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“Thanks,” I told Rosie, “but I’d better wait.”
She pouted, shrugged, and drifted back to the bar. “Your loss, lobby man.”
It took forty minutes to reach the front of the queue. By then the flustered receptionist had gone off shift and been replaced by the night manager, a tall woman with short silver-blonde hair and a name badge that said ESME. Thirty-three at most, calm as a lake, the only person in the building who seemed to know what she was doing.
She looked at my booking, looked at her screen and sighed.
“Mr Byrne. I am so sorry. Somebody’s double-booked 714 and we are completely full.” She tapped a few keys. “I have one room left. It’s the penthouse suite. It’s not technically available because the bathroom’s being retiled. But the bed’s fine and so is the view.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Good.” She slid a key across the desk. Then she hesitated. “The bar’s closed, but I’m on until six and I’ve got a kettle in the back office, if you want a cup of tea before you go up. You look like you need it more than I do.”
The lobby was empty now. Rain against the big front windows. She had very grey eyes and she was smiling, just a little.
I looked at the key. Then at her.