Wealth and networks
The busy high streets of London heave with commuters making their way home at the end of the working day. Amid them, I move against the current, approaching the hotel for the beginning of my evening's shift. The rush of people reminds me of Ray Davies' description of London in Waterloo Sunset:
Millions of people, swarming like flies round
Waterloo underground
People so busy, make me feel dizzy
Taxi lights shine so bright
As I turn off onto the road where the hotel's haven of luxury lies, a woman appears from the masses, arms outstretched. She holds out her hands in a plea for one of the faces in the merciless crowd to stop and help her. One of a number of beggars along this road, her clothes are ragged and she clearly hasn't eaten for days. This symbol of the abandoned and helpless undercurrent of London life contrasts to the hotel where I am to spend the rest of the evening in a way that is almost unbearable. With the beggar's tormented eyes fresh in my mind, the indulgent and high-flying lifestyle of the hotel would ring truer than ever this evening.
Greeted by flash Bentleys parked outside the hotel entrance, manned by old-fashioned looking men in top hats and tails, I walk through the swivel doors into the spacious lobby. Night after night, I become more and more used to the environment, but it always feels alien to me. I enter the dark bar where the piano awaits and as I pass through the room I hear snippets of conversation which never cease to amaze me. One of our regulars - a formidable businessman with enough money to put him up here almost every night, complete with never-ending whiskey orders and a daily escort - is sitting at the bar. As I walk past, another man walks up and introduces himself to the tycoon:
'It's an honour to meet you sir. I've heard of you for some time!'
The tycoon hardly responds. 'Uh-huh. With all due respect I've never heard of you.'
'No. Quite. *ahem* Quite...'
It seems that the conversation has ended there. Social hierarchies are in place, and everybody knows where they stand. Embarrassed, the apparently less well-known man slumps away. Both of them are in the company of an escort, and the sorry truth of the matter is that the women are ranked as ruthlessly as the men parading them; the more successful man puts his arm around the more attractive girl, every penny he has spent shown for in her figure, her outfit, and the professional smoothness with which she upholds the conversation. Before I took up this job, I would hardly have believed a world like this existed, where money buys you everything, and everything is ranked.
However, just as I have in the past (accidentally) assured the escorts that money 'can't buy me love', anybody can see that money does not buy hapiness. Once a wealthy man's collegues, friends or escorts have left the building, leaving him alone, he continue to order drinks until long after my shift has ended. Having sneaked a peak at the drinks prices, I can vouch that the most expensive shot of Cognac is approaching four figures.
This world is so removed from my own that it doesn't seem real. But when four people about my age appear in the doorway, ordering drinks to prepare them for a night out, it all feels quite familiar. Yet the behaviour, the money spent and the appearence crosses a line that I hope will always be a long way off for me.
The two boys have shiny, gelled back hair, carefully groomed so as to curve round in a semi-curtain. Going for the Leo De Caprio-as-Romeo look, but failing as much as the girls they are with fail to live up to Claire Danes's Juliet. Wearing nothing but what seem like glorified bras, the girls sit with their bare and slightly bulging backs to the piano, cackling at the apparently hysterical one-liners pulled out by their boys. One of them turns to me:
Hey mate, I'm a great singer!! Do Wonderwall or something I'll sing along.
I break into my own version of the Oasis classic, but soon regret it. He wails painfully along with the melody, sharply out of tune and louder than is socially acceptable. And within a few moments, the other three have joined in. All heads are turned. A few sympathetic glances are cast in my direction. But the show must go on. I jazz some parts up so as to throw them off course. But they soldier one, kicking mud in the face of Noel Gallagher's songwriting efforts.
Pre-drinking has, in my life, always been about saving money. A few cans at somebody's house to save buying too much at an expensive venue. So these people amazed me, ordering several drinks each before heading out, and paying off a bill which stretched three figures.
As they get up to leave, they don't acknowledge me but walk straight out. This is common, where attention is diverted to me as a way of showing off, but when it comes to the crucial moment where guests decide whether to acknowledge me for being their performing monkey, not a word is said and eye contact is resolutely avoided. One of the boys appears to suffer from small-man syndrome, strutting with an arrogance that does not compensate for the fact he barely reaches the girls' shoulders. As he leaves, he stops in front of the mirror on the wall behind me, looking straight through me as he tries five or six poses which would not look out of place in a Topman advert. I fail to hide a chuckle as I watch him squint his eyes, attempt a smouldering look, and strut out behind the girls.
A welcome relief from the snobbery and indulgence is provided when I get chatting to a friendly and apparently 'normal' couple on my break. As a general rule, people who are at the hotel for a special occasion are spared my usual cynicism and judgement. True to my theory, this couple are celebrating an anniversary and have come to the hotel for a taste of something different; the hotel holds a novelty value for them that has worn off for the regulars. They put in various requests and clap enthusiastically when I perform them, singing along to one another and nodding in appreciation, particularly at the Foo Fighters' Everlong, which he claims to have learnt on the guitar by way of wooing her, a comment that illicits her raised eyebrows and a smile. Joking with this friendly couple reminds me just how removed I am from the absurdly wealthy people I usually perform for.
Among the songs I perform is the Beatles ballad In My Life. Having been told they are getting married soon, and that this will be their first dance, I perform it with more feeling than ever. Receptive listeners can transform my performance beyond recognition, and remind me why I do what I do.
If they are reading this, I wish them the best on their wedding day.
Meanwhile, the regulars spend away in a joyless fashion, dressed in luxurious furs and swanky suits. On the parallell street, the beggars continue to wait on spare change. And in this room there is enough spare change to fill a thousand hats.
