CHAPTER 7
From The Alchemists Of Vra, Chapter 22
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In which Oscar realises that the only thing more difficult than checking into a hotel room is checking into someone else’s.
There was a tug at his scarf.
“He’s not here,” Vaasi-Vee said, having returned.
“What?”
“The D’dôdô-Sette is no longer here at the hotel.”
After staring at her, he stared at the desk. She’d been there only a minute. “What about our reservations?” he asked.
“Done. But the D’dôdô-Sette is not here. We missed him by no more than an hour, apparently.”
He looked at her. “Are you quite serious?”
She nodded worriedly.
“No, I mean in having already sorted out reservation?” he asked, staring at the desk again. It had taken him almost a week.
She gave him a key as proof. “Yes, Oscar. All done. But the D’dôdô-Sette is not here.”
Having stared at the desk, he then stared at the myriad of animals at it, none of which were hitting anything. “You mean you have organised our reservations that quickly? Without needing to change your name, or the alphabet or re-registering your place of birth or anything?”
Now it was her turn for confusion.
“What are you going on about?” But then she didn’t care. “The D’dôdô-Sette, Oscar, is no longer a guest at this hotel.”
“That’s unbelievable.”
“I know! I specifically recall him saying he intended to stay here for some time, skiing and relaxing and showing off.”
“No, I mean it’s unbelievable you managed to confirm our reservations so quickly—with that same idiot animal at the desk. How in fluff did you manage it? Vaasi-Vee isn’t spelt with a G, is it?” He pushed past her, convinced his attempt had been for their amusement and at his expense.
But Vaasi-Vee had enough. “Oscar!”
He turned. She looked beautiful and worried—a combination in companion he’d become familiar with after his previous books. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I was just rather flustered last time I was here.”
“What are we going to do?”
Their plan hinged on her conviction that the D’dôdô-Sette remained in Plempt. If the cat wasn’t here, then he could be anywhere.
Literally.
“We’d better be certain,” Oscar decided. “What room was he in?”
She frowned for a moment. “Four hundred and thirteen?”
He nodded. “Right. Wait here.”
After striding across the foyer, he waited at a randomly chosen letter of the alphabet, as it clearly made no difference to anything.
A receptionist turned to him and smiled.
“I need to get into room four hundred and thirteen,” Oscar said, having no idea how he might rationalise such claims if asked.
Which he was.
“I see, sir. And why exactly is that?”
“Because I need to.”
“I see.”
There was a disinterested look at something behind the desk that could have been a goldfish for all Oscar knew.
“I have no booking registered in suite four hundred and thirteen, sir.”
“I know, it was vacated recently by the bard, that—the—that Dodo-Setting animal. He’s left a manuscript behind, apparently. I’ve been asked to retrieve it before he sues your bottom for losses incurred.”
The animal stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am one of his many lawyers,” Oscar said, warming to the role, as he was sure all lawyers were cross, and was for the moment pretty indignant himself. “And if I am not given the key to four hundred and thirteen pretty smartly, the only things you’ll be renting your rooms out to are subpoenas.”
The receptionist swallowed. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to wait here for a moment?” He backed away accordingly.
“It would be a lot quicker if you just gave me the key.”
“Nevertheless, perhaps you would wait?”
When he hurried from the desk, Oscar turned to Vaasi-Vee and nodded that it was all in paw.
A moment later, the receptionist returned with a very posh-looking dog wearing glasses so low on his snout that he was presumably short-smelled.
“May I help you, sir?” the dog said. “I am the manager.”
Oscar held out his paw in a I-haven’t-got-time-to-go-through-it-all-again sort of way and said, “Key to the recently vacated room of the—that—Dodo-setting animal, please. And quickly, before I make a telephone call that ends up with you wiping your bottom on affidavits.”
“May I ask what all this is about?” the manager asked, unconvinced.
“There’s a manuscript he left behind in his room that if not recovered in the next five minutes is going to give birth to more sworn statements than you have expletives in your vocabulary.”
“It is a suite, sir.”
“What?”
“Four hundred and thirteen is a suite, sir, not a room.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Several times the price, in fact. And includes heated towel racks, self-fluffing pillows and a complimentary pen.”
Oscar blinked. “Well, nevertheless, I intend to retrieve the manuscript in the next five minutes or they’ll be bashing your front door down with enormous swathes of legally binding things.”
They stared.
“It’s not complicated!” he growled. “Just give me the key to four hundred and thirteen!”
“No.”
“What?”
“No. You cannot have the key. This is my hotel and I don’t like your tone. And now, you can go away.”
Oscar stared and then swallowed, the latter not doing the former any favours.
There was a standoff and all three looked at each other until Oscar realised that were he to remain much longer, he’d just look silly.
After a moment he asked, “Might I perhaps book the room instead?”
“What?”
“Might I book the room? Could I perhaps book room four hundred and thirteen? You mentioned a moment ago it was free.”
“You mean the suite.”
Oscar nodded.
The manager glanced at the receptionist. “Well, I don’t know. I’m still rather annoyed with your tone—”
“Please,” said Oscar. “I’ll pay for it and everything.” He pointed at Vaasi-Vee and his suitcase beside her. “I’ve got a suitcase too, see? A nice one. It’s quite new and very shiny. Frankly, I’d feel uncomfortable leaving it in anything other than a suite.”
The manager glared over his glasses in a manner that would make disapproval uncomfortable with itself. “Very well,” he said. “If you really want it, then yes, I suppose you may. Although it hasn’t been cleaned yet.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want it cleaned.”
“Nevertheless, it will be. Those are the rules. Cleaning will take about twenty minutes. So do not approach the suite until such time has passed.” He leant forward. “And I can assure you, sir, that if any such document is found, my staff would advise me immediately.”
He left to permit the menial logistics of reservation, and the receptionist fiddled behind the desk and asked Oscar’s name.
Oscar offered an assortment to cover all bases.
“And how long do you wish to stay, sir?” the animal asked.
“About half an hour should do it.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but suites have a minimum booking period of a week.”
“A week? But I only want to check the waste-paper basket!”
“Nevertheless, that is the rule.”
“Won’t that be terribly expensive?”
“Quite astonishingly so.”
Oscar muttered some things best not recounted.
“A week then,” the receptionist wrote, before asking for an astonishing amount of money.
A moment later, Oscar trotted back to Vaasi-Vee and showed her the key to fou
r hundred and thirteen.
“How did you manage that?” she asked, picking up their suitcases.
“I pretended to be a legal representative of the Dodo-setting and insisted a poem he’s working on was left behind, before advising if they didn’t hand over the key, I’d get really cross.”
“And the manager?” she asked as they waited for the lift.
“Oh,” said Oscar, having forgotten she’d watched the whole thing. “He came to apologise.”
“Apologise?”
The lift pinged and they got in.
“Yes, for the receptionist’s hesitation in giving me the key immediately. I dismissed his attempts, of course. I suspect my performance was just really convincing. I didn’t mean to be intimidating.”
She smirked.
They rose, and after another ping they alighted.
“Is that why you then paid them a quite astonishing amount of money?” she asked.
“What? Oh. That was to keep them quiet about the whole thing.”
“As was your crying while paying?”
“Which floor are we on?” he said, ignoring her and scowling at the numbers gilded along the corridor.
https://www.velvetpawofasquith.com/alchemists
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thomas Corfield was born in London several years ago, definitely before last Thursday. This was a good year for all concerned, and for him in particular, because without it, later years would mean little. He owes a lot to that first year, and now lives because of it in undisclosed locations after having successfully absconded from probation. Although he finds making friends difficult, this is only because no one likes him. Including his mother, who didn’t bother giving him a name until he was nine. His solicitor describes him as having an allergy to apostrophes and an aversion to punctuation that borders on pathological. This makes the popularity of his books all the more remarkable. At least it would if there was any. But there isn't. So it doesn't. He was recently interviewed in Joomag's Meals of Food magazine, which didn't help anyone.
THOMASCORFIELD.COM
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