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Chapter 16
When we get back to the hotel at around five o’clock, we’re greeted by a scene of absolute chaos at reception. There are people with suitcases milling around outside, and a long queue has formed at the desk indoors. I can see our bags, stacked with a load of others in the corner of the room.
“So much for secure storage,” I mutter to Toby. He rushes over to check that his camera bag is unmolested, and the relief on his face as he hoists it onto his back is palpable.
There are now two people behind the counter, but the second one doesn’t appear to be doing anything apart from handing pieces of paper to the same receptionist we met earlier. She looks harassed and is gesticulating a lot when she speaks. The queue is moving agonisingly slowly, and people don’t seem to be leaving once they’ve completed the check-in process. Instead, the group milling around outside appears to be getting larger and larger.
Our turn comes at last, and I explain that we’ve already checked in and we just want to pick up our keys. The receptionist shuffles through her papers, and then barks an order at her sidekick, who retrieves two keys from the rack on the wall. She hands them to the receptionist, who shoves them at us.
“Wait for the porter. He will show you your room,” she orders.
I look at the large group outside, who I now realise are probably all waiting for the porter, and decide against that idea.
“We only have a couple of small bags,” I say to the receptionist, “why don’t you just tell us where our room is, and we’ll find it.”
“Wait for the porter,” she repeats, more insistently. “He will show you.”
“Why can’t you just tell me where it is?” I press. I can see my intransigence is annoying her, but I have no intention of backing down. I’ve never been in a hotel anywhere where they have refused to tell me how to find my room.
She obviously senses that I’m not going to let this go, as she grabs the keys back off me and turns them around so she can read the room number.
“Room 38. Ground floor. Go across the car park and you will find it,” she tells me, bad-temperedly.
I rustle up my sweetest smile for her. “Thank you.”
The room is another aspect of the hotel that is nothing like my previous visit. I have a memory of a bright, airy room with a comfortable king-size bed and a separate seating area. This one is a characterless box, and the only natural light comes from the glass-paned sliding doors that open onto the car park. As we’re on the ground floor, our only choice is either to leave the curtains open, in which case every passer-by will be able to see into our room, or close them and plunge the room into darkness. Thankfully, they do at least appear to be thicker than the curtains my Northern friend from earlier had described. Toby is flicking light switches, but nothing is happening. I wonder if this is a trick, whether there is some hidden switch that the porter flicks as you tip him, to give you electricity. As if by magic I spot him walking back towards reception, and hurry to intercept him.
“Excuse me,” I say politely, “can you tell us how to make the lights work in our room?”
“Power cut,” he replies, without breaking his stride. “No electricity in hotel. Try later.”
“Why couldn’t the receptionist have told us that?” I ask Toby once I’m back in the room. “She must have been aware. And why is everyone here so bloody surly and rude?”
“It gets better,” he replies. “Check out the bathroom.”
I push open the door of the bathroom, but it jams against the shower cubicle before it’s fully open. It’s very dark in there, but I can just see the basin, with a mirror over it. There’s no sign of a toilet.
“If you’re looking for the toilet, it’s behind the door,” Toby informs me. “You have to go in, close the bathroom door, and then wriggle your way down the gap between the shower cubicle and the wall.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I reply. “I’ve never seen a bathroom so small.”
I realise that I do actually need to pee, so I close the door and am instantly plunged into total darkness. With a couple of muttered oaths, I stick my hands out in front of me and feel my way down the wall until my shins hit the hard surface of the toilet bowl. Slowly I turn around, ease down my shorts and bikini bottoms, and gingerly lower myself until I come into contact with what I hope is the seat. While I’m peeing, I feel around to see if I can locate the toilet roll, but without success.
“Did you see where the loo roll was?” I call out. “I can’t find it.”
“It’s on top of the cistern,” Toby replies.
I feel round behind me and I’m relieved when my hand lands on the familiar shape. I wipe myself, pull up my bikini bottoms and shorts, and manage to make it back into the bedroom without incident, just as the lights come on.
“This place is idiotic. I can’t believe they managed to fool me so comprehensively last time,” I remark an hour or so later, as we’re getting changed out of our swimwear for the evening. I no longer feel uncomfortable being undressed around Toby, and he continues to take absolutely no interest in me. He also seems totally unfazed by it now, and happily parades around without a stitch of clothing on. I can’t say I mind, as I have to admit to myself that I quite enjoy the view.
Once we’re dressed, we make our way up the stairs to the pool bar at the top of the hotel. I look around at the other rooms and spot the one I think I stayed in last time. It has a nice balcony looking out over the pool and I can see the seating area through the large window. The sun is starting to set, and Toby takes a few photos out across the bay while I get the drinks. There are plenty of sun loungers available now, and we park ourselves on two. Toby professes that his beer is fine, if a little watery, but my gin and tonic is foul. I don’t know what they’re using for gin, but it tastes like paint stripper and I set it aside after a couple of sips. There’s a convivial crowd by the bar drinking what look like cocktails, so I decide to chance my luck with one of those instead. This time the bar keeper pours from a variety of unrecognisable bottles, before topping it off with some unnamed fruit juice and lemonade. Cautiously I take it back to the sun lounger and take a sip. It’s almost unbearably sweet, with a rough undercurrent of cheap alcohol.
“Taste this,” I say, offering it to Toby.
He eyes it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“It’s what that group at the bar are drinking. It’s called a Corfu Sunset, apparently.”
