Miss, That Costs Extra

Chapter 4: The Review

I wrote my review in the hotel room that night.

Clara had done everything she promised. The tour had been thoughtful, the details accurate, and the bus instructions useful. The photographs were better than the ones I took of myself. The additional fees had all been disclosed.

I still felt charged for something I had thought should have been part of the experience.

The booking site asked whether I would recommend her. I clicked no.

The review field was small. I wrote: "Clara knows Bellacosta well and is organized. However, she charges extra for small acts that made me feel like a burden, including taking photos and helping with a meal. If you expect a warm, supportive guide, be clear about what is and isn't included before booking."

I stared at it for a long time. The statement was true. It was also designed to warn people about a quality I hadn't asked her to provide in a precise enough way.

I clicked submit.

The next morning, I was walking toward the harbor when Clara called.

"Maeve, can I speak with you for a minute?"

"Sure."

"I saw your review."

My stomach tightened. "It was honest."

"I'm not asking you to take it down."

"I said the truth."

"I believe you did."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to explain that the photos were included according to the tour you booked. The extra one was three euros. The meal service was listed separately. The review makes it sound like I surprise people with fees."

"I said you charged for small acts."

"You said you felt like a burden. That's fair. I'm sorry I made you feel that way."

Her voice remained calm, and that made my defenses rise faster than if she had been angry.

"Do you want me to change it?"

"No. I want you to consider whether the review describes the service you booked or the service you wanted."

I stopped at the corner. A delivery van rolled through the narrow street, forcing a pair of cyclists to swerve.

"That's a convenient question to ask after you've been paid," I said.

"I'm asking because the booking site sent me a warning. One more low rating this month and I lose access to a featured listing. I'm not asking you to protect my business. I'm asking you not to make a claim that isn't accurate."

I thought of the part where I had written "small acts" as though she had made me pay for kindness. She had taken two photographs for the price of one extra. She had given me three restaurants without charging. She had not held the line against everything.

"I didn't say you surprised people," I said.

"You said that's what you experienced. I can't argue with that. I can ask you to be specific."

The city seemed suddenly too loud. I looked at the harbor in the distance, the roofs of the boats just visible above the buildings.

"I don't want to take it down," I said.

"You don't have to."

"I also don't want you to lose your featured listing."

"That's not your responsibility."

I heard the same boundary I had been testing since the fountain. This time, it didn't sound like an insult. It sounded like a limit she had needed to put in place for herself.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"Thank you."

When the call ended, I walked to a café on the main square. I ordered coffee and opened the review. I read it again. I could feel the shape of my disappointment in every sentence. I had wanted someone to make me feel wanted, and when Clara refused to turn work into affection, I had made that refusal sound like a defect in her business.

I edited the review.

"Clara is knowledgeable and professional, and the tours are well organized. The add-on rates are clear, but I found myself expecting more personal attention than I had booked. If you want a guide to accompany you for meals or provide extra photos, ask about the fee in advance."

I almost deleted the sentence about expecting more. Instead I left it. It was the most honest part.

Then I changed the rating from three stars to four.

The site asked if I was sure. I clicked yes.

A few minutes later, Clara sent a short message.

Clara: Thank you for clarifying the review. I'm not available for the rest of today. Your booking tomorrow remains confirmed.

I stared at the words, hoping for something warmer. A smile, maybe. An explanation. Some proof that we were still something besides a client and a service provider.

I typed, Understood. Then deleted it.

I typed, I'm sorry. Then deleted that too.

Finally, I sent: I appreciate the call. I'll see you tomorrow.

I waited for a reply. None came.

The silence was not cruel. It was simply the silence of a person who had finished work for the day.

I put my phone away and drank my coffee while it was still hot.