Page 7 of Host for the Holidays
Anyway, to put it briefly, she’s beautiful. But she also looks like I just asked her to make dinner from the contents of the garbage. I don’t really understand her surprise. There are pictures of the room on Airbnb.
“It used to be a maid’s room,” I say, hoping that might help take the look of horror off her face. There’s nothing romantic tomeabout a tiny space like this, but Americans are strange creatures. They love anything old and on the verge of breaking down, as long as it’s in Europe.
“I don’t really like small spaces,” she says in a bare whisper. Her gaze moves to the ladder. “Or heights.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting that, but I can see why it’s a problem. The bed can only be accessed by a ladder. Underneath is a small dresser for clothes and a little desk that folds out from the wall. The ceiling slopes, making it impossible to sit up in bed—we’re on the top floor of the building, just under the roof, after all. I’m not even sure how you’re supposed to get situated in bed, to be honest. Army crawl, maybe?
In any case, we’re pushing it having the two of us in here. It’sthatsmall. If she’s got claustrophobia and a fear of heights, this place might have been constructed byFear Factorspecifically for her.
“Could I just have the other room?” she asks with a smile full of clenched teeth.
I give her a look. She’s pulling off the just-out-of-the-shower look pretty dang well, frankly, but just because she’s pretty doesn’t mean I should throw out the rules. Right? I’m here to ensure she has a good stay in the room she rented, and her review (five stars, as I promised André) will not be accurate or helpful to future guests if she stays in the roomI’msupposed to sleep in.
“I’ll pay extra,” she adds.
I chuckle slightly. “You haven’t even paid what you owe forthis.”
“Right,” she says, biting her lip. “But Iwill.”
“Sorry,” I say with a sympathetic grimace, “that room downstairs is where I sleep.” I feel for this girl, but no way am I giving up that bed for this one—or sharing the double bed with her, if that was in her head somewhere. Probably not, seeing as she has a boyfriend.
“Wait,” she says, looking at me intently. “I thought I rented the apartment.”
I stare at her for a few seconds. “You rented aroomin the apartment. This room, specifically. The rest of the space is shared.”
The silence stretches on for a good ten seconds. “Right.”
Is it just me, or does she look like she might be about to cry? And why do I feel like a huge jerk for telling her what she should have known from the Airbnb listing? I’m not sure how far my responsibilities to this guest extend, but I can’t say drying tears was one I anticipated.
When I came in the room this morning, I hadn’t really noticed the second small curtain. I’m sincerely hoping it’s hiding something that will help my guest feel better about this space. Whatever’s behind it, it’ll be better if I keep my reaction positive—help her make the best of things. I’ve got to if a 5-star review is in my future.
Crossing my fingers for closet space, I pull back the curtain.
Toilet. It’s a toilet.
I nearly burst into laughter because, living in a city as old as Paris, you see a lot of quirky spaces, but this one is on a whole different level. The red curtain is so close to the toilet that there’s no room for someone to actually sit down on it without a wall of fabric brushing against their face. It would have been better to just forgo the attempt at privacy altogether. I assume this was one of the things André intended to address before his mom got sick.
Madi doesn’t even talk. She just stares. I’m kind of worried she might pass out, and there just isn’t space here for that sort of thing.
“Um,” she says in a weak voice, “I’m going to try to call Josh again. Can I have a minute?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll just be downstairs.” I have a mountain of papers to grade. Part of me hopes she decides she doesn’t want to stay here after all. André would still split the nonrefundable part of the rental with me, and then I could spend the upcoming Christmas break here in peace. Much as I love my mom, my own space sounds pretty amazing after living with her since my landlord ended my rental contract two months ago.
But that’s not going to help André. He bought the property from the last Airbnb owner and was planning to spend the past week getting it ready. But now he’s in New York with his mom. Canceling the booking would have been a black mark on his brand new record, so I stepped in. He’s my best friend, and he’s really counting on this place being a success. Getting excellent reviews is key to getting more visibility and more bookings, and Madi’s stay—assuming she does, indeed, end up paying—would be the first one.
I sit down on the couch to get back to grading. Besides the fact that there are no doors separating this space from the room upstairs, the walls and ceiling here are paper thin, and I can hear every step Madi takes. She’s pacing, so there are a lot of them.
A few minutes later, she comes down the stairs, looking at me apologetically—and like she’s still fighting off tears. “The signal isn’t strong enough up there.”
I grimace sympathetically. “These walls were not made with Wi-Fi and cell signal in mind. You’re welcome to use my room, though.”
She smiles—a valiant but not entirely successful attempt—and thanks me, then disappears into my room.
The ironic thing is that, even though Wi-Fi and cell signal don’t do well here, noise carries. Which means, even though the door is closed, I can hear almost every word she says once she makes her call.
I try to focus on grading the papers, but even my students’ atrocious English isn’t enough to distract me from the fact that Madi is sniffing as she talks.
And every snippet I catch tugs a bit more on my sympathy strings. Apart from twenty-four straight hours of travel and her luggage getting lost, she obviously got ripped off by a taxi driver. André’s neighbor apparently didn’t give her a warm welcome when he handed off the keys, which, technically, never should have been handed off, but that’s beside the point.
