Australian Secrets. Fiona McCallum
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thought of what the sharp stones were doing to her precious heels. Damn not changing into something more appropriate for the drive; they were comfortable, but not that comfortable. If they were ruined, Bill would have to pay for their replacement, she thought with a huff as she finally stepped onto solid pavement and rounded the corner to find an impressive stone façade stretching above and away from her.
To the left was a door – the top half glass, the bottom half shiny aluminium. Across the glass in large gold letters were the words Front Bar. Surrounding the doorway was old red brickwork, and above that, carved into the stone, the date – 1883. There’s something really lovely about old stone, Nicola thought as she cast her eyes back over the building.
Now she saw the main entrance, flanked by large glass panels. The place had definitely had a nineteen-sixties makeover.
Oh well, the good with the bad; at least the sixties had seen ensuites added to most hotel rooms. The thought of traipsing down a long passageway to use a shared loo made her shudder.
Nicola tried to push the door forwards before realising there was a sticker saying Pull. She suddenly felt a whole lot more tired. The stress of the journey had obviously caught up with her; the sooner she got settled into her room and ran a bath the better.
She stood on red and black carpet in front of the reception desk. A label next to a plastic black and white doorbell read Press If Unattended.
It was unattended, but Nicola thought she’d give whoever it was a minute or two – she was probably being viewed on a monitor somewhere anyway.
On the wall behind the desk was a large blackboard with a menu scrawled on it in white chalk. Nicola’s mouth began to water as she quickly read through the list of entrees and light offerings and then the cuts of steak and varieties of seafood and fish – all with chips and salad or chips and veg.
She’d planned to call into a fast food outlet to break her journey, and wouldn’t have believed anyone if they’d told her there wouldn’t be one McDonald’s, KFC, or Hungry Jack’s along the way.
God, I’m starving, she thought, staring at the menu. I really should have something light – soup or a salad, or even the bruschetta. But her gaze kept being drawn back to the t-bone.
When she looked back down she found a lanky teenage girl with glossy but slightly limp mid-brown hair standing in front of her. The girl wore a navy blue polo top with an image of the building’s facade and the words Nowhere Else Hotel Motel printed in white over her small left breast.
‘T-bone, mushrooms, chips and salad – medium rare,’ Nicola blurted, barely giving the lass a chance to open her mouth.
The girl blushed. ‘Sorry, but the kitchen’s closed,’ she said.
‘It can’t be,’ Nicola whined, and had to consciously stop herself from stamping her feet in protest.
The girl, whose name tag read Tiffany, shrugged apologetically and said, ‘Kitchen closes at nine.’
‘But it’s only ten past,’ Nicola protested.
‘Sorry. You can get snacks and toasted sandwiches in the front bar,’ she said, pointing back towards the door Nicola had come in.
Nicola wanted to beat her fist on the faded West End bar towel and tell this kid just who she was – none other than Nicola Harvey – yes, the Nicola Harvey of Life and Times and Walkley fame.
‘Is there another restaurant in town? Maybe a café, hotel?’
‘No, this is it. Hey, you’re Nicola Harvey, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Nicola grinned, suddenly brightening. So the girl did recognise her.
‘Was beginning to wonder if you’d show.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve got you in room eight …’
Nicola realised she’d forgotten all about checking in.
‘It’s all paid for; just sign this and I’ll take you to your room,’ Tiffany said, pushing a clipboard under her nose. ‘Just the date and your signature is all we need.’
Nicola fleetingly thought Tiffany should be asking for an imprint of her credit card for mini-bar purchases too – a bag of chips in her room for tea was looking likely – but didn’t have the energy to point out her error.
‘Where have you parked?’
‘In the car park around the side – is that okay?’
‘Perfect. Where’s your luggage?’
‘Still in the car – I can get it later.’ The words were half-hearted; the last thing she felt like doing when she finally got settled into her warm, cosy room was to have to come back out again. Where was a porter when you needed one?
‘We can do a bit of a detour and collect it on the way if you like – save you the extra effort.’
‘Thanks, that’d be good,’ Nicola said, beaming at the girl and feeling a wave of gratitude.
Tiffany came out from behind the counter, strode to the front door and held it open. It took Nicola a few moments to catch up.
‘I can’t walk in heels – well, not ones that high,’ Tiffany said, staring down at Nicola’s feet.
‘I don’t seem to be able to either now,’ Nicola said with a pained smile. She was suddenly aware of just how sore her feet were – the soles were burning and she could no longer feel her toes.
Nicola followed Tiffany outside and around to the four-wheel-drive as quickly as she could, grateful for the girl not showing the least sign of frustration with her slow pace.
Tiffany didn’t let out so much as one exasperated sigh when Nicola spent ages fossicking in her handbag for the keys, only to realise she’d put them in the pocket of her suit jacket. Finally they wrestled her suitcase from the back.
‘Round the back here – you can also get to your room through the pub,’ Tiffany said, leading the way.
They rounded the corner of the hotel and Nicola stopped when she saw that surrounding her were not quaint old stone outbuildings but something that looked more like the concrete ablution block in a caravan park.
Two things told her the expanse of beige concrete was in fact motel accommodation: the black plastic numbers on a series of regularly spaced mission-brown doors, and the net curtains visible in the aluminium framed windows. She was careful not to show her disappointment; it wasn’t Tiffany’s fault – it was bloody Bill’s!
At least it didn’t look like the building was made from asbestos; thank God for small mercies. And the way she was feeling, she didn’t care what the bed felt like as long as she could take these bloody shoes off and get out of the suit that was now starting to feel stifling.
Anyway, it’s what’s inside that counts, Nicola reminded herself, wheeling her suitcase along the concrete path.
‘Here we are,’ Tiffany said, putting the key in the lock beside the number 8 and throwing open the door. Turning back she added, ‘You can get back into the pub from that door over there – see?’
Nicola followed her pointing finger and nodded.
‘Breakfast is from seven to ten. I’ll leave you to it.’
Nicola watched her make her way towards the back door of the hotel, which she now noticed was almost identical to the entrance at the front.
She closed the door behind her, dumped her bags and looked around the room. It was like the set of a low-budget porno: a sagging bed covered with a faux patchwork quilt, a white vinyl studded bedhead, and a dusty plastic floral arrangement glued into a vase on the TV.
Her nose twitched. The obnoxious scent of cheap rose deodorising spray unsuccessfully masked the odour of stale cigarette