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1
Ifeel the heat pulse through my skin. The slow uncomfortable drip of sweat runs down between my shoulder blades.
There is a moment when it comes to running, I call it the point of clarity. Where my body adjusts to the push and finds this almost serene equilibrium of present and not present.
The point of clarity is the feeling that got me hooked on running; the first time it happened it felt like an out-of-body experience. Where all of my being was throbbing with life but my mind was almost detached, my thoughts not confined to the actions, just a complete separation.
My coach told me that not all athletes feel that way; for many, they have to endure that pain, that physical exhaustion with no relief, and it instantly made me appreciate my mind more. It was a few years later that I realized that running had become more than just a passion and an outlet, it had become my addiction.
I focused and built my entire life around athletics. Rising through the ranks from Juniors into the adult women’s teams, living for the meets, a dedicated focus on training for the next event, qualification, medals. What they don’t tell you though is that talent, ability, dedication…it doesn’t mean so much if you don’t have a team, sponsors, money. Everything costs so much, and the moment you leave college you get an abrupt awakening that you have to do it all yourself.
Track and Field is just not where the money is at. Unless of course you are a superstar. Or unless of course, you are the ‘right’ kind of athlete to attract the big sponsors.
I’m neither. I’m the nearly athlete. Good, but not the best; I don’t have the bundle of Olympic Gold Medals. I’m attractive and clean living, I know I look good on the track and in the gym, but I’m not the girl the sponsors want on their ad campaigns- I don’t have the instagram presence and the ability to self promote that they want from me.
This is why at 28 years old I share a downtown apartment with three others, work at a hotel bar six nights a week, and do everything I can to secure more money to fund more events and continue following my dream.
I feel my calves really burn as I power up the steps to the fourth floor, that final push to make it through the front door is always a killer, but one that really makes me feel that ache in my legs. As my key turns in the door, I can hear the shower running and I try my best to hide my disdain as I make my way down the hallway, tapping slightly too loud on the locked door.
“Milly, it is 2.05 pm. This is my scheduled bathroom time!” I shout through the door.
“Whattt!?” she shouts back even though I know she heard every goddamn word and I KNOW she knows this is my time.
“I said …IT IS NOT YOUR FUCKING SHOWER TIME. YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES BEFORE I CUT THE WATER.”
I know it sounds harsh. But we had carefully mapped out four, thirty-minute slots when it came to the shower times that worked around everyone’s schedules, especially when it came to work times, and the thing was, I had to adjust my run time to the middle of the day, which generally meant facing the most people in the park and the blazing hot sun in the summer. So, when Milly—who had demanded her slot with zero amount of compromise then proceeded to take everyone else’s when she felt like it—it well and truly pissed me off.
A good five minutes later she pads out of the bathroom, still dripping, with steam covering the walls and windows. “Jeez, Alexa. You weren’t here so I figured I had time to nip in. No need to get all salty.” I bite back a comment and instead dive into the newly freed bathroom so I can feel the pound of cold water against my aching limbs.
I have forty-five minutes until my shift starts at the Luxe Hotel. Luckily, I live about three minutes away, which makes up for the time it takes for me to adhere to their stringent appearance code. Front-facing staff are hired as “career models” and I use air quotes with the title very sarcastically. They include the name model in the job title for the simple fact that it gives them some scope to fire us based on appearance. For all other intents and purposes, I was just a barmaid in a posh hotel.
Due to my focus on nutrition and training for my track career, the weight and size rules are never an issue. I weigh the same, right down to the pound, as I did when I started there six years ago. My uniform is perfectly cared for by my Grandmama. I drop my shirts, a-line skirt, and stockings off Monday morning and collect them Tuesday afternoon when I have my weekly lunch with her. The biggest issue for me is hair and makeup; I’m sporty-femme as opposed to girly-femme. Luckily, my immediate boss is not a complete asshat. After six years, and watching the rest of the staff come and go with a myriad of issues, he accepts that my eyeliner may not be on fleek but I’m never late, never sick and I always do a great job.
We have a few approved hairstyles to choose from, though I generally opt for the sleek-up pony, and makeup rules have been filed away in my head as something I will never learn. I simply do the same thing every single day and hope it passes the appearance test.
My long, thick, dark hair is wrapped up high on my head, drying in my towel as I survey myself in the mirror. I know physically my body is at its optimal peak. My chin gets its sharpness and my cheekbones get their angles from my mother. My dark hair really contrasts with my big blue eyes, making them pop against the paleness of my skin tone. That is the feature people most notice and take a second glance at. That is why I have a front facing job in one of the top London hotels that usually only employs models.
I sponge foundation onto my face, it’s so light against my skin I may as well not be wearing any, but I know I will be thankful for it when 2am comes and the dark circles really shine through under the mood lighting. A smear of pearly eyeshadow and a flick of mascara is the most adventurous I get. I have seen a hundred YouTubes and endless TicToks on how to apply false lashes, how to blend four shades across your eyelid for a dark, mysterious smokey look … but whenever I try, I just look like a clown.
So, I stick with what I know, the only real flash of sexy is the smudge of red across my top and bottom lip. It isn’t exactly in keeping with the code, but with my dark curls and alabaster skin, it changes my whole face, giving me an edge and making me look a lot more sophisticated than I perhaps feel. In reality, as soon as I see myself in the mirror with that signature smear of red lipstick, it feels like a mask, an identity I can hide behind so I don’t have to admit that this temp summer job I had laughed about years ago is now my actual career.
I slip my feet through the sheeny fabric of my stockings and then slide into demurely sexy black kitten heels. The good thing about working in a fancy hotel bar is that the uniform is all provided. I only have to take care of it, which I do, but the quality is high which makes it easier. Wearing heels is not a favorite of mine, but luckily these are just as comfy as some of my trainers.
I grab my bag and purse as I whirl out the door, annoyed at myself that I didn’t make anything to eat. I would have to go beg Jorge in the kitchen for something when my stomach started to rumble.
I take the back streets so I can enter the hotel through the staff entrance. It is frowned upon for staff to take the front door anyway and it’s always hit and miss as to who might show up at a hotel of this stature. The last thing I want ten minutes before my shift is to get tangled in a paparazzi storm because someone famous has showed up. And those guys are absolutely ruthless. Not famous? Then you’re totally disposable and be prepared to take an elbow in the ribs so they can get past you.
The Luxe Hotel is the epitome of indulgence. I don’t even take cash at the bar, it is card or room only—we don’t handle something as dirty as money. I usually work alone except on the weekends or if there is an event. There are some regulars, mainly businessmen, and when I say regulars there isn’t a pattern to when they prop up the counter, it’s more just returning faces. The décor is expensive. Cream leathers, polished glass, and mirrored surfaces. My bar is kept perfectly stocked with exclusive expensive spirits that would cost my paycheck for a bottle of.
My job takes no thought these days. I can whip up a Sidecar cocktail without skipping a beat. I have perfected a Mojito to the point that I could make it in my sleep. If the bottles are half an inch out of place, my fingers know when I reach for them. The part that requires thought is the people side of things. Tips make this job pay way better than terrible. Some nights I’ve earned more in tips than from a whole months paycheck, but it requires effort to get tips like this. It often requires giving more of myself than I might wish to give. Perhaps some people have a natural ability to read others. To know who wants to flirt, who wants to chat, who needs silence, who looks like they needed silence but are actually craving attention… It isn’t a talent I possess. (or perhaps want to go to the effort of developing.) My default is nonchalance. I do my job with impeccable calm precision. I don’t raise an eyebrow or stumble at the most ridiculous requests I receive, I soothe the egos, flutter my eyelashes, and offer the softest of smiles.
A few hotel guests have tried to seduce me. In the beginning, I was flattered. Everyone who stays here has a bank balance that would make my eyes water; they are used to being the center of attention, when they speak people listen, so for people like this to notice little old me… I found it surprising. But as time went on, some of the people that flirted with me one month wouldn’t notice me the next, and that’s when I realized I wasn’t anything special to them. I wasn’t memorable or remarkable, just there, present, and an option.
I’ve slept with two guests over the years, which, compared to other staff that work here, is barely worth acknowledging. Both times it was a one-night-only thing and I had zero regrets. There had been a moment where a charming smile and the promise of more had worked on me. Where I had felt the flutter between my thighs and I had acted upon it.
It was a risk in terms of it being against hotel policy, however, there is also a very unofficial look-the-other-way policy if it kept guests happy and returning and no possible whiff of scandal or litigation. Both times there had been no risk of either, the first guest was some Danish or Dutch banker who I have never seen again and doubt I ever would. But for one night those piercing blue eyes and blonde curls kept me captivated in her silky, fresh-pressed sheets.
The second had been slightly more of a risk as she was, at the time, a musician who was on the cusp of making it. That wasn’t the appeal, I didn’t care about that, but what had caught my attention was her sad eyes and lost smile that seemed to tell far more about her than her half-assed lyrics ever did. However, she only rode the cusp and never actually did make it, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she were now somewhere in the world in a similar position to myself, thinking about the days when she was almost someone no one would forget so quickly.
