Performing

Part 6

Gary had once read that four hours was a single ‘cycle’ of sleep and you need two cycles to be fully rested. He’d never verified that but after four hours his alarm went off and he dragged himself up. Good for five or six hours, he thought. 

Breakfast. Bacon. Pork. Was it a ‘short pig’? Gary mused. He remembered to check his mobile. No calls, no texts. He took the SIM out, thumbed it clean and replaced it in the phone. Minutes passed, no joy. Gary went to get more food. He noticed the same woman who gave him a beer the previous night was still serving in the lounge. She must sleep here, maybe staff quarters or something. Either way, his shifts paled a little in comparison.

Gary caved eventually, calling Karen with a pinch of regret that he’d be the first. But he needed to apologise and explain about how things were looking up. Things were going to get much, much better. He could do one of this kind of job every few months and earn more than he did for full year at his current place. Wouldn’t that just solve everything? And then he could spend time putting the pieces back together, being more of the man she wanted. He managed to think all of those things before the voicemail kicked in. He left a short and simple message asking her to call.

With time to kill Gary defaulted to finding a pub.

Light was fading as he returned. Four hours, as many pubs and pints and not one of them to his taste. Even worse, his wallet was significantly lighter. But he’d resisted calling again and, even soaked in an afternoon’s worth of beer, a spark of pride and defiance buoyed his walk. He would call her again, just to check on her dinner plans. And if she was still getting an earful of man-bashing thanks to her harpy of a friend? Gary could go to the cinema, go out for a curry, he could do what he wanted. It was only a city and he wasn’t going to be put off by it any more.

Gary settled into the lounge and this time managed to avoid embarrassing himself by getting a drink with a nod and a smile. He could get used to this. After perusing the FT for five slightly confusing minutes he decided to make the call. Trish answered. It sounded busy, like a bar. Their conversation was short and to the point, Trish was drunk.

“…just don’t expect her in your bed tonight.” The line went dead.

What did that mean? He replayed the line over in his head. Where was the emphasis, was it the ‘your’? The ‘don’t’? That bloody woman, she’s got her hooks into Karen and run off on an all night bender in this city. He’d never find her, she’s not even got her own bloody phone if Trish is answering. Back home he could go to the usual places, he’d pick up a trail from someone, a friend. Most importantly he could check who she was with, but here? London sprawled in every direction, full of people, full of people with more money and better knowledge; and Gary hated not knowing. It infuriated him.

He went to the lounge toilet, brow furrowed and deep set. He registered his own face on the multi-mirrored wall. He knew he needed to calm down. He couldn’t control things. Without access to all the pieces, to Karen, he couldn’t fix things. He knew he needed to let go. He finished and washed his hands, staring at his own reflection. Yesterday he had seen an animal out of its natural habitat. Today he was looking at a beast caged. He tried to will the lines out of his face but the frown, the tightness, remained. Finally he cupped water from the tap and rubbed it into his face, massaging himself calm.

The door from the lounge opened. It was one of them. One of the two from the spa, from room 161. Now dressed very differently in a pristine black suit, white shirt and burgundy tie. Sharp, thought Gary, very sharp. Light glinted in his patent leather shoes, matched by the pearl smile of success spreading across his face.

“There you are! Come on you’ll miss the presentation.”