mat. The automatic doors keep half closing on us, then springing open again as they sense the presence of bodies. I catch a glimpse, in the distance, of a plump blonde woman behind a desk. She is speaking, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.
‘Why “FATHER”?’ I ask Lauren, looking at her arm.
‘It’s my dad,’ she says.
‘Whose name is Wayne. Do you call him “Father”?’
‘No, course not.’ She giggles. ‘I call him “Dickhead” most of the time. I love him to bits, though. He wanted it to say “Father”. Wayne could be anyone, couldn’t it? It was my birthday present to him, for his fortieth. He’s always wanted me to have his name tattooed somewhere on me. Somewhere decent – he’s not like that, or anything. Lisa had one saying “Husband” at the same time.’
A low rumble is making its way towards us from the reception desk through the crowd of bodies: the sound of mass discontent, growing louder as it approaches.
Bad news.
The first distinguishable words I hear come from the American woman with the dyed red hair, who is standing about a metre in front of me: ‘They can’t do that. They can’t make us.’ She turns; of course she does. In this kind of situation, people know it’s their duty to pass on the misery as soon as they’ve received it. ‘Unbelievable! They haven’t got enough rooms,’ she tells all of us who are behind her. ‘Anyone who’s on their own has to share. With someone they’ve never met before!’ She lets out a cackle of outrage and throws up her hands. ‘I can’t see Hugh Grant anywhere in this crush, so . . . I’m out of here, gonna find a hotel with room service, satellite TV and a spa. I’m done with Fly4You.’
She’s saying all the things I want to be saying. Except the bit about Hugh Grant – I’d prefer the young David Bowie, but he’s not here either. I want to be walking away, like the redhead, out of this crappy hotel. So why aren’t I? I
can’t
– cannot, will not – share a bedroom with Lauren.
I feel something around my wrist. Her. She’s handcuffed me with her fingers again. ‘Don’t you even think about it,’ she says tearfully. It ought to sound like an order she has no right to give me, but all I hear is desperation. Something bad has happened to her, I think suddenly. It isn’t only the delayed plane. She’s traumatised; that’s why her reaction to hearing that the flight had been rerouted to Cologne was so over the top.
Something to do with her reason for coming to Germany. Maybe something to do with a murder.
Does her mother know what’s wrong with her? Is that why she told Lauren to make sure she stayed with me? Is the former Mrs Wayne Cuffley, first wife of “Husband”, so worried about her daughter that she’s pinning all her hopes on a woman she’s never met?
‘Promise you won’t go off and leave me,’ Lauren hisses reproachfully, as if her imagining my betrayal and it happening are one and the same.
‘I promise,’ I say blankly. Part of my brain has gone numb. There’s no way out. A sleepover with Lauren Cookson in the worst hotel in Europe. No point thinking about it. Not when you have to do it.
She lets go of my arm. ‘That’s all right, then.’
It is as far from all right as Cologne is from Combingham.
‘We’re lucky, we are.’
‘Are we?’ If we are, I must be suffering from cognitive dysmorphia.
‘We’re together,’ Lauren says. ‘A lot of these poor sods are going to have to share a bedroom with a total stranger.’
4
10/3/2011
Simon was making coffee for Regan Murray, spilling water and granules everywhere. Subconsciously-deliberately, Charlie guessed, so that he’d have to waste ten minutes cleaning up after himself, and perhaps make the drink again because his first attempt was a mess. Waste wasn’t the word Simon would have used: in his book, if it succeeded in postponing a difficult conversation, it was time well spent.
Was there any reason to assume the
‘Why “FATHER”?’ I ask Lauren, looking at her arm.
‘It’s my dad,’ she says.
‘Whose name is Wayne. Do you call him “Father”?’
‘No, course not.’ She giggles. ‘I call him “Dickhead” most of the time. I love him to bits, though. He wanted it to say “Father”. Wayne could be anyone, couldn’t it? It was my birthday present to him, for his fortieth. He’s always wanted me to have his name tattooed somewhere on me. Somewhere decent – he’s not like that, or anything. Lisa had one saying “Husband” at the same time.’
A low rumble is making its way towards us from the reception desk through the crowd of bodies: the sound of mass discontent, growing louder as it approaches.
Bad news.
The first distinguishable words I hear come from the American woman with the dyed red hair, who is standing about a metre in front of me: ‘They can’t do that. They can’t make us.’ She turns; of course she does. In this kind of situation, people know it’s their duty to pass on the misery as soon as they’ve received it. ‘Unbelievable! They haven’t got enough rooms,’ she tells all of us who are behind her. ‘Anyone who’s on their own has to share. With someone they’ve never met before!’ She lets out a cackle of outrage and throws up her hands. ‘I can’t see Hugh Grant anywhere in this crush, so . . . I’m out of here, gonna find a hotel with room service, satellite TV and a spa. I’m done with Fly4You.’
She’s saying all the things I want to be saying. Except the bit about Hugh Grant – I’d prefer the young David Bowie, but he’s not here either. I want to be walking away, like the redhead, out of this crappy hotel. So why aren’t I? I
can’t
– cannot, will not – share a bedroom with Lauren.
I feel something around my wrist. Her. She’s handcuffed me with her fingers again. ‘Don’t you even think about it,’ she says tearfully. It ought to sound like an order she has no right to give me, but all I hear is desperation. Something bad has happened to her, I think suddenly. It isn’t only the delayed plane. She’s traumatised; that’s why her reaction to hearing that the flight had been rerouted to Cologne was so over the top.
Something to do with her reason for coming to Germany. Maybe something to do with a murder.
Does her mother know what’s wrong with her? Is that why she told Lauren to make sure she stayed with me? Is the former Mrs Wayne Cuffley, first wife of “Husband”, so worried about her daughter that she’s pinning all her hopes on a woman she’s never met?
‘Promise you won’t go off and leave me,’ Lauren hisses reproachfully, as if her imagining my betrayal and it happening are one and the same.
‘I promise,’ I say blankly. Part of my brain has gone numb. There’s no way out. A sleepover with Lauren Cookson in the worst hotel in Europe. No point thinking about it. Not when you have to do it.
She lets go of my arm. ‘That’s all right, then.’
It is as far from all right as Cologne is from Combingham.
‘We’re lucky, we are.’
‘Are we?’ If we are, I must be suffering from cognitive dysmorphia.
‘We’re together,’ Lauren says. ‘A lot of these poor sods are going to have to share a bedroom with a total stranger.’
4
10/3/2011
Simon was making coffee for Regan Murray, spilling water and granules everywhere. Subconsciously-deliberately, Charlie guessed, so that he’d have to waste ten minutes cleaning up after himself, and perhaps make the drink again because his first attempt was a mess. Waste wasn’t the word Simon would have used: in his book, if it succeeded in postponing a difficult conversation, it was time well spent.
Was there any reason to assume the
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