`Oh. No. Of course,’ said Tricia, trying hard to get up to speed.
`I don’t know about this,’ said the receptionist, for whom speed was not an issue. `Would you like me to try this number for you now?’
`No, that’ll be fine, thanks,’ said Tricia. `I can handle it now.’
`I can call this room number here for you if that’ll help,’ said the receptionist, peering at the note again.
`No, that won’t be necessary, thanks,’ said Tricia. `That’s my own room number. I’m the one the message was for. I think we’ve sorted this out now.’
`You have a nice day now,’ said the receptionist.
Tricia didn’t particularly want to have a nice day. She was busy.
She also didn’t want to talk to Gail Andrews. She had a very strict cut-off point as far as fraternising with the Christians was concerned. Her colleagues called her interview subjects Chris- tians and would often cross themselves when they saw one walking innocently into the studio to face Tricia, particularly if Tricia was smiling warmly and showing her teeth.
She turned and smiled frostily, wondering what to do.
Gail Andrews was a well groomed woman in her mid-forties. Her clothes fell within the boundaries defined by expensive good taste, but were definitely huddled up at the floatier end of those boundaries. She was an astrologer – a famous and, if rumour were true, influential astrologer, having allegedly influenced a number of decisions made by the late President Hudson, including every- thing from which flavour of cream whip to have on which day of the week, to whether or not to bomb Damascus.
Tricia had savaged her more than somewhat. Not on the grounds of whether or not the stories about the President were true, that was old hat now. At the time Ms Andrews had emphati- cally denied advising President Hudson on anything other than personal, spiritual or dietary matters, which did not, apparently include the bombing of Damascus. (`NOTHING PERSONAL, DAMASCUS!’ the tabloids had hooted at the time.)
No, this was a neat topical little angle that Tricia had come up with about the whole issue of astrology itself. Ms Andrews had not been entirely ready for it. Tricia, on the other hand, was not entirely ready for a re-match in the hotel lobby. What to do?
`I can wait for you in the bar, if you need a few minutes,’ said Gail Andrews. `But I would like to talk to you, and I’m leaving the city tonight.’
She seemed to be slightly anxious about something rather than aggrieved or irate.
`OK,’ said Tricia. `Give me ten minutes.’
She went up to her room. Apart from anything else, she had so little faith in the ability of the guy on the message desk at reception to deal with anything as complicated as a message that she wanted to be doubly certain that there wasn’t a note under the door. It wouldn’t be the first time that messages at the desk and messages under the door had been completely at odds with each other.
There wasn’t one.
The message light on the phone was flashing though.
She hit the message button and got the hotel operator.
`You have a message from Gary Andress,’ said the operator.
`Yes?’ said Tricia. An unfamiliar name. `What does it say.’
`Not hippy,’ said the operator.
`Not what?’ said Tricia. ` `Hippy. What it says. Guy says he’s not a hippy. I guess he wanted you to know that. You want the number?’
As she started to dictate the number Tricia suddenly realised that this was just a garbled version of the message she had already had.
`OK, OK,’ she said. `Are there any other messages for me?’
`Room number?’
Tricia couldn’t work out why the operator should suddenly ask for her number this late in the conversation, but gave it to her anyway.
`Name?’
`McMillan, Tricia McMillan.’ Tricia spelt it, patiently.
`Not Mr MacManus?’
`No.’
`No more messages for you.’ Click.
Tricia sighed and dialled again. This time she gave her name and room number all over again, up front. The operator showed not the slightest glimmer of recognition that they had been speak- ing less than ten seconds ago.