Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Every time I talk to her it feels like I’m waiting for the penny to drop. For her to sense something. Catch me out. For what, I don’t know. Apart from a sprinkling of white lies, I’m not sure I’ve done anything wrong. I don’t know if I will. I don’t want to. I can’t imagine hurting Becca in that way. Not on purpose. These are the things I keep telling myself. I’m good at that, at forcing myself to believe things that hurt less.
When it’s time to leave, I take a moment by the open door of my hotel room to look back and say a mental goodbye to what has been my home for the best part of five weeks. I’m going to miss the mattress, especially. On the drive to Laurence’s hotel, I decide our impeding break could be a good thing. Maybe spending time with Becca is exactly what I need.
The term midlife crisis can’t be an anecdote. Words and terms become labels for a reason. I’m aware of the sheltered life I’ve lived. I went from doing whatever I was told as a child because I was too afraid not to, to doing whatever my girlfriend-turned-wife wanted because my brain had been trained that way. Perhaps these last few weeks have been a delayed teenage rebellion. I’ve been forced to make my own decisions. Been given a taste of freedom. I’ve been living two-hundred miles away from my responsibilities. Maybe, succumbing to the adventure of it all for a little while was only natural, but it will pass as quickly as it came once I get back into routine with my family.
If this is a midlife crisis, crises, by definition, don’t last forever. A crisis leads to a turning point. There’s only one decision to be made when you reach it. Choose. What now?
Which path?
Which life?
I don’t feel nearly well-dressed enough to be walking into Laurence’s hotel. It’s posher than mine, which was already fancier than any I’d ever been in. There’s a doorman posted on the front dressed in a navy overcoat and Pershing hat. I’ve only seen such a person on TV. I expect him to stop me, tell me I don’t belong here, but he gives a small courteous nod and steps to the side.
There’s no sign of Laurence or Andrew Cobbe. The place is enormous, but I scan the entire lobby. I feel self-conscious in my plain shirt and black pants. Everyone else is dripping in money. Their clothes look like Laurence’s clothes. Different, somehow. Finer. I head up to the front desk, tell the smartly dressed lady with the rimless glasses who I’m here to meet, and then wonder if I should have been given some kind of code name. Celebrities do that, so I’ve read.
“Mr Walker?” she asks.
I nod, looking around, feeling stares on me that probably aren’t there. “Yeah.”
“I have a message here from Mr Cole,” she says, looking down at her monitor. “It says your guest is delayed, and you can meet Mr Cole in his room. He’s on the twenty-first floor. Suite Two.”
“Oh. Right.” I look over my shoulder, try and work out where to go. “Do I just…head up there then?” To his room? To be alone with him…
“The lifts are just past the bar area to your right,” she says with a smile. “I can get someone to accompany you if you like?”
“Uh, no. No, I’ll manage. Thanks.”
There’s an attendant in the lift dressed similarly to the doorman outside. He even presses the button for me. I don’t know whether to feel sorry for him. What a boring job. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow me out to knock on Laurence’s door. On reflection a couple of minutes later, I wonder if it may have been a good idea, because I haven’t summoned the courage to do it myself yet.
“Jesus Christ, William,” I whisper to myself. “You see this man every fucking day.” I start taking deep breaths. Roll my shoulders. I’m almost ready.
Until…
“Are you gonnae stand out there all night or what?”
My stomach falls through my arse. How does he know? Instinctively, I look around…and notice the security camera above the door. My head drops in embarrassment. For fuck’s sake.
I raise my fist to knock on the door, but it swings open before I reach it. “You could’ve told me you were watching,” I tell him. I’m sure my face is on fire.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
I push past him, enter what can’t be classed as a hotel room because it’s the size of an actual apartment. “You’re a wank…” The scene before me steals the rest of my sentence, and what’s left of my breath. There’s a table adorned with candles and flowers, wine glasses and place settings.
Two place settings.
“I…may have brought you here under false pretences,” Laurence says from behind me, his hands appearing on my shoulders.