,” she yells. Rose flops down on the bench across from me, her shoulders drooped. I stay very still, unsure if I want them to see me or not. “You all need glasses,” says Mali.
“I don’t need glasses, you need glasses,” Rose says to Mali, slightly annoyed.
“That’s what I said. We all need glasses,” yells Mali, pacing up and down.
I watch them, wondering what the hell they’re doing here. Are they looking for me? How did they know I was here?
Gaby stands up straight now, her face all red. She pushes her damp hair from her forehead and then looks directly at me across the tracks. We stare at each other. She looks confused for a moment then—
“NOELLE!” she screams, pointing directly at me. A few people on the platform flick their head in my direction and I try to shrink into my jacket. Phil, Mali and Rose see me too now. They all move to the edge of the platform forming a line and peer over at me in disbelief.
My heart swells in my chest, like it’s going to break out of my rib cage. Heat rushes to my head. I’m not sure what’s happening to me. All I know is that these women, standing on the platform across the tracks, one with a mop in her hand, matter to me.
Rose puts her hands to her face, relieved. Phil, grinning, shakes her head. Gaby continues to point at me, in case I move and they lose sight of me. I raise my hand and give a rather pathetic wave. It’s obvious I’ve been sitting here, hiding in my stillness.
“Don’t move,” orders Mali. “You are in big trouble.” She stomps off back down the platform to the exit with her chest pushed out in front like a sergeant major. She’s clearly on her way over to throttle me.
“Like the mop,” I call over to Rose, sheepish. Rose holds it up to her side.
“Not much to look at but he’s great in the sack.”
A laugh escapes my mouth, unexpected. Rose grins at me.
“We’re coming over there, okay?” she says.
“Don’t be getting on any trains,” adds Gaby, still pointing at me.
Rose and Gaby rush off down the platform after Mali. I’m still rooted to the spot, unsure what I’m doing or how I’m feeling. Phil has stayed where she is, hands still on her hips, looking over at me from platform six.
“Why didn’t you get on the train?” she asks.
I shrug. “How did you know I was here?”
“The train ticket fell out of your backpack when you were throwing things around after your mum’s funeral. I put it back in your bag with everything else and hoped you wouldn’t use it. Then when you didn’t show up for work . . .”
I stare at her, unsure what to say.
“You didn’t think we’d let you go without saying goodbye, did you?”
My throat tightens and pressure builds in my head as the tears start nudging at my eyeballs again, desperate to be released. I fight it hard, but the palms of my hands are too sore to dig my fingernails into now.
“Julia says if we’re not back in an hour we’re all fired, including you,” she says, walking down the platform, following the others. I feel stupid, stuck to this bench, not moving, but I really don’t know what else to do.
Mali strides toward me, a woman on a mission. “Look at you, sitting there like a skinny rabbit,” she shouts. She stops in front of me, peering down, arms crossed high across her chest. Rose and Gaby approach in the distance. Rose has the mop over her shoulder now, swinging out behind her.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” Mali says. “We got the taxi driver to drive through red lights for you.”
“Sorry,” I muster, desperately trying to keep the floodgates from opening. There’s nothing else for it, I’ll have to dig my fingernails in my palms. I wince with pain as my nails slice into the small open wounds.
Mali pulls me to my feet. I forget how strong she is. Her face is sweaty and her eyes wide and urgent. She’s going to punch me, I think, but then her forehead crinkles and her lower lip starts to wobble. Her eyes fill with tears and she hugs me tight, squeezing the air out of my lungs, making the pressure behind my eyes retreat a little, which I’m grateful for. She pushes me back and holds me by the shoulders. I’m a good foot taller than her, but it feels like she’s towering over me.
“Sorry isn’t good enough,” she says, shaking her head at me. “You think that’s how you treat your friends? Running away without telling us?” I don’t want to point it out to her, but that’s what running away means.
“It’s time for me to leave, that’s all,” I say, but I know it sounds flimsy.
“You think you’ve got problems? We’ve all got problems,” she says, wiping tears from her dripping nose. I sit back down, feeling drained and out of excuses. Gaby and Rose rush up and plonk themselves on the bench either side of me.
“Too bad you missed your train,” says Rose, with a grin. Gaby puts her arm around me and pulls me to her.
“I’m pleased you’re still here.”
The pressure of tears returns to my head, even more forceful this time, threatening to explode and flood the entire station. I quickly scramble to my feet again, grabbing my bags, keeping my head dipped, so as not to make eye contact. I mumble something about getting the next train, turn on my heel and walk straight into Phil. She takes hold of my arms to steady me.
“I have to go,” I whisper.
“Look at me,” she says. But I can’t bring myself to. “Noelle, look at me,” she says again, softly. I look up this time. She takes my tender hands and holds them tight, like they’ve found a safe place to sit for a moment.
“Everything is going to be okay,” she says.
I stare at her, trying to make sense of her words. It strikes me that nobody has ever said that to me before. A simple sentence: Everything is going to be okay. And suddenly I wonder if that could be true.
And then it happens: the dam finally bursts and the tears come gushing out, let loose from their holding bay. They stream down my face, like someone left a tap on. My gut convulses and I lean over to help myself breathe through the sobbing.
Looking down at my hands, I’m shocked by how drenched they are from my tears. My nose is running too now and I watch in wonder as huge drops fall from my top lip and splatter on the ground. Phil puts her arm around me. Rose, Mali and Gaby hug me too.
I feel myself being led back along the platform to the exit. I hear my suitcase trundling along behind me. One of the girls must be pulling it. My head is still bent over and I’m unable to see clearly due to my wet, sodden eye sockets.
I manage to get control of my breathing and the flow of tears reduces to a slower trickle, sliding from the corners of my eyes and down the side of my cheeks.
“We got her, thanks,” shouts Mali to the station guard at the turnstile, as we pass through the wide exit.
We walk out into the brightly lit concourse of the station where passengers scurry around, grabbing snacks and running for their trains. Everyone’s going somewhere, I think. I’m aware of an arm holding me and I look up to see Phil.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“The pub, I think,” she says.
Mali, Gaby and Rose walk by taking the lead. Mali is pulling my suitcase, Gaby has my backpack over her shoulder and Rose drags the mop along behind her. They are chatting with each other. I don’t know what they’re saying but I can guess. Mali wiggles her hips and flicks her head from side to side, probably singing a Kylie song. Rose is laughing, probably telling her she’s making a show of herself. And Gaby is looking at her phone, most likely to see if Julia has called.
“What about Julia?” I say to Phil, meekly.
“We’ll get the cleaning done later. She’s not going to fire all of us, is she?” All of us. The words echo in my mind.
Mali struts on ahead of Rose and Gaby shouting, “Tequila time, baby.” Rose turns to us and rolls her eyes, indicating there will be no tequila.
Gaby joins in with Mali, wiggling her hips and shouting “tequila time.”
I look from Phil, to Rose, to Gaby, to Mali. What a collection of oddballs we are.
I disentangle myself from Phil, able to walk on my own now, and run up to Mali and take my case from her.
“Tequila time, baby,” I shout. Mali throws her head back and laughs.
Acknowledgments
W ith love and gratitude to my husband, Dave, and my son, Miles, for their unwavering support in all my writing endeavors, and who both read the first 4,000 words of Hotel 21 and told me to drop everything else and keep going. Thank you to my mum, Deike Begg, for our lengthy discussions about Jungian psychology—long may they continue. A huge thank you to Kirk England, who painstakingly reads everything I write—your early feedback on this book was invaluable. Massive thanks to my other early readers, Nick Wilkinson and Lisa Kinsell—your feedback was so appreciated. A very special thank-you to Rachel O’Flanagan—the very first editor on the book—your brilliance and support was also invaluable. Huge gratitude to my agent, Marianne Gunn O’Connor, for believing in Hotel 21 and for your excellent insights into the book. Thank you to the awesome team at Bloomsbury—it was an absolute pleasure to work with you all, including Emma Herdman, David Mann for designing the perfect cover, Francisco Vilhena, Sharona Selby, Ros Ellis, Tabitha Pelly, and the entire sales and marketing team. A big thank-you also to the wonderful team at Union Square & Co., including Claire Wachtel, Barbara Berger, Kristin Mandaglio, Richard Hazelton, Melissa Farris, Jenny Lu, Daniel Denning, and the rest of the team. And now, some “behind-the-scenes” thank-yous, including François and Jean-Christophe of Villa Extramuros in Portugal (where I wrote my first 4,000 words), my lovely sister, Connie, Vivienne Luke of Dubray Books, and Lili Motea. Every one of you helped bring Hotel 21 into existence. Thank you x.
About the Author
Senta Rich began her career as an advertising copywriter. During this time, she also wrote radio plays and magazine articles, before moving into the world of screenwriting. She now writes regularly for film and TV. She is originally from London but now lives in Dublin with her husband and son.
Senta Rich, Hotel 21
