Freddy’s mood of optimism did not last. By the second week in the Gatwick hotel he was no nearer to finding a solution to his problems and was going stir crazy, alone in that dreary room. He had acquired a prepaid bankcard and loaded it with some of the cash he’d stashed from the casino visits. It was a start, but it wouldn’t get him a rental property, a job, or his wife back. And the more he read the lengthy business plan he’d bashed out on his laptop for a recording studio in Sheffield, the more ludicrous it sounded.
For three whole days he didn’t leave the room, barely got out of bed, didn’t shave or wash, didn’t eat except KitKats and nuts from the minibar, didn’t even look at his phone or his computer. He shot the bolt, put the Do Not Disturb notice on the doorknob and rejected all pleas from the chambermaids to service the room, from the minibar staff to check the fridge. Images of his father kept intruding into his waking thoughts and into his dreams on an endless loop.
The message from Vinnie Slater was crystal clear and always the same: You are worthless. No amount of name-changing, no amount of distancing himself from the Leicestershire pub and his father (even lying to Lily about him), no amount of accolades for his recording studio, no amount of hobnobbing with high society and frequenting the most fashionable watering holes in the world was enough to erase that powerful, lifelong message: You are worthless.
Freddy had reached rock bottom. He had no energy left for another bout of invention now his previous incarnation had been exposed and dismantled. Medicating himself at the tables involved more money than he had. He was finished.
He wished he could just fade into oblivion because he wasn’t brave enough to kill himself, he knew that. Too many of his friends had strung themselves up in hotel rooms – on the heated towel rail or the hook behind the door. One had even blown his brains out on Christmas morning while his family were downstairs opening presents. Freddy had been shocked and baffled by their desperation – they’d all seemed to have so much to live for. He understood better now, but still he didn’t have what it took to end his own life. So he lay there, nothing existing beyond the darkened, airless room except the sound of the planes’ muffled roaring overhead, his body so inert, so numb, that he might as well have been dead.
*
‘Mr March? Mr March, are you all right?’
Freddy, waking from another fitful sleep, heard the banging.
‘Mr March, please can you open the door? I need to come in.’ The male voice was insistent. Freddy threw back the covers. He felt dizzy as he staggered across the room in his sweaty T-shirt and boxers.
There was more banging, this time heavy and threatening. ‘If you don’t open up, I’m going to have to call Security,’ the voice said.
Freddy released the sprung-metal loop and the door flew open, surprising the overweight, middle-aged man in a cheap suit who stood in the corridor next to a slim blonde woman in her twenties – one of the chambermaids, he assumed.
‘Mr March?’ the man said, stepping back. ‘I’m Jason Crawford, the hotel manager.’ He attempted a smile, but was clearly dismayed by Freddy’s appearance, looking him up and down with barely disguised aversion. ‘My staff were worried. You haven’t been responding. Are you ill?’
Freddy brushed back his hair, aware that his beard must look pretty ferocious by now. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, with his most polished accent. ‘I think it must be the flu. I literally haven’t been able to lift my head off the pillow. I don’t even know what day it is.’ He looked around, as if the featureless corridor might give him a clue.
Mr Crawford’s face relaxed slightly. ‘Would you like me to call a doctor, Mr March? You really don’t look at all well.’
Freddy smiled. ‘That’s very kind, but I think it’s passing. I feel a bit better this morning. Is it morning? I’ll attempt a shower and some breakfast and see how it goes.’
The manager nodded. ‘Right. Please call down if you need anything.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure how long you plan to stay with us?’
‘Nor me. It’s been a bit of a nightmare. I had a flood – the water tank in the attic burst, drenched the whole place. But things are moving, my builder tells me. I shouldn’t need to be here much longer.’ Implying he lived somewhere nearby, he prayed Jason Crawford hadn’t checked the register and noted the fraudulent Sussex Square address he’d used.
But the man nodded sympathetically. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, sir. I’m so sorry about the flood, nothing worse. If you feel strong enough to sit in the lounge for half an hour, Tina here can freshen up your room for you.’
By the time Freddy got rid of them and shut the door, he was feeling as if he might faint. He lay down again on the fetid, rumpled sheets and took stock. There was only one course of action open to him.
*
‘Freddy?’ Max sounded delighted to hear his voice. ‘What the fuck? Why didn’t you return any of my calls, you lazy bastard?’
Freddy laughed, a hysterical bubble of relief bursting through his chest.
‘You still in Malta?’
‘No, in a grisly Gatwick hotel.’
‘You just got in?’
‘Been here a few days, checking the lie of the land.’
‘And? What’s the plan?’
Freddy sighed.
‘Did you get a job? Where are you going to live?’
As if it were that easy, Freddy thought bitterly.
There was silence for a moment.
‘Well, it’s good to have you back. I must have called you a million times.’
This was true, but Freddy had had nothing worthwhile to say to his friend. ‘Listen, Max—’
‘Come and stay. We need to talk,’ Max interrupted.
Freddy swallowed hard. ‘Seriously? Can I? That would be so brilliant.’ He knew his voice sounded pathetic, almost childishly eager, but to know he could get out of this place, be among the living again, see his friend . . . It made him want to cry.
‘Hey, don’t be weird, man. Of course you can stay. See you tonight? Julie’ll be over the moon.’