Free Up for Love in London by Willow. Bonaire

a call to housekeeping, mentioning that
a glass has broken and the carpet should be vacuumed. I pull on my
uniform coat and the dress hangs beneath it like a slip that’s far
too long. I tuck the key and my phone into the pocket, step
gingerly over the splinters and close the door behind me. There are
still a few mouthfuls of champagne left in the bottle, so I hoist
it to my lips and greedily suck the remnants.
    The lobby is
empty so I don’t have to face any queries. The receptionist barely
notices me and I’m grateful for that too. The streets are quiet and
the few vehicles – a mostly unoccupied red double-decker bus and a
black cab or two – wind their way with purpose. The snow has
stopped falling and is now melting on the sidewalks, leaving
puddles that I don’t avoid. The dirty water seeps into my shoes and
splashes onto the hem of my dress. There’s a light breeze, barely
cold enough so I have to exhale hard to see my breath.
    The cemetery
gates are locked, so I walk the long route to the High Street.
Ahead, the colourful lights of the Greek restaurant twinkle
cheerfully. As I get closer, I can see tables of merrymakers
through the foggy windows. Two crew members stand outside,
smoking.
    I stay on the
other side of the street, pull the hood over my head and shove my
hands deep into the pockets. Someone might recognize the uniform
coat, I just hope they don’t guess that it’s me inside. They take
no notice, squashing their cigarette butts underfoot and returning
to the warmth and hospitality of the restaurant. I wish I could
join them.
    I don’t want to
return to the hotel, but I fear running into my crew if I wander
the streets for much longer. Plus, my feet are now numb and wet. I
walk quickly back, enter through the side door and climb the stairs
to the mezzanine before riding the elevator to the penthouse
floor.
    The room
service trolley is gone, the House Keeping Requested sign stripped
from the doorknob. Inside, the rug has been vacuumed, bed linens
changed, towels replaced, shower cleaned. The curtains are closed
and one light is on in the living area. In the bedroom, a single
silver-wrapped chocolate truffle rests on the uncreased pillow
case. It’s like a crime scene that has been swept clear. The only
remaining evidence is the garment bag from my new dress, hanging
lonely and limp in the closet.
    I kick off my
wet pumps, stuff them with newspaper and sit them on the heater
vents. Then I fill the bathroom sink and rinse out the bottom of my
dress before hanging it from the shower head. I grab a cognac
miniature from the mini-bar, pour it into a water glass and chug it
down. The amber liquid burns my throat but the warmth spreads down
to my toes, giving me a who-gives-a-damn attitude guaranteed to put
me to sleep. Just in case that isn’t enough, I pop a
motion-sickness pill and then crawl into bed. I could cry myself to
sleep but I’ve done that too often in the past. From now on, if a
man treats me badly, I’m never going to think about him again. That
will be my New Year’s resolution.

    CHAPTER 8 ~ The Morning After
    The alarm clock’s incessant buzzing
wakes me from a deep sleep. I stumble out of bed, heading for the
bathroom. The luxury of the suite only reminds me of the painful
night before. I take this last opportunity to savour the room’s
amenities before checking out. I’m afraid it will be a long time
before I stay in a place as extravagant as this again.
    My red dress is
still hanging in the stall, looking none the worse for wear. I
place it in the closet and wonder if I should even take it home
with me. After a leisurely shower, I wrap myself in the soft white
robe and toddle into the living room.
    I draw back the
curtains to reveal a cold, sunny day, with a light sprinkling of
snow on the ground. It’s so Christmassy, it makes my heart smile
just a bit.
    The flowers on
the dining table are still fresh and fragrant. Facing the cruel
irony of choosing between a French vanilla