Page 5
OLIVIA
“Miss Olivia, we love having you with us. How long are you staying?” Because I come here to cure writer’s block, the manager has come to know me well. Over the years I’ve become a regular long-stay guest, and everyone knows hotels love those. Something about staying at the hotel just makes it easier. This time, I need the help. I’m in a twist over the story I’m currently working on and somehow it just isn’t there. No matter what I do, the words are stuck.
“As long as it takes to finish my book, I guess,” I reply with a smile, handing over my credit card. “It might be eternity at the rate I’m going.”
“I’m sure being here will fix it, we are always happy to be a part of your stories. You’ll bring us a signed copy for the library when it’s done, won’t you?” He hands me the keycard for my suite. “Everything is as you like it, the WiFi is disabled and the phone is set not to disturb you. I will arrange your meals with the chef myself, as we normally do.”
“Except Friday, I actually have a date. But I asked him to meet me here at the bar.”
“Stepping out, Miss Olivia. I’m impressed.” He smiles.
“It’s for research, calm down,” I snicker. “I just want you to know because it’s a blind date and I watch serial killer shows for fun, so my mind already has me kidnapped and dead in a gutter.” This makes him laugh.
“We’ll let Asher know to keep an eye on you, he’s working Friday night. He’ll make sure you don’t end up dead in the gutter, I promise.” I roll my eyes. He’s works here, but he nearly killed Dion’s bunny in a comedy of errors that ended in her neighbor’s husband trying to murder him. That boy should call himself Bad-Luck and just be done with life. I knew I recognized him when Dion’s video popped up from the vet that night. Asher has a memorable face. In fact, he’s been written into a few novel fantasies since he’s worked here. The rockstar, bad-boy vibe he gives off is very sexy, only he’s way younger than me. And men under thirty-five are just stupid, it’s a well-known fact. They’re only completely house-trained at about thirty-eight, and even then it’s a maybe. I have enough friends with boyfriends, husbands and exes to have seen the pattern. Besides, Asher has a motorcycle and a guitar, he’s a walking, talking, singing broken heart waiting to happen. Poor girl who ends up with him — I mean it. He isn’t hard to look at, and I admit I’ve looked — a lot — but he’s douche-canoe. Certainly not an atypical trait for someone his age, though.
He’s the boy who doesn’t get the girl. Not in the end, anyway.
“Thank you,” I say, realizing I disappeared into my head for longer than what’s considered normal.
“Your bags are already upstairs. Have a pleasant stay, Miss Olivia.”
“I always do.” I look around the large lobby and lounge areas, and see the chair in the corner by the window has a reserved sign on it with my name. They know I like to sit there and watch people coming in and out. I’ve written a few books in that quiet corner, watching the lovers, affairs, secret hook-ups and families coming in and out of this reception area. Watching people is the best way to grow a story seed, imagining what they’re here for. They don’t even know they’re characters in my imaginary little worlds.
I take the elevator up to my room, open the door and immediately I feel like I can breathe. The view over the top of the city, and the dead silence in the soundproof room immediately soothe my frayed nerves. This is my haven, my solace, and the only place I know I’ll be able to sort out the mess in my head and make it into a book by my deadline.
I shoot the girls group a text.
Checked in to my hotel, I will see you guys when this book is done. <3
You have a DATE on Friday, Amelia reminds me.
I moved it to the hotel bar, I’m not cancelling. I need the insight.
She’s relentless, as if this guy she’s found is going to be my soulmate. Unless he’s fictional, six-foot-five, has his shit together, and knows things my vibrator doesn’t, then it’s unlikely he’s the one. I don’t believe in the one anyway, that’s crap I make up in books, not real life.
I unpack my clothes into the closet, and set up my desk the way I like it: facing the windows. I’m going to be here too long to live out a suitcase, and I work better when things are organized. I sometimes wonder why I don’t feel this way at home, which makes me think maybe it’s time to look for a new place. One that feels like this. But, if I’m honest with myself, I know it won’t be the same. I’ll still come here. It’s where I wrote my first bestseller, and it’ll probably be where I write my last one.
I smile to myself, the ritual of coming here is comforting. Tonight, I’ll have dinner and plot in my new note book, take a long bath and then turn in early so I can get up before dawn and start writing. It’s always the same. Maybe I’m superstitious, or I just have OCD. This is what works. So we do what works. If I miss this deadline I’ll have to pay back my advance and I’m not about to do that. I like my lifestyle the way it is, and yes, it includes having a nice apartment, frequent shopping trips, and not actually having to worry about money. One book isn’t going rob me of that.
* * *
The sun comes up over the city, and I’m watching it from the giant floor-to-ceiling windows. The streetlights flick off and the city slowly wakes up, cars start to drive about below me, and I see helicopter land on a distant high-rise roof. Some pretentious CEO too good to take a car, with more money than brains, who’s over-compensating for something. Either a small dick or a shitty personality. I’ve written a few of those, they always get the girl, and the girl is always stupid enough to overlook his short-comings because he’s rich. As I finish off my first thousand words for the day, there’s a knock at the door.
Coffee and breakfast. Right on time.
“Good morning,” the server greets, way too chipper for someone I know has worked night shift. “Your coffee and breakfast. Where can I put it for you?”
“There is fine, thank you,” I reply, eager for him to go. I was on a roll, and I don’t want to break my flow by having people in my space. This is the most I’ve managed to write in one go for months. I don’t know what it was about Dion and Mika, but watching them just stopped my words. I acknowledge I was a bit jealous of the excitement, and the chemistry they have. My psychologist, Dr Holland McCullough, says I don’t acknowledge my feelings, and that stops my creative flow. Saying I’m jealous of my friend sounds so juvenile, especially since deep down I know I don’t want what she has with him, that commitment scares me. I live in other worlds, I work on different clocks. There are weeks where I don’t change out of my pajamas and showering is optional. I’m not made for a relationship — I’m the one night stand they forget in the morning. That also only happens once in a blue moon, because unless I come here or go to Dion’s house I don’t leave my home very often.
I’m a semi-professional online shopper, the Uber Eats drivers know me by name and my hairdresser comes to me.
I eat my eggs, drink my coffee and settle into writing for the day, only stopping for dinner, and a bath. Otherwise, it’s just me and the two idiots I cooked up in my head. After dark, I turn up my playlist loud, knowing I’m not bothering my neighbors. Dancing at my desk, I keep going until my eyeballs feel like sandpaper.
I toss and turn in bed all night, like there’s a spider on the wall watching me. Tomorrow is Friday, tomorrow I have a blind date. It’s bothering me more than it should. Eating me up, and stealing my fucking sleep. Amelia seems to think this guy is perfect, he’s one of their clients. It’s just for research, so why am I nervous? Why do I care if he likes me, or what I wear? This is next level irrational. I don’t even get nervous about going on real dates with weirdos from dating apps.
What if I’m losing my mind? If the crazy has finally caught up with me and I’m losing my marbles? It’s a possibility, many writers have gone cookoo-nuts over the years. In the good old days, writers were locked up because they were all considered mad in the head. Maybe I need a straight jacket and better meds.
I’m having inner dialogue with myself about my own sanity. This is a new low, even for me. My anxiety is getting the better of me, or did I have too much coffee today? I try count how many cups I had, but I can’t. I lost track before lunch time already.
