The Empty Hotel Room

The wind blew cold and harsh, but the loneliness surrounding Kate created a deeper ache, making her shiver despite still feeling flushed from the performance of a lifetime. The applause had swept through the theater like the storm now threatening the city, momentarily drowning her in the admiration of an audience that did not understand the suffering of a true artist.

She pulled the collar of her coat tighter around her neck as she approached the hotel, the soft fur a poor substitute for the strong arms of the man she once loved.

“Good evening, Ms. Beaumont.” James, the hotel’s night concierge, smiled from behind the polished desk. He looked as if he had been waiting for her, but in the end, he was just another employee hoping for a tip.

“Hello, James.” She offered a bright smile, an effortless gesture that hid her true feelings behind a façade of cheerfulness. When had it become so easy to smile on command? Those who had gone before taught her this was how great artists were expected to behave, making it seem as if walking on one’s toes was the most natural thing in the world. No one talked about the bleeding feet, the aching muscles, or the crushing loneliness. If they did, ballet would be nothing more than a few grainy pictures on a television screen.

“How was the performance?”

“Good,” she said. “A full house.”

James nodded as if he had expected nothing less from the world-famous ballerina whose picture graced every magazine cover. “That’s wonderful.” He walked her to the elevator, pressing the button with admiration for the woman who seemingly had it all.

“Have a good night, Ms. Beaumont.”

“And you,” she murmured.

As soon as the doors closed, her smile vanished. She was glad the elevator was empty, though it didn’t surprise her, given how late it was. She leaned against the wall, staring at her reflection in the mirror. This was not the graceful swan the audience had cheered for just an hour earlier. This was simply Kate Beaumont, exhausted and in pain, all alone in a strange city with no one to share her success with.

She took off her shoes before stepping out on the fifteenth floor, letting the soft carpet support her tired feet. The hallway was quiet, with a row of anonymous doors greeting her as she moved past. Behind each one, she pictured couples tucked in bed, children dreaming peacefully, and businessmen typing reports. Behind door fifteen-thirty, however, there was only the kind of silence that fills a theater when the orchestra begins to tune.

The lock blinked green as she slid her card through the slot. Housekeeping had come through: the curtains were drawn, the room was dimly lit, and a chocolate sat on her pillow. This empty hotel room was now her home, just another in a string of rooms—Paris last month, Milan the month before, and New York before that. Always different, yet always the same. It wasn’t unusual for her to wake up not knowing which city she had spent the night in; her only constant was her suitcase, which seemed to hold her entire life.

Management had upgraded her to a suite, thinking they were doing her a favor. However, the room was too large for one person and only deepened her loneliness. No one was waiting to welcome her home, someone who would stand up when she entered and hug her close. Someone who would massage her aching feet before they touched the sheets. She threw her bag and shoes into a corner of the room; she couldn’t care less. Prim and proper on the outside, a savage on the inside.

The bouquet of red roses she received at the stage door was tossed onto the bed, their petals already starting to wilt from lack of water. Who had given them to her? Was it the young girl who just started taking ballet classes, dreaming of the glamorous life she imagined her heroine lived? Or had it been the widower who approached her with trembling hands, recalling the joy on his late wife’s face every time he took her to a performance of Swan Lake?

She yanked open the curtains and sank into a chair by the window, stretching her legs out like the city skyline before her. The lights of downtown Chicago looked like a fake constellation, a poor substitute for the stars in the countryside she had loved so much. She had left it all behind to chase a dream she had held since she was six, when her grandmother took her to see Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. She remembered the plush velvet seats, her grandmother’s hand on hers as the lights dimmed and the first notes of music carried her off to a fairytale world.

She had been too young to understand love and tragedy, but she had understood beauty and the audience’s response. That night, she had wanted nothing more than to be that swan. Her mother had believed in her, sacrificing her own career to help her daughter achieve hers. “You have something special,” she whispered after each lesson, watching from the wings. “Something the world deserves to see.” So, Kate gave the world everything, expecting what the world gave back would be enough.

Pacing around the room, she noticed the blinking light on the answering machine. No surprise who it was: her mother, now too frail to travel. “I am sure you were wonderful tonight, Katie.” The same words over and over, as if maternal pride were enough to make up for the childhood she had lost. Because of the dedication a career like hers required, ballet was the only thing she knew, and she had lost everything else in the process.

She had no friends left, only the unanimous faces in the crowd who came to see perfection. It started with a missed birthday party, then a trip, and eventually entire summers spent bent over a ballet barre, practicing. Too many invitations and phone calls went unanswered until they stopped coming altogether. Those who did call always wanted something: a free ticket, an appearance at a fundraiser, an autograph. Her colleagues’ friendship was tainted by jealousy, a subtle hope that she would soon fall from her pedestal.

Going into the closet, Kate wrapped herself in the robe that had been a wedding present from her husband. She had found love at the bottom of the climb, but by the time she reached the summit, after years of patiently waiting by the stage doors as she satisfied her hungry admirers, he was gone. He tried hardest of all, but when she returned home from a performance, he could see that her heart was still on that stage.

“I need Kate,” he yelled at her the night he left. “I don’t need Odette, Odile, or Juliet...I just need you.”

Who was Kate anyway? Whom had these strangers at the stage door seen when they clamored for an autograph? The tragic Odette, the seductive Odile, or just Kate? Would they even remember her name tomorrow, or only the glittering swan they imagined her to be? She didn’t fight for her husband, acutely aware that he understood her better than anyone else: the stage was her only reality.

No one warned her that success was nothing more than an empty hotel room in a strange city, staring down at a world that carried on without her. She heard laughter in the hallway, maybe a couple returning from a final drink at the bar after watching her perform. They probably imagined the famous ballerina fêted across town by high society, dressed by Dior, and adorned with jewelry fit for a queen. Her audience was free to live, but she was stuck in a hotel room that belonged to no one, constantly rehearsing in her mind the steps she would dance again tomorrow.

The silence was oppressive, but she couldn’t turn on any music because her body would crave movement. Instead, she turned to the minibar for the bottle of champagne she had ordered before leaving for the theater. The pop of the cork signaled joy, and tiny bubbles rushed to the surface as she poured herself a glass. It tasted of nothing, however, when she had no one to share it with.

She closed her eyes and tried to recreate the rush of the stage, imagining the swell of the orchestra and the heat of the stage lights. For a minute, she felt whole again, until the sound of an ambulance below brought her back to her senses. All that remained of all that she had given that night lay crumbled on the bed: a bouquet of roses. Oh, how she hated those bouquets, their beauty as fleeting as her career.

Yet, she feared the day no one would bring her any at all. What would become of her? She no longer remembered who Kate was; her whole identity was now tangled up with the characters she brought to life on stage.

She lifted her glass once more, watching the fading bubbles rise. Twenty years of sacrifice and dedication had brought her to the peak of her career: her name was on everyone’s lips, and people queued for hours to watch her perform. Success had once been her guiding star, but now it felt like a hollow illusion. Yet tomorrow, she would do it all over again, chasing something she could no longer define. She would smile at Prince Siegfried as he approached her by the lake, and she would bow for the crowd as they rose to their feet.

Tomorrow, the critics would analyze her performance. However, the harshest critic of all was the one she couldn’t escape: herself. No matter how flawless the execution or how long the standing ovation, it was never enough for her. There was always something she could have done better, one more ounce of perfection she hadn’t yet extracted from herself. The top was always just slightly out of reach.

She poured her champagne down the drain and crawled under the crisp sheets, pressing the answering machine’s button one more time. The room felt impossibly silent when the message ended with, “I love you, Katie.”

No one called her that anymore, a faint whisper from the past echoing who she truly was. It was just a simple name, but one she longed to hear as she searched for someone to say goodnight to. She picked up the phone and called home, but the six-hour time difference meant that no one answered.

“Goodnight, Katie,” she whispered to herself, turning off the lights and wrapping herself in the silk hotel sheets.