Page 80 of The Cruiser
“Madam. This is a very exclusive guest and—”
“Did you call an ambulance yet?” I interrupt. “Because if not, she’s going to be an exclusive, dead guest.”
“Please, Madam,” Fabian pleads, holding up both hands to calm me down. “We’ve sent a message.”
“Message? I said you need to call an ambulance. Jesus!” I barge past them and sprint through the lobby, an unfamiliar metallic taste rising on my tongue. If that lady dies on my watch, it will haunt me forever. With my focus tightened, I zone in on a trio of skimpily dressed Barbies leaving the patio bar.
“Excuse me. Pardonne. There’s an emergency. A lady collapsed in the elevator. What’s the number for the ambulance? 911?” I’m rushing, words tumbling on top of one another. The women huddle protectively in their couture, peering at me like I’m a mad, begging homeless woman. One of their faces reads as familiar, but the hot-pink wig throws me off.
“Vandana?” Perla asks.
Lord. Of all people.
“Oh, hi. Perla, yes, it’s me. This woman … she was in the elevator with me. She just collapsed and needs an ambulance, but the hotel staff are dragging their heels and I don’t understand why they’re not doing anything.”
I glance over my shoulder, Perla and her friends absorbing the scene first-hand. A small crowd has formed a cautious circle around the elevator, no one wanting to get too close to someone else’s disaster.
Perla’s eyes narrow. “You say hotel staff do nothing?”
“They said she’s an exclusive guest, whatever that means. And it doesn’t matter. She might be dying.”
Clocking my panic and that it’s real, Perla snaps open her handbag. “I’ll call. Wait minute.” Composed, speaking clearly and calmly in French, she gives details to the operator. When she’s done, she tells us, “Five, ten minutes. They rush fast as possible.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” I grab her arm and she flinches, either from my sweaty palm or the unexpected camaraderie. Likely both.
“Okay, okay,” she says, breaking free of my hand. “Let’s go talk. We find out what scoop is.”
We’re a glamorous battalion of four marching across the lobby. Perla butts right into the conversation of the two employees, letting go with a tirade of French. Fabian waves down her hot-headedness and explains, by the sounds of it, the lay of the land. Her eyes widen and she nods, before pulling me aside to explain.
“She is Prince Khaled’s mother, Ayasha. They need to talk to him first. Strict protocol.”
Oh, god. “He’s meeting with Morgan right now, going over the yacht commission. I don’t know where. I can’t get a hold of him.”
She lowers her voice, angles us away to prevent them from hearing. Her breath reeks of triple-strength vodka. “It’s very sensitive. All scared, these people. No backlash wanted.”
“Backlash? This is life and death. A person is a person. It doesn’t matter what their profile is.” I glare at the employees, who find someplace else to look. Getting stripped down by a tangle of hot women isn’t usual Tuesday night decorum at The Bay.
“I know, I know,” Perla says, calming me. “But you know too. You deal with important clients.”
Of course, I do. And I know it’s all bullshit—people afraid of repercussions from someone wealthier or more powerful than they are. It’s part of my business I don’t like.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “The ambulance better get here soon. You told them we called, right?”
Perla nods and we stand on the sidelines, reduced to spectators. I can’t even look in the elevator. Perla’s friends are antsy, don’t want to hang around for the drama. They’re gossiping amongst themselves, making pouty faces and snapping selfies, when the scream of an ambulance siren draws closer. Two paramedics, beefcake ex-soldier types thick with muscle, roll in with a gurney. They make quick work of strapping the woman in. Seeing her still body makes the stone in my belly heavier.
“Is she going to be okay?” I ask.
Fabian approaches me warily, asks me to explain to the paramedics what happened. I speak slow, measure my English to appear like I’m not frightened, when in fact, any more nervous energy running through me and I might collapse. The older paramedic takes it all in, thinks it’s a heart attack. They need to get her into emergency asap.
I nudge Perla. “Can I go with them?”
“Not good chance,” she says. “But let me ask.” It’s a firm no, redoubled with some explanation and a shake of a bald head. “Only family,” Perla reports back.
“But I should go to the hospital, just in case. What if she snaps back and starts freaking out?”
“Is okay,” Perla says, shutting me down. “The prince will go.”
“It’s not okay! Someone needs to be there. She can’t go alone.” I watch the retreating paramedics roll the gurney across the lobby and into the night. I’m in this now. No way out of it. Her warm body lay on my shoes minutes earlier, and damned if I’m the type of person not to manage a situation to its conclusion. “Do you mind giving me a lift?”
For some reason, this request is more outrageous than asking her to call 911. Her lips tighten and she glances at her friends. They stealthily tip their hair sprayed heads—let’s get out of here.
I get it. We’re not friends. Not even frenemies. But sometimes, all it takes to change things between two people is one person trying.
“Please?” I beg. “I’ve never been there and don’t know my way around. I need someone who can speak French, to help me explain things at the hospital. A taxi driver won’t do that.”
Perla might be in no condition to drive, but whatever she sees in my eyes breaks her. “Okay,” she sighs. “Let me get car.”
