‘I cannot give you that information, I’m sorry’ the receptionist’s perfect English was soft, polite, and non-negotiable.
‘We cannot divulge details of our guests.’
The excitement that had rippled through her earlier, the energising sunbeams filling her with optimism, and the belief that today she was Midas, hovered overhead like exposed fraudsters. The treasure map lay in tatters, before she had even found the first clue. Voices around her taunted her ears, determined to interfere with any attempt at rational problem solving. The corners of her mouth submitted to gravity, for a moment…
Pursuing the matter would have been futile and Katy resigned herself to embarking on plan B. Plan B was, as yet, not in existence, and was barely even a subheading in her mind. Gathering up the pieces of her temporarily fragmented dignity, Katy headed back to her room on the fourth floor of Hotel Chopin. The weight of disappointment was no lighter for its inevitability; it had been churlish of her to put the poor girl in such an awkward position. On turning to ascend the wide stone staircase, she imagined she recognised a face. Chestnut curls, blue jeans, and a brown backpack created a familiar combination. Katy put it down to ill-timed deja-vu. She had far more pressing matters to attend to, such as why was her name written on the inside cover of the journal? Why was there a name of her favourite band written underneath? And why was the title of the book she had just finished reading, written under that? Yes, there may be many Katies in this world, but Katy who loves The Lumineers, and has just read Swing Time? It was time to channel Sherlock, and implement plan B.
Ben stretched lazily, finished his coffee, grabbed his backpack and rose from the comfortable, armchair, upholstered in heavy tapestry. George III, he guessed. Guests relaxed in the luxurious ambience of the five-star hotel’s coffee lounge, reading papers, tapping away at laptops, or indulging in clandestine meetings behind strategically placed foliage.
Glancing at his watch, he calculated that he could get to the station in time to meet his old friend. He and James had been through university together and had kept in touch for eleven years. He was now a successful musician who lectured at Warsaw university, a position he had accepted when he had met and fallen for a charming Polish lady. His love for her ended, his love for Warsaw did not. James was returning from a trip; this meant Ben could check out of the hotel and catch up on old times over a bottle of Zubrowka. Running his fingers through the untamed curls that flopped into his forehead, he headed past the busy reception towards the heavy oak door. Without a backward glance, he stepped out onto a sun washed pavement of Warsaw Old Town. Eager to meet his friend; eager to learn the secret behind the photograph … the one he’d found in his Grandmother’s jewellery box.
