A One-Way Ticket
Little Zoe’s mother worked as a maid in a hotel and often brought her daughter along. Zoe adored the grand lobby with its multiple clocks showing different times for some reason. She loved the sliding glass doors that opened on their own, the plush carpets that muffled footsteps, the scent of the hotel, and the enormous mirrors.
But most of all, she admired the beautiful, kind, and welcoming women behind the front desk. Zoe dreamed of growing up to be just like them.
“You must do well in school, be polite and well-mannered. A receptionist is the face of the hotel,” her mother explained.
“But I have a nice face. You always say I’m pretty,” Zoe would retort.
“It’s not just about looks. You need to know foreign languages and get proper training. Finish school first, then we’ll see,” her mother would smile.
By her teens, Zoe was already helping her mother clean the hotel. She’d examine her slender frame in the massive mirrors, frustrated by her small chest and wishing she were taller—though high heels could fix the latter. Still, she had thick chestnut hair with loose curls, and that counted for something. She had what it took to be a hotel receptionist.
When Margaret Whitmore, the manager, wasn’t around, Zoe would sit with the receptionists, watching and learning. Under their guidance, she handled tasks well.
One day, one receptionist fell ill, and the other was away at her mother’s funeral. Margaret had to step in but couldn’t manage the workload alone. Zoe offered to help.
“I’ve watched them enough. I can do it.” She didn’t mention she’d already worked shifts alone—that would’ve gotten the girls in trouble.
And she did well. Everyone was pleased, but Zoe most of all, glowing with pride.
“You’re brilliant. If you decide to study hospitality, I’ll write you a glowing reference. Then I’ll hire you properly,” Margaret promised.
After school, Zoe enrolled in a distance-learning program, eager to apply her studies straight away. Luck was on her side—one receptionist went on maternity leave, and Zoe got her spot.
Every spare moment, she buried herself in textbooks, mastering English.
Her mother swelled with pride. She’d spent her life as a maid, yet her daughter was already a receptionist—and getting an education.
Young men flirted with Zoe, showering her with compliments, chocolates, perfumes, and flowers.
“Be careful with the businessmen. They’re all ‘unmarried’ on trips, then go home to wives and children, leaving you behind,” her mother and Margaret warned.
Zoe understood well enough. A maid had been fired recently after a guest accused her of stealing. The money turned up—he’d hidden it himself—but she was still sacked.
At the hotel, Zoe met Daniel. A young man from a nearby town on business, he sat in the lobby pretending to read papers while watching her. When her shift ended, he asked her to the cinema. He was easygoing and fun. She liked that an older man—six years her senior—was interested.
Daniel left when his business trip ended, but the next weekend, he returned—just for her, staying at the hotel. She spent the week counting down to his visit. Six months later, he transferred to the city, taking a job at a new branch, with a company flat.
How happy they were then!
Ignoring her mother’s warnings, Zoe often stayed over. He’d wake her with soft kisses, and she’d smile sleepily, curling closer.
“Let’s get married. I don’t want to be apart for a second,” he whispered.
“We’ll still be apart at work,” she teased.
“Yes, but after, we’ll be together. We’ll have children…”
Zoe tensed. She loved her job. Children meant staying home while someone else took her place.
“I’m only twenty-four, just finished uni. I want experience. Don’t rush me,” she pleaded.
One day at work, Zoe felt ill. Assuming food poisoning, she asked Margaret to leave early. Margaret saw the truth and suggested a pregnancy test. It was positive. Not wanting to lose a good receptionist, Margaret arranged a doctor’s visit, covering Zoe’s shift.
Zoe had an abortion. No one knew. She skipped Daniel’s that night, stayed home. Her mother assumed a lovers’ spat. After that, Zoe was more careful.
Two years later, Margaret fell seriously ill, needing surgery. She left Zoe in charge over more experienced staff craving promotion.
“Wow,” Daniel whistled when Zoe told him. “You’re manager now. And I’m just an engineer.”
“I always get what I want,” Zoe beamed.
Too happy to notice his saddened gaze.
Now Zoe worked late often, handling VIPs, inspecting rooms. Envious staff waited for mistakes. She slept at the hotel or her mother’s. Daniel grew jealous, calling work.
“You’re distracting me. I’ll call when I’m free,” she snapped.
But she’d forget, then endure his reproaches at night. They’d argue, and she’d leave for her mum’s. Slowly, she drifted from Daniel, blaming work. He stopped calling first, waiting for her. She was always busy.
Zoe poured herself into the hotel, demanding the same from others. Always in heels and sharp suits, poised and efficient. Where was the sweet, smiling girl?
Visits to Daniel became rushed. She’d turn away after sex, sleeping. When he woke her with kisses, brushing aside her chestnut hair, she’d jerk her shoulder, grumbling about exhaustion.
Morning: shower, dress, dash to the hotel.
“At least have coffee,” he’d ask.
“I’ll get it at work. We’ve got a new machine.”
He sighed, watching her go sadly.
Then her mother fell ill. Zoe stayed by her bedside. After recovery, she called Daniel, missing him, saying she’d come.
“I leave on business in an hour,” he said.
“Where? For how long?” she asked, hurt.
“Head office. I’ll call when I’m there.”
A month passed. No calls, only texts saying he was delayed. Zoe checked her phone constantly, silent mode on at work.
When he returned weeks later, they couldn’t connect. Distance, grudges, or lost love?
Time passed. Margaret never came back, and Zoe took her place fully. Work had pushed Daniel from her heart. Once, Margaret asked Zoe to hire a friend’s daughter.
The girl was sharp, young, ambitious—just as Zoe had been. Staring at her, Zoe realized she was past thirty. Home, she studied herself in the mirror: fine lines around anxious eyes (makeup could hide those), a few grey hairs (plucked ruthlessly).
Her mother worsened. Zoe used connections to get her into London’s best clinic. Six months later, she died.
Now Zoe rarely visited the empty house, often sleeping at the hotel. Any flings were with guests—careful, avoiding gossip.
Maybe exhaustion or wrong men, but she never felt that old spark. The older she got, the more she missed Daniel.
Once, she called. No answer. Tried again. After work, she drove to his place. A winter storm raged—wet snow, biting wind. She buzzed his flat. No reply.
The wind mocked her, flinging snow in her face, yanking her coat open, nipping at her nylon-covered knees. She huddled into her scarf, retreated to the car. Maybe he’d moved?
As she debated asking neighbours, she saw him—with a young woman. They walked, chatting, ignoring the storm. Passing her car, Zoe noticed the woman’s coat straining over a rounded belly.
Ice water seemed to drench her. She’d waited too long. She barely recalled driving home, sobbing, unable to remember why they’d split. She opened expensive wine from a grateful guest, drank, and passed out dressed on the sofa.
Morning: pounding head, worse heartache. She barely recognized her grey face, dull eyes. A quick shower, bright makeup, then work.
Waiting for the lift, she overheard two girls. One—Margaret’s friend’s daughter—said she was getting married.
“Aren’t you afraid of losing your job if you have a baby?”
“In five months, I’ll have a son. Nothing else will matter,” the girl replied.
Zoe listened, unnoticed. Unlike her, the girl didn’t cling to her job. She’d marry, have a child with the man she loved…
Zoe locked her office door, slumped in her chair, legs stretched, uncaring. Here, no one saw her pain. Tired of perfection.
She sat long, pondering. She’d achieved everything—career, nice flat, designer furniture, foreign car, furs. Yet no happiness. No one to share it with. Who was it all for? She’d end up alone, like Margaret.
She wept until a knock came. Straightening, she fixed her makeup, faced the visitor—once more the unshakable manager.
After work, she visited Margaret. Thinner, greyer, her clothes sagging, the ex-manager brightened at the sight of**Margaret lowered her cup of tea and said softly, “You know, Zoe, it’s never too late to buy that one-way ticket and start again.”**
