elevator doors were polished silver, not that tacky brass color that American hotels use. The furniture looked antique, though I would probably never be able to tell a reproduction from an original, even at gunpoint. The wood on the furniture matched the mahogany color of the wainscoting, but the velvet on the sofa was what arrested my attention. In deep, blood red velvet, it was the only primary color in the room.
I went to the long reception desk and presented my reservation. The black-jacketed clerk looked everything over and took my credit card for incidentals.
“It’s a non-smoking room, right?” I asked. All I needed after all this stress was an excuse to buy a hard-pack. I missed my cigarettes.
“Of course, unless you’d like to change?”
Oh cruel world, why do you mock me? Feeling more like a cocaine addict than a nicotine junky, I set my jaw and shook my head. “No, no change, thanks.”
“Very well. Welcome to the UK, ma’am,” he said with a smile, swiping the card and handing it back to me with an electronic room key imprinted with the Union Jack. “Enjoy your stay at the Pemberton. Just press star zero if there’s anythin’ we can do for you.”
“Thank you,” I said. I pulled out the travel handle on my laptop case and asked, “Will the bellhop bring my bags up tonight?”
“Of course,” the clerk replied. “Do you need them immediately?”
“No. In the next half hour will be fine. Will you call up before delivery, though, in case I’m in the shower or something?” I requested, trying my best to not draw attention to my travel-ravaged hair or my wrinkled clothes.
“Of course,” the clerk replied again, studiously avoiding looking at my bedraggled self. The guy gave great eye contact.
The manager, dressed in a fitted black suit, walked out of his office behind the desk and greeted me. “Hallo, Ms…” he paused, looking at my reservation, “…Niteclif. It’s nice to have you with us. Wait. Niteclif? The American?” He looked at me expectantly, almost anxiously.
“Yes,” I said, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.
“There’s a message for you.” He disappeared back into his office. He returned quickly, carrying a message on ivory-colored paper. As I accepted it I realized it had the same look and feel as that that had been on the car’s front seat. What were the odds?
“You must be mistaken.” No one knew I was staying here.
“No, ma’am. I’m relatively certain this is correct as the gentleman who dropped it off earlier this evenin’ was quite adamant that you receive his missive upon your arrival.” He flushed, pulling at his collar. Either the guy had tipped the Manager well or he’d threatened him.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll, uh, just take it to my room.” I took the message and saw my name written on the front in an elegant black script—Madeleine D. Niteclif. The bellhop approached with my bags as I was about to comment on the red wax seal melted over the back flap and impressed with a serpent of some type. He tipped his cap at me in the same manner the valet had, friendly but formal. I decided that all of the ivory-papered messages in the world couldn’t be as intriguing to me as the number of pillows on the bed. I was exhausted. So I thanked the desk clerk and manager again and, with the bellhop hot on my heels, headed to my non-smoking hotel room and a good, quiet night’s sleep. Let’s hear it for willpower.
Ten. That was the number of pillows on the heavenly bed in my room. Done in the same marble and mahogany as the lobby, with still-impressive twelve-foot coffered ceilings, the room was lovely. The walls were a complementing soft gray, with the floor-length curtains done in a dark smoke. But it was the bed that had stolen my heart. There were Celtic designs carved into the headboard and climbing vines carved into each of the four posts. The duvet was a white and gray striped silk, and there were solid white and gray throw pillows artfully arranged against the headboard. One blood red pillow was the sole splash of color in the room. On the wall, at the foot of the bed, was a plasma screen TV. There was a small writing secretary under the window, with an antique-looking chair sitting in front of it. I was in love with the whole room. I’m generally not a mystical-whimsy-and-throw-in-some-vines kind of girl, but the bed was so romantic, and I