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After stopping off for a chilled coffee, Beth walked back to the Francisquito and was sticky with perspiration by the time she got there. She showered again, slipped on the scratchy white hotel robe that had seen one wash too many, set her iPhone to wake her in two hours and slept fitfully.
When she woke, it felt like the gravity in the room had changed. She rose heavily, took some deep breaths to bring herself around and couldn’t think of a reason to delay any longer. She seated herself cross-legged on the bed and used the iPhone to post “Good luck with Beethoven 5” on Eileen Froley’s Facebook wall. She waited. Less than a minute later, a message appeared in the dialogue box.
Feeling hungry?
Am nearby. How soon can you be?
She expected her reply to momentarily startle them, but theirs was instantaneous: 10:30 reservation already made for tonight.
She was fully awake now. They already knew she was here. Had they watched her checking out the Oyster Shack? Had they followed her back to the hotel? She glanced over to the door and then quickly typed: How did you know?
When she’d waited for two minutes and there was no response, she climbed off the bed and quickly locked the door. Beth thought about the receptionist downstairs and how the lobby had zero security but her. Anybody could walk in. She listened at the panel. Somebody padded past, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. They carried on along the corridor, and she heard them descend in the elevator.
Beth picked up her shoulder bag from the back of the chair and took out the card for the Oyster Shack. It was gone five, and when the phone was picked up, a mature female drawl shouted the name of the restaurant over the commotion of happy hour.
“Hi. I’m just calling to enquire about a booking made for tonight.”
“A reservation?”
“Yes, do you have a table for 10.30?”
“Just a sec, honey.”
Beth heard the phone drop onto the bar and fingers rattling a keyboard.
“We have six reservations for 10.30. Do you want to add some people to your party? What’s the name?”
“That’s my problem. Someone I don’t know made the reservation. Can you tell me which names you have?”
“OK – I’ve got a party of six for Palmer...’
“No.”
“Then we have a party of two for Jordan.”
Beth felt like an insect had scuttled across her shoulders. “OK. Do you know when that reservation was made?”
“Sorry, couldn’t tell you. I’ve only just come on my shift. Do you want a bigger table?”
“No, thanks. I just needed to contact the person who made the booking. I don’t suppose you have their number.”
“We don’t take bookings without a number.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“Sorry. I can’t give out those details.”
“I do really need to get in touch with them.” She improvised. “I really don’t want to leave him sitting there on his own.”
“I see.” The waitress obviously thought she did. “Letting him down gently and you don’t know his surname. I shouldn’t really, but as it’s your table, I guess it can’t hurt.” The waitress read the number out. “Are you still there?”
Beth realised she hadn’t responded. It was her mobile number.
“Shall I cancel this table now?”
“No. That’s OK.”
“Good luck then. You’re not going to stand him up now, are you?”
*
Ramiro’s cell wasn’t loud, but strident enough to drag him back to the land of the living. He usually turned the ringer down before he slept, but after a long shift at the hospital, he’d just slipped into bed and unconsciousness. He tried to keep his eyes shut and stay half asleep but scrabbled for the phone on the nightstand.
“Hello?” He anticipated a familiar voice from the ward pleading for him to return earlier.
No response.
“Hello?” If this was his phone company trying to sell him a more expensive package... There was still no reply, but he was relieved not to hear the bustle of the ward. He could discern breathing, though. Then they hung up.
Ramiro switched on the lamp and tried to squint at the number. It had been withheld. He dumped the phone down on the duvet, sat up and rubbed his face. 5.33 in the afternoon. He’d only been asleep for five hours. But now he was wide awake. Once he opened his eyes, his brain immediately switched on. No gradual re-engagement, just the immediate spectre of all the study he still had to do. He might as well just catch the bus back to the hospital and go to one of the quiet recovery rooms to use the time constructively.
He spent most of his waking hours there. Ramiro only had three months left at Spring Valley and couldn’t wait to finish his radiology training and settle somewhere more permanent. He’d been careful with the money he’d expended on his temporary apartment and hoped to have saved for somewhere decent by fall. Unfortunately, that meant his current accommodation wasn’t in any way conducive to study or sleep.
His ears had already homed in on the kitchen fan of the Lebanese diner opposite and the daytime traffic on the freeway. And very soon the young couple upstairs would begin their physical assault of each other, whether it was fighting or another screw-a-thon.
Ramiro considered logging in and spending an hour chatting with one of his online girlfriends. One of the five would surely be available. Things were getting pretty intense with his thirty-something girl from Thailand. She was becoming a fatal distraction. Plus, he hadn’t been to confession for over three weeks and he’d lied to his mother about it. He would go the following weekend for absolution.
He trudged into the bathroom and looked at his pasty complexion and his normally dark, spiky hair plastered to one side of his head. Ramiro thought of what he’d do if he ever met the person who had crank-called him. It wasn’t very often that aggressive thoughts came into his head, but back-to-back shifts and sleep deprivation left him in short supply of his usual good humour. If he could just have a couple of minutes with them...
He trickled some water over his fingers and scrubbed his face, not realising that very shortly he would get his wish.
