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Hugo
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.
The stress ball in my pocket felt clammy, and where normally it would have alleviated some of the panic in my chest, today it seemed to add to it.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.
My fingers gripped the now familiar shape, my hand sore from working the ball for the last half an hour. A soft, squidgy monstrosity,it had once resembled an overweight llama but was now a pinkish blob. Llama or blob or whatever, it wasn’t doing its job of keeping me sane. Not that I was that insane, but anyway, it was just something to do with my hand. Something to concentrate on when I had to do these long, quiet hours at work. It was still early in the morning, though, and I was already going mad.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.
It may have seemed like the perfect job, working in one of the largest hotels in central London, a posh glass newbuild with its open plan lobby housing a chandelier worth millions that was supposedly a modern art installation. Art. Not in my book. That chandelier gave me nightmares and was heavy enough to crush me like a bug should it come loose from its fitting a few floors above my head. Another thing that made me stupidly anxious.
I’d lied when I said I wasn’t insane. I was. Totally.
Because of course, the ornate, wooden concierge desk was situated right underneath the main part of the chandelier, placed at an angle next to the imposing staircase that led to the conference facilities on the mezzanine floor. So here I was, dressed in my black morning suit, white shirt, black tie and sleek, grey trousers, my name badge and crossed keys neatly pinned on my lapel. I may have looked professional and smart, but I was walking around right underneath the death-defying glass…thingy…and I hated it. I hated all the shiny glass and the twinkly rays of sunshine making the floor glitter like a massive disco ball.
Whoever had designed this place needed to spend some time in a mental institution.
I grinned to myself, still pacing the floor. Backwards and forwards, squeezing the blob in my pocket as I nodded politely to one of the cleaners.That was me. Hugo Burrows. One of the concierges at the Clouds Hotel, Westminster, the perfect business hotel for the discerning traveller.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.
The Clouds Hotel, perfectly situated on the south bank of the River Thames with 894 luxurious rooms, extensive facilities for our guests to rest, conduct business, entertain and be pampered was high-class luxury for the cost-conscious in the best location in town. And, of course, we were mindful of our carbon footprint. The hotel recycled seventy-eight percent of its waste. See? I knew my handbook by heart and had swallowed the Clouds Customer Service commitment like the bitter pill it was.
I was actually really good at my job. I could tell someone to Foxtrot Oskar with a simple twitch of my face while my mouth would deliver the Clouds Hotel vision to our esteemed customers with the high standards that they’d expect, thus ensuring repeat custom. Told you I was good. Not that I had to tell many people to Foxtrot Oskar since most of our customers were too tired and stressed out from travelling or working or whatever, and all they wanted was their key delivered in the fastest manner possible with as few words and as little interaction as the reception staff or I could manage. Nobody wanted the overbearing dude behind the concierge desk to cramp their style or overwhelm them with whimsical nonsense they hadn’t asked for. Still, everyone had to pass me on the way to the lifts, the bar or the quirky restaurant on the lobby floor that masqueraded as a French-style bistro, when in reality it was a highly cost-effective, overpriced sandwich bar.
Again, in my humble opinion, which I kept to myself unless our customers asked for my recommendation, in which case I’d discreetly guide them towards Imogen’s across the square behind the hotel, where I’d get commission on every penny they spent.
It had been a steep learning curve, but I’d worked my way up from being a lone receptionist on minimum wage at a flea-infested hovel in West London, then detoured via a few budget hotels until I landed myself a cushy maternity cover at a Notting Hill boutique hotel, where I’d built up my little black book of contacts and learnt the ropes from the savvy concierge I’d shared my desk with. The Greenwood Hotel had seemed like heaven at the time, but then…it hadn’t turned out to be sustainable. At least the contacts I’d made meant I’d been here in my best suit applying for the opening to join the Cloud’s team of high-class concierges before the HR department had even typed up the advert for the job. I’d nailed it as well, with my impressive résumé and glowing references. Well, we all knew how it worked in the hotel industry.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.
I set off on another round of the lobby floor, clockwise this time. I’d been here since five o’clock this morning. We were fully booked and down five waiters for the breakfast service, and because I was the numpty who struggled to say no to anything, the maître d’hôtel had once again roped me in for an early start to help setting up. We had posh French names for things here. The maître d’hôtel was just a glorified headwaiter, really. But anyway.
It was now seven-thirty, and the lobby was eerily quiet, the breakfast room hosting only a few tables, which was unusual for a weekday like this.
“You okay?” Rafaela, the reception manager on duty, asked as I rounded the pillar in front of her for the third time in less than twenty minutes.
“Bloody bored. Where are all the people? Is nobody going to work today?”
“So impatient.” She smiled and winked. “Be grateful. Any minute now, we’ll be completely snowed under with checkouts. You all set for havingyour own line over there? I’ll get Reuben to help manage the queues once they start building up.”
“I’ve assigned the VIPs, checked the airline crews, packed the key cards, and everyone has a free drinks voucher.” I babbled on while she answered the phone and nodded.
There were some interesting people working here, and most of them were decent. The doormen were like some bloody secret society and had their pockets lined with gold compared to us concierges. Ask them anything, and whatever they couldn’t get you delivered, they’d have a mate who could. Our guests might have thought that those guys were underpaid dogsbodies, but Stewart had worked here since opening day and drove a flashy BMW. Reuben was his kid and Luis his cousin, and Isaac went to school with James, and Rafaela was married to Luis, so yeah, you couldn’t just rock up here and ask for a doorman job. Tighter than a pair of tights, that lot.
The receptionists were a nice bunch, though. There were a few oldies who’d hung around for years, the yearly management trainees who got pushed into taking all the unpopular shifts and, of course, the up-and-comers, the ones who’d come in as green newbies with chips on their shoulders and elbowed their way up the career ladder with no concern for whoever they crushed on their way up.
Up, up, up.
I squeezed the stress ball again and sighed with relief at the familiar ding from the lifts, followed by the sound of suitcases rolling across the marble floor as I legged it back to my desk ready to greet them.Taxi to the airport? Certainly, sir, which airport?Another idiot.There are at least five different airports used by the fine city of London, and I would hate to send you to the wrong one.I didn’t say that out loud, of course, just smiled and reached formy work mobile, typing the airport code for Heathrow to Ahmed, who I knew was parked first in line outside in his flash Mercedes.
“Checking out, sir?” I smiled, reassuring the guest that his taxi was right outside. See? Service. That’s what earned me the twenty-pound bill pushed into my hand as the guest stepped outside and I nodded to Reuben, who effortlessly swung the gentleman’s suitcase into Ahmed’s open boot. We were a well-oiled machine, Reuben and me, the two of us waving cheerily as the car set off down the pompous hotel drive.
“Hugo, you owe me,” Reuben growled in my ear while smiling sweetly, his hand still raised in a polite wave.
“Not my side of the doors,” I hissed, bumping my shoulder against his.
