The One-Way Ticket
Little Zoe’s mother worked as a maid in a hotel and often took her daughter along. Zoe loved the grand lobby with its many clocks on the wall, all showing different times for reasons she couldn’t fathom. She adored the sliding glass doors that opened on their own, the plush carpets that swallowed footsteps, the scent of the hotel, and the enormous mirrors.
But most of all, she loved the beautiful, cheerful women behind the reception desk. Zoe dreamed that one day, she’d be just like them.
“You have to study hard, be polite and well-mannered. A receptionist is the face of the hotel,” her mother explained.
“I have a good face. You always say I’m pretty,” Zoe countered.
“It’s not just about looks. You need to know foreign languages and have proper training. Grow up, finish school, then we’ll see,” her mother smiled.
By secondary school, Zoe was helping her mother clean the hotel. She studied her slim figure in the massive mirrors, frustrated her chest was too small and wishing she were taller—though heels could fix that. But her chestnut hair, thick and curling at the ends, was perfect. No one could deny she had what it took to work the front desk.
When Madeline Harper, the manager, wasn’t around, Zoe sat with the receptionists, watching how they worked. Under their guidance, she learned quickly.
One day, one receptionist fell ill, and the other left for her mother’s funeral. Madeline took over the desk, but she couldn’t manage everything alone. Zoe volunteered.
“I’ve watched enough. I know what to do.” She didn’t mention she’d already handled things solo before—no need to get the others in trouble.
And she managed. Everyone was pleased, Zoe most of all, glowing with the thrill of responsibility.
“Well done. If you decide to study hospitality, I’ll write you a reference. I’ll hire you myself,” Madeline promised.
After school, Zoe enrolled in university part-time to apply her studies straight away. Luck struck—one receptionist went on maternity leave, and Zoe took her place.
Every spare moment, she buried herself in textbooks, mastering French and German.
Her mother swelled with pride. She’d spent her life as a maid, but her daughter skipped straight to reception, even getting an education.
Young men flocked to Zoe, flattering her with chocolates, perfumes, and flowers.
“Be careful with the guests. They’re all ‘single’ on business trips—then they go home to wives and children, leaving you behind,” her mother and Madeline warned.
Zoe understood well enough. A maid had recently been fired 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 James. A young man from Leeds on a business trip, he sat in the lobby pretending to read newspapers while watching her. After her shift, he asked her to the cinema. He was easy, fun. She liked that a man six years older found her interesting.
James left when his trip ended but returned the next weekend just to see her, staying at the hotel. She spent the week counting down to his visits. Six months later, he transferred to the city for a new office branch, getting a company flat.
How happy they were then!
Despite her mother’s warnings, Zoe often stayed over. James woke her with soft kisses; she’d smile sleepily and curl closer.
“Let’s get married. I don’t want to spend a second apart,” he whispered.
“We’ll still be apart at work,” she teased.
“Yes, but after, we’ll be together. We’ll have children…”
Zoe stiffened. She loved her job—children would trap her at home while someone else took her place.
“I’m only twenty-four. I just graduated. I want experience. Don’t rush me,” she pleaded.
One day at work, Zoe felt ill. Assuming food poisoning, she asked Madeline to leave early. Madeline recognised the signs and suggested a pregnancy test. It was positive. Not wanting to lose a good receptionist, Madeline arranged a discreet hospital visit, covering her shift.
Zoe had an abortion. No one knew. She skipped James’s that night, staying home. Her mother assumed a lovers’ quarrel. After that, Zoe took precautions.
Two years later, Madeline was diagnosed with cancer and hospitalised. She left Zoe in charge, bypassing more senior staff.
“Blimey,” James 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 darkened expression.
Now, Zoe worked late most nights. Important guests needed greeting, rooms inspecting. Rivals on staff waited for her to slip. She often slept at the hotel or her mother’s. James grew jealous, calling her at work.
“You’re distracting me. I’ll call when I’m free,” she snapped.
But she forgot, and evenings brought his reproaches. They fought; she fled to her mother’s. Without realising, she drifted from James, blaming work. He stopped calling, waiting for her. She was always busy.
Zoe gave the hotel everything, demanding the same. Always in heels and sharp suits, poised, prepared. Where was the smiling girl from before?
When she visited James, they rushed through intimacy before she turned away to sleep. When he kissed her neck, brushing aside her chestnut hair, she no longer melted but shrugged irritably, exhausted.
Mornings, she showered, dressed, and ran to the hotel.
“At least have coffee,” James begged.
“I’ll have it at work. We’ve a new machine.”
He sighed, watching her leave.
Then her mother fell ill. Zoe barely left her side. After her recovery, Zoe finally called James, saying she missed him, would visit.
“I’m leaving for Leeds in an hour,” he said.
“How long?”
“I’ll call when I’m there.”
A month passed. No call, just texts saying he was delayed. Zoe checked her phone constantly, silencing it at work.
When he returned two weeks later, they couldn’t reconnect. Had they grown apart, or were grudges in the way?
Time passed. Madeline never returned; Zoe took her place fully. Work eclipsed James. One day, Madeline called, asking Zoe to hire her friend’s daughter.
The girl was clever, young, ambitious—like Zoe once was. Watching her, Zoe realised she was over thirty. At home, she studied her reflection critically. Fine lines framed her tired eyes. Makeup would hide them. She plucked a few grey hairs ruthlessly.
Her mother worsened. Zoe used her connections to get her into London’s best hospital, but she died six months later.
Now, Zoe rarely visited the empty house, often sleeping at the hotel. Any liaisons were with guests—discreet, avoiding gossip.
Maybe fatigue, maybe the wrong men, but she never felt James’s tenderness again. The older she grew, the more she missed him.
One day, she called. No answer. She tried again and again. After work, she drove to his flat. A winter storm raged—wet snow, biting wind. She buzzed his intercom. No reply.
The wind mocked her, flinging snow in her face, wrenching her coat open, nipping her nylon-covered knees. She tugged her collar up, buried her nose in her scarf, and returned to the car. Maybe he’d moved.
As she debated asking neighbours, she saw him—with a young woman. They walked, talking, ignoring the storm. Passing her car, Zoe noticed the woman’s coat stretched over a rounded belly.
She shook as if doused in ice water. She’d waited too long. She’d lost him.
She didn’t remember driving home. Sobbing, she tried to recall why they’d parted—and couldn’t. She uncorked expensive wine, a gift from a guest, and drank until she passed out on the sofa in her clothes.
Morning brought a headache, but her heart hurt worse. The mirror showed a stranger—grey face, dull eyes. A quick shower, bright makeup, and she left for work.
Waiting for the lift, she overheard two receptionists. Madeline’s friend’s daughter chatted about her wedding.
“Aren’t you afraid maternity leave will cost you your job?” the other asked.
“In five months, I’ll have a son. Nothing else will matter,” she replied.
Zoe listened, motionless. This girl didn’t cherish her job. She’d marry, have a child with the man she loved…
In her office, Zoe locked the door and slumped into her chair. She stretched her legs, uncaring how she looked. Here, no one saw her pain. She was tired of being perfect.
She sat a long time, weighing her life. She had everything she’d wanted—career, flat, car, furs. But no happiness. No one to share it with. Who would care for her when she fell ill?
She wept until a knock came—a guest needed her. She fixed her makeup, smoothed her suit, and stepped out. Once again, she was poised, professional. No one saw herShe boarded the train that evening, the ticket clutched in her hand, and as the carriage rocked gently into the unknown, she finally let herself breathe.
