Page 23 of The White Octopus Hotel
Alfie’s eyes sparkled with a sudden hint of mischief. “You may not know this, Miss Shaw, but the White Octopus Hotel is a home as well as a hotel. It belonged to my grandfather. He was a painter.”
Eve looked at him with new interest. “Your grandfather was Nikolas Roth?”
Alfie’s smile widened. “So you have heard of him?”
“Of course. Is he still…?”
Alfie’s smile faded for the first time. “He died a few months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. But I’ll see him again.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“My whole life.”
Eve longed to ask about his grandfather’s paintings and whether any of them were still around or had already vanished, but there were more pressing matters to address first.
“How much does the room cost?” she asked. Only now did it finally occur to her that she should have tried to procure some old currency before arriving here. “I don’t have any money.”
Alfie smiled again, just a small twist at the corner of his mouth. “Our rates don’t involve money. Instead, we deal in memories.”
“Memories?”
She felt a flare of alarm mixed with yearning. There were, she thought, some things that would be good to forget.
“You will have to give up all memories of the hotel when you leave,” Alfie told her. “Enjoy it all while you’re here, charge anything you like to the room, but be prepared to let it go at the end. Those are the terms for time-travelling guests.”
“I can’t pay with something else? A valuable item or—”
“I regret not,” Alfie said. “Memories of your stay here are the price. Always.”
“All right,” Eve replied, disappointed. “So be it. But why memories? What value have they got to anyone but the person they belong to?”
“My grandfather always used to say that there is a great deal of magic in memories,” Alfie said. “And the White Octopus Hotel can never have too much magic. Anna will be giving her speech soon, like I said, and you won’t want to miss it. In the meantime, perhaps you might like an opportunity to freshen up and enjoy a complimentary beverage.” He indicated the green drink. “This is a Nautilus—a cocktail that was invented right here in the Palm Bar by my father. He’s one of the hotel’s best mixologists. It was my grandfather’s favourite drink, and we’ve found that it helps our time-travelling guests to adjust a little when they first arrive. And a sugar octopus always goes down well too, of course.”
“It’s stunning,” Eve said, peering at the tiny octopus, delighting in the perfect curl of its looping tentacles.
Alfie grinned. “My mum made it. She’s the resident sugar artisthere. Just wait until you sample her peppermint creams in the Sugar Room.”
Dozens of further questions fizzed on the end of her tongue, but Alfie was already making his exit. “Enjoy your stay at the White Octopus,” he said over his shoulder.
Then the door clicked shut and he was gone. Eve looked at the green drink. The tall glass bore the same octopus crest she had seen elsewhere. She was already feeling a bit better, more normal, but a drink couldn’t hurt, and she hoped it would be a strong one. She wasn’t disappointed. The first sip made her splutter, but she relished the cold, hard bite of the alcohol. It was the most delicious concoction she had ever tasted. The crunch of a sugar octopus was the perfect complement to the sharpness of the drink too.
With her head a little clearer, Eve went over to the door and peered through the eyehole that looked out to the other side, just to check whether anyone still lingered beyond her door. From the small amount she could see, it was deserted, and transformed from how it had appeared before. She turned away and walked through the balcony doors to the iron balustrade outside. The change was so dramatic that it was difficult to take in.
The weeds and ruin were all gone. A cart on the immaculate lawn dished out paper bags of roasted chestnuts to elegant women in fur coats. A trio of musicians in the pavilion were responsible for the jazz music she had heard. The lake sparkled as before, but there was no sign of Friede or her boat. Instead, the water was dotted with sleek pleasure boats, rowed by gentlemen for the pleasure of their female companions, all of whom held fur muffs to protect their hands from the cold.
It was all so beautiful, so idyllic, like looking at a postcard of the past. But there was something strange and surreal about the scene as well. Eve couldn’t escape the thought that all these people, laughing, and boating, and enjoying themselves on the lawn, were nowdead. Or at least, theyhadbeen before she stepped through the door to Room 27. Dead for many years, just bones in a box or ashes in the air. This knowledge made it somehow uncomfortable to watch them boating, and eating chestnuts, and enjoying their time so freely. Like it would go on forever. Her head gave another dull throb, aching beneath the pressure of trying to make sense of it all.
When she finally tore her eyes away, she approached the vanity table and checked every drawer for any sign of writing paper. There was nothing there or in the bedside cabinet. She glanced at the door and felt tempted to turn the key anticlockwise in the lock and see if a ruined corridor awaited her on the other side but decided against it. She didn’t want to risk crossing the threshold by accident and checking out prematurely. She wondered briefly what would happen at that moment. Would she forget that she’d discovered Room 27? Would she believe that the stories about the hotel were all pure fantasy? There were too many questions and she had answers to none of them. But the party would start soon and she didn’t want to miss Anna’s speech.
She went into the adjoining bathroom. It was like stepping inside a pearl, with a shimmer of creamy tiles and a stunning claw-foot bathtub that looked big enough to swim in. She ran the taps and there was just time to sink into a tub of warm water and wash the grime from her skin and hair.
When she dried herself and returned to the bedroom, the jazz had stopped, and upon glancing out the window, she saw that the boats had all been moored, the chestnut cart was gone, and few people remained on the lawn below. She supposed they were all in their own rooms by now, getting ready for the evening. She returned to the wardrobe. Alfie had said it had clothes for every occasion, so she was expecting a full rack when she opened the doors—rows of silks, and velvets, and chiffons, and stripes.
Instead, a solitary dress hung from a hanger. It was all satin silk and lace, in black and liquid gold, a slinky bias-cut gown made fora Hollywood goddess. It was the same dress as the one she’d seen in the photo. There were easily a couple of metres of pearls in the necklace looped over the hanger too. For a long moment, Eve stared. It was utterly stunning, but she couldn’t possibly wear it. The material plunged so low at the back that her entire body would be on show from her shoulders right down to the base of her spine. What if her octopus decided to wander?
