**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 many clocks that never quite agreed on the time. She loved the sliding glass doors that opened as if by magic, the plush carpets that swallowed every footstep, the crisp hotel scent, the towering mirrors. But most of all, she admired the beautiful, kind women behind the reception desk—their smiles, their poise. One day, Zoe decided, she would be just like them.
“You must do well in school, mind your manners,” her mother explained. “A receptionist represents the hotel’s face.”
“I have a good face,” Zoe announced. “You always say I’m pretty.”
“Pretty isn’t enough. You’ll need languages, qualifications. Grow up first—finish school.”
By secondary school, Zoe was helping her mother clean. She studied her slight frame in the mirrors, scowling at her flat chest, wishing she were taller—but heels could fix that. At least her chestnut hair was thick, tumbling in soft curls. She had everything it took to work behind that desk.
When Mrs. Whitmore wasn’t looking, Zoe perched beside the receptionists, mimicking their movements. Soon, she could manage small tasks herself.
Then one day, one receptionist fell ill, the other left for a funeral, and Mrs. Whitmore took the desk—but she was overwhelmed. Zoe stepped in.
“I’ve watched them loads. I can do it.” (She didn’t mention she’d already tried alone—no need to get the others in trouble.)
And she did. Everyone was pleased, especially Zoe, glowing with importance.
“If you study hospitality,” Mrs. Whitmore promised, “I’ll write you a reference. I’ll hire you myself.”
After school, Zoe enrolled part-time, eager to apply her studies. Luck struck—a receptionist went on maternity leave, and Zoe took her place. Every spare moment, she buried herself in English textbooks.
Her mother beamed. She’d been a maid all her life—Zoe had skipped straight to reception, with education to boot.
Men flirted, showered her with chocolates, perfume, roses.
“Be careful with the travelers,” her mother warned. “They’ll all have wives back home.”
Zoe understood. A maid had been sacked after a guest accused her of theft—until the money turned up in his own luggage. Too late for her.
Then came Daniel. A young man from Manchester, visiting for work. He sat in the lobby, pretending to read newspapers, watching her. After her shift, he invited her to the cinema. He was easy, funny. She preened under the attention of this older man—six years her senior.
When his trip ended, he left—but returned the next weekend, just for her, staying at the hotel. She counted the days until his visits. Six months later, he transferred to the city, took a company flat.
They were so happy then.
Despite warnings, Zoe often stayed over. He’d wake her with kisses. She’d smile sleepily, curling into him.
“Marry me,” he’d whisper. “I never want to be apart.”
“We’ll still be apart at work,” she teased.
“But after, we’ll be together. We’ll have children—”
Zoe stiffened. She loved her job. Children meant staying home, someone else taking her place.
“I’m twenty-four. I’ve just graduated. I need experience. Don’t rush me.”
Then, at work, she fell ill—nausea, dizziness. Poisoning, she thought. Mrs. Whitmore knew better.
“A pregnancy test,” she advised. Arranged a discreet doctor’s visit. Zoe had an abortion. No one knew. She stayed home that night. Her mother assumed a lover’s quarrel.
Two years later, Mrs. Whitmore fell ill. Before surgery, she put Zoe in charge—bypassing senior staff.
“Manager!” Daniel whistled. “And here I am, just an engineer.”
“I always get what I want,” Zoe gloated. She missed his sad smile.
Now she worked late, met VIPs, inspected rooms. Envious colleagues waited for mistakes. She slept at the hotel, at her mother’s—rarely at Daniel’s. He called, jealous.
“You’re distracting me. I’ll call when I’m free.”
She never did. Evenings brought his reproaches. They fought; she left. Slowly, she pulled away, blaming work. He stopped calling.
The hotel consumed her. Demands, heels, stiff suits. Where was the smiling girl?
With Daniel, sex was rushed. When he kissed her neck, brushed aside her curls, she shrugged him off—too tired. Mornings, she showered, dressed, fled.
“Have coffee,” he pleaded.
“I’ll have it at work. We’ve a new machine.”
He sighed, watching her go.
Then her mother fell ill. Zoe nursed her. When she recovered, Zoe called Daniel. “I miss you. I’ll come tonight.”
“I leave on business in an hour.”
“Where? How long?”
“Head office. I’ll call.”
A month passed. No call. Texts—”Delayed.” She checked her phone constantly, silent at work.
When he returned, something was broken—habit? Resentment? Love gone cold?
Time slipped. Mrs. Whitmore never came back. Zoe took her place. Work erased Daniel.
One day, Mrs. Whitmore called. “Hire my friend’s daughter.”
The girl was bright, young, ambitious—like Zoe once was. Gazing at her, Zoe realized—she was over thirty. At home, she studied her face in the mirror. Faint lines, a few silver hairs. Makeup could hide them.
Her mother worsened. Zoe used connections—best London clinic. Six months later, her mother died.
Now she rarely visited the empty house. Nights were spent at the hotel. Any affairs were with travelers—discreet, reputation intact.
But the thrill was gone. No trembling, no tenderness—like with Daniel. Older now, she thought of him often.
One evening, she called. No answer. Tried again. After work, she drove to his flat. Winter wind, sleet biting her legs. She buzzed—no reply.
Then she saw him—with a young woman. Talking, ignoring the weather. The woman’s coat strained over a rounded belly.
Zoe shook, ice in her veins. Too late. She barely remembered driving home. Cried, drank expensive wine—a guest’s gift—passed out on the sofa.
Morning brought a headache, a worse heartache. Her reflection—gray, tired. A quick shower, bright makeup, back to work.
Waiting for the lift, she overheard the new girl—Mrs. Whitmore’s protégée—talking of marriage.
“Aren’t you scared to lose your job?”
“In five months, I’ll have a son. Nothing else will matter.”
Zoe listened, silent. This girl didn’t cling to the hotel. She’d marry, have a child with someone who loved her…
In her office, Zoe locked the door, slumped into her chair. Kicked off her heels. Here, no one saw her pain.
She’d gotten everything she wanted—career, flat, car, furs. But no happiness. No one to share it. Who would care for her when she was old?
She cried until a knock came. Composed herself, fixed her makeup, faced the guest—stoic, helpful, hiding the ache.
After work, she visited Mrs. Whitmore. Frail, faded, her clothes hanging loose.
“My husband left. Couldn’t stand me. No children. I had an abortion young—never conceived again. Forgive me—I pushed you to do the same. I thought of the hotel.”
No comfort in the confession.
Home, in the dark, Zoe realized—life had flown by. Forty—was that too old to start anew? She called Daniel. This time, he answered.
“Hello? You’re breaking up—call back.”
For a second, she felt his lips on her collarbone, his breath on her neck. Goosebumps, like before. Then—a child’s cry. The line died.
No rewinding life. But nothing stopped her starting over.
Simple, really. If the hotel stole her life, she’d abandon it. Buy a train ticket—somewhere far, maybe the Lake District. Walk, breathe. Buy a silly dress, let her hair down, laugh.
She rang the station.
“Return ticket for when?”
“One-way,” Zoe said, laughing.
She’d ride for hours, swaying with the train, remembering, thinking. Maybe happiness waited. This time, she wouldn’t run from it.
