Room 702 (9 page)

Still gripping her mother’s hands, she says, “I know, Ma.”

The phone rings on the nightstand and Kat goes to pick it up, she answers, “We’ll be right down.”

Looking to her mother, she says, “The town car is here.”

Grabbing her purse, Patricia answers, “Lead the way.
 
Watch out world – the Albertis are coming through!”

Having seen her mother safely to her room next door, and given how many hours she had been in heels, Kat isn’t surprised to feel extreme relief after removing her shoes and sinking into the luxurious mattress.
 
Since leaving the Winchester so many hours ago, this is the first chance she’s had to be alone…with him.

The statuette is heavier than she thought it would be.
 
Of course, that’s what everyone says.

Kat flips on the television, finding the E! Network and leaves the channel on, hoping they will replay her speech.
 
The newly minted Oscar award winner is doubtful, after all, there were some highly memorable events throughout the broadcast and hers was not among the highlights.
 

Other than the fact she now has an Oscar, the whole evening feels like a dream.
 
Somewhere within her champagne soaked brain, she recognizes this is reality.
 
The statuette is hers, forever, a permanent memento of all her hard work and dedication – of sixty-hour weeks, of getting through the glass ceiling.

The statue sits in the middle of the pristine white comforter.

She realizes this would be the point when anyone in her position might question, ‘Wow, has everything I’ve given up over the years been worth it?’
 

For her, the answer is an instant and unequivocal yes.
 
Standing on the stage in front of her peers and being recognized in the best way possible is worth not having a ‘normal life.’

With her emotions spent, and the remaining alcohol waning from her system, Kat slips off her dress, splashes some water on her face and crawls into bed with the small metallic man, more content than if any flesh and blood person was next to her.

After a gentle knock at the door, Holly Golightly slides her key in and steps into the junior suite, a room well known to her.
 
As an escort at the Winchester, the property is technically her office.
 
Having worked out a discreet deal with the night shift manager, Holly’s services are not listed anywhere specifically, but for guests who do ask (and there always are those who will), the Winchester is, for an additional price, able to help.
 
While Ethan deSoto is not her pimp, per se, he does take a small part of the always cash transactions.
 
In return, he allows Holly certain perks at the spa and he will often let her use a room that has not been cleaned.
 
As she’s fallen in line and respected the parameters of her unique position, she has become friendly with much of the staff.
 
They don’t seem to begrudge her work, and after all, who are they to judge?
 
People need to eat and put a roof over their heads, same as everyone else.
 
Often, Holly’s presence keeps wandering hands and eyes away from the housekeeping staff.
 
They’ve noted she’s always careful to leave her rooms as clean as possible.
 
She doesn’t believe she’s better than anyone else, doesn’t get sloppy drunk or use drugs.
 
She flirts with the wait staff, bellboys and knows enough Spanish to inquire after the cleaning staff’s respective families.
 
When the norovirus swept through the Winchester earlier in the year and the hotel was understaffed, Holly rolled up her sleeves and pitched in a few shifts in the kitchen as a dishwasher.
 
For someone who is not officially listed as a permanent Winchester employee, Holly Golightly certainly is close enough.

 
Walking down the short hallway, Holly asks, “Sir?”

 
Sometimes she plays the role of dominatrix, other times she acts subservient.
 
She has no idea what tonight’s client, a well known celebrity she’s seen on property a few times, will want.

 
Ethan’s text, sent to a cell phone reserved strictly for her ‘work’ came through just as she was preparing to sit down for a night in with HGTV.
 
As she creeps steadily forward, she thinks of the life decisions which have brought her to sleeping with men for money.
 

 
“Take off your clothes.”
   

 
How did I get here?

 
As Holly begins disrobing, she thinks about the decisions and choices that led her to this moment.
 
While she originally came to Los Angeles three years ago with every intention of becoming an actress, one thing led to another and she found herself at a party at the Winchester about this time the previous year.
 
Like many of the trendy hotels in town, wrap parties were often scheduled at on site clubs and restaurants.
 
Holly had been dating one of the supporting cast members on an independent film and although she saw the end of their relationship coming, she hadn’t expected to be left behind as he had gone onto some club or another, departing with a simple text, ‘It’s over.’

 
Perhaps it was the dangerous combination of three drinks and an empty stomach, but the short message triggered something in her and she retreated to a dark corner of Fringe and proceeded to cry her heart out.
 
She wasn’t sad for their relationship, more that the break up was just another reminder of how little she had accomplished in the city.
 
She wept for her failure, for her inability to get traction in the giant metropolis.
 
When the glaring overhead lights came on signifying closing time, Ethan had appeared, and seeing her tears, invited her back to his office where he passed her a tissue to wipe off her ruined mascara.

“Are you really mad about him leaving?” he asked, pouring her a glass of water.
 
All cried out, she fiddled with her lip gloss and answered, “No, but he was my ride home.”
 
“Do you have to work in the morning?”
 
“That would imply I have a job.”
 
“In between?”
 
“Something like that.”
 
He looked at her for a moment, taking in her beauty, objectively gauging her face and figure.
 
Crossing his arms and leaning back, Ethan asked, “How do you feel about sex?”

 
“In general, or right now?
 
Because I’m not particularly in the mood – you know, having just been dumped and all.”

 
“Are you looking for work?”
 
“Sure, aren’t we all looking for something better?”
 
“You have a right to walk out of this room, but I encourage you to hear me out.”
 
“It’s past 2AM in the morning, I think my options are fairly limited.”
 
“On occasion, there are certain requests made by guests of the Winchester.”
 
“Would these be male guests?” she asked without looking up.
 
“Almost exclusively.”
 
“And what are these guests willing to pay for these requests?”
 
“It varies.
 
Are you saying you’re interested?”
 
Holly considered her options and asked, “How many nights a week?”
 
“Two usually, four at the most, but I guess it is up to you how much you would like to work.”
 
“I’m not going to show up on any payroll, am I?”
 
“Absolutely not.
 
Whether or not you choose to believe me, I’m putting my job on the line to even make this offer.”
 
“So why do it?”
 
“You seem like a smart girl.
 
I was hoping we could help each other out.
 
Please don’t be insulted by what I’m suggesting.”
 
“And you don’t want to ‘sample the merchandise’?” She didn’t meet his eyes when she responded.
 
“As lovely as you are, I think that would rather complicate things, wouldn’t it?”
 
“You’re probably right.
 
When would we start?”

 
“Next time I get a call?
 
We can see how it goes from there.”
 
And thus was born a difficult but uncomplicated relationship and the reason for her appearance in the Winchester this evening.
 
She insisted on the
non de plume
and refused to see any ‘client’ more than once.
 
Over time they developed a schedule and certain do’s and do not’s.
 
She was not interested in a three way.
 
She was happy with hand jobs and would ask for a higher rate to perform oral sex.
 
How and where Ethan had come up with the price, Holly didn’t know, but for how little she actually ‘worked,’ the rate was more than enough to pay her rent, and have some extra every month.
 
Furthermore, Holly would just as soon not have to deal with money exchanging hands between her and her clients.
 
It is far easier for her to collect a Winchester branded envelope with crisp one hundred dollar bills than it is to ask these men (and occasional women) for money.
 
Ethan would occasionally give her feedback, which all seemed to be positive.
 
Men seemed to appreciate she was “a normal woman.”
 
She would get requests for repeat business, but always declined.
 
She could have used the extra money, but deep down, knew she didn’t want to see her clients ever again.
 
It was enough that she was prostituting herself, but, as she to convince herself – it was on her terms.

 
“Sir?” she asks again, forcing her attention on the waiting man.

 
How long will I keep doing this?
 
“Darling?” a well-known voice calls from the bedroom.

 
Isn’t there someone who can save me from myself?
 
“Yes, lover?” she answers, and then walks forward.

Realizing in a few hours, the room will be filled with her best girlfriends in the entire world, Deborah Higgins looks around the room and smiles.
 
They’re gathering to celebrate her bachelorette party.
 
Feeling incredibly lucky, she’s carved out some extra time with her friend Tony.
 
The rest of the party will arrive in an hour or so to get ready for their night out, but now it is her best friend and ‘maid’ of honor Tony Meza that has the privilege of spending time with her before the rest of the party arrives.
 
The wedding is in a few short weeks.

Sitting across from her on the couch, with her pedicured feet in his lap, Tony asks, “So, any last regrets?
 
Cold feet?”

“You’re not supposed to ask me that!”

“I wouldn’t be worth anything as the man of honor if I didn’t at least try and provide a getaway for you.”

“I love Jonathan.”

“I know, I love him too.
 
And you’re sure he’s still into ladies?”

Deborah throws a pillow at her friend and answers, “Yes, I’m sure.”

“But something is bothering you.
 
Is it the florist?
 
You know there’s still time to change things.”

“No, I mean, yes, she is a bitch, but it’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“Promise not to tell.”

Tony tops off the champagne in their glasses and says, “Promise.”

Deborah takes a deep breath and asks, “So, you know I’m adopted, right?”

Very few people know she was not the biological child of her parents.
 
The senior Higgins waited until Deborah was much older to tell her the truth of her birth, and she has forever wondered if this decision was a good idea.
 
She loves her adoptive parents – they are loving, stable people.
 
The subject is a painful one and a topic she rarely feels comfortable talking about.

Tony takes a big drink and admits, “Yes.”

“Part of me wishes my biological parents could be with me for my wedding day.”

“Really?”

“Yes – but please don’t tell anyone.” Hanging her head, she says, “It would kill my parents and Jonathan wouldn’t understand.”

“So why bring it up?”

“I don’t know.
 
I don’t usually think of them.
 
From what my parents have told me, there was a young unmarried woman and she put me up for adoption.
 
Case closed.
 
But I can’t help if part of me wonders about her.
 
Did she ever get remarried?
 
Do I have half siblings out there?
 
What circumstances came together that she had to put me up for adoption?
 
Does she think about me?
 
What if Jon and I have kids?
 
Shouldn’t she meet them or at least know about their existence?”

“Those are natural questions to ask,” Tony assures her.

“Not necessarily.”

“Why do you feel that way?”

Tears suddenly spilling over, she explains, “I already have one set of loving parents, friends I love and the most wonderful man.
 
Why do I want to tempt fate by asking for more?”

“Okay then, why not wait until after your wedding to try and contact them?”

“Should I?”

“Honey, you’re emotional right now – and that’s completely fine – there’s a lot of feelings going around.
 
Rather than invite some unnecessary drama and more emotion into your special day, why don’t you make plans for after?”