How To Hide A Body

How To; Avoid Small-Talk

The elevator ride up to the room was nothing short of traumatic. The nosy guy from the ride down had gotten back in and tried to make conversation, but my head was flooding with theories of how Jean could've survived. It was ridiculously impossible. 

"So, how long have you been married to your husband?" the guy asked. 

I ignored the question. Maybe Jean had taken some weird unknown antidote before I met him?

"Is he French?" 

Maybe he had worn some plastic coverage on his lips? 

"How long have you known each other?" 

One more question from this guy and I will cut him, I thought myself. 

"Where did you get married?" 

I whipped out my pepper spray from my boot and held it to his face, my finger was itching to press down on the button which would release the painful spray. I glanced at the elevator screen, which said we still had three floors to go. 

"I'm warning you, I hate small-talk!" I whispered, dangerously. 

"Are you threatening me with deodorant?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

For the hell of it, I pressed down on the button. It took a few seconds, but he finally started gripping his cheeks and yelling in pain. He tore at his skin, screeching. I regretted this decision almost instantly because such loud screams in such an enclosed space would definitely cause a migraine. 

Ping! The elevator went, just loud enough for me to hear. A couple was waiting on the other side of the doors and they looked on in horror at the sight before them. I decided to pull my best he-attacked-me expression. 

I put my hand on my forehead and shrieked, "he was harassing me! He was, he was-" I then 'fainted'. 

As I lay on the floor I wondered why I hadn't been in any Oscar award-winning films yet. I felt the couple surge forward. The woman fanned my face and muttered hurried French under her breath, while the man looked around the halls calling for help. He then went to the supposed attacker and slapped him across the face and shouted abuse at him, which made the screams just grow louder. 

When I heard the woman mutter, " De l' eau!" (water), I guessed she was going to pour some on me to wake me up, I decided to let my eyelids flutter open. This make-up took way too long to apply and I wasn't going to have her ruin it. 

"Émil! Elle se lève!" she called to her partner, then spoke to me in broken English, "are you okay? Zis man attacked you?" 

All I managed was a faint nod. 

"Where is your room?" the man asked, appearing in my peripheral vision. 

"He attacked me!" I repeated.

I didn't want them to know where my room was, I didn't want them to come knocking. Instead, I 'fainted' again. I felt the man pick me up and take me into the elevator -where the man was still sitting in the left corner clawing at his face, leaving red marks on his pale cheeks. Émil pressed a button, I guessed it would take me to reception, where I would be tended to. The receptionist would then call Bart who would insist that he take me up to our room. Then, this whole fiasco would finally be over.

 It was either the amount of champagne that I had drunk that day, or the shock that Jean had survived, or the fact that today had been purely exhausting, but I fell asleep in the stranger's arms. 

***

I awoke in my four-poster bed in my hotel room. I heard the familiar L'amour Du Cœur theme song coming from next door. The silk sheets didn't want to leave, but when I glanced at my phone which rested on my bedside table, it said it was one o'clock in the afternoon. 

I threw myself out of bed and flopped to the room next door, where I proceeded to collapse on Bart's bed.

"I know you say that you gotta leave the past in the past, but-" Bart said after a short silence which was only interrupted by the soap's actors. 

"Mhm?" I mumbled. 

"But, what on earth happened last night?! You left to go watch the kids leave, the next thing I know, you're unconscious in the hotel lobby?!" 

"You gotta leave the past in the past," I said, rolling over onto my back and placing my hands on my stomach, which was empty and begging for food. Sadly, I had missed the breakfast buffet. "Can we order room service?" I asked, trying to change the subject. 

"I brought you some croissants from this morning. I figured you'd be hungry," he pointed at his bedside table which had a beautiful plate of food haloed in the afternoon sunlight. 

"You have got to tell me what happened," he said pausing the show. 

For a few seconds, I was surprised that he had paused his favourite show so that he could listen to my weird story, but then I saw he had paused it because the adverts had started. 

I explained everything to him, exaggerating in all the right places. I told him that Jean had survived and told him about the whole elevator incident. To be completely honest, he wasn't surprised at all. Life is strangely weird, and after some time one starts to embrace that. 

I reached my laptop, which I had left under Bart's bed, and of course, there was an unwanted message from Steve McQueen. 

Well done! Three tasks completed. Ready for the next one? 

Of course. 

I didn't have to wait long until I got a reply. This guy was very eager, unlike most guys I have texted in the past. Why can't more guys be like this psychopath?

You're British. Therefore you must have seen Doctor Who at least once.

Again with the stereotypes. What has Doctor Who got to do with anything? 

Well, I am glad you know how to imitate an alien life form. 

I'm sorry, what? 

Task 4: Hack into NASA and send them messages pretending to be an alien. 

Just when I thought this little game couldn't get more ridiculous, you hit me with this. 

Just trying to keep it interesting. ;) 

"So, what's the next task?" Bart asked. 

"Oh, nothing special. I just need to hack into NASA and pretend to be an alien, you know, the usual." 

"What on earth-"

"I don't know why you're so surprised."