The MacDonald Burlington hotel looked nothing like Esmé imagined. Esmé envisaged that her arrival at the grand establishment would be on a warm summer’s day in June. Where she’d step from a glistening horse drawn carriage, in a beautiful bridal gown and glide through the entrance hall upon the arm of her new husband. They’d smile inanely and be met by the sweet smell of honeysuckle and delicate white roses amidst a cloud of gypsophila.
Instead, she stood alone, at ten minutes to ten, on a dark chilly March night staring up at the intricate masonry of the hotel façade, where sculptured ladies with pert breasts and scanty togas frowned at her from a great height. Esmé grimaced. She’d heard enough excuses from Andrew regarding pert breasts and cheap decoration.
Behind her, New Street railway station hummed with the busy footfall of travellers despite the late hour.
‘When did an impromptu hotel stay become part of my Thursday night plan?’ she muttered, as she dragged her overnight case towards the marbled lobby.
According to her schedule, she and Andrew should have consumed the champagne, dined on cordon bleu food and now be making the most of clean sheets and mood lighting. Instead, she was standing before the impressive reception desk booking a two night stay which felt awkward but necessary. Esmé watched the kindly features of the pretty receptionist prepare her plastic room key.
How many young women with red raw eyes and a hurriedly packed case had the uniformed blonde checked in this evening?
Having refused a morning paper, an early morning call and a continental breakfast in bed, Esmé handed over a suitable credit card and haphazardly scrawled her signature.
She stood in silence, appreciative of the receptionist’s swift and precise booking routine, plus the speed with which she relayed the serving times for breakfast and ironically, bade her a cheerful ‘good night’.
Room 325 was unlike the room Esmé had planned to sleep in tonight. Kicking off her shoes, she flopped onto the double bed, ruining the arrangement of decorative satin pillows.
A large abstract painting hung above the bed. An image of orange and blue swirls forming huge arcs of colour upon a square canvas.
‘That’s what my brain feels like,’ muttered Esmé, twisting her head from left to right to make sense of the image.
Her argument with Andrew replayed in her head, word for word.
‘How could you, after all we’ve gone through together?’
Silence. His dark eyes had darted around the room avoiding her direct gaze.
‘I trusted you. I gave you everything and you repay me like this!’ Esmé had flung her arms around emphasising the ‘everything’ element, making sure he was following her rant.
Silence. He’d loosened his tie, then stood dishevelled after a long day at work. Esmé could make out the tiny shaving nick on his chin that must have occurred after she’d left for work this morning. In her mind’s eye, she could see him grabbing toilet tissue and applying a torn corner. He’d have been agitated, sworn and eaten his breakfast whilst bare chested, hoping the tiny cut would dry and scab before chancing his white shirt collar near it. She knew him that well. Or did she?
‘Who is she?’
He’d answered immediately. Sadie. Esmé instantly hated the name, adding it to the shit list of her life. Sadie-from-work. Esmé’s mind ran a photo-fit of each female she’d met at the airport’s annual Christmas bash or recent retirement parties. Sadie didn’t appear in the attractive line-up.
Esmé imagined her as leggy, svelte and naked. Andrew had reluctantly confirmed naked sometime last week upon their cotton sheets while Esmé and Co. completed their annual inventory at Stylo Stationery.
Esmé hadn’t waited for an apology as he pocketed the earring for safe keeping. Instead she’d verbally launched at him with accusations and hurtful name calling. Her questions had come thick and fast. Where? Why? When? How? She’d hardly given him a chance to answer before the next question was launched like a warped version of Mastermind. He hadn’t ‘passed’ on any question.
‘Are you leaving? Or am I?’ On reaching question number two hundred and nineteen Esmé had fallen silent. There was nothing more to ask. She waited for his reply, a simple shrug was all he could muster.
What should she do? Demand that Andrew leave the apartment immediately? But did she want to be here alone? It wouldn’t feel right, it wouldn’t feel like home, not now.
She’d never walked out on a relationship before, let alone her home. Should she call her parents to collect her a.s.a.p. and bring a transit van to haul her belongings back to their house in Sheldon? Finally, amidst her rising panic, and before Andrew’s staring gaze she thought of a new question.
What would Carys do in this situation? Esmé knew instantly. At twenty-nine years of age, having shared half her life alongside Carys, Esmé knew what she would do. Cool, calm Carys would take charge, she’d stand no nonsense. And, neither would Esmé, not this time.
Exhausted, tear-stained and hungry Esmé had grabbed handfuls of her underwear and a fresh set of clothes and stuffed them into her overnight wheelie-case before hastily leaving apartment nine.
She scurried back over the interconnecting canal bridges, closely followed by the distinct rattle of tiny plastic wheels, and made her way into the city centre seeking a bed for the night. She dashed past the early evening drinkers, the winos and other arguing couples silhouetted by lamplight.
She needed space to think. Apartment number nine offered no such luxury whilst Andrew breathed in and out. And her parents’ semi-detached would instantly become a melting pot of parental smothering should she land there at this late hour.
I’ve done the right thing. I’ve taken control and removed myself from the upset. Andrew.
It’s what the A-list celebs do in times of trouble according to Penny’s trashy magazines. Frequently, amidst a relationship crisis, the rich and famous jet off to Dubai or some other far flung corner of the globe to find solace on a sun kissed beach. How many times during coffee breaks had they pored over a grainy image, shot with a long-distance lens, showing a model in oversized sunglasses in paradise. Now, Esmé was the damsel in distress. Thankfully, the paparazzi would never be interested in a gal from Brum with red eyes and dashed hopes.
Esmé imagined her parents’ spare room and its trendy wooden futon with creaky slats and scratchy orange padding. What a joy that would be to snuggle up on each night. Maybe she should stay schtum rather than tell her parents?
Calling anyone right now would only complicate matters. They wouldn’t be able to resist adding their point of view which would swirl around in her mashed head – much like the abstract painting in orange and blue.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as her heart grew heavy.
Was there any chance that this would pass? Any chance that she could look at Andrew’s hands and not imagine them caressing another woman? Was there any possibility that she could ignore the basic facts? Andrew had admitted he had kissed, held and…
Esmé couldn’t bring herself to name the act.
A fresh bout of tears erupted.
This wouldn’t pass.
Tomorrow, their seventh anniversary, instead of smooching along Vyse Street she’d be holed up here where she’d relive tonight’s discovery a million times before lunch. The shock would begin to lift and by morning the hurt of his lies, the loss of seven years and her new found hatred of a stranger called Sadie would surely descend at break neck speed.
Clambering to her feet, she plodded to the large window, pulling aside the cream voile and staring at the busy street below dressed in its finery of neon lights and looming shadows. A miniature world of busy lives dashed back and forth along New Street, wrapped up in their own existence and unaware of her pain and tear-stained scrutiny.
Had the caterers delivered their evening meal? Esmé recited the gourmet menu: lime infused chicken satay skewers, sumptuous steak Diane (basic but Andrew’s favourite) followed by huge rum babas smothered in thick double cream.
Esmé shook her head to erase the image as if it were the Etch-a-sketch from her childhood.
She picked up her mobile and speed dialled ‘Gourmet Delights Ltd’.
‘Hi, can you confirm if a delivery has been made to apartment nine, Symphony Court?’
‘Lady, we’re closed. No more orders until the morning,’ came the distant voice.
‘Please, I need to know… was the Nixon order delivered?’
‘Hold the line, please.’
Please say no, please say no, please say…
‘Lady, yes. Delivered at 9:15 p.m. as instructed… the lady signed for it. Goodnight.’
‘Lady… what lady?’ asked Esmé. The phone line went dead. ‘I left the apartment ten minutes before…’
The bastards! Those two had hooked up and hunkered down on her tailored menu, enjoyed her chilled bubbles – he deserved everything that would be coming to him. Would Sadie move in straight away or would he show some decorum and wait long enough for Esmé to remove her tampons and razors from the bathroom cabinet?
‘There’s no going back… not after tonight,’ she muttered to the busy lives below. She watched a young couple holding hands and laughing as they walked along the street. How happy, how cute and yet, potentially destructive. How much time and happiness did they have remaining? Esmé craned her neck as they disappeared from view and her breath misted upon the window as her weekend plan emerged.
Tonight, she’d be brave. She wouldn’t land on a girlfriend’s sofa with a huge sob story – no, she’d bide her time. No rash decisions. No knee jerk reactions. The very thought of calling either Marianne or Penny crucified all her engagement dreams – Monday morning’s coffee break announcement and drinkies in Bacchus bar were officially cancelled.