DeRe
Supernova
- Joined
- Mar 19, 2013
Being the night porter of a hotel has its pros and cons. They bear responsibility for the whole place during the long dark stretch of time when people can be at their craziest. When safe in the neutral world of a hotel room, an otherwise normal person is transported into a whole new realm and inhibitions can disappear as masks fall away. This was certainly true in a place like the Lutetia, a five-star luxury hotel in the heart of the Pigalle, Paris' red-light district. Nearly a century old but fitted with every modern convenience, it was very popular with celebrities visiting the French capital.
The task of keeping the place safe during the capricious Parisian night fell to Andre, a 36-year-old veteran of the city's hotels. He had begun as a dishwasher some two decades before, and now ranked as one of the most powerful and respected staff members in this distinguished place. When the Lutetia was his he was virtually by himself, from sunset to sunrise. Only a smattering of kitchen staff ensconced in the basement remained, in case of any overnight room services, and they were often passed out from too much wine well before dawn. Andre saw the place almost as his palace, and ruled over it accordingly.
Among his colleagues, he was teasingly called "Robbie" because of his marked resemblance to Robbie Williams. Exercise, an alcohol-feel lifestyle and a careful diet ensured he looked some 10 years younger than his age, with a tidy physique. Regular bouts in the hotel's gym - and the rigorous demands of running a hotel by one's self - kept him extremely fit. Various girlfriends had come and gone, but his commitment to the job - and its punishing hours - kept him single.
Priding himself on discretion, he never divulged anything about guests to others in his life. An occasional mob of paparazzi who lurked on the street outside usually harassed him and other staff as they entered or left the building. But on this particular hot June night, as he pushed past the jostling mob of photographers, their sqwarking questions suddenly caught him short.
"Eh Andre! Andre, mon vieil ami! Has Kylie arrived yet?"
"Kylie?" He asked.
"Kylie Minogue, brah! She's staying, yes? You got something for us, oui?"
Breathing deep, Andre pushed right past into the foyer of the hotel. He greeted Simone, the pretty blond receptionist, with a smile and polite nod, but moved on immediately without indulging in their usual flirty banner. Kylie Minogue, he though! Ever since he had seen her perform at the Moulin Rouge down the road nearly twenty years ago, Andre had been totally infatuated with the petite Australian minx. His usual indifference to having a celebrity guest was gone. As he headed up to his room to prepare for the night's shift, butterflies were beating vigorously in his stomach.
The task of keeping the place safe during the capricious Parisian night fell to Andre, a 36-year-old veteran of the city's hotels. He had begun as a dishwasher some two decades before, and now ranked as one of the most powerful and respected staff members in this distinguished place. When the Lutetia was his he was virtually by himself, from sunset to sunrise. Only a smattering of kitchen staff ensconced in the basement remained, in case of any overnight room services, and they were often passed out from too much wine well before dawn. Andre saw the place almost as his palace, and ruled over it accordingly.
Among his colleagues, he was teasingly called "Robbie" because of his marked resemblance to Robbie Williams. Exercise, an alcohol-feel lifestyle and a careful diet ensured he looked some 10 years younger than his age, with a tidy physique. Regular bouts in the hotel's gym - and the rigorous demands of running a hotel by one's self - kept him extremely fit. Various girlfriends had come and gone, but his commitment to the job - and its punishing hours - kept him single.
Priding himself on discretion, he never divulged anything about guests to others in his life. An occasional mob of paparazzi who lurked on the street outside usually harassed him and other staff as they entered or left the building. But on this particular hot June night, as he pushed past the jostling mob of photographers, their sqwarking questions suddenly caught him short.
"Eh Andre! Andre, mon vieil ami! Has Kylie arrived yet?"
"Kylie?" He asked.
"Kylie Minogue, brah! She's staying, yes? You got something for us, oui?"
Breathing deep, Andre pushed right past into the foyer of the hotel. He greeted Simone, the pretty blond receptionist, with a smile and polite nod, but moved on immediately without indulging in their usual flirty banner. Kylie Minogue, he though! Ever since he had seen her perform at the Moulin Rouge down the road nearly twenty years ago, Andre had been totally infatuated with the petite Australian minx. His usual indifference to having a celebrity guest was gone. As he headed up to his room to prepare for the night's shift, butterflies were beating vigorously in his stomach.