Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 5

  “Fine,” I say, smiling again. I am not about to let one bad-mannered person ruin my night. Not when the rest of London seems so nice. I yawn – feeling nearly bowled over with exhaustion. “Actually, very tired,” I correct myself. “I’d like to check in.”

  “Yes, of course. Name, please?”

  “About that,” I say. “I’m just curious about a few of your policies here.”

  The receptionist arches an eyebrow and gives me his full attention.

  “Can a reservation be switched from one name to another? And is this place really just for honeymooners?”

  He looks a bit startled at my questions, but bends down to grab something from below the desk. He hands me two brochures. One seems to be a history of the place and the other a list of couples’ activities.

  “Due to our extremely lengthy waiting list, all reservations are non-transferable. And our mission since we were founded eighty-three years ago,” he says, gesturing to The Chaizer history brochure, “is to provide accommodations for honeymoon couples only. When guests make their reservation, they check a box acknowledging this mission, with the understanding of our long waiting list. Surely, you saw that box?”

  I scramble for what to say. He clearly thinks I am some kind of imposter. Which I am. But I am too exhausted to go anywhere else. Tonight, anyway. “Right,” I say at least. “My husband checked that box. He, um…he made the reservation. I was just asking because I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to check in without him, if it was just under his name.”

  He smiles. “It would be under both your names. What is your name?”

  “Marian. Marian Gray.”

  I look in my purse and find the fake ID. I hand it over to him, my heart beginning to race.

  “Oh, yes,” the man says, his expression clearing in recognition. “I think I spoke with you on the phone yesterday.”

  Oh God…this guy must think, after that phone conversation and this interaction that I am completely off my rocker. “Probably,” I say, blushing.

  He taps a few buttons on the computer and then nods at the screen. Here we are. Marian Gray and Thomas Bolton.”

  “Yes,” I say, in a mild panic. “That’s us,” I say, gesturing to the air behind me.

  He looks at me, one eyebrow now raised. He thinks I am crazy. It looks like I have an imaginary husband. Which isn’t entirely untrue.

  Oh God. I am crazy.

  “Um.” I clear my throat and look at him. “What I mean is, Tom will be along later. His flight was delayed.”

  “You didn’t fly together?” he asks. “For your honeymoon?”

  “Oh…we never fly together,” I sputter out as my eyes dart back and forth. “In case of a crash,” I add. Brilliant.

  “So one of you could die alone and the other one could be miserable over it?” he asks, his face twisting in confusion.

  I glance quickly towards the concierge from earlier, who’s now staring right at me, clearly eavesdropping. “You know, the hospitality here really leaves something to be desired.”

  The receptionist smiles reticently and looks back at his computer. “My apologies, ma’am. You will be staying in Flat 708.”

  “Flat?” I ask. I lean forward, over the counter. “I’ll be staying in a flat? Like the one that Bridget Jones lives in?”

  “I’m not sure if it’s exactly like that, no. We have flats for our honeymooners, for a true London experience. They are very nice. I’m sure Bridget would approve.”

  “I’ll be staying in a flat,” I gush to myself. My excitement seeps into every word, even though I try – I do – to contain it.

  He looks around, ignoring me.

  “Well, the bloody bellboy has gone missing. I guess I could – “

  “I’ll show her to her room.”

  I look up and see the rude concierge from before standing beside me now.

  “Alright, Oliver, if you want to show her to her room that would be fine.” The receptionist sounds like he is losing his patience (although with whom, I am not sure). He shoots the concierge what I can only call a warning look.

  The annoying concierge nods at him curtly and that is that. He grabs my bag without so much as a glance in my direction and stalks away.

  In my haste to keep up with him – and my bag – I only get a brief look around at the lobby as we walk through. There’s an old-fashioned bar in one corner and a fireplace in the other, with brown, cozy love seats and large, comfy-looking chairs around it. The rug has pink and red heart designs all over it. It’s so lovey-dovey, I almost feel nauseous. Tom and Marian would have loved this. Too bad they’re off in the Mediterranean on an actual honeymoon and not living it up in London, like me, on a fake one.

  We step into the elevator and he pushes the button for the seventh floor.

  “So,” Oliver says after a few moments, “you and your husband flew here separately? That’s kind of strange.”

  “And you eavesdrop. That’s kind of rude,” I reply. The elevator doors open and Oliver turns away from me, leading me down a long hallway. “And lots of couples fly separately,” I add. “Kings and queens, for example.”

  “I see,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me his eyes squinted slightly, his mouth forming more of a frown than it had before, if that is even possible. He stops at the door that reads 708 and glances down at my suitcase. “Marian Bolton, isn’t that what Geoff said?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I answer, a slight quiver shaking my voice. Why is he asking so many questions?

  He hands me my key after opening the door, and places the suitcase in the doorway.

  “If you’re Marian Bolton, how come your bag says Lucy Gray on it?”

  Oh God. The jig is up.

  “My maiden name is Gray,” I say with sudden inspiration. “In fact, I plan on keeping the name. And all my friends call me Lucy,” I add. Lying clearly doesn’t come easy to me. The moment the words are out of my mouth, I realize that it would have been easier to say I borrowed the suitcase.

  “Why do your friends call you Lucy? It doesn’t sound a thing like Marian.”

  “Well…the man downstairs said your name is Oliver. What do people call you?”

  “Oliver.”

  “Really?” I ask, trying to peek over his shoulder and into my flat.

  “It’s incomprehensible, I know. ”

  “No one calls you Ollie or anything?”

  “No, thankfully.”

  “Well, Oliver, lots of people have nicknames. It just so happens that Lucy is mine.”

  “Okay, well, why?”

  I am sure my face is completely red by now. “It’s…my middle name. And I like it better than my first. And I love the show I Love Lucy.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. I am definitely crossing the line dividing sanity from insanity. You can guess which side I am on. It’s not my fault. I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane and clearly need to go to bed.

  I try to save face. “Thanks for taking my bag, being you’re not a bellboy and all.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, not saying anything. He looks like he is studying me. He knows I’m lying. He’s going to get me kicked out. Tonight. Right now even. I’m never going to sleep again. I have been in the hotel for twenty minutes and already it all seems to be coming to an end. They say you’re never prepared for the honeymoon to end, but this is ridiculous.

  “Okay, Lucy,” he says eventually, making a slight face when he says my name. “Goodnight.”

  I take a deep breath, relieved, and finally walk into the flat with my bag.

  I close the door with my foot and swivel around to take it in.

  There is a little basket on a corner counter to put my key in when I first walk in and then a short hallway. As I walk further, turning on a light, the rest of my flat reveals itself to me and my breath catches. I can’t believe it. My flat is perfect. It’s honestly perfect.

  It’s a true, bona fide London flat. Hardwood floors cover the place – dark, shiny pine wood, the c
olor of mustard, that remind me of the floors in the studio where I took ballet classes as a girl.

  To the right, there is a full kitchenette. A tiny, round table, only big enough for two, sits right outside the kitchenette, a gorgeous bright green vase filled with colorful flowers in its center.

  Beyond the kitchen, there is a living area, complete with a cozy love seat the color of burnt umber. It looks so soft, I feel like if I sit down in it, I’ll only be found once I’ve died because I’ll never want to get up again. The love seat faces a fireplace. One of those that’s remote controlled, perfect for people like me who couldn’t start an actual fire without burning the building to the ground.

  To the left of all this glory is a king-sized bed. Pink and red throw pillows are spread about the dark blue silky comforter. It looks so snug, backlit by the moonlight coming in from the large picture-window. It is dark outside, so I am not exactly sure what the room overlooks, but I can see lights outside. All the beautiful lights of the city.

  To the other side is a bathroom. I stand in the doorway and smile. Black and white floor tile give it a retro vibe. Even the bathtub is old-fashioned looking. The knobs are labeled in French – chaud and froid. It’s all so darling. I still can’t believe that I am here, that this is mine for a little while.

  Remembering my promise to Mary, I walk back into the bedroom, collapse into the love seat and pick up the phone, dialing the familiar number. She answers on the first ring.

  “I’ve arrived,” I say, when she answers.

  “Oh good.” I can hear the relief in her tone. “You’re at the hotel?”

  “Yes,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Cary drove me here.”

  “Cary Stewart? From high school?” she asks innocently.

  “Drop the act. I know you got in touch with him.”

  She laughs and immediately begins apologizing. “I just wanted you to see a familiar face on arrival.”

  I remove my sneakers and put my feet on the coffee table, relaxing back into the cushions. “I wouldn’t exactly call his face familiar after all these years,” I say. “I completely ogled him as he was scanning the crowd.”

  “Isn’t he so handsome?” she gushes. “He was sort of cute in high school, but he’s completely gorgeous now. I’ve cyber-stalked his profile page a time or two.”

  “Well, I hate you,” I say, closing my eyes happily. It’s so good to hear Mary’s familiar voice, which sounds tinny and far away but it’s soothing all the same. “I had him painted in my memory as a jerk and now I have to reset it all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was very nice,” I confess. “And handsome. I’ll agree with you there. He was really sweet. I couldn’t hate him now if I tried.”

  She laughs at that. “I am glad it worked out. And that you’re there,” she adds.

  “How’s Ricky?” I ask.

  “Well, he’s biting me. I keep trying to pet him like you said I should, but he keeps biting me. Not hard, but – “

  “He’s hungry! He’s biting you to let you know that he’d like to bite food. Didn’t you give him any dinner?”

  “Of course I did.” She pauses and I can almost hear her shuffling around my loft. “Where do you keep his food, again?”

  “Cabinet by the fridge,” I say, sighing.

  “Okay. And Lucy, you really should call your mom. She’s a bit…nervous,” she starts. “About you taking off like you did.”

  Oh boy. After I hang up with Mary, I dial another familiar number. Jake answers, much to my relief. I’m not ready for my mom just yet. “Ciao from London.” I say, hoping Jake will adopt my infectious enthusiasm over this whole thing.

  “Hey, Luce. Mom’s having a minor fit,” Jake says.

  I ask why he’s over at my parents’ house on a Tuesday night, and he informs me that all my siblings are there – minus Marian, of course. Apparently, they’re trying to calm my poor mother down and find a solution for what I’ve done. I cannot believe they’ve called a cross-continental intervention because I took a vacation.

  “We are all kind of confused over here. You’re gone?” he asks quietly.

  “I’m in London on vacation,” I clarify, exasperation leaking into every word. “And I’ll be back on January third.”

  “But, it’s Christmas. You went by yourself to London?”

  “I’m twenty-six. I didn’t run away from home. I just had to – ”

  “Lucy. Where are you?”

  I’ve switched on to Charles apparently. I gather he grabbed the phone from Jake. And he sounds totally panicked.

  “Charles, relax. I’m just in London.”

  How did I think for a second that they’d all just laugh and think it was amusing and wonderful for me and just continue about their lives?

  “Give me your reservation number, and we’ll get you a flight right back. What airline did you take for this fool’s mission?”

  Fool’s mission? “Charles, I’m not coming back until January third,” I say calmly and patiently. “Why do I feel like I’m having the same conversation with everyone? Maybe you can just spread the word and spare me saying it all again.”

  “You worry too much, Charles!” I hear my dad say, his jovial tone bringing a smile to my face. “You do you, Lucy!”

  “And you don’t seem worried at all that your youngest daughter just left the country very suddenly without telling anyone, Dad.” He takes a deep breath, and I can hear movement on his end. He’s probably walking away from my dad. “Lucy, we’ll pay the fee. Don’t worry,” he says, using his removed, all-business voice on me. That’s never a good sign. I shudder to think what he’ll be like when his actual kids grow up.

  “I’m not worried,” I assure him. “I’m just not coming back until January third.”

  “Lucy – “

  “Charles, please, tell everyone to stop worrying. They’ll listen to you. Tell them all to go home. You, go home. Prepare for court tomorrow. Enjoy your family. And leave me alone.” The words are harsh but my tone is soft. He is my big brother. “Please.”

  He is silent for a second. “Is something going on? Are you okay? It’s not exactly normal behavior to hightail it out of town to another country at a time of year that usually brings families together. Were you upset about – “

  “This is just something I wanted to do.”

  He sighs loudly and says nothing. He is probably fuming. Lawyers – and big brothers – hate it when things don’t go their way. “Julie wants to talk to you.”

  “Hey,” Julie says, and I can just tell she’s on the verge of laughter. “I won’t keep you. I know you got enough of an earful from Charles. I explained that you need your sister at a time like this.”

  “A time like what, exactly?”

  “You know, I’m not sure what to call this.”

  “I can’t understand why everyone is so unnerved.”

  “It’s just unlike you,” Julie explains simply, almost defensively. The family’s not crazy, her words convey. I’m just that predictable, that…comfortable.

  I glance around my loft and take it all in.

  “That’s why it felt so good,” I tell Julie. “Can you understand that?”

  “I think I can.”

  When I hang up the phone, I look around the flat. It feels quiet here right now. Not a peaceful quiet, either. It’s the kind of silence that can make your ears ring. My cheeks and neck are burning. I should not have to defend myself to anyone about taking my life into my own hands and doing something different. This is my life, after all.

  I crack open the hotel window and lean forward, letting the crisp air cool me off a little.

  My phone begins buzzing and beeping like crazy and I look down to see a flood of text messages coming in.

  Charles: Call me back. Your phone is going right to voicemail.

  Mary: How’d it go…

  Mom: Lucy! You called home and didn’t talk to ME…

  Julie: omg Lucy! I can’t believe you left…<
br />
  3 New Messages from Charles Gray

  12 Text Messages [swipe to read]

  “Stop!” I yell, squeezing my phone tightly. Before I can stop myself, I hurl the phone as hard as I can out the open window and into the night. My mouth falls open and I take a deep, steadying breath.

  Everything is quiet and cold. I look out my window at the lights of the city and smile. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so free in my life.

  * * *

  my children hate me

  Posted by: @Delores at 7:04 AM on December 20 on TheGrayBlog

  I cannot believe that Lucy has left me for Christmas. And to go to London! Aunt Velma sent me an article just last month about how the London Bridge was built on the remains of human children! CHILDREN. And that a crazy couple called the vacationers, or the honeymooners, or something like that was in London very recently murdering people in their hotel rooms! Not to mention they drive on the other side of the road there. Lucy, you can barely stay in your lane in America. Do NOT rent a car over there. Of course, if you take public transportation, watch for pick-pockets. They’re everywhere in Europe and Great Britain. Everywhere! And I think London may have been the place where the subway cars just fell off the tracks one day a few years ago.

  Everyone is telling me to relax. I have a daughter who’s missing. You tell me to relax!

  And Marian has still not thanked me for planning her entire wedding. And Charles and Samantha are going to her family’s again for the 25th.

  I gave them life. They give me heartburn.

  No presents this year, children. No presents.

  -Mom

  * * *

  Go, Go, Go, LUCY!

  Posted by: @Dad at 11:01 AM on December 20 on TheGrayBlog

  Ah, to be young again. Go, live it up, my girl. When you want something, you have to go for it. Like Tom Brady. You don’t win six Super Bowl championship games by sitting on the sidelines.

  Love, Dad

  * * *

  Lucy

  Posted by: @Charles at 12:12 PM on December 20 on TheGrayBlog

  If she calls anyone, forward her to me.