Guest 3

Is she really a guest? I look over at her, in the lobby of the hotel, evening after evening. She always has meetings here. Maybe her company puts up some of their personnel with us on a regular basis. I should make a point of checking this with bookings.

Her dress sense is stunning. Black for the most part. Usually draped to suit her hourglass shape. I cannot help but notice her as she strides in through the revolving door on her coloured pumps. I don't know her name. She orders the same drink from the waiters in the lobby bar. A crisp white Chardonnay. Never touches the bar nuts, even though they are very good. A hint of rosemary to them. I suppose that she is wary because of the urban legends about bar nuts. But we always discard them after they have been served.

She waits patiently. Her contact, usually male, turns up, although sometimes she meets up with women. They usually have an intense discussion. Business-like, but there is more to it, I can feel it. I never have the opportunity to overhear them. Then they usually leave. I keep on reminding myself to see where they have gone. Out for the night? Or maybe I am ignoring the fact that they never leave at all?

Guest 2

How pathetic this man is. Every morning I see him take the elevator up to the gym, where he spends at least an hour, like a hamster in its wheel, on the treadmill, until his personal trainer arrives. He has all the right clothes, the little gadgets, the sensors, the iPhone, the cool headphones. He is staying with us for a while until he finds a home.

When his trainer arrives, it's all he can do not to fall over himself with excitement. He eyes the man's pecs (impressive, it must be said), which strain his shirt across his chest, with interest. When the trainer turns around to grab one of his many implements, our little guest's eyes dart to his buttocks. They chat aimlessly about all the women that they have ogled in the past days, and the women with whom they scored.

Is it all about the body? Is our guest aspiring to achieve the same buttocks, the same pecs? Or is there more to it? Would it be a case of 'hello boys' in the shower room?

Guest 1

She sits, typing away furiously, at her laptop, the curtains swaying gently on the wind through the window which is ajar. A cigarette is firmly clamped between her lips. Her legs are akimbo, her shoulders slightly haunched. She takes care of her nails as is evidenced from the impeccable red polish. Her smooth skin belies her age. She is an assisted 35 although she would be even happier if you told her she was younger. You might call her a beauty.

She is travelling through. No husband, no children maybe. Earlier this evening she left, the little black dress hugging her curves tightly, visibly on the prowl. She returned alone although she would have liked to have had company.

I wonder if she has feelings. What is she typing? Her acknowledgement is curt and to the point. She obviously wants to be left alone.

Tomorrow evening I will bring a bottle of red wine and a single glass to her room once again. I will be met with the same tableau. Or will I?