I have always been drawn to hotels.
Call me commitment-phobic, but I love their eternal temporariness, their anonymity, their fluidity and flux. They seduce you without expecting your heart and soul; your home expects time and attention, but your hotel only wants your money, and only for as long as you care to give it. You can walk up the steps as plain Jane Smith and enter the lobby as Lady Furcoat-Noknickers; the hotel does not care what you do, or with whom.
A luxuriously appointed building full of people escaping reality can brew a heady atmosphere – I should know; I've worked here for four years now. Few of the comings and goings here pass me by. Especially the comings.
It all started so innocently.
A delayed train, an hour to kill. I was halfway to the queue for styrofoam-flavour sludge before I stopped myself and the idea sparked. I could spend my dead minutes on a spit-drenched platform staring at time ticking by on the 'Next Arrival' screen. Or I could spend them in the hotel across the road, drinking half-decent coffee and reading a complimentary magazine.
It was almost one o'clock, so I wouldn't stand out too much amidst the lunchtime rush – if I could find a comfortable chair in a quiet corner, I could pretend to be a bona fide businesswoman meeting a client or something. It would be fun; a tiny masquerade to enliven a dull wait.
This particular hotel was of the swankier variety; a row of international flags flapped above the plate glass, and uniformed doormen stood on sentry duty either side of the revolving entrance. I wondered if they had to remain impassive and still, like Beefeaters, but one of them unbent and smiled at me when I trotted past, intent on getting through the revolving door without a pratfall of some kind.
Sophie Martin, bored office drone and unsuccessful photographer, pushed her hand against the glass.
Sophie Martin, supercharged business bitch, stepped out on the other side.
Not that there was any telephone-box-whirlwind-style action going on in the revolving doors – all it took to turn from drab to diva was exposure to the seductive particles of the hotel lobby air, weighted with possibility and chance and choice and an undertone of wickedness.
My heels click-click-clicked on the marble lobby floor, passing the curved Reception desk, catching a haughty lip-curl from its pointy-nosed custodian. She wouldn't be looking askance at me once she knew exactly who I was, I told myself grandly. I would have her lilac-rinsed head on a platter.
I strutted into the bar, carpeted now so that my heels were muffled, found a corner with an armchair and a copy of some style glossy and sashayed straight over.
Within seconds, a waistcoated waiter was taking my order, hovering and fawning in a manner I could imagine myself getting quite used to. The prices were steep, but when you considered that a morale-boost came with your cappuccino, perhaps they were worth paying.
He was a few years younger than me, maybe twenty or so; the rude whiff of barely post-adolescent testosterone clung to his white shirtsleeves and poorly shaved chin. I wondered what he would do if I flirted with him.
'Do I get anything extra with my cappuccino?' I asked him, dropping the level of my voice a notch or two and hoping it would make me sound like Lauren Bacall. I raised one eyebrow, a forefinger tapping my lower lip to pull it down to a pout.
He coughed slightly. 'A biscotti, Madam,' he said, the tips of his ears reddening. 'And chocolate or cinnamon sprinkles.'
'Oh, cinnamon, I think,' I drawled, striving to keep my voice on the sexy side of forty-fags-a-day. 'I always prefer spicy to sweet, don't you?'
I almost laughed at my own cartoon vampishness, but it seemed to be doing the trick for him. He flushed beautifully and scurried away, leaving me to terrorise him with my eyes over the rim of my magazine until the coffee was ready.
The room was filling up with conference attendees on a lunch break: lots of men in suits talking loudly into mobile phones and gesturi
ng over to whoever was getting the round in at the bar. Mmm, I thought, stretching a leg beneath my table and rotating my ankle slowly. I do like a good suit. Some of these were very well-cut indeed; I wondered what the conference was about. Were they bankers? IT consultants? Estate agents even?
My question was met with a question.
'What did you think of that session? Not enough statistical evidence, I thought; bit too much reliance on the anecdotal.'
A man slid into the armchair opposite mine, placing a plastic wallet of papers on the table between us. Through the green shade of the cover, I could just make out the words 'Probate Law'. Ooh, a lawyer, I thought; I've never met one of those before. Though if this one is anything to judge by, I should get myself arrested more often.
Everything about him was top-of-the-range, from the haircut down to the polished Italian leather that peeked from the crossed trouser-leg. The voice was warm and smooth; an asset if he was a barrister. Even as I looked up and smiled back, I tried to picture him in one of those horsehair wigs and a black cloak; it proved to be a surprisingly sexy image.
'Oh, I'm not here for the conference,' I said, flicking the page of my magazine.
'Really? Meeting someone? Am I intruding?'
'No, no.' I waved him back down to his sitting position. 'Just taking a breather,' I told him.
'Right. I thought I hadn't seen you in the meeting room. My attention was wandering a bit from the flipchart, and I'm sure it would have rested on you.'
Wow! He was flirting with me. A man who knows how to wash and earns a wage flirting with me! Unheard-of in the annals of my experience. I had to wonder what all that pure new wool would smell like. Not to mention that subtly tanned skin, from which a hint of expensive aftershave was drifting over, activating my saliva glands.
He had beautiful hands as well; I could picture them gesturing in court. I could also picture them on my hip, my belly, my thigh. All in all, the effect he had on me was instant and acute. I found myself leaning forward, crossing my legs so that my skirt rode a little higher, just to the point where the elasticated part of my hold-up stocking might be a teensy bit visible.
'What's the conference?' I asked. 'Charm school headmasters?'
He laughed, throwing his head back, oh, Adam's apple, oh, deep, rich laugh, oh. I took advantage of his moment's lapse in eye contact to slip open my top button and put aside my magazine. I wanted him in the most sudden and violent way. I wanted to touch the fine cotton of his shirt, open it wide and see if what lay within was as luxurious as its cladding.
'No,' he said eventually, his bright blue eyes damp with mirth and . . . something else. 'Solicitors. I specialise in soliciting.'