GLASSHOUSE HOTEL

 

The medieval city of Edinburgh is a striking destination to glimpse into the ancient past of Scotland. Amidst a backdrop of historic cathedrals and the Edinburgh Castle, crisp manicured public gardens and sweeping views of both the majestic coastline and the tranquil countryside, this city has preserved its rich culture and picturesque environment for centuries.

 

With the changing tides, the city has embraced modernization through the unification of the historic architecture and the stripped down minimalism of modern design. The Glasshouse Hotel, located at the footsteps of Carlton Hill in Edinburgh, embodies this aesthetic, creating the perfect harmony of old and new.

 

The façade of the hotel retains its heritage as Lady Glenorchy Church dating back 150 years; however, stepping through the entrance reminds you that you're not here for Sunday mass. The contemporary lobby is adorned with inviting couches in earthy colors, modern art and sculptures showcasing local talent from the Edinburgh College of Art, a sleek elongated fireplace-perfect for a nightcap, and of course accent décor made of what else - glass.

 

All 65 rooms and suites feature floor to ceiling glass windows framing views of the city skyline or the hidden roof-top garden. Decked out in  warm color palettes, with dark woods, rich fabrics, contemporary furnishings and more glass, the rooms are the embodiment of style.

 

Lavish amenities like Sharp Aquos LCD televisions and plush beds layered with Frette bedding make getting out of bed an effort. Greet the morning by stepping into a glass and natural stone-tiled bathroom where taking a bath is made even more serene with fragrant, natural Aveda Bath products. Lounge on luxurious aged leather couches while you catch up with local scene when perusing The Scotsman or enjoy one of the many books highlighting Scottish and UK life.

 

Whether you're sampling the wide variety of Scottish Whiskeys in the "snug" or having afternoon tea on your own private terrace, the Glasshouse assures a pleasant experience. However, with guests that span the spectrum from Kelly Osbourne to Meryl Streep, you can be sure that this precious gem fills up fast.

 

http://www.theetoncollection.com/hotels/glasshouse/

Rooms from £140

The Glasshouse Hotel

2 Greenside Place

Edinburgh EH1 3AA, UK

Tel: +44 131 525 8200

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

It was another dirty, early August’s hot dusk in the oil fields off Stocker Avenue.  Thick air at the top of the desolate hill picked up strands of slick, black hair and moved them over her left shoulder. How well her auburn highlights complemented the rusty oil-stained structures, he thought.   It was at this moment a sense of relief washed over him as they waited for night to fall.

 

He winced slightly as he removed her red boy shorts, lace thong and striped halter-top.  Her body, face down in the dry brush, joined the landscape of hundreds of abandoned derricks encased in miles of broken chain link fence.  He removed a single stiletto heel and added it to the rest of her clothes placing them in the trunk of a gray Camry. The license plate read MRHLYWD. 

 

Now it was only the half flickering lights of a cold metropolis that lay beyond them. An eerie proscenium was carved out of the night that framed her slumped body at the foot of the well, blood life pouring out of her mixing with the sand and earth.  He drove down the silent hill with the charm letter “A” of a gold necklace dangling off the rear view mirror, clouds of dust obscuring what was left behind.

 

David squealed his car into an underground garage.  Ripping the necklace from the rearview mirror, he quickly jumped out of the car as it sputtered and jerked to a stop.  He checked the lock on the trunk and walked to the service elevator.  He pressed six.  Down the hall he opened the door to number 612 and entered a small apartment with pink neon creeping into the corner.  He crossed to the window, looked out and then pulled the blinds. David’s throat was chocked with dust from the oil fields.  He was dry and needed vodka. 

 

He had had better apartments.  With job prospects dwindling he decided to take a single in the Koreatown area of Los Angeles.  This was where he started his career when he moved to Los Angeles from the South too many years ago to remember.  So many years that he couldn’t even remember why.  But there had been better times.  His name on guest lists and party invites, a maitre’ d welcoming him by name, a house-warming at his Brentwood Condo, lots of men and a few women.  Everyone knew you couldn’t live on the east side and be taken seriously.  You need youth, a hard body and a few celebrity friends to make it here.  Otherwise, you might as well be . . . . well, someone’s dog walker.

 

The freelance copywriting work kept him alive though; many times what seemed only day-by-day.  David came up with that great new slogan for Pepsi, but that was ten years ago.  It was more difficult now to repeat those successes and maybe he didn’t want to.  Those close to him sensed his hopelessness.  He felt used up and hardened by the City. 

 

David placed the necklace he still clutched in his hand on a bureau and began sobbing uncontrollably.  He quickly turned on the television to mask the noise traveling through paper- thin walls.  He looked around the dark apartment at familiar things, too familiar and too long in his possession he felt. 

 

David could no longer afford the couch and ottoman he wanted in the window of Diva on Robertson.  Or dinners at L’Orangerie.  And Gucci.  David loved to spend money and wanted power.  Being poor and jealous was torture.  He blamed her for that. He had a history of lavishing it on himself and others.  Now friends just seemed to drift away from him or he from them.  That was her fault.  Losing out on a fat production deal and directing at Propensity Films in the early 90s was her fault, too. 

 

He couldn’t even speak her name.  David blamed “A” for everything.  An actress?  She was no Ava Gardner by any means.  He discovered her at a yard sale, nurtured her and sealed her fate.  A short decade later she’d made it, 30 feet tall on the screen, and he just felt numb.

 

“I can’t read anymore,” groaned a petite middle-aged red head and tossed a script across the room landing at his feet.

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t like it, Scott,” grumbled Ms. Merow.  “I had a sense this was where you were going…. Uhm.. I’d like to see it reworked. I see some humor creep in.”

 

“Humor?” Scott asked incredulously.

 

“Yes, humor,” she purred.  “That’s the twist.”

 

“I don’t get it,” demanded Scott.  “This guy . . . David . . . is breaking down.”

 

“You don’t have to get it darling.  That’s my job.  Now go home and work this out.  I’d like to see a revision early next week.  The story is just

too pathetic; you have to tell it in an unbelievably funny way.  This is a sleazy, beach book . . . not serious.  That’s what I want to see,” she enthused.

 

Scott slumped out of her crusty Hollywood office off Sunset next to the 24-hour psychic.  He’d pitched this idea around Hollywood to a few contacts he knew and Randa Merow was the only one willing to give him a chance.  She owned one of those small pay-for- play publishing companies - - the ones where you put down $10,000 dollars and they print your book.  Scott didn’t have any literary credits, but he could sell anything. He hadn’t forgotten what he had learned in Hollywood --- not yet.