Trust me

“Trust me, okay?” That was my usual phrase, and watching Mr Kopetski walk out through the hotel entrance was a relief. I waved enthusiastically, while he didn’t even bother to nod at me in return.

Despite my easy smile and fake calm demeanour, dealing with him wasn’t child’s play. Mr K was a carbon-copy businessman, who spent at least one hundred and fifty nights with us here at The Clouds Hotel Westminster every year and tipped well, but behind the suit was the world’s fussiest eater, and he threw tantrums like a four-year-old when things didn’t go his way.

I had cousins. I was more than competent dealing with small human beings who wouldn’t think twice about throwing my phone in the toilet or pulling the hair out of my head, should I cross them. Mr Kopetski was very much the same, and by now, I knew all his quirks. Hence I had given meticulous instructions to the head waiter at Francesca’s brasserie across the river, and they had assured me they not only had his preferences in stock but also knew how to prepare a chicken schnitzel to Mr Kopetski’s exact requirements.

Oliver, The Clouds’ concierge, would have my head on a plate for doing what should be his job, but anyway. The head waiter at Francesca’s liked me. Mr Kopetski liked me too, and I got commission just like everyone else. Oliver had accused me before of crossing a line, but there was no line. And I was tired. I was actually dog tired today, and it was only Monday and fuck working weekends.

Ah, the life of an inner-city hotel dogsbody aka doorman aka fixer of all sorts. The guy who carried people’s cases, discreetly accepted tips and slid them into my pocket. We had zips on ours. There was nothing worse than having that hard-earned cash drop out onto the pavement, leaving us scrabbling around and making us look like some kind of criminal numpties. I was grateful for the job. For the cash. For the fake, warm smile I so easily plastered on my face.

The smiles weren’t always fake, because I liked the work. I liked most people, I really did, but I’d manned this goddamn door for the past three days, seemingly non-stop, squeezing in the required eight hours of sleep in between shifts. Well, almost. I liked the constant rush of things to do, the days never the same. Some days would drag past, and I would be clockwatching and my feet would be hurting. Other days, I would be caught up in dealing with police, emergency services, scumbags and more drama than I could wish for.

Today, as if Mr Kopetski hadn’t brought enough drama on his own, there was someone else I had to deal with. A shadowy bloke in a hoodie had been hanging around the entrance for the last half an hour, and I hadn’t had time to go out there and make him disappear.

We got them, of course we did. Druggies and dealers and standard gangs of pickpockets scouting out the place and trying it on. I knew most of them, some even by name—something I wasn’t proud of—but it meant very few of them tried it on with me on the door. Even fewer when my dad was standing here with me. The fact that my dad was on his lunch break and would no doubt reappear while I was dealing with this shady guy was giving me neck sweats.

My dad said he trusted me, but I knew he didn’t always, and I didn’t blame him. I didn’t always trust myself.

Okay, so I’d had a rough upbringing. Not my dad’s fault, because I’d lived with my mum, who’d had a drug problem. She’d had too many shady boyfriends, never worked and instead tried to launch herself as the hard woman on the estate, dealing crack and running a shoplifting ring. Yeah. So when she was arrested and jailed, I ended up with my dad.

Thirteen-year-old kids were not easy to deal with, especially kids like me, and my dad was a bloody champ. He was my hero, and how he’d put up with me for this long, I had no idea. But here I was. If I made a list of things that I loved about my life—I made lists a lot—my dad would be at the top of it, and below that my job.

I loved my job. And I loved that my dad had forced me to apply for it, and that I’d snagged it and, amazingly, that they let me work here—Mr Klutz and Mr Christensen and all the big managers—with my dad, who was also my boss. They still hadn’t sacked me even though I was sometimes unreliable and messy and didn’t always follow the rules.

Trust. It was a word my dad used a lot. He said he trusted me to make the right decisions and to handle things well. Well, my brain didn’t always agree with those instructions, but anyway, things were good now. Stable. Most of the time, I made good decisions, and when I didn’t, I was learning to clean up my own messes. Not always perfectly, but good enough.

Still, my dad would have a fit if he came down here and saw that I hadn’t dealt with this guy when I knew I should have. The guy wasn’t here to check in and he needed to fuck the hell off before our security officer came back from his rounds and called the cops on him. The security guy we had on today was itching for action, whatever that would be. They always were. Agency staff. Mostly lads—well, all genders really—who’d flunked the entry exam for the police training. Some were ex-army people, others were strong, silent types, impossible to read. They could be even scarier, all trigger-happy and pumped, fuelled by energy drinks and weird-smelling vapes.

The guy in the hoodie, though, he was nervous and pacing up and down along the side wall, then popping his head around the corner, then disappearing again. He had a large rucksack on his back, and…yes. Now I knew what his problem was. Dodgy Geezers alert. I could spot them a mile off. Had it hardwired in my brain because I’d been that kid. Street-smart, antsy, constantly expecting to get jumped from behind.

I’d made some enemies in the past, but that was years ago. I never wanted to be that scared again, so I kept my head up, my brain clear. I didn’t even smoke weed anymore. Fear did that to you, and I couldn’t afford to be sloppy and spaced out if I wanted to live. I also needed to protect my dad. My friends. The people who worked here.

“Hey!” I called, stepping through the sliding doors onto the street and beckoning to hoodie guy. “Come here a minute, mate.”

I could talk to anyone. Like a social chameleon, my dad always said. I could speak like a street rat when needed, but I was also super polite with a clear London accent if the situation called for it. “Read people,” Dad always told me. “Get on the right level.”

With this guy, I was going with stern and get rid level. He had his head down, hands in his pockets, and that hood covered everything so I couldn’t see his face. He could be anyone. Truly anyone.

“Can I help you with something? You lost?”

Yeah. Guy wasn’t lost. And up close, that was one hell of an expensive tracksuit, despite the bag strap covering the logo. He was clean too, smelled fresh, which was a good sign, though he was still looking at his shoes.

“Hey, Reubs,” he mumbled.

I halted in shock. I didn’t know this guy. Did I? I kept my guard up anyway. He could have a blade in that pocket for all I knew. I took a small step back. Danced on my heels. Waited for his next move.

“Can I talk to you? Inside?” He looked up, just for a second, but that second was all I needed to confirm I definitely knew this guy, and this was bad. Fucking bad.

“Dieter, dude…” I grabbed his arm and frogmarched him through the doors. Fucking hell. “Where’s your security detail, mate? You crazy?”

Dude was crazy. He should not be out here on his own. Absolutely not. I’d dealt with him and his kind before, and the recent big court case where some stalker had been handed down a lengthy jail sentence was one thing, but…

This was The Dieter, the biggest pop sensation on the planet. Part of Blitz. None of them could play an instrument and their dancing skills were questionable at the best of times, but they were usually followed by screaming humans throwing gifts at them and trying to rip their clothes off.

Dieter was a hothead, despite being voted most eligible bachelor or something in some magazine.

He was also a total idiot.

He’d just wrapped his first full-length streaming site epic and was about to hit the big time in the acting world. He’d either walk away with awards or get completely roasted. Oh, and he had no drama training. I knew because I read all the gossip sites. My social media was littered with update accounts.

Well, it was part of my job to know these things. Recognise people as they walked through the door. My guests shouldn’t have to introduce themselves; I should know them by sight. Like my dad did.

Turning Dieter around, I placed him with his back to the front doors and his face towards me so I could scowl at him.

Man. Last thing I needed. The Dieter. Tall and slim, he usually wore leather trousers and boots and not much else. Flicked his long, tousled blond hair about to reveal his big blue eyes accentuated by heavy eyeliner. One pout of those lips would have girls screaming and fainting and all that stuff. People went nuts over him, but personally, I couldn’t see it.

Today, though, his face was lacking the greasepaint, his hair was neatly tied back, and those big blue eyes were staring emptily at me from under that hood.

At least he wasn’t attempting to stab me. I tugged his hands out of his pockets because…I didn’t really know, and that was very me. An insane, impulsive wacky piece of work. But seriously, he needed to stand up straight, look like he belonged here so I could get him somewhere safe before we both got into trouble.

Trouble. My middle name.

Reuben Trouble Schiller, aged twenty-six. Yeah, you can laugh. Most people at The Clouds thought I was still nineteen or something because I looked younger and had been known to act like it too. I may not have had a fancy degree, nor did I have my school certificates or all that stuff. I could read and write. I could also bullshit my way out of anything and was good with computers. I had no problems dealing with our in-house systems, and I’d taught myself spreadsheets and helped with my dad’s tax return because he was law-abiding and sensible and, surprisingly, I was too…most of the time. Well, Dad and I knew all the tricks, and my uncle was a tax specialist, so you wouldn’t have caught either of us dead paying our taxes without claiming for everything down to the socks we wore for work.

See? I was off on a tangent again, and Dieter was chewing on a fingernail looking more nervous than I felt.

“What do you need, mate?”

I didn’t provide drugs. Not anymore. Nor did I dish up escorts or anything like that. I knew how to, and I had contacts. Okay, they were mates, but whatever.

“I actually…have a reservation,” he mumbled.

Told you. Idiot.

“Then why are you skulking ’round out there like a twat? And why are you on your own?”

“Didn’t work out with…you know. The one I was coming here with. But I have no choice now, do I?”

I had no idea what he was on about, but my dad was on his way across the lobby, so I pushed Dieter ahead of me and gave my dad a dismissive wave as we passed by.

“Mr Dieter,” Dad said, nodding politely.

Yeah. It was our job to deal with these kinds of people, and Dieter almost stumbled over his own feet as I steered him onwards, behind reception, and marched him into the office with determination in my step.

And here was Eddie, today’s reception manager. He usually treated us doormen like annoying lowlife, but had been rather calm and reasonable of late. He didn’t look very calm having an extremely famous, multi-platinum-award-winning pop star thrust into his visitor’s chair.

“Fuck,” he said, staring at Dieter. “Not again.”

“What?” Dieter huffed, and I laughed.

Last time the Blitz tour bus had rocked up outside our front door, all hell had broken loose since someone had messed up their reservation. I side-eyed Eddie hard. He got the message.

“I’m so sorry we…we were…unprepared last time. I do remember, fully our responsibility…” he started. Then he stopped. Stared at me. Then at Dieter. “You haven’t got a reservation.”

“I do,” Dieter argued quietly.

This was not how we usually greeted our VIP guests, but I was quite enjoying the little spectacle unfolding in front of me.

“I booked in. Paid and all.”

“Oh?” Eddie tapped desperately at his computer. “What name did you use?”

“That Hugo booked it for me, I dunno. He said it was all there.”

Bloody Hugo. The other reception manager. There were four of them actually, but fucking hell. Two screw-ups in a row.

“You don’t even know what name you’re booked in under?” I asked, trying to help. “Is it like a codename? I mean, You were Mr Pokémon last time, I think. Or was it Mr Marvel?”

It hadn’t been, but it got a small smile out of Dieter as he tried to make himself invisible on that chair. He was always like this. I’d seen him live on stage. Watched him on TV. Entire stadiums full of fans lapped up his every breath, that tousled hair and his trademark bare chest and wanky leather trousers, the mere twitch of his hips causing people to faint, every word coming out of his mouth devoured by his adoring audience. In reality…

Dieter from Blitz was sitting right here, sans leather trousers, obviously, and I needed to figure him out, because honestly, he looked terrified.

“Do you have any idea what name you’re booked under?” Eddie again. “And it’s definitely today?” He was unusually flustered, which could be lack of sleep, as he’d once again done a double duty-manager shift. I knew because I’d been here too, and this clusterfuck of a weekend was not one I wanted to revisit. A stabbing outside, three known prostitutes arrested in the bar, the fire alarm had gone off in the spa, and our resident piano player had been high as a kite and had to be escorted away from her piano. And now Eddie was on his phone leaving voicemail messages for Hugo to ring him back with regards to a rather sensitive urgent matter dealing with a VIP.

Like Dieter didn’t know we were talking about him.

“Look, it’s okay,” he said. “If you have a room, any room, I’ll take it. I’m, like, shattered, and I have nowhere else to go.”

“You have a house up in Hampstead, yeah?” Me and my big mouth, but those gossip sites were very useful. Full of information. Admittedly, some of it was a load of bollocks.

“Can’t go back there,” Dieter said. “It’s on the market anyway. Need to find somewhere else to crash.”

That was…unusually candid. We didn’t know him, and he didn’t know us, and the way he was squirming, he’d clearly not intended to tell us that. “Hugo set it all up. Think it was something to do with fish?”

Good job, Dieter!

Eddie’s face lit up, fingers tapping away like he was performing some kind of satanic ritual on his keyboard, the tip of his tongue peeking out of his mouth in concentration. He swallowed. Smiled.

“Gotcha. You’re right, Mr Dieter.”

“Just Dieter,” he huffed. “It’s just an act. No need to call me that. And this is a…private visit.”

“Indeed,” Eddie smarmed, albeit politely.

“What am I booked in as?”

He seemed to have found a bit of his usual confidence and no longer looked so goddamn scared, thank fuck, because I had no idea where any of this was heading.

“You’re down as Mr Oyster. You are, of course, very welcome to change that.” Eddie tugged at his tie. I noticed a droplet of sweat run down his forehead.

“Nah. All good,” Dieter said. “I’ll get out of your hair then.” He stood up, rucksack still on his shoulder. Shifty little shit.

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Eddie asked, looking a lot calmer, like he’d had an internal chat with himself and managed to find his Zen or some shit like that. I had no Zen. I was just me.

“I’ll need some…food. Later, yeah?”

Food. Ha! He lived off macrobiotic vegan grains or something. Usually travelled with an extensive detailed rider, containing ridiculous items we’d never even heard off and never had in stock. The guy was all lean muscle. The Dieter. He was also fidgeting with the cord from his hoodie, and that panic-stricken look was back on his face.

“And please don’t tell anyone I’m here. I just want to lie low for a bit. You understand?”

I did. Eddie did too, apparently, as he was back to tapping furiously on his keyboard.

“I believe you requested the room service department to deliver your meals. Anything else, you can call me directly—”

“Nah,” I interrupted, grabbing a pen off the table. Because…no. Eddie didn’t need the stress, and I could handle things. Also…

“You text me and I’ll make sure things get done,” I said, grabbing a scrap piece of paper off the table and writing my number on it. I thought about adding my Instagram handle but didn’t. I was not going to be that person, even though I wanted to. I mean, he was The Dieter.

“Thank you, Reuben,” Eddie said with a definite hint of relief in his voice. Good. We were all on the same page. It was like we had our own little secret service department, right here.

Then we all…just stared. Eddie stared at the computer screen, Dieter stared at Eddie, and I stared at Dieter standing there. He was pale and looked as tired as Eddie did and I felt. The pissed-off-tired gang.

I got where Dieter was coming from, I really did. Sometimes I just wanted to get out of my own head. Out of my own life. Peace and quiet. A dark room with a bed where I could just exist and block everything out.

I liked my own company. I liked being alone.

“Come on, mate,” I said, trying to muster up some cheer. “Let me take you up and get you settled then.”

I grabbed the key out of Eddie’s hand, the one for the King George Suite. Easy. Private entrance right by the lifts. Dieter would be okay there for a few days. I opened the door and nodded for him to get moving.

I’d take him up in the staff lift, deposit him safely where he belonged, then I was taking my break early because I really needed a cup of coffee and a nap. Preferably a long one.