6

The Disappearing Guest

As we pulled up under Celtic Manor’s oversized portico, men in red and gold plus-fours swarmed around the car like we were visiting royalty, opening both doors simultaneously, one of them grabbing Mimi’s keys before she could say ‘pin high’.

We handed over the car, waved them away and linked arms to show our determination to get through the revolving doors without any further fuss.

We found ourselves in a vast, glass-domed atrium with six white, curving balconies towering above us like an over-the-top wedding cake. I felt about as far out of my comfort zone as a child starting school, but Mimi was already striding confidently towards a long, oak reception counter in the far corner.

“I’ve got a lunch meeting with Megan Tomos at midday. Could you give her a buzz and say Mimi’s here?” she told a receptionist, as cool as anything.

If the young woman was ever trained in the dark arts of discretion, she was having an off day. Instead of pretending to check the system to see if there was such a person registered – which would have been the normal thing to do – she said, “Just a minute,” and went into a whispering huddle with a colleague. I couldn’t make out most of what they were saying but Megan was mentioned like they were on first name terms.

Turning back to us, the colleague – an older woman with a European accent I couldn’t place – said firmly, “Megan Tomos is not staying here at this time.”

This possibly wasn’t strictly a lie, but I didn’t see much point in getting into the nuances of what she meant by ‘staying’ or how precise she was being about time.

Mimi, on the other hand, seemed ready to tear them apart, which would have been entertaining but wasn’t likely to get us very far.

I decided to step in with, “That’s odd. We’re due to meet her here, but maybe she hasn’t checked-in yet. Could we leave her a note?”

The older receptionist wasn’t having that either.

“No, we can’t take a message, sir,” she said. “I’m sure if you have a meeting with Miss Tomos, she will either turn up or you will have some other means of contacting her. You arranged the meeting, yes?” The question was obviously rhetorical but I gave her a nod to confirm I realised this conversation wasn’t going anywhere.

Steering Mimi with me, I turned to head back across the atrium with the thought we might sit on one of the plush settees in one of the many bars to take stock.

“Tossers!” Mimi said, en route.

“Well, they were helpful in as good as confirming she’s here or she’s been here,” I said.

“Of course she has. That receptionist practically had a sign on her forehead. So what do we do? Hang here all day in the hope we bump into her ladyship?”

Hanging wasn’t quite the word: we had just landed our backsides on one of the settees and were sinking so fast I thought we would need a crane to get out.

“We may as well have something to eat – I’m starving,” I said, reaching with difficulty for a menu from the nearby coffee table.

The only other person in this space looked nearly as out of place as I felt. He was sitting in the next but one group of settees fiddling in turns with a smart phone and a small notepad. He wasn’t wearing either the casual clothes of a golfer or a business suit. Maybe I was stereotyping the guests of a five-star golf resort, but his zipper-jacket, stripy blue shirt and grey trousers didn’t look the part.

A waiter appeared and asked how he could “help us today”. I was tempted to say, “as opposed to when?” but that was just me feeling grumpy and there was no point taking it out on the waiter. A quick glance at the menu reminded us we ought to watch the pennies until our expenses payments from Megan were more secure. We ordered two coffees.

The zipper-jacket man was, meanwhile, being chatted up deferentially by a man wearing a black jacket, grey trousers and white shirt with a tie in the same colours as the plus-fours. He had to be hotel management. Zipper-jacket man nodded in our direction and the hotel manager sat down and leaned towards him so that he was speaking directly into his left ear from only inches away. With another nod from zipper-jacket man, the hotel manager stood up and walked over to us.

“I’m sorry, you can’t wait here,” he said in slightly exaggerated home-counties English.

There was no stopping Mimi this time. “You’re kidding me, right? You are kidding. What sort of hotel is this?”

The manager looked indignant. “We’re the sort that doesn’t allow journalists to ‘door-step’ its guests, whether they’re here or not – that’s the sort we are, Miss.”

Mimi was on her feet now, which was quite an achievement given her sunken starting point. “I’m not your Miss, and we’re not journalists, and we’re certainly not ‘door-stepping’ anyone,” she said.

“Who are you then?”

“That’s actually no concern of yours, but just for the record, we work for the athlete Megan Tomos and we’re waiting to meet her.”

The hotel man smirked – I assumed to show he wasn’t convinced, never mind impressed.

By this point, I had managed to push myself up into a standing position. For the second time in twenty-four hours, my dilemma was who had more to lose by making a scene? I doubted the hotel manager would get the men in plus-fours to drag us across the atrium, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk reading headlines saying, ‘Olympic coach thrown out of five-star hotel’.

“Okay. Look, I’m Megan’s coach,” I said. “My name’s Liam McCarthy.” The man was still smirking. “I don’t really care whether or not you believe me, but I’ll only leave here quietly if you give me your word you’ll tell Meg. I need to speak to her as soon as possible. Tell her to call me or find me at The Priory.”

“As you’ve been told, Miss Tomos isn’t…”

Mimi and I had started to make our way out of the hotel. “Yes… got it – she isn’t here,” I said over my shoulder. “But, if she does suddenly appear, you’ll tell her, won’t you?”

The manager was already walking back to zipper-jacket man.

Mimi looked at me quizzically. “The Priory?”

“It’s the only other hotel I know in Newport,” I said. “It’ll have to do because I’m definitely not leaving Newport now – not until I know what this is all about.”

“But The Priory?” she said.

“No, not that Priory.”

“But, Liam, it’s an unfortunate choice in the circumstances, and something else for the tabloids to conjure with.”

We pushed through the revolving doors to find one of the plus-fours men looking smug and hovering next to the Mimi’s soft-top with the key in his hand. Mimi took it from him, jumped in the car and was accelerating past a convoy of buggies before my bum had hit the seat.

“Reckon that guy in the zipper-jacket was a copper?” she said.

“Yes, but maybe I watch too much TV,” I replied.

***

I’d stayed at the Priory a few years earlier on my only previous visit to Newport for a coaching course – long before I’d even heard of Megan. All I could recall about the hotel was that it was in a village with a Roman connection. Signs with a silhouette of a Legionnaire helped. Following them took us over an old stone bridge into the cosy, narrow streets of a village called Caerleon.

The Priory was as I remembered it, a rambling stone building that lived up to its name. It felt like the monks hadn’t long moved out. We booked two rooms for one night, still clinging to the hope this was just a 24-hour aberration.

“Unusual place,” Mimi said, as we went back out to a row of cottage-style rooms opening directly onto the gardens behind the hotel.

Mimi followed me into my room and slumped into one of the armchairs. I paced around a bit – checking out the bathroom and the toiletries and the sachets of tea – for want of anything else to do.

“I hope this doesn’t go on much longer – I’m running out of knickers,” Mimi said.

This was information I didn’t need. “There are shops in Wales, you know,” I replied, suspecting she thought civilisation ended at Hampstead.

Mimi waved a dismissive hand and sighed. “This is beginning to feel like one of those dreams where you’re falling and can’t grab hold of anything,” she said. “I just can’t get my head round what’s going on. There’s the Megan we knew and loved a week ago, and now there’s this Meg who’s a complete mystery. What’s going on?”

I had no answer, but I was thinking we needed to find out more about Will. Earlier, a desire to keep a lid on things had put me off getting in touch with any of my athletics contacts in Newport. But now, with Megan still AWOL, desperation was setting in.

“We need some local knowledge,” I said, sitting in the other armchair opposite Mimi. “I think our best bet – maybe our only bet – is a coach I know, a guy called Terry Gibbons. He’s been around Welsh athletics for as long as I can remember.”

“And you trust him?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know him that well – I wouldn’t call him a mate – but what have we got to lose?”

Mimi had switched her phone on and was trawling through some texts. But she gave me a vacant half-nod that I took to mean ‘yes’.

It took me the best part of an hour searching online to find an email address for Tony and send him a one liner asking him to call me.

Mimi, meanwhile, had checked dozens of voice messages, emails and texts about Megan. The vast majority were from journalists chasing for a comment on the Olympic team announcement, with no sign that they had yet picked-up a whiff of Megan’s latest disappearing act. But there were also five voicemails from Jackie ranting in ever more colourful language about Megan’s treachery and irresponsibility and the panic that was emerging among sponsors.

“I can’t face talking to Jackie right now,” Mimi said. “I’m not a frigging therapist.”

“I’ll do it,” I said, surprised at my chivalry.

Mimi was right. Jackie mainly needed therapy. She was handling the sponsors as best she could, sticking to the line that Megan was ‘under the weather’ and there was nothing to worry about. But she was fuming about Meg’s no-show at the photo-shoot that morning. Under the weather or not, the sponsor wanted pictures of Britain’s golden girl draped in their latest range of clothing, and they weren’t going to get off Jackie’s back until she’d delivered.

“What the hell’s up with her?” Jackie was saying as another call came in. Thinking it could be Terry, I cut her off and took it. I was right. After pleasantries and dancing around the Megan situation, we arranged to meet that evening at a country pub a few miles from the village. He said it had a beer garden, and we’d be able to find a quiet spot, which reassured me he understood the sensitivities.

“Good – that’s something,” Mimi said with renewed enthusiasm. “Right, I need food and a bath, in no particular order.”

I was developing an ever-greater admiration for Mimi’s spirit but, beyond two sorry looking biscuits on the tea tray, I couldn’t help her on the hunger front, and I assumed she wasn’t suggesting we share my bathroom.

“Piss off to your own room,” I was about to say as my phone started vibrating with another call, but I actually said, “Shit! It’s Meg…” fumbling so badly I almost cut her off.

Within seconds, I was beginning to wish I had. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” was her opener. “Things are bad enough without you stalking me. I told you yesterday I was going to sort things out, and that’s what I’m doing – in my own way – and I don’t need your help. Got it? This is private. And that’s it.”

She paused for breath, and I jumped in, trying to sound calm. “Look, last night we agreed your schedule for the week and then the next thing we know, you’ve disappeared. What were we supposed to do?”

“Trust me, Liam. How about trying that?”

I didn’t want to say anything to make it sound like I didn’t. “I want to help, that’s all,” I said.

“Look, Liam – I don’t want your help. Nothing personal, you’re a great coach, but you know jack shit about my life. So don’t meddle. Please. Don’t meddle. I’m telling you, it’s none of your business… Just go back to London. I’ll call you. Okay? I’ll call when I’ve sorted this. I’ll call…”

Her voice tapered, like she was welling-up, and I thought she was going to break down. But the phone went dead, and Mimi and I were left staring at it as if we could somehow will her to call back.