**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 that, for some reason, never agreed on the time. She loved the automatic sliding glass doors, the plush carpets that swallowed every footstep, the hotel’s distinctive scent, and the enormous mirrors reflecting everything.
But what Zoe loved most were the elegant, cheerful women behind the reception desk. She dreamt of growing up to be just like them.
“You need to do well in school, be polite and well-mannered. A receptionist is the face of the hotel,” her mother reminded her.
“I *have* a good face. You said I’m pretty yourself,” Zoe shot back.
“Pretty isn’t enough. You’ll need to speak foreign languages and get proper training. Grow up, finish school, and then we’ll see,” her mother smiled.
By secondary school, Zoe was helping her mother clean the hotel. She’d scrutinise her slender frame in the mirrors, frustrated by her small chest and wishing she were taller—though heels could fix the height issue. Still, she had thick, chestnut hair with bouncy curls at the ends. By all accounts, she was perfect receptionist material.
When the manager, Janet Whitmore, wasn’t looking, Zoe would sit with the front desk girls, mimicking their duties. Under their watchful eyes, she managed just fine.
One day, one receptionist called in sick, and the other was at her mother’s funeral. Janet had to cover the desk, but she was swamped. Zoe volunteered.
“I’ve seen how it’s done a million times. I can manage.” (She omitted the times she’d handled things solo—those girls would’ve been in trouble.)
And she *did* manage. Everyone was impressed, but no one more than Zoe herself—she felt grown-up and important.
“You’re brilliant. If you decide to study hospitality, I’ll write you a glowing reference for university. Then I’ll hire you straightaway,” Janet promised.
After school, Zoe enrolled in evening classes to apply her learning immediately. Luck struck when one receptionist went on maternity leave, and Zoe took her place.
Every spare minute was spent poring over English textbooks.
Her mother was so proud. She’d been a maid all her life, and here was Zoe, a receptionist *and* a student.
Young men flirted, complimented, showered her with chocolates, perfume, and flowers.
“Be careful with the guests. On business trips, they’re all ‘single’—then they go home to wives and kids, leaving you behind,” her mother and Janet warned.
Zoe already knew. A maid had recently been fired after a guest accused her of stealing cash—later, he’d “found” the money “forgotten” in his suitcase. The maid was still sacked.
Then Zoe met Daniel. A young man from a nearby town on business, he’d sit in the lobby pretending to read newspapers while watching her. After her shift, he asked her to the cinema. He was easygoing, fun. And it *was* flattering—a man six years her senior, keen on *her*.
Daniel left when his work trip ended, but the next weekend, he returned—*for her*—booking a room. She spent all week giddy for Saturday. Six months later, he transferred permanently, landing a company flat.
How happy they were!
Despite her mother’s warnings, Zoe often stayed over. Daniel woke her with gentle kisses. She’d smile sleepily, curling closer…
“Let’s get married. I don’t want to be apart for a second,” he murmured.
“We’ll still be apart during work,” she teased.
“Yes, but after? We’ll be together. Have children…”
Zoe tensed. She *loved* her job—children meant maternity leave, and someone else taking her place.
“I’m only twenty-four. I just graduated—I need experience. Don’t rush me.”
Then Zoe fell ill at work. Suspecting food poisoning, she went to Janet—who quickly guessed otherwise, suggesting a pregnancy test. It was positive. Janet, loath to lose a good receptionist, arranged a discreet clinic visit, covering Zoe’s shift.
The abortion stayed secret. Zoe skipped Daniel’s that night; her mother assumed a lovers’ tiff. After that, Zoe was more careful.
Two years later, Janet received a dire diagnosis. Before hospitalisation, she promoted Zoe—over more experienced candidates.
“Blimey!” Daniel whistled when Zoe told him. “You’re the manager now. And I’m just an engineer.”
“I *always* get what I want,” Zoe cheered.
Too happy to notice his smile fading.
Now she worked late, greeting VIPs, overseeing room prep—hyperaware of envious colleagues waiting for a misstep. She often slept at the hotel or her mum’s. Daniel called, jealous.
“You’re distracting me. I’ll call *when* I’m free,” she snapped.
But she’d forget, and evenings meant arguments. Slowly, she withdrew, blaming work. He stopped calling, waiting. She was always busy.
Zoe gave everything to the hotel, demanding the same. Always poised in heels and sharp suits—where was the sweet, smiling girl?
With Daniel, sex was rushed. When he kissed her neck, nudging aside her chestnut waves, she no longer melted—just shrugged irritably, muttering about exhaustion.
Mornings meant quick showers, then dashing off.
“At least have coffee,” he pleaded.
“I’ll get some at the hotel. We’ve a new machine.”
Daniel sighed, watching her leave.
Then her mother fell ill. Zoe barely left her bedside. After recovery, she finally called Daniel—”I miss you. I’ll come tonight.”
“I’m leaving on business in an hour,” he said.
“Where? For how long?”
“Head office. I’ll call when I’m back.”
A month passed. No calls—just texts: “Delayed.” Zoe kept checking her phone (on silent at work).
When he returned weeks later, something had changed. Familiarity? Resentment? Love, slipping away…
Time rolled on. Janet never returned; Zoe cemented her role. Work eclipsed Daniel. One day, Janet called, asking her to hire a friend’s daughter.
The girl was bright, young, ambitious—just like Zoe once was. Staring at her, Zoe realised: *I’m over thirty.* At home, she scrutinised her reflection—fine lines by her eyes (makeup would hide them), a few grey hairs (plucked mercilessly).
Her mother worsened. Zoe used her connections for London’s finest clinic—but six months later, she was gone.
Now Zoe rarely visited the empty house. She slept at the hotel. Any flings were with guests—discreet, avoiding gossip.
Maybe exhaustion, maybe the wrong men—but no one made her feel like Daniel. The older she got, the more she remembered him.
One day, she called. No answer. She tried again. And again. After work, she drove to his place. A freezing, wet night. The intercom brought no reply.
The wind mocked her, flinging sleet in her face, wrenching open her coat. She burrowed into her scarf, retreating to the car. *Maybe he moved?*
As she debated asking neighbours, she spotted him—with a young woman. They chatted, oblivious to the weather. As they passed her car, Zoe noticed the woman’s coat straining over a rounded belly.
Ice flooded her veins. She’d waited too long.
Shaking, she drove home, sobbing—*why* had they split? She couldn’t recall. A bottle of expensive wine (a guest’s gift) helped her pass out on the sofa, still dressed.
Morning brought a pounding head—and a worse heartache. Her reflection: ashen, eyes dull. A quick shower, bright makeup, then work.
At the lift, she overheard two receptionists—Janet’s protégée discussing her wedding.
“Aren’t you afraid maternity leave will cost you your job?”
“In five months, I’ll have my son—nothing else will matter.”
Zoe listened silently. Unlike her, this girl didn’t fear losing her place. She’d marry, have a child with a man she loved…
In her office, Zoe locked the door, slumping into her chair. Legs stretched, uncaring—here, no one saw her pain. She was *tired* of being perfect.
She sat, reflecting. She’d gotten *everything* she wanted—except happiness. A flat, posh furniture, a luxury car, designer coats… *Why?* No one to share it with. She’d die alone, like Janet. No one to care for her.
She wept until a knock—a visitor. Composed, she straightened her makeup and stepped out. Professional. Helpful. No one saw her breaking inside.
After work, she visited Janet. Frail, grey, swimming in her clothes, Janet brightened at seeing her. They talked, cried.
“My husband left—couldn’t handle me. No children. An abortion young… I never conceived again. I’And as the train pulled away from the platform, Zoe leaned her head against the window, watching the city blur into the distance, finally free to chase the happiness she’d spent so long ignoring.
