These Delicate Creatures

The hotel lobby is blowing furiously cold air conditioning as Michael sits on one of the leather sofas in the corner.

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 The jetlag tugs incessantly at his eyes, but he keeps them open and fixed at the door. He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been sitting there. He thinks perhaps it’s darker outside than it was before, but he’s not sure. His phone has buzzed a number of times – probably work wanting an edit on the article, but he’s ignoring it. Guests have flown in and out of the lobby, hauling heavy suitcases, neck cushions throttling their necks making them look like frill-neck lizards. Parents bark commands at children who ignore them, and careen towards the large open-topped fish tank in the centre of the marbled floor. A small battalion of men arrive with pink polo-shirts with “Rickie-Dickie’s Stag Ensemble” emblazoned proudly on the back. They flirt outrageously with the short-haired, female receptionist in obtrusive Liverpool accents. She wears a practised but weary smile as she scrolls desperately looking for their booking. The flicker of panic is obvious when her college gets up to use the bathroom. One of the men looks like he could practically lean across the counter. Michael rolls his eyes at them, but he does not intervene.

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Another receptionist, mousy-haired with a round, freckled face, approaches him cautiously.

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“You alright, sir?” she says, cheerily, “D’ya need to check in?”

Michael smiles what he hopes is an easy smile, “No, it’s okay. I’m just waiting for a friend. Said I’d meet her here.”

The woman nods slowly. “They staying at the hotel?”

“They are,” Michael says, glancing between the door and the woman.

“If you like, we can send a call up for them?”

Michael looks at her. “That would be helpful.”

She smiles expectantly. “What’s their room number?”

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Michael’s smile wavers ever-so-slightly. He doesn’t think it’s obvious, but there’s something about the way the receptionist’s demeanour shifts that seems to suggest she is no longer comfortable. The ‘customer service’ smile has turned into the grimace of one who just discovered an insect in their shoe.

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“You know, she didn’t actually mention it.”

The receptionist’s expression doesn’t change. “Her name then?”

The hotel door opens. A rush of warm air and the smell of beach air is now accompanied by the heady smell of a strong perfume.

“No need. She’s here.”

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Anna walks in the door to the hotel slowly, her eyes glued to her phone. The receptionist beside Michael has ceased to exist. There are two other girls who Michael only barely recognises, and a tall man that Michael instantly assumes to be the topless male in the picture. From where he sits, he can instantly read that his body language does not read as someone who is sexually interested in Anna. He looks stressed. Michael has already seen the wedding ring on his finger. He fumbles with a rucksack as he flicks through a tablet, and seems to be speaking to Anna, though she’s only barely listening. From this distance, he hears smatterings of what might be an itinerary.

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Michael is now standing, though he can’t remember doing so. He waits for Anna to look up, but one of the girls sees him first. He doesn’t feel like he looks threatening, but the girl’s smile instantly falls from her face. She’s shorter than Anna, with large opal eyes and jet black hair.

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“Babe,” she says, the tone flat, almost unreadable, “This guy a friend of yours?”

Anna looks at Michael. The blue of her eyes is almost as staggering as the pictures he’s so used to seeing. She wears a dusky green crop-top and low-rise jeans. The curve of her tan abdomen and the slight crease that leads towards her groin is so diverting, that Michael almost entirely misses what Anna says to him first.

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He is closer to her now.

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“Anna,” he hears himself say, “You should have told me you were coming to LA.”

Anna’s face creases. Again, she speaks, but there’s witchcraft in her eyes. They were not supposed to be seen from this distance. He is deaf to her voice.

“I’ve been worried about you,” Michael continues, his mouth lacking in all moisture. “But I’ve come here, all the way here. Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

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He reaches out and grabs her hand. She recoils, violently. Hands shove Michael back, but they aren’t Anna’s, so he barely feels it. Michael looks again at Anna’s eyes. The sparkle of them robs him of all words. He can’t see the fear in them. The puckered, pinkness of her parted lips are so beautiful to him, the fact that they are moving frantically, and with an increasing desperation and fear, is entirely irrelevant. The enchantment is broken when the girl steps between them.

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“Didn’t you listen to her? She doesn’t fucking know who you are, you creep.”

Michael finally hears her. Anna is behind her, pressed against the wall of the hotel. The room seems to reassemble itself around him, back into focus. Someone is holding his arm, but it’s not someone strong. A voice talks at him in his ear, telling him he ought to leave. He holds his ground. The man, clearly Anna’s manager, stands beside Anna defensively. He suddenly realises how terrifying this encounter is for Anna.

He’s gone about this all wrong. He should have brought flowers, or a card or something. Left it for her there. Told her a café in which to meet him. This wasn’t right, none of this was right.

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“We speak every day,” Michael suddenly shouted, “We message and chat. I’m Michael. I’m from London too. How can you not know me?”

Anna’s face hears the name and takes a moment to cycle through her memories. “From Fanfix? The … journalist?”

Michael’s smile is untameable. For some reason, the hand on his arm does not loosen.

“Yes, that’s me. You’re… you’re my Anna.” His voice sounds thin; weak and pathetic. But he continues. “We’re … together.”

The girl next to Anna begins to shout something, but Anna holds out a hand, and she falls silent. Then, Anna approaches him. The girl next to her and Anna’s manager raise a staying hand, but Anna ignores them. The expression on her face is pitying.

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“Michael, right?” Anna says. She’s so close to him now. She doesn’t smell like he thought she would, but it still sets his body alight with goosebumps just to breath her in.

“Of course,” Michael says.

“You’re one of my subscribers, aren’t you?”

Michael seems to reject the term. “We are more than that.”

She raises a hand. “Michael, this is my job. I talk to fans online. The girlfriend experience package is one of them. It’s not … real. You know? You get exactly what you pay for.”

Michael feels the anger swell in him. “I paid for you.”

“You paid for my time. And I gave it to you. We speak, I support you, and we carry on with our lives. That’s how that all works.” Anna looked at whoever was holding Michael. “You can let him go. Michael isn’t going to hurt me, are you?”

Michael shakes his head, fervently. “I could never.”

The hand on his arm loosens.

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“I appreciate that you came all the way out here for me, Michael, but I think there might be differing expectations between you and I.” She looks at him and smiles. “You’re a good looking man, you know? I bet there are a hundred girls back in London who’d be lucky to have you. I think… I think you should head back home, you know? Put your time into getting to know some real women.”

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She squeezes his arm and thanks the security guard behind him.

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Michael looks at his arm, and back at Anna as she walks back to the girl with the dark hair. He sees the girl embrace Anna, holding her head. She asks if she’s okay as they walk towards the elevator door. Anna presses the button and looks back at Michael, who stands immobilised. Anna turns back to the girl, and they kiss. Anna runs her fingers through the girl’s hair as the elevator doors open.

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“But I paid for you.” Michael says, aloud.