*Jenna's point of view*
To absolutely no one's surprise, Monica was "coincidentally" in London for a photo shoot at the exact same time we were. I understood Michael's wish to sort things out with her; honestly, he just wanted her off his back once and for all. I wouldn't let him go alone though, heaven knows what that girl is capable of. The band only had two shows here, so we were supposed to be on a plane to Ireland tonight. Therefore, Michael and I had no more than a few hours to find Monica, talk to her and get back. Joey gave us the adress of the hotel she was staying at and her room number. We were currently patiently sitting in a cab, neither of us in any rush to get there. Personally, we wouldn't even be here if we didn't agree that Monica had really gone too far this time. She usually just went to stomp on our relationship, which I would've liked better, given that that was now impossible to do. We got too attached, not even she could drive us apart. But aiming for his career and reputation was crossing the line.
The car came to a halt in front of a massive skyscraper. As I stepped out, the first thing I noticed were the bold, lilac letters at the enterance, spelling out 'Hotel Devlin'. To no comfort at all, we were at the right place. I heard the cab engine spring to life as the car ran off again with a screech. Looking over my left shoulder, I could now see Michael frowning at the enterance to the building. He noticed me staring at him and, almost like he read my mind, nodded.
"Are you sure?" I asked carefully, "You know you don't have to do this, if you don't want to."
"Yeah, I'm sure. I mean, this has to end somewhere, right?" he said, his voice barely audible, yet somehow rough.
I nodded. We just stood there, the peaceful, partially cloudy afternoon hovering over us. Deciding there was no more point in postponing it, we entered the building slowly, hand in hand. We walked straight into a sensibly small room. It held the reception desk in one corner, a couple of comfortable-looking armchairs in the other and many doors leading further into the hotel. We made our way through the semi-crowded room to the reception desk. There were a few people before us, checking in or out, but within 5 minutes, we were in front.
"Good afternoon," said the woman, who was about in her mid-fourties, flatly. She had small, beady eyes, framed with a pair of glasses and graying hair. "How may I help you?"
"We're here to visit Monica Davis, room 401," Michael answered.
"Name?" the woman said, picking up the phone on the front of her desk and quickly dialing a number.
"Michael Clifford," he said impatiently.
The woman suddenly lifted her head, staring at Michael over the top of her square glasses, as if doing a double take. Moments later, she nodded and clicked the speakerphone button. The loud beep was interrupted by a muffled but familiar voice.
"Miss Davis," said the woman, "You have vistors."
"Who is it?"
"It's Michael Clifford," the woman at the reception said, almost smirking under what seemed to be her standard grumpy expression. There was a flat thud from the other side of the line, like something hard being dropped to the floor. After the silence that followed, we heard Monica again, a hint of amusement in her voice, "Let him in."
The woman hung up and flashed us her version of a smile, which looked very unpleasent to me, it was almost menacing, "Feel free to use the elevator, Mr and Mrs Clifford."
I choked, but said nothing as the elevator door opened to lift us to the 10th floor. I didn't like that woman at all, any more that I liked the idea of seeing Monica again. Michael's grip on my hand tightened when the door re-opened. The only person more nervous that me must've been him. We made small steps to a room marked '401', but didn't enter right away. The fingers of Michael's free hand lightly brushed over my cheek as he offered me his 'everything-will-be-okay' smile. I've seen that one quite a few times, it's my only sunlight on a dark day. I returned the gesture with a quick peck on his cheek. With that final reassurance, Michael rang the doorbell, not once letting go of my hand.
