The Heat of Betrayal by Douglas Kennedy Read Free Book Online Page B

French to scan the ledger. Ahmed thumbed through its many pages, glancing down, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, seeing if they could house us for all that time. I began to wonder: did Paul actually make the reservation, or was this one of his many ‘little oversights’ (as he called them) that seemed to decorate our lives? Now I was starting to feel angry with myself for not checking up on the reservation before departure. Another part of me was castigating myself for questioning him; that given the sliminess of the hotel owner and the sleepwalking style of his desk clerk, who’s to say they didn’t lose the reservation or were playing games to get a better price from us?
    This latter scenario began to seem more plausible after the next exchange. Ahmed turned to the owner, nodding his head, saying something that sounded positive. The owner now spoke to us.
    â€˜I have good news. We do have that room available for the entire period you desire. The other good news is that it is the best room in the house – a mini-suite with a balcony that faces the Atlantic. The price is seven hundred dirhams per night.’
    Paul’s face fell. Immediately the adding machine in my brain was whirring away: 700 dirhams was about $80, double the price Paul told me he had negotiated.
    â€˜But the room I booked cost three-fifty,’ Paul said.
    â€˜You have no record of this offer, do you?’ Monsieur Picard said. ‘As we too have no record of this reservation and are trying to accommodate you . . .’
    â€˜I booked a room for a month at three hundred and fifty dirhams,’ Paul said, angry, stressed.
    â€˜
Monsieur
, if there is no proof, all we have is words. And words—’
    â€˜What are you, a fucking philosopher?’ Paul hissed.
    I put a stabilising hand on my husband’s left forearm.
    â€˜He didn’t mean that,’ I told Monsieur Picard. ‘We are both exhausted and—’
    â€˜I did fucking mean that. This guy is playing with us.’
    Monsieur Picard smiled thinly.
    â€˜You act as if you are doing me a service by staying here. By all means find another hotel – and one of this quality and cleanliness that can offer you a suite of this size for a month. The door is there.
Bonne chance
.’
    He turned and started heading up the stairs.
    â€˜Could we see the suite, please?’ I shouted after him.
    â€˜As you wish.’
    I started following him upstairs. Paul lingered by the reception desk, fuming, sullen.
    â€˜You coming up?’ I asked.
    â€˜Looks like you’re the one in charge now.’
    â€˜Fine.’
    I continued up the stairs. As we reached the first landing Monsieur Picard turned to me and said:
    â€˜Your husband does not seem to be a happy man.’
    â€˜And what business is that of yours?’ I asked.
    The sharpness of my tone startled him.
    â€˜I meant no offence,’ he said.
    â€˜Yes, you did.’
    The upstairs corridors were narrow, but reasonably well painted, with ceramic blue tiles surrounding the door frames. We walked up a set of stairs barely wide enough to accommodate a modest-sized person.
    â€˜Splendid isolation,’ Picard said as we reached a wooden door carved with lattices. He opened it.
    â€˜
Après vous, madame
.’
    I walked inside. Picard turned on a light on a side table. My first thought was:
Oh God, this is small
. We were in a narrow sitting area with carved wooden tables, a heavily brocaded red sofa and a small armchair. The entire area couldn’t have been more than around ten square feet. Tiny slits of light from the blue wooden shutters caught the dust in the air. Sensing my disappointment, Picard said:
    â€˜It gets better.’
    He opened a connecting door and we were now in a high-vaulted room, augmented by wooden beams, the centrepiece of which was a king-sized bed with huge round cushions propping up the carved wooden headboard, upholstered