I refused to cry, blinking back the hot tears as the taxi pulled away from the curb. I knew I shouldn't, but I looked back at Ed, standing there on the sidewalk, looking broken.
I'm the one that should look broken.
"Where to, miss?"
Shit. I don't know, Mr. Taxi Driver, can't you tell I've just been burned by my international superstar boyfriend and I'm in a country that's not my own and I have nowhere and no one to run to?
"Do you have any hotel recommendations?"
"Sure, plenty. Are you looking for something reasonable, or ritzy?"
"Ritzy, please."
"Right away then, miss."
My brain kicked into logistical-detail mode.
Okay, first step, check into a hotel. I have literally nothing with me apart from my little purse which thankfully has my wallet. No fucking way am I going back to Ed's just to get a suitcase of clothing. I'll just buy some things to tide me over..... tide me over til when? Should I fly home?
The thought of leaving London like this made me shudder. The last few days had been crazy wonderful. How did it all fall to pieces so quickly? Stop.
My phone was vibrating in my little purse. I flipped it over to check – Lauren was calling. I hit ignore. She called again - ignore. After rejecting her third call, I felt a bit guilty, she probably was worried. I tapped out a quick response:
*Lo, I'm OK, I just need some space. Please.
My phone immediately started buzzing again, and I just got pissed and turned the damn thing off.
I pushed all the worries and questions down, focusing on getting a room somewhere and checking in.
The driver pulled up to a large high-rise building and I handed him a bank note from my purse before spilling out in front of the hotel's main entrance.
I approached the reception desk, suddenly very aware that my dress was probably too tight and short for a place like this.
"Hello, how may I assist you?" The man was young, and dressed in a black suit.
"Do you have any rooms available tonight, please?"
"Sure ma'am. Will one bed suffice?"
I nodded my head. He went to work, clicking and typing in the hotel's computer system.
"Ahh, we've got a lovely King-sized room with a view of the city. Would you like to reserve it?"
"Yes, please." City view sounds nice. I mean, I'm in London for the first time, may as well wallow in my self pity in style – "Wait. Do you have anything larger..... like a suite?"
It turns out, he did. Several options, actually. He pulled out a brochure that included a few photos and highlighted the amenities of each. Oh, and the price per night, which made my eyes bulge out of my head a bit.
I handed over my AmEx card, silently glossing over the dollar figure he had given me for the week's stay. It didn't matter, really, but it was much more than I was used to paying. Fuck it.
And so he handed me a key card, and I walked unsteadily in my heels over to the Elevator, where they had an actual attendant stationed. He was dressed in a full bell-hop type uniform, an older gentleman with kind eyes.
"Hello, what floor, please?" He asked, ushering me into the lift.
"Penthouse, please."
I handed him the special key I had gotten at reception, the attendant inserted it in the wall panel and I watched as the "P" button lit up, and we were on our way.
