Exchanges & Departures
I was wearing my best overcoat. It was green, and a bit faded at the elbows, but still perfectly serviceable for tonight. I was painfully aware that my bag looked anything but new, but at the same time, I had a feeling that she wouldn’t really be concentrating on a bag. I smiled at that thought and then immediately wished I hadn’t.
Lowering my eyes to the ground, I controlled the quirk of my lips and made my face a perfect blank. Trusting myself to look up once more, I glanced at the digital clock above the constantly-changing train times. Sixteen fifty… I stopped myself from looking at my watch and worked it out mentally - ten minutes to five. Right. Sighing, I shifted slightly and watched the green lines flicker to fifty-one. Fifty-two, fifty-five, why did I have to be early for everything? I knew she wouldn’t be early, but I had to turn up half an hour beforehand anyway. Just in case.
The words haunted my lips as I mouthed them in a whisper. Being late was worse than not turning up at all, my da’ always used to say, although I never quite found out exactly why that was so. Just took it for gospel, as I did with everything he ever said to me. In a way, I suppose that’s why I was there - in Manchester Victoria - waiting for her. Rusty old belief in my da’.
She’d told me to look out for a red beret, which amused me at the time, but then, I was always too deeply involved in Doctor Who and no-one ever got my jokes. Least of all handsome-sounding young ladies in red berets. I knew well enough not to suspect that she would also be in army uniform, but my mind insisted on imagining it anyway, and I saw no harm in indulging. She’d sounded so… well, professional on the phone. Almost snippy. She definitely knew what she was talking about, anyway, and that’s what counts.
Fifty-nine, seventeen hundred and I caught a glimpse of red bobbing through the briefcases in black. My heart skipped a beat reminiscent of older days with my wife, and I shifted from foot to foot eagerly. What would she look like?
Oh. Like that. The red beret sat atop curly black hair in what she probably thought was a jaunty way, but it looked as if it was going to fall off at any moment. Her heels were pointed and about as thin as my little finger and her rusted red pencil skirt was far too short for a woman her age. She looked about forty, and I must admit, I was slightly disappointed.
She raised her hand when she saw me - we’d agreed that my coat would be green and my bag brown for recognition - and I waved her over, stamping my disappointment down deep and replacing it with what I hoped was a sunny smile.
“Mister Henry Lewis?” Her voice was as economical in reality as it had been on the telephone.
“That’s me,” I said. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Nelson.” She just stared at my outstretched hand, so I dropped it back to my side and shifted uncomfortably.
“It’s Miss,” she emphasised the s sound as if her tongue had got stuck between her teeth, and I smiled, abashed.
“Sorry.” I felt like a schoolboy being told off. Definitely didn’t like her, which probably wasn’t conductive for why we were here. Never mind. You don’t have to like these sort of people, after all. “Are we doing this here?” I ventured.
“Don’t be stupid. And call me Samantha,” she set off at a brisk walk and I gaped at her back.
“Well, where -”
“There’s too many people.” She didn’t even turn to speak to me, just carried on walking regardless. I shook my head and followed, determined not to let her get the better of me.
“That does make sense. Where are we going, then?"
“A hotel.”
“Oh. Which one? The Crown’s quite close.”
“Not there.”
“Oh. The Hilton, then?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.” She finally looked sidelong at me, her forehead creased in a frown. “You ask a lot of questions, Henry.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s ok.” She sped up a little and we crossed a road almost without looking. It was like she was trying to escape from somewhere, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.
“Are we being followed?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, you’ve been looking around a lot. And you walk very quickly.”
“It’s a cold day. And no, we aren’t.”
“Oh. Right then.”
“There’s the hotel. Come on.” She marched through the door, across the polished floor, set a packet of papers on the reception desk and turned to face me. “This is the Crown Plaza Hotel,” she tapped her heel on the floor and looked thoughtful for a second. “This floor is real oak.” I looked at her, bemused.
“Oh, is it really? How… lovely. I think.”
“Wooden floors are rarely oak, Henry,” she looked down at it and I almost caught a hint of wistfulness on her hard face. “Anyway.” She rang the reception bell once, resoundingly. I felt sorry for the bell.
“Nelson and Lewis party,” she told the receptionist, who smiled and took the papers.
“You’re in room two hundred,” he said. “This is your key. Just slot it into the door and you’re sorted.” Samantha took the offered key and set off towards the stairs, without waiting for me once again.
“We’re not going in the lift?” I had a sinking feeling that room two hundred was on the fiftieth floor or something ridiculous.
“Exercise is good for you.”
“Well, yes. I suppose.”
“Keep up.” I sighed and followed, but I couldn’t quite keep up and she frowned at me again as I puffed to the final landing.
“You clearly don’t do enough exercise.” I sighed and just nodded, too out of breath to reply. “The room’s this way,” and off she went again.