Page 14 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Eleven

Mariah had not expected it to be so hard to come back to the hotel where she’d stayed with her mom several years before, way before the pandemic.

The place smelled the same, both fresh and softly mildewy.

They took the elevator down to the check-in desk and a very elegant young woman greeted them.

“Veronica, will you?” Mariah said, handing over her phone with the reservation and a credit card.

“Of course.”

Mariah sat down on the velvet couch, trying to ignore the little cold spot just to her left. She didn’t have the energy to deal with a presence at the moment. There were probably a lot in such an old building.

The drag of her hangover clouded everything, and her very blood ached with the weight of the trip and the sitting in one position and cinnamon vodka. She wanted to pop a painkiller, but until she’d had a shower and something to eat, that seemed like a bad idea.

Veronica looked a little worse for wear, too, her clothes wrinkled, her hair losing the smoothness of her blowout, but she handled everything like a mom.

Mariah was glad. The two of them rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and opened the doors to a corner suite with two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a small living area overlooking Russell Square.

Outside, rain had started to fall, blurring the scene.

“Oh, look,” Veronica said from the window. “A red phone booth!”

“I think they left them there for tourists. There are a few around the city so people can take pictures.”

“I’ll have to do that.” She turned. “Let’s get you settled. Do you need to eat? I can run out to the café across the street, or look for a grocery store.”

“Ugh, no.” Mariah felt her irritability rising, a thin red buzz just beneath her skin, and took a breath.

“I need food faster than that. Let’s just order room service for now, and then you can go to the store.

I think there’s a Waitrose a few blocks away.

Or there was.” She sank down into the chair by the window, feeling depression creep in.

The Waitrose was there when Mariah and her mom had stayed here in 2018. Mariah had done well in the PyeongChang Olympics, but had injured her shoulder badly enough that she’d needed to give it a full-on rest.

Rachel whisked her off to Europe. They’d explored London, eating everywhere because that was what you did with Rachel, and they met Henry in Morocco.

Mariah had hoped their romance would reignite there—she always wanted them to get back together—but it didn’t happen. They were friends. Would stay friends.

Rachel had slipped into a new relationship with a food editor, but Henry stuck around in Mariah’s life.

He showed up at competitions sometimes, and she had a zillion great action shots of her career that he’d taken.

He was the only man in her life who could even remotely have been called a father figure, and she was glad he was on this trip.

“What do you want from room service?” Veronica asked. She’d already pulled up a menu on her tablet.

“Uh.” Her stomach growled and protested in two different directions.

“Oatmeal with bananas, if they have them. Whole-grain toast with butter and jam. A good-size pot of tea with lots of sugar and milk.” She paused, feeling into her body for anything else.

“And Marmite.” Rubbing her thigh in a circular motion, she added, “And whatever you want.”

“I’m not that hungry,” Veronica said. “I’ll just have some tea and toast.”

“Dude, we haven’t had a meal in twelve hours. Don’t be shy. Eat.” She pulled an ottoman over to prop up her leg. “Your meals are covered, and you can’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird,” Veronica said, and frowned. She looked over the menu. “Just feels like a lot.”

“What looks really good?”

“Brioche french toast, honestly.”

“Order that.”

“No, that’s too much food. We’ve been sitting for two days. I’ll feel bloated.”

Mariah shrugged and opened her phone, trying to distract herself from the ache in her leg and hip.

The hip hadn’t been damaged in the original incident, but it had been really touchy with all the unevenness in her walk.

She tried to walk steadily, but there was nearly an inch difference in the lengths of her legs, so it wasn’t easy.

It seemed like a lot, and at first she’d been horrified, but then a plainspoken nurse said, “They saved your leg, sweetheart. That wasn’t a given. ”

Veronica picked up the phone and ordered oatmeal for two, and toast, and tea, and bananas. Mariah called out, “And bacon! Two orders!” After Veronica gave the order, Mariah said, “They have the best bacon in England. Just wait.”

“While we wait, I’ll get unpacked. I mean, if we’re going to be in this hotel for a bit.”

She was way more type A than people Mariah knew. Irritation slithered through her veins, snapped against her forehead, and she carefully didn’t look at Veronica. “A week at least, I think. Maybe two. You can check the schedule I gave you.”

“Right.” Veronica gestured between the two rooms. “Should I choose, or do you want to look?”

Mariah had been about to click a TikTok with a cake pour, and the interruption tweaked another thread of irritation. “Fuck, man. I don’t care. Just pick one.”

Veronica stood where she was, her cheeks going red. She looked so suburban with that little swingy haircut and her tidy cargo pants and tucked-in blouse. She was a cliché of a soccer mom. How would Mariah spend three or four weeks with this person?

But instead of saying anything, Veronica grabbed her suitcase and opened the door on the left side of the room. Mariah ignored her, hearing drawers open and close. Zippers shutting. The noises themselves aggravated her and she—

Took a breath. She really would not be able to do this without help, and if she pissed off Veronica first thing, it would be a problem.

Mariah’s worst character trait was her impatience and abruptness. A lot of people on the circuit and in the media disliked her because of it. She’d been working on it for years without showing a lot of progress. They called her Snape on the slopes for her irritability.

But it could be a long trip if they didn’t get along.

She struggled to her feet and limped to the doorway.

“Look,” she said, “I’m kind of known for being a dick, and I’m sorry.

I’m not feeling great, and I’m starving, and I’m meaner than hell when I’m hungry, so it’s nothing personal.

” She took in the room. “Wow, this is nice.”

“It is,” Veronica agreed. “But it is personal when you swear at me. Please don’t do that.”

A blister of annoyance broke over the top of Mariah’s eyebrows. She wanted to snap, Get a fucking life, lady, but forced herself to nod. “Sorry.”

“When I’m finished here, I’ll get your stuff in your room.”

“Cool. I mean, thank you. That would be great.”

Veronica gave her a half smile that looked forced. Mariah turned away to avoid snapping again.

What had she gotten herself into? Maybe they should just forget the whole thing and go home.

But first she had to get some rest.