—7—
Brett gave me five minutes to think of a 'comfortable lodging with service to my desire, or I will choose for both of us'.
I assumed he meant super-fancy room service, and I only vaguely knew how room service works. As to the place ... But those years of browsing style magazines in Bettawong's coffee shops came in useful now as I remembered an intriguingly exclusive little hotel.
The Restonia, I recollected, didn't 'do bookings'. Its clients were 'friends' who 'come for stays'. The write-up had reeled off a list of rumoured friends—movie and music names I instantly forgot—and their memorable reasons for choosing the Restonia: its 'discretion' and its claim to service 'every desire'. The rumour of its secret vehicular access had been mentioned, and tantalizingly unconfirmed.
I had never progressed beyond youth hostel, so I didn't know how we would go getting in, assuming the Restonia wasn't full of friends. I looked like I had slept in my clothes, but everyone does when they arrive fresh from overseas in our arse-end continent. Brett looked fab, but I didn't know if an establishment this exclusive could deal with people without credit cards. Then I thought it was probably the only hotel I could think of, that would possibly be used to accommodating a man with wads of cash in his pants, and no memory of where he put his wallet.
In the pale light of dawn, I led off on our trek, walking towards the centre of town, and then veering off. The air was fresh, and there was almost no traffic. Brett walked beside me, and when I found an all-night city petrol station and went in for directions, he accompanied me, standing beside me as I asked to use their phone book, then handing me the petrol-smelling street directory they handed him when I asked if they had one. Our destination was only three blocks away, though these grease-heads had never heard of it.
When we finally arrived, I almost missed it.
The Restonia was a confusingly small, unremarkable upended shoebox packed between two defunct old clothing factories in a quiet street. Beside the solid front door, a small brass plaque saying only 'The Restonia' was screwed to the smut-dusted stone above a brass buzzer. It was 6:30 am. I pressed the buzzer and there was a thirty-second delay. Then, fast as a footfall brings red ant soldiers from their nest, the door opened and three men swarmed, closely followed by another with a polka-dot bowtie and patent leather slip-ons—the manager, who introduced himself to Brett as Justin Abernathy and presented his staff, all dressed to casual perfection: Jim, Kevin, and Ferdinand.
Manager and staff were smooth as couli and possessed of intimidating levels of personal hygiene. They 'on behalf of the Restonia' embraced Brett's friendship almost immediately. A friend had been forced to cancel, as it were, only hours ago, due to his tragically awkward death. Oh, everyone would read about it soon enough.
And how long was 'sir' thinking of staying? (and I had thought entertainment industry types were casual).
'A week, or I don't know. I don't want to be pushed,' Brett answered peremptorily, which elicited a Pavlovian grovel response.
'And how would sir like to pay?' Bow Tie delicately broached.
And now, the bugger! I was holding my breath when Brett pulls out of somewhere on his person, a string of credit cards longer than a tapeworm, all naturally Mr Brett Hartshorn's.
I didn't catch his home address, but did see him sign the 'friendship book'. His signature was partly what I expected—jagged, thick, black. Well, this was a no-brainer. I know my graphology: 'Disturbed'.
What I did not expect were those forward and backward slants. They said, and loudly: 'I am Conflicted!'
I wandered away so he wouldn't notice my noticing anything odd, but my sensitivity was misplaced. No one saw me looking at his signature, because no one noticed me at all. I followed them all to his suite, and walked in like self-propelling baggage.
~
The Restonia 'might do', he announced after our breakfast things were removed. I had ordered for both of us by just picking up the phone. ('There is no menu as such, Madam. What is your desire?')
For me: Alhambra Bakery's fruit toast, macadamia butter, grilled fresh figs with double cream, a large pot of medium strong coffee (not bitter), and a bowl of demerara sugar and a jug of cream, not milk, and a chocolate-covered dried plum.
And for Mr Hartshorn (this was harder because I needed to put his desires into what I judged to be the proper culinary context—and he was no help there, his order to me being unusually crude and to-the-point—but I must have translated right): Heart tartare au Jus Masai, no dipping sauce, and hold the toast.
~
Now breakfast being over, I had time to soak thoroughly in my disappointment at our thousands-of-dollars-a-night luxury accommodation. We had eaten Eastern-style in this room—ironically, our 'lounge'—seating mats and a low table having been brought in specifically for the purpose, and removed.
The furnishings: mirrored walls, a tall pile of rubber-covered exercise mats, a gym (the whole gym, I think) taking about half the space of the enormous room, and in one corner a luxuriously appointed shrine to Ganesha, the elephant god.
Our bedrooms maintained the same motif of health, spiritualism, and pain. Their bathrooms were stark, and dedicated to extreme internal hygiene.
The water room, if one could call it that, had the redeeming quality of being the exact opposite in tone, though eminently functional. As large as our lounge, it was Egyptian deco style with Roman sybaritic requirements, updated for the twenty-first century. The water-use choices alone would have boggled me if I weren't already lost in the range of personal toys and odd beautification equipages. One hose ending in a long needle was typically mysterious. Liposuction touch-ups?
Brett hadn't commented one way or the other on the suite, other than glancing at the most evil-looking parts of the gym with a bit of a double-take.
I, on the other hand, told myself I should have told you so. I'd jumped from my own level of accommodation experience and expertise—'bring your own sleeping sack, and don't put your bare feet on the floor in the shower'—to this.
I should have known that at this level of friendship, there would be room enough for a Sufi celebration, but no welcome: chocolate waiting on my pillow (the cruellest blow), nor electric jug, tea and coffee in instant sachets, two cups and saucers and spoons, (one for night and the other for morning), nor jug of water from the tap and a carton of milk in a little fridge that would live near the bed, humming all night with a comforting brrr. And no shortbread biscuits in cellophane wrapping, nor little old TV. Here, there was not even a clock-radio. Maybe room service sang.
And my bed! At Kate's, my bed was a thick crumpet of a single mattress that she would have picked up at an op shop, and it lived on the floor. But now I missed it.
This mattress was also plonked on the floor or as close as dammit, and was a prison-bed-size rice cracker. The pillow, only one, was—yes, I picked it up to check—crunchily macrobiotic. I hate millet hulls! The bedclothes ensemble: sheets, pillowcase, and a penitential blanket, all in classic basic grime.
Continuing on. My bedside table: a slab of glass floating upon an egg of granite. No drawers filled with brochures for Olde Sydney, Harbour ferry rides, strip shows and escort agencies, sheepskin products, crumpled bus tickets, complimentary condoms.
Continuing on. A wall-length inbuilt wardrobe that didn't even offer me a forgotten shoe, nose ring, pair of handcuffs. Not even a used Cherry Ripe wrapper that I could smell for comfort.
That was my bedroom. Brett's was even worse. Only a rice cracker on the floor and a sword on the wall.
The Devil however, was happy.
Thus began the new chapter of my life.