They made a documentary series about the hotel a few years ago. It was on ITV but you can find it on YouTube now. All very ‘Boris’ coded. They started filming before COVID. Those pre-COVID sections have a nudge-nudge, look how relaxed we all were, quality. You can see me at the desk, in one shot, but I was never considered interesting enough to be one of the ‘characters’.
I saw Tim today. He was behind me in Pret, opposite Euston Station. During my time at the hotel, we lived together.
‘Mum’s bad again,’ he said.
We stood for a moment by Robert Stephenson and talked about Manchester. This was something we never did when we lived together, in that literal attic across from the Lyceum, but for those five minutes today we were nostalgic, even expansive.
‘Can I say you look well? Is that something people say?’
In truth, he was barely recognisable. It was the clothes.
‘I have money now. Mr Lewis whispers in my ear, “I’ll wire you.” And he does.’ Tim – the dramaturge – raised his right hand and said, ‘Merci, Mr Lewis.’
‘Him,’ I said. ‘Still.’
‘“From the Ether into your lovely pocket.”’
Then it was time for Tim to get his train. I hadn’t even asked after his mum, in the end, not really. I walked on. My desk at the Premier Inn is simple and I like it. I was on the afternoon-evening shift today. I thought about Tim arriving in Manchester, in his suit. He’d used pomade in his hair. I thought about Mr Lewis waiting for him to return.
*
By the time I came to the hotel in 2017 as a concierge, Mr Lewis had been in residence for a decade. He told me once that he moved in the day Blair moved out of 10 Downing Street. He did not spend all his time at the hotel, it was just that if he wanted that suite, it was always available to him.
For a while, I was playing a role, and then I spent so much time in the role that it became my life, and relaxing after a shift felt almost phoney. I would leave Tim to his own devices, staggering around the space between Nelson’s Column and the National Portrait Gallery in his Pikachu costume, sweating his balls off. We didn’t talk much after a while, but we were still friends. Mr Lewis became one of my favourite parts of the job, because his requests were often so lively. One night, he rang the desk just before eleven:
‘I’d like Paddington–,’ as he paused I noticed a very tall man reading his Pretty Woman programme from the theatre next door, ‘-Paddington, please, if poss.’ In the background, on the phone, I could hear ‘Satellite of Love’ playing very loud. ‘Not a teddy. Flesh and blood.’ Mr Lewis ended the call. I got out my own phone and texted Tim: Could I call you, there’s fifty quid in it? Five minutes later I was on the phone to Tim.
We met outside and he followed me through the innards of the hotel. He was carrying two bags for life. The head had its own bag. At the top of the stairs, waiting for Tim, I saw Paddington’s glassy black eye. I imagined choking on it. I looked away and stared at the concrete wall. I briefed Tim before we left the stairwell.
‘Mr Lewis has lived a life,’ I said, unsure what I meant by this, other than it was something I would say in my role, as it sounded somewhat discreet, although not really.
‘Got you.’ Tim had shaved his head earlier in the week. I realised that he’d done this for the audition. I hadn’t asked how it’d gone.
‘He was high up in the BBC, after the war.’
‘Which war?’
‘This is serious for me, Tim.’ I wasn’t sure which war.
‘How old is he?’
‘Nearly a hundred,’ I said, because I thought this must be the case.
Tim was dazed, but not sleepy. I thought this would go down well. We made our way to the suite. I knocked on. Inside the hallway, I told Tim where he could change. He disappeared. Mr Lewis was on the settee, watching Strictly on mute, listening to his music. He was in his baggy white boxers and Lou Reed t-shirt. We exchanged a few words. Mr Lewis gargled.
When Tim emerged, he was not Paddington at all. He’d lied. I recognised this costume. We had made it ourselves at uni, for a showcase, in tribute to Mike Batt. It was only partly ironical. What emerged was a womble. Great Uncle Bulgaria himself. The white beard had seen better days, but still Mr Lewis was transfixed.
After, in the morning, I saw Mr Lewis in the restaurant with Tim. Usually, he had breakfast in his room. Later, Mr Lewis asked for a table at the Ledbury. I dutifully made the call and secured the reservation. I worked my magic. Tim did look sleepy now; his eyes were bloodshot. The bags for life must still be in the room, I thought, idly, before another guest stole my attention.
On opening night, I saw Tim in the play. Mr Lewis had pulled strings, as it goes. He knew people. Tim was good in the play but in the bar admitted to me that he was done with the acting life; he had found a new vocation. He had to do the washing up for Madame Cholet.
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