It had been a long but enjoyable weekend with my parents, back in the old home town, but I was tired now and just wanted a bit of down time before the long drive home. I'd known I was going to be drinking, and so since my parents had no space in their little apartment for guests (unless I wanted to bunk up on the sofa - no thanks), I checked into the swanky hotel on the edge of town. Well, the townsfolk thought it was swanky... it was distinctly a three-star place at best, not really up to my usual standards, but it was at least better than the shithole that was the Holiday Inn.
It was late. I lay on the bed, lights off, gave up flicking through drivel on the TV, and was doomscrolling through my phone instead, doing what every man in the world did when he was horny and alone in a hotel room: entertained myself.
Just as my eyes started flickering closed, there was a hell of a banging and thumping on my room door.
"Open up, you fucking arsehole!" screamed a woman's voice from the corridor. "I know you're still in there, with your little slut! Open this fucking door so we can have this out properly!"
Of course, I had absolutely no idea who this person was or what they were going on about. Nevertheless, she kept battering at the door, seemingly determined to gain access to the room.
"Open the door or I'll bash it in!" she yelled.
I looked through the peephole. The fish-eye lens did her no favours, but she was a pretty little blonde, about my age, wearing a long black coat. Something about her seemed familiar. She was probably really attractive when she didn't have mascara and lipstick smeared all over her face, or the snarl of a woman scorned. But something about the eyes, the hair, triggered a memory.
Cyndy Fletcher.
She'd been the hottest girl in class, those few years ago, and she'd known all about it. A body to die for, and she hadn't minded flaunting it to get her own way. Dirty little princess, by all accounts - though she had a steady boyfriend, so how the rumours started god alone knows.
"You better open this door Brad or I swear to god..." she was saying. Still with the same guy then, I mused. Clearly there was trouble in paradise - the perfect couple finding life not so perfect out in the real world. It couldn't have happened to a more deserving pair, I thought. Not that I really had much against Cyndy; in fact, I'd quite fancied her at school. But Brad? He was a bully.
Back in the here and now, I hated that my room was the focal point of a scene. I considered ringing down to reception but thought it'd probably take too long for them to do anything about it. I just wanted her to stop screaming outside in the corridor, so I reached for the handle and pulled the door open.
"Cyndy, I think..." I began, but without even acknowledging me she barged past, shoving the door aside and slamming me against the wall behind it.
She ripped her coat off, threw it over a chair in the corner. "Where is that little bitch?" she was shouting, tearing the covers off my bed, trying to peer underneath the divan, as if a person could have hidden there. "Janie you fucking cheating tart, I know you're in here!"
"Cyndy, I think you've made a mistake," I said, in a calm and even tone.
"Who fucking asked you?" she said. Then her head snapped round, realisation starting to dawn. "You're not Brad. Where the fuck is he?"
"Like I said, you've got it wrong..."
"Out of my way," she said, charging towards the bathroom. "They must be in here." But of course the bathroom was just as empty.
"Cyndy, please, just calm down. There's nobody here. This is my room. Just what on earth has got into you?"
"Like fuck it's your room. This is 2108, the room Brad and I always have for our anniversary. It's our room."
I shook my head. "Sorry Cyndy, but you're wrong. This is 1908. You must have got off on the wrong floor."
"No, that's bullshit. It can't be." She stormed back to the door, opened it, took a long look at the number. I saw her deflate. "Well, shit." She staggered back in, slumped down on the bed. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her. "Must have been that other couple in the lift, pressing the wrong buttons. I swore this was my floor. They all look the fucking same, don't they." She looked up, seemed to acknowledge me for the first time. "Um, sorry?" she offered.
"Are you okay?"
She ran her hands over her face through her hair. "No, not really," she admitted. "Seems like my husband has been railing my best friend behind my back. On our fucking anniversary, of all things!"
She suddenly seemed aware of herself, sitting in a stranger's bedroom wearing what could only be described as a little black fuck-me dress. The hem was so short it didn't cover her perky little ass while she sat down, and the top was cut to enhance her generous cleavage. Feeling awkward, she grabbed at her coat and pulled it back round herself.
"How did you know my name, anyway?"
I sighed. Of course she wouldn't remember me - why should she? "Tom Slatterly," I said. When that only resulted in a blank stare, I added "We used to be in the same class at school."
"Tom..." she mused, slowly shaking her head. Then it came to her. "Oh, tubby Tommy! I remember now! He was..." then she realised what she was saying, slapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh my god I am so sorry!"
I wanted to tell her not to worry, but the old wounds still hurt.
"Anyway, I better get out of your hair," she said, standing. "I'll go down and have it out with Brad. We are so over. I'm kicking his ass out once and for all. That son of a bitch has cheated on me for the last time."
"Do you really think screaming at him in a hotel is the right solution?" I asked.
"What would you suggest, smartarse?"
"Maybe go home, contact a good lawyer?"
