My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [78]
“All right, but if you change your mind, you tell me.”
Stacey gathers the few things she’ll need before returning tonight to sleep, and we make our way to my hotel. We could probably walk there from here, but why would we walk when there are so many cabs? I mean, sure it’s a little bit lazy but I’m trying to stimulate an economy here, people—if you think about it, I’m kind of a hero. (At least that’s what I’ll tell Fletch.)
When we arrive, a doorman’s at the cab and grabbing my bag out of the trunk before I’m even finished paying the driver. With a courteous bob of the head, he says to me, “Good afternoon, Miss Lancaster. Welcome to the Four Seasons.”
“Holy shit, Stacey! They know my name!”
They know me here?
They know me here!
How cool is it they know me? I mean, I just made my reservation online like everyone else. Maybe for a minute I thought about calling the concierge and pretending to be my nonexistent assistant to see if it would get me preferential treatment, but that felt wrong and undeserved. Plus, if I need to explain to someone who I am, then that pretty much confirms I’m only important in my own head. I never, ever want to turn into “Do-you-know-who-I-am?” girl because . . . ick.
Yet the doorman knows me. How can that be? What if a reader works here and she saw my name on the reservation and was all, “She’s an author!” which I guess would mean I actually am kind of a celebrity and . . .
Wait. That can’t even be a little bit true. And this is the exact type of arrogance and delusion that got me in trouble so many years ago. There’s got to be a better explanation.
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my secrets,” he says with a sly grin.
Then I glance down.
Oh. He read my goddamned luggage tag.
Argh, I really am Jethro Bodine.
The doorman whisks my bag away, and Stacey and I pass through the stunning three-story lobby. We admire all the Asian art and inlaid tiles and massive stone columns, topped with a modern yet elegant skylight before we get to the reception desk. I rarely bust out this adjective, but it’s totally appropriate here. Swanky. This joint’s swanky. (Wonder if they have a ce-ment pond out back?)
A competent professional who appears to have no communicable diseases whatsoever greets us at the two-story reception area. “Welcome, Miss Lancaster.” I made note of the fact that the doorman had a headset, so I spare myself the whole embarrassingly self-involved thought process.
While I check in, we tell the desk clerk about the nightmare of Stacey’s room and soon all three of us are cracking up. “I don’t care if I’m on a higher floor, but I am interested in a room with a dirty footprint chair rail,” I say with a straight face. “Might you have any available?”
“Possibly with a two-thirds to scale bathtub? We have a small, dirty Oompa-Loompa in need of a good scrubbing,” Stacey adds.
“I’m sorry. I don’t; we just ran out of the last of those,” the clerk apologizes, trying to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. “However, I’m able to offer you a complimentary upgrade to the next class of room, and it’s a corner so your views will be much better. It’s quite spacious. But if you prefer, I can have housekeeping rearrange the furniture to make sure you bump into it.”
“That shan’t be necessary,” I reply in a fake-haughty voice.
I complete the check-in service and thank the clerk again. When she says it was her pleasure, I believe her. I bet none of the dignitaries or the real famous people who check in here every day try to make the desk clerk smile. And I ended up with a better room not by pulling the (faux) important card, but just by being myself.
And speaking of the room . . . wow. This is larger than the apartment I lived in after college, and a thousand times nicer. A bellman shows us all the amenities as I stand there openmouthed.