Hotel Indigo (11 page)

“I don’t know. Check the CNN homepage.”
 

“Don’t be a smartass, Marco. You know what I mean.”
 

“No, I don’t.”
 

I can guess, of course. I’ve had an unshakable gnawing in my gut ever since leaving Lucy White’s room. I’ve had two massage appointments — both in my cabana, as things should be — since then, but I can still feel Lucy on my fingertips. I keep seeing the way she looked at me. Even my workout, which I sacrificed my afternoon break to do, couldn’t shed my troublesome thoughts. I did the most brutal routine I could think of, a Russian squat progression that’s left me a bit nauseated and barely able to stand on my beat-to-shit legs. Still, I see the way things ended with Miss White, and can feel her accusations behind my boss’s stare now.
 

But I’m not volunteering anything. I don’t know if Lucy called down here to complain about me, or kept it to herself. If Booth plans to hang me, fine. I won’t hang myself.
 

“Lucy White.”

“What about her?”
 

“How did her massage go?”
 

So he doesn’t know. He’s fishing for answers, knowing only that something’s amiss.
 

“It went fine.”
 

“Roger says you were back in your cabana twenty minutes after going up to her room.”

“Maybe Roger should mind his own business.”
 

Booth raises his eyebrows.

“What if I came down to get some hot rocks? Or did Roger follow me around like the sniveling little weasel he is?”
 

“Did you?”
 

I consider. I can’t get away with this. Others surely saw me, too. “It was a short massage.”
 

“I’ll say. Kendall said that Miss White called down around the same time, maybe twenty minutes after you went up.”

“And? What did she say?”
 

“Nothing.”
 

“Well. That’s some damning evidence. I see why you called me in here.”
 

“Kendall says that Miss White called a few more times after that. That she seemed strange.”
 

“Based on what I’ve read about Caspian White, that family is strange.”
 

“What have you read?”
 

I shrug. I’m not exactly a news junkie. “More money than God.”
 

“And does that bother you, Marco?”
 

“Why? Does it bother you?”
 

“You went up there with a chip on your shoulder.”
 

“Because you cut my break.”
 

“In part. But I keep hearing buzz about things you say. Things you do. You dislike people with money.”
 

“Not at all. I hope to be one myself someday.”
 

I shift in the chair, more uncomfortable than I’m letting on. I’ve been waiting to be called in for hours, and now I’m sitting here as my expectations unfold. I can’t shake Lucy from my thoughts. I’ve felt her lurking behind my eyelids ever since leaving her room. The emotion is strange. It’s as if I fear being punished for something I didn’t even do, but there’s more to it. I feel a sense of something missing inside. Am I only worried about my job?
 

This feels like something more.

“Listen to me, Marco,” Booth says, and I can feel something coming. He readjusts both his body and his little folded hands, then sharpens his manner. Nobody — and I mean
nobody
— can condescend like Thomas Booth. I’ve seen him make chambermaids cry. I’ve seen him reduce strong men to yammering, unable to defend themselves against his verbal ninjutsu. “I don’t care even a little tiny bit if you don’t like the guests at this spa. I don’t care if you grew up poor, and if there was a group of rich kids in your school who used to wear fancy blazers and made fun of your short pants when you grew out of them too fast and your mommy and daddy couldn’t afford to buy you new ones. I don’t care if you’re haunted by visions of an orphanage in your past, where you used to take your tray up to the servers for another helping of gruel and they’d laugh in your face and push you around.”
 

“I’m not an orphan.”
 

Booth’s eyes say that I shouldn’t have interrupted. He continues his rant. “You’re my employee, and these people pay your salary. You only
deserve
that salary to the degree that you do your job in service of these people. And what is your job, Marco?”
 

“To give massages.”
 

“Wrong,” Booth snaps. “And I’m getting tired of telling you. Your job is to make these people happy. That’s it. If massages make them happy, great. But it’s the
happy
that matters, not the massage. So if someone wants a hot towel wrapped around her face during a massage, it’s your job to give her one. And if some shriveled-up old cooze feels happiest when you touch the places her husband ran away from decades ago, then that’s what you do. I don’t really care about your preferences, Marco, and I sure as fuck don’t care about your pride. If it amuses some VIP for you to run and get them drinks every five minutes until they pass out while yelling at you to move faster, then that’s exactly what you do.
Are we clear?
”
 

I fantasize about standing up, plucking Thomas from his chair, and hurling him through the window into the Zen garden. But then I think of Mimi, counting on me. And I say, “Yes.”
 

“Say it, Marco. Say that we’re clear.”
 

“We’re clear.”
 

“I don’t know what you did to Lucy White.”
 

“I didn’t do anything!”
 

“And maybe that right there is the problem. No
anything
at all. I’m thinking you just went up there, still pissed off at me, and went through the motions. You set up your table, said, ‘Get over here and lay down,’ then started beating her up like one of your old athlete clients. I think” — He makes a little pincer gesture by pressing his right thumb and forefinger together — “that you treated this hotel’s best and highest-profile guest like just another in the assembly line. No finesse. No niceties. And I think — let me know if I’m way off base here — that because of it, no matter what else is true, that Miss White did not
enjoy her massage.”
He enunciates the last three words carefully, as if they’re very important but hard to fathom.
 

“I didn’t—”
 

Thomas holds up a hand to stop me. “Do you feel,” he says, waving away all other concerns that might possibly enter the equation, “that Lucy White
enjoyed her massage
this afternoon.”
 

“She stopped it before I could—”

A bit more impatiently, hand still raised: “This isn’t a difficult concept, Marco.
Did she enjoy her massage?
Do you think that after you left, if there were someone else in the room, she’d have turned to that person and said,
Wow, I just had a really enjoyable massage! I can’t wait for the next one.
Do you?”

I want to keep fighting, because what he’s asking isn’t fair. If there was no massage, she couldn’t have enjoyed it. But I know Booth, and he won’t let me win this. The sooner I say what he wants to hear, the sooner it’ll all be over.
 

“No.”
 

His face is faux-surprised. “And why not?”
 

I meet his eyes, not replying. But finally he rolls them as if exasperated by my stupidity, then turns in his chair and stands.

“Our job, in hospitality, is to know what a client wants better than she knows it herself. And perhaps more subtly, our job is to
give her what she wants even if she’d deny wanting it
. You’ve been here long enough, Marco. I wouldn’t think I’d need to spell these things out for you.” Booth glances toward his closed office door. Then, in a quieter voice, he says, “Maybe you’re not aware of this. But these women? They want to fuck you.”

“Good for them.”
 

“Now of course, there’s ‘what they want but won’t admit’ and there’s ‘what’s reasonable.’ I’m not saying to give them
all
of what they want. Just make it safe for them to accept the
core
of their desires. Don’t make them ask, because they won’t. Just
give
.
Be generous,
Marco. You can be generous, can’t you?”

When I don’t respond, Booth goes on, now pacing.
 

“They want a big, sexy man. So be a big, sexy man. They want you to compliment their bodies, compliment their bodies. If they respond to something you’re doing, do it better. There are lines you shouldn’t cross, I suppose, but even if you crossed them, I’d never know.” He doesn’t wink, but he might as well. “You need to deliver on the experience they sincerely, deep down, hope to have with a guy like you, even if they’d never admit it. In brief, it’s the same thing I always say. You need to
make them happy.
In whatever way you can. Do I need to spell any of this out for you?”

I grit my teeth.

“When you went up to Miss White’s room, did you tell her how pretty she looked?”
 

I didn’t. I was sort of dumbstruck — probably because I was still angry with Booth. Normally I tell all the women how nice they look, but not with Lucy. It seemed so obvious. I didn’t need to tell her she was beautiful — how hot she strikes me even now, as my mind keeps putting her front and center — because it was something the world certainly already knew.
 

“When she was getting ready, did you take off your shirt and oil up?”

“I was in her room, not by the pool. It felt inappropriate.”
 

“You
determine
what’s appropriate. You set the mood. You lead, and she follows.”
 

“I don’t think she was into me.”
 

“They’re
all
into you,” he scoffs. “I don’t mean to be gay, but look at you.”
 

I grunt.
 

“Kendall gave her a restaurant recommendation a while ago. I watched her walk out. You didn’t see her, but she saw you. And
I saw
her see you. You should have seen the look on her face.”
 

I can only imagine.
Hate. Vitriol. Offense.
 

“I don’t know what you did to her up there, Marco, but I think it’s safe to say that you fucked up.” He bends over me, sinking his hands into the arms of my chair. “Now listen to me. Lucy White — sister of
Caspian Fucking White,
founder of GameStorming and on the cover of three magazines I have at home right now — has booked a week with us. But rather than sporting that delightfully dazed look most guests have after a few hours here, she seems to be teetering on the edge, and she hasn’t even spent her first night. That’s your fault.”

“You don’t know that it’s—”

“That’s your fault,”
Booth repeats, palms still on my chair. I can smell his breath. I can smell his aftershave. “But here’s the good news: I know you can be charming. I’ve seen it. You’re one of our biggest draws. You should be listed on the brochure:
facials, seaweed wraps, mani-pedis, and Marco Mangano
. Women line up for months to have you touch them and make them feel special. I wouldn’t have agreed not to split your tips if I didn’t believe you were magic.” His eyes grow serious. “But nobody is indispensable around here if it turns out they can’t do the job they’re paid to do — if they drop the ball when things matter most.
Nobody
. Do you hear me?”
 

“Thomas, I didn’t do anything. I just don’t think she likes me.”
 

“Everyone likes you. If you try.”

“I’ll avoid her. Others can make her happy.”
 

“You made the mess. Now you’ll clean it up.”
 

“But Thomas—”
 

“Lucy White is 23, single, straight, and looks from her LiveLyfe profile to be a fun girl. As far as targets for your formidable charms go, she’s an easy bullseye. You won’t even have to try. Find a way to make nice. Run into her and talk to her. Make her …
happy.”
 

I don’t like the way he stresses the last word.
 

“I’m not sure what to do.”
 

Booth straightens, takes a few steps, then looks back at me from the window. “Then I’ll make things simple. If Miss White checks out of this hotel without specifically mentioning you as a highlight of her stay, you’re fired.”