One-Way Ticket
Mum of little Chloe worked as a maid in a hotel and often took her daughter along. Chloe loved the grand hall with its several clocks on the wall, all showing different times for some reason. She adored the sliding glass doors that opened by themselves, the plush carpets muffling footsteps, the distinct scent of the hotel, and the towering mirrors.
But most of all, Chloe admired the elegant, kind women behind the reception desk. She dreamed of growing up to be just like them.
“You have to do well in school, be polite and well-mannered. Receptionists are the face of the hotel,” Mum explained.
“But I’ve got a nice face. You always say I’m pretty,” Chloe protested.
“Being pretty isn’t enough. You need to speak foreign languages and get a proper education. Grow up, finish school, and we’ll see,” Mum said with a smile.
By secondary school, Chloe was already helping Mum clean the hotel rooms. She’d study her slim figure in the mirrors, frustrated at her small chest and wishing she were taller—though heels could fix that. But her chestnut hair, thick and curling at the ends, was perfect. She had everything it took to be a receptionist.
When no one was looking, Chloe would sit at the desk with the staff, watching and learning. With their guidance, she managed just fine.
Once, when one receptionist fell ill and another left for a funeral, Mrs. Eleanor Thompson had to step in. But juggling everything proved impossible. That’s when Chloe offered to help.
“I’ve watched them enough. I can do it,” Chloe said, keeping secret that she’d already handled tasks alone before—no need to get the others in trouble.
And she did. Everyone was pleased, Chloe most of all, feeling grown-up and important.
“Well done,” Mrs. Thompson said. “If you decide to study hospitality, I’ll write you a glowing reference. And I’ll hire you myself.”
After school, Chloe enrolled in a university’s distance learning program, eager to apply what she learned. Luck struck when one receptionist went on maternity leave, and Chloe took her place.
Every spare moment was spent studying, especially French and Spanish.
Mum was proud. She’d worked as a maid all her life, but here was her daughter, a receptionist before even finishing her degree.
Men flirted with Chloe, complimented her, brought chocolates and flowers.
“Be careful with the guests,” Mum and Mrs. Thompson warned. “They’ll all claim to be single, then vanish back to their wives and children, leaving you behind.”
Chloe knew better by now. A maid had recently been sacked over an affair with a guest—he’d accused her of stealing before realising he’d misplaced the money himself. She was let go anyway.
Then came James. A young businessman visiting from Manchester, he’d sit in the lobby pretending to read newspapers while watching Chloe. One evening, he asked her to the cinema. He was easy to talk to, charming. Chloe was flattered—a man six years older, interested in *her*.
James left when his trip ended, but returned the next weekend just for her, staying at the hotel. She counted the days until she’d see him again. Six months later, he transferred to their city for a new office branch and got a company flat.
How happy they were then!
Ignoring Mum’s warnings, Chloe often stayed over. James would wake her with soft kisses, and she’d snuggle closer, smiling.
“Marry me,” he whispered once. “I don’t want to be apart from you for a second.”
“We’ll still have to separate for work,” Chloe teased.
“Yes, but after, we’ll be together. We’ll have children…”
Chloe stiffened. She loved her job—children would mean staying home while another girl took her place.
“I’m only twenty-four. I’ve just graduated. I need experience. Don’t rush me,” she pleaded.
One day, Chloe felt ill at work, thinking it food poisoning. Mrs. Thompson guessed the truth and suggested a pregnancy test. It was positive. Not wanting to lose her best receptionist, Mrs. Thompson arranged a discreet appointment, covering Chloe’s shift.
Chloe had the abortion. No one knew. She skipped James’s that night, staying home. Mum assumed they’d quarrelled. Afterwards, Chloe was more careful.
Two years later, Mrs. Thompson fell seriously ill, needing surgery. Against seniority, she put Chloe in charge.
“Manager of the hotel now?” James whistled when Chloe told him. “And here I am, just an engineer.”
“I always get what I want,” Chloe beamed, missing the sadness in his eyes.
Work consumed her. She handled VIPs, inspected rooms, stayed overnight. Envious co-workers waited for mistakes. James grew jealous, calling the hotel.
“You’re distracting me. I’ll call *you*,” she’d snap, then forget.
Evenings brought arguments, and Chloe fled to Mum’s. She never noticed how she drifted from James, always “too busy.” He stopped calling, waiting for her—but she never had time.
Chloe demanded perfection, always in heels and sharp suits. Where was the sweet, smiling girl?
With James, love became rushed. When he kissed her neck, she shrugged him off, exhausted. Mornings were showers, clothes, sprinting to work.
“At least have coffee,” he’d plead.
“I’ll get it at the hotel. We’ve a new machine.”
James sighed, watching her leave.
Then Mum fell ill. Chloe barely left her side. After recovery, she finally called James, saying she missed him, she’d visit.
“I’m leaving for HQ in an hour,” he said.
“When will you be back?”
“I’ll call.”
A month passed. No calls, only texts—delays. Chloe checked her phone constantly, silent at work.
When he returned, things felt off. Had they grown apart? Resentment lingered.
Time flew. Mrs. Thompson never came back, and Chloe cemented her role. Work eclipsed James. One day, Mrs. Thompson asked Chloe to hire a friend’s daughter.
The girl was bright, ambitious—just like Chloe once was. Staring at her, Chloe realized she was over thirty. At home, she studied her reflection: fine lines, stray grey hairs ruthlessly plucked.
Mum worsened. Chloe used connections to get her into London’s best clinic, but six months later, she was gone.
Chloe rarely visited the empty house now, staying at the hotel. If she saw men, they were guests—brief, discreet. No scandals.
Maybe fatigue, maybe wrong men, but none stirred what James had. The older she got, the more she remembered her first love.
One evening, she called him. No answer. Again and again. After work, she drove to his place. Winter wind flung wet snow in her face as she buzzed his flat. No reply.
Then she saw him—with a young woman, chatting despite the storm. The woman’s coat strained over a rounded belly.
Chloe shook as if doused in ice water. She’d waited too long.
She barely recalled driving home. Between sobs, she couldn’t pinpoint why they’d fallen apart. An expensive guest-gifted wine bottle was opened, then drained. She passed out in her clothes.
Morning brought a throbbing head—and a worse ache inside. The mirror showed a stranger: dull eyes, greying skin. A quick shower, bright makeup, then back to work.
In the lift, she overheard the new girl gushing about her wedding.
“Aren’t you afraid of losing your job after maternity leave?”
“In five months, I’ll have my son. Nothing else will matter,” the girl said.
Chloe listened silently. This girl didn’t covet the hotel. She’d marry, have a child with the man she loved…
Locked in her office, Chloe slumped, uncaring how she looked. Here, no one saw her pain. She’d achieved everything—career, flat, car, furs—but lost happiness. Who was it all for? To die alone, like Mrs. Thompson?
She wept until a knock came. Composed, she emerged—polished, professional, hiding the hurt.
That evening, she visited Mrs. Thompson. Frail, grey, the woman clung to her.
“My husband left. Couldn’t stand me. No children—I had an abortion young, never conceived again. I’m sorry I advised you the same. I thought of the hotel, not you.”
The confession didn’t help.
At home, in the dark, Chloe realized life had raced by. Forty wasn’t the end. She called James. This time, he answered.
“Hello? You’re breaking up—call back,” his voice, achingly familiar, said.
For a second, she felt his lips on her collarbone, his breath on her neck—goosebumps rising. Then, before the line died, a baby’s cry.
No do-overs. But you could start anew.
It wasn’t too late. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Chloe laughed softly. If the hotel stole her life, she’d abandon it.
She’d buyShe booked a one-way ticket to the Highlands, packed a single suitcase, and left the hotel keys on the desk without looking back.
