As someone who seemed to spend half of his life living out of a suitcase, Jeremy Swan had come to prefer staying in hotels with a bit of character. Over the past two or three years, he'd stayed in a former monastery, a converted foundry, a small castle, and an 18th century granary. And, on the whole, they had each turned out to be a lot more enjoyable than any cookie-cutter Sheraton or Marriot.
All of which partly explains how he came to find himself sipping a glass of New World Pinot noir in what looked more like an antique shop than the house bar of a four-star hotel.
'D'you ever get people wanting to buy any of this stuff?' Jeremy asked the barman.
'Occasionally, sir. In fact, at about two o'clock this morning, an Australian gentleman was quite keen to purchase that campaign chest.'
The chest to which the barman nodded was certainly attractive. Two piece. A nice dark reddish mahogany. Brass bindings and handles. Jeremy could see why the Aussie bloke might have made a pitch for it.
'I take it that it wasn't for sale?' he said.
The barman smiled a wry smile. 'I think the gentleman might have been rather disappointed if he had woken up this morning -- possibly with a slight headache -- to discover that he had paid top price for a fine example of the faker's craft.'
Jeremy was surprised. 'It's not real?'
The barman shook his head.
Jeremy took another, more critical, look around the bar. The various items of furniture and other bits and pieces certainly looked the part. 'Just that piece? Or are some of these other pieces less-than-authentic as well?'
'One or two of the cheaper pieces are reasonably real,' the barman said. 'But most of the more impressive-looking pieces ... well, let's just say "genuine imitations" would be a fair description.'
'And what about the mojitos?' It was woman's voice. 'Are the mojitos real?'
'They certainly are, madam,' the barman said. 'Each one crafted by my own fair hand. Would it be your wish that I should craft one for you now?'
'Thank you. I would like that. I would like that very much,' she said.
And then, stepping up to the bar stool next to Jeremy's, she said: 'May I?'
'But of course,' he said.
Jeremy's new drinking companion was a good-looking woman, probably in her mid-to-late 30s. She had shortish dark hair and dark sparkling eyes. Think of a slightly softer version of Chrissie Hynde at 35 or so and you're almost there.
'You know, I don't think I've ever tasted a mojito,' Jeremy said.
'No, neither had I until a couple of weeks ago,' the woman said. 'But I was reading a story in which two of the characters had an argument about how to make an authentic mojito.
'One insisted that a proper mojito is made with sugar syrup. The other was adamant that you should use raw sugar rather than sugar syrup, and that you should add a dash of Angostura bitters. Unfortunately, the story ended without the author making a ruling. So I decided that I should do some research of my own.'
'And what did your research tell you?' Jeremy asked.
'Well, I still don't know which is the authentic recipe -- if, indeed, either of them is,' she said. 'But I did discover that I prefer my mojitos sans bitters.'
A few seconds later, the barman placed a sparkling concoction in a tall Collins glass in front Jeremy's new companion.
'There you are, madam,' he said. 'One mojito -- sans bitters.'
'Ah ha!' she said. 'So you agree.'
'The customer, madam, is never wrong. Isn't that what the great César Ritz taught us?'
Madam took a sip of her drink.
'Excellent,' she said. 'And I admire your diplomacy ...' she peered at his name badge, '... Kenny. However, I'd now appreciate your professional opinion. And don't worry, I'll still give you a decent rating on the guest survey.'
'Thank you, madam.' Kenny reached for an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid and tapped it with two fingers. 'I guess I'm of the sugar-syrup-and-no-bitters school,' he said. 'I think it brings out the mint flavours. But, as to whether that's the authentic mojito recipe ... well, who knows?'
As Kenny returned to slicing lemons and limes, Madam extended a well-manicured hand in Jeremy's direction. 'By the way,' she said, 'I'm Terri.'
'Jeremy,' Jeremy replied. 'Nice to meet you, Terri.'
She smiled a broad smile. 'Well, well. Jeremy,' she said, nodding slightly. 'I was hoping to meet a Jeremy. How lucky is that?'
'There are one or two of us about,' he told her.
'I suppose so,' she said. 'But still.'
'And may I ask why you were hoping to meet a Jeremy?'
'A little bird told me that Jerermys are very good company,' she said, 'good chaps to share a mojito with.'
As she spoke, Terri turned further towards him and allowed her skirt to ride a fraction higher. She also tilted her head ever so slightly forward, and ran a couple of fingers through her silky dark hair. The cheeky tart. She was flirting. Not that Jeremy minded. Not that he minded at all. But, yes, she was definitely flirting.
Well, Jeremy thought, I guess that's something else you get with the quirkier hotels: quirkier guests.
For the next ten minutes or so, the two of them chatted easily as she sipped her mojito and he sipped his Pinot noir.
Then, when both of their glasses were empty, Terri gently placed a hand on Jeremy's thigh and said: 'You know ... another thing I've heard about you Jeremy chaps is that you're rather partial to the occasional glass of champagne.'
'I don't know where you're getting your information,' Jeremy said, 'but it does seem to be pretty good.'
'Oh, I only use the most reliable of sources,' she said.
