The manager, Gary Trofin, his badge stated, cleared his throat and said, “Your rooms are over this way, if you will be so good as to follow me.”
Was he indicating we had to be good to follow him? I wanted to giggle, but I knew it would be inappropriate. I was just tired, punchy tired as Cara, Sammy, and I used to get when we’d toured an entire museum without any coffee break.
The key cards were handed out, and the manager took off, scurrying away, no doubt, to oust the siege of reporters who’d laid a trap for us on our former floor. Would all the media be banned from the hotel? Would we suddenly be free from further pursuits?
The layout of our new room was exactly like our old one, except missing all the niceties: the fresh fruit, treats, and flowers. But we had fresh towels and a luxurious bed, which I planned to try out the moment I felt clean again. Only I had no clothes to put on after my shower.
As if reading my mind, which he’d probably done, Timothy opened the closet and pulled out two white robes. Over-sized and fluffy. Perfect.
Dinner was ordered, then we showered, and lying on the bed in our soft, cottony robes, we waited to fill our tummies. We’d decided against something elegant and had chosen a vegetarian pizza. That and some herbal cinnamon tea and chocolate cake for dessert. Yes, we had a salad, too. We weren’t completely ignoring nutritional needs.
The meal arrived almost an hour later. Speedy, the hotel wasn’t. Starved by then and wishing for the big bowl of apples, we dived into that pizza like prisoners getting our last meal. As pizzas go, it didn’t rate a ten, or even a seven, but it was there, and we were hungry.
About the time the dishes were being cleared away, two maids knocked for entrance and, pushing large carts, they delivered our clothes and other possessions. The second cart held not only the apples, fresh treats, and cheeses, all skillfully and quickly moved to the room’s table, but a brand new bouquet of roses. Red ones. A card accompanied it with an apology from Gary Trofin and in addition, a bottle of champagne on ice.
One of the maids asked if Timothy would like her to open the bottle, and he nodded. The woman popped it, and bubbly was poured into two glasses. Bobbing their heads to both of us with a quick nod and an even speedier good evening, the two women scurried out of the room, as if they feared we’d have more work for them to do. The two carts, then empty, were rolled squeakily out of the room.
Timothy handed me a glass.
“I don’t drink,” I reminded him.