Ursula kept still, more from fright than intention.
Then she heard a key being inserted and the door opened.
A young man in hotel uniform—maroon waistcoat, white shirt, black tie, black trousers—came in, saw her, stopped short and said, ‘Oh, sorry, miss! No one answered. I’ve come for the breakfast tray.’
Ursula was still too shocked to say anything. The young man took the tray, turned at the door, looked at her, said, ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ and left.
The intrusion had panicked her. But now a thought came to her and with it a renewed determination.
She undressed, flinging her clothes—Imogen’s clothes—onto the bed, followed by her bra and panties, and went into the bathroom, where she turned on the shower, used the loo while the water was hotting up, then got into the cubicle and with a sense of release so pleasurable she laughed out loud, shampooed her hair from the little bottle provided, soaped herself vigorously with the little bar of soap provided, rubbed herself hard all over with the face cloth provided, then stood, face up, eyes closed under the showerhead, while the refreshing water sluiced away the shampoo and the soap, and with them the hair spray and makeup the department store specialist had taken so long to apply, and which since the moment she had left the store had oppressed her with a sense of fraudulence and caused her to be treated as someone she was not and knew now she did not wish to be.
When she got out of the shower, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the door of the wardrobe opposite the bathroom. It was such a relief to be clean, to be free of clothes, to be only herself, her own flesh and bones.
Why is it, she asked herself, that I feel better with nothing on? Why do I prefer to be naked than in clothes? I think I’d like to be naked all the time!
She regarded herself, that way and this, up and down.
I’m sure I look better naked, she told herself. And I feel whole.
That’s it! she thought. When I’m naked I feel whole. I never feel right in clothes. Whatever I wear feels wrong. I can never find anything that looks right everywhere on me. Clothes seem to separate my top half from my bottom half, my head from my body. Without anything on I’m all one.
V
A quarter of an hour later, Ursula was sitting in the armchair, dressed only in a luxurious bathrobe with the hotel’s name blazoned on the chest, which she had found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She was reading Griselda Walsh’s new book while she cooled off and her hair dried.
She calculated that Miz Walsh would be gone to at least twelve thirty and probably not return to her room till after the conference lunch, at which she would be a guest of honour, wouldn’t she? Plenty of time before she needed to dress, hand in the key at reception, pretending she had found it on the floor, and leave without being discovered.
Miz Walsh had treated her as Cindy. Using the author’s room to turn Cindy into Ursula wasn’t exactly what Miz Walsh had intended. But Cindy decided it was a gift anyway.
But she was only a few pages into the book when there was a knock on the door again, and the same voice saying, ‘Room service.’
This time, she wasn’t so panicked.
‘What do you want?’ she called back.
‘It’s room service, miss,’ the man said. ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Private, miss.’
Fearing he’d go on shouting and draw the attention of other guests or staff, she opened the door enough to see him. He wasn’t in hotel uniform but just his white shirt and a pair of old jeans, and a large canvas bag hanging from his shoulder. And he wasn’t really a man either, but a boy not much older than herself.
‘What do you want?’ Ursula said, trying to be authoritative but her nerves sounding in her voice.
‘This isn’t your room, is it?’ the boy said. ‘It’s the author’s, Griselda Walsh’s. I know because I brought her breakfast this morning.’
Ursula stared at him.
The boy waited a moment before saying, ‘Have you permission to be here?’
‘She sent me to get something for her,’ Ursula said.
‘So why are you in a bathrobe?’
Ursula was stuck.
‘I’ll have to report you to security,’ the boy said. ‘Because if they find out I knew you were here when you shouldn’t be, I’ll get the sack, and I can’t afford to lose this job. We’re supposed to report anything unusual. You might be a thief . . . or a terrorist.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Ursula heard herself say.
‘You’d be surprised what goes on in hotels,’ the boy said. ‘So what are you doing here?’
Ursula opened the door wide and said, ‘Nothing. Just . . . nothing.’
The boy laughed. ‘So I tell security there’s a girl in room five-four-five who’s doing nothing, do I?’
‘I mean I’m not doing anything wrong.’
‘Except using someone’s room without permission.’
Ursula felt close to tears.
‘I was just . . . I don’t know . . . having a day out.’
‘A day out?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll have to come up with something better than that.’
‘Look . . . I came to the hotel to try and see Griselda Walsh because I like her books, and she found me and thought I was one of the staff or something and asked me to get a jacket from her room because she was feeling cold and she went into the meeting and I came and got her jacket and gave it to her but forgot to give her the key and I was feeling a bit, well, annoyed, because I’d had a makeup makeover and been whistled at in the street and made a pass at by a man in Costa Coffee and I felt upset at being treated like I was a, well, like something I’m not, and when I found I still had the key I came up and had a shower to wash off all the makeup and stuff and was cooling down afterwards and I was going to hand in the key when I left but you came for the tray and now you’ve come back accusing me of being a thief or a terrorist and I know I shouldn’t have done it, but that’s why.’
The boy gave her a wary look.
‘Please don’t report me,’ Ursula said. ‘I’m harmless, really I am!’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I think I’d better make sure you leave without taking anything and the place is tidy. Then I’ll see you out of the hotel and that way everything should be all right.’
Ursula let him in, and closed the door.
They stood at the foot of the bed looking at each other.
‘I can’t go till I get dressed,’ Ursula said. ‘I’ll use the bathroom, OK?’
The boy nodded.
Ursula collected her things and went into the bathroom. She was trembling all the time she was dressing.
When she came out, the boy was sitting in the armchair, his bag on his knees.
‘You’re not in uniform,’ she said.
‘Finished my shift at twelve.’
Ursula sat on the bed and pulled on her shoes.
‘What’s your name?’ the boy asked.
‘Ursula Oracod. What’s yours?’
‘Paul. Paul Taylor.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Look,’ Ursula said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been stupid, I know.’
‘It’s OK. No problem. It’s just, I mustn’t lose this job. I need the money.’
‘I’ll tidy the bathroom, make sure it’s as I found it.’
‘No, I’ll do it. I know how things are supposed to be.’
He got up and went to the bathroom.
‘Done,’ he said, coming back.
Ursula stood up. Paul looked round the room, squared off the bed cover, checked the bedside tables, and adjusted the vase of flowers on the coffee table.
‘What about the key?’ Ursula said. ‘I was going to hand it in at reception and say I’d found it.’
‘That’s a bit risky. Reception might ask for your details. I’ll hand it in myself. Where did you take her jacket?’
&nbs
p; ‘To the Princess Diana Hall. I met her outside there.’
‘OK, that’s where I’ll say I found it. I’ll take you down, see you out, then hand in the key. OK?’
‘OK. And look—thanks.’
‘Yeah, well! I’ll tell you something. I’m not too keen on Griselda Walsh. I brought her breakfast this morning and all I got was complaints. She wanted it at eight thirty. I was ten minutes late. I couldn’t help it, room service is busy at that time. Then she rang down and complained the coffee wasn’t hot, so I had to rush up with another pot. When I got here she nagged on about the toast being cold, which has nothing to do with me, I just carry the stuff. I told her that and she said I was being cheeky. Forward was the word she used. Forward! When I left she phoned reception and put in a complaint about the inefficiency of room service, gave them my name, and said I’d been rude to her.’
‘How did she know who you were?’
‘We wear name tags on our jackets. My boss gave me a telling off. So she really got up my nose. Some guests do. Whatever you do there’s no pleasing them. They seem to think you’re their personal servant and have nothing else to do but look after them.’
‘Sounds as if you don’t like your job much.’
‘I don’t.’
‘So why do it?’
‘I need the money to go to art school next year. And the hours suit me. I’m finished at twelve, and the rest of the day I can do my own work. I need to build up a portfolio of drawings and paintings to qualify.’
‘You want to be an artist?’
He suddenly blushed, looked shy, put his head down, and said, ‘We’d better go.’
VI
Outside, Ursula waited.
She hoped Paul would leave by the hotel’s main entrance.
Which he did about ten minutes later.
She caught up with him as he walked down the street.
‘Hey—you again!’ he said, smiling, and stopping to face her.
‘Hi,’ Ursula said. ‘Look, I’m sorry I did that. I mean, nearly got you into trouble.’
‘No problem.’
‘But I’d like to thank you. Could I buy you a coffee? Or maybe we could have something to eat?’
‘One of the few good things about being on room service is there’s always plenty to eat. You should see what people send back untouched.’
‘OK. Just a thought. Thanks, anyway.’
She was turning to go when Paul said, ‘Hang on a sec. It’s a nice day. I’ve been inside since six this morning. I wouldn’t mind a walk in the park. If that doesn’t sound too corny.’
‘Who cares if it is?’
They set off. The park was only a few minutes away.
‘I come here quite a bit,’ Paul said as they sauntered along the path through the trees towards the lake. ‘I like looking at the people, and the ducks on the pond are always good for a laugh. I’ve done quite a few drawings here.’
‘I like painting,’ Ursula said. ‘Or used to. But I was no good at it.’
‘Did you draw?’
‘No. Just paint.’
‘You’ve got to draw if you want to paint well.’
‘Why?’
‘It trains your hand, and it makes you look very closely at what you’re drawing. That’s the main thing about art. Looking very closely. And for a long time.’
‘I wish I could see some of your drawings.’
‘You can. I’ve got some in my bag.’
They sat on a bench. Paul pulled a sketchpad out of his bag and opened it to show Ursula.
There were all sorts of sketches, some very quick, hardly more than a few lines, some more finished. There were some that were of small boxes arranged together, some of people sitting on park benches, some of children playing in the sand tray, a boy on a swing, a number of ducks on the water. And three of a nude woman sitting on a box.
Paul commentated as he showed Ursula each picture.
‘I did the boxes after looking at some drawings by Morandi, who had a thing about boxes and bottles. Lovely drawings. Very still. Like drawings of silence. Very hard to do, though. Getting the arrangement right . . . I did these ones of the people in the park last week . . . I did the nudes in life class this week. I should do more life studies. It’s important. And I need them for my portfolio.’
‘So why don’t you?’
‘It costs too much. If you’re not a student, you can attend life classes only if you pay. And I’m trying to save up for when I go to art school.’
Ursula looked at the drawings. They seemed very good to her. She wished she could draw as well.
‘Can I do a drawing of you?’ Paul asked.
‘What, now, you mean?’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve never been drawn before. What do I have to do?’
‘Nothing. Just sit and watch the ducks. And we can go on talking. You can manage that?’
She smiled at him.
‘I can manage that!’
‘OK. Let’s do it! Stay where you are.’
He propped himself against the arm of the bench, knees up, feet on the seat, took a pencil from his bag, propped his drawing pad on his knees, looked at Ursula sitting in profile at the other end of the bench, and started sketching.
For a while nothing was said. Paul worked at his drawing. Ursula watched the ducks. But all the time she was aware, even though she wasn’t looking at him, that Paul was examining her closely. She felt as if his eyes were touching her, travelling over her face and body, feeling every curve and shape, muscle and bone. It was the strangest sensation she had ever felt. And it became so intense that she couldn’t help speaking in order to release the tension building up inside her.
‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’ she asked.
‘No. Only child. You?’
‘Two sisters. One older, one younger.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Is it?’
‘Isn’t it? I’d quite like to have a sister. When I was little, I used to collect the tops off cornflake packets.’
‘What?’
‘The tops off cornflake packets. My mother said if I collected enough of them I could exchange them for a sister.’
‘She didn’t!’
‘It’s true.’
Ursula couldn’t help laughing.
‘Sit still. And look serious again.’
‘But cornflake packets! And you believed her!’
‘Didn’t you believe your mother when you were little?’
That put a silence on Ursula.
Paul said, ‘I used to go round the neighbours asking for the tops off their cornflake packets, till my mother found out and said it only worked if they were the tops off packets of cornflakes I’d eaten. I gave up after I’d saved thirty-four and my mother said it still wasn’t enough.’
‘She was only trying to make you eat your cornflakes.’
‘Oh, how cynical you are, Ursula Oracod!’
‘Yeah, well, maybe I am.’
Paul worked on.
‘Can I have a look?’ Ursula said.
‘No,’ Paul said. ‘It’s not right yet. I’m going to start again.’
He flipped the page over.
‘Could you turn a bit and face me three quarters on?’
Ursula shifted into a new pose. Now she could see him as he worked.
He started again, looking as closely as before. She felt he was x-raying her, seeing right through into her insides.
‘What do your parents think of you wanting to be an artist?’
‘They’re separated. My mother is married to someone else and lives in Scotland. Don’t see her much.’
‘You live with your father?’
‘When they split up I was given the choice. Bad decision!’
‘Why?’
‘I was ten when they split up. I liked him then. We did a lot together. Football matches. Fishing. Gardening—he’s a big gardener, and very good at it. But then I got the drawing bug. He didn’t mind at f
irst. But when I got serious about it, he wasn’t so keen. Then when I decided I wanted to go to art school and be a professional artist, he really turned.’
‘Why?’
‘He doesn’t know anything about art. And doesn’t much like what he does know. Thinks it’s only for the rich and what he calls the phonies and the pseuds and people with their heads up their bums. Not a job for a man. And how many so-called artists make a living out of it anyway? Et cetera. We had a big row about it. You get the idea.’
‘I do.’
‘So the deal is, either I get what he calls a proper job, or he’ll chuck me out.’
‘And that’s why you’re working at the hotel?’
‘And why I’m saving up. When I get into art school, if I get in, I’ll have to find somewhere else to live and pay my own way.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Nar! Don’t be. I don’t mind. I did at first, after the row. It really upset me then. But not now. Somehow, I like it. I like knowing I’ll have to do it all myself without any help from him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s the proof it really matters to me. That I really do want to study art and be an artist. It’s only when you’re on your own, no one, nothing to fall back on, and people are against it, that you know you’re really meant to do what you want to do.’
Ursula thought for a few minutes. Paul went on with his drawing.
‘Parents are odd,’ Ursula said.
‘Yours too?’ Paul asked.
‘You could say.’
‘Why, what’s so odd about them?’
Ursula couldn’t reply at once. She’d touched the unmentionable. The thing never talked about at home. The thing she’d never told anyone.
She looked at Paul, so absorbed in his drawing, looked at his eyes, which looked at her with an intensity that seemed to both see her and see through her. No one had ever looked at her like this before. And it was as if at that moment nothing else mattered to him except Ursula and the marks he was making on the paper that were her too as he had discovered her from the explorations of his eyes.
She felt excited and yet calm. It was as if he were seeking her out. Trying to understand her completely. It was thrilling.
His total attention seemed to draw from her like a magnet the truth she had never told anyone else.
‘They’re odd,’ she said. ‘They’re odd, because I’m not . . . Well . . . You see, after my eldest sister was born, Imogen, my mother had an affair. It didn’t last long. She says it was an infatuation. A fling . . . My dad . . . well, he isn’t my dad . . . but he was very busy, away a lot for his job . . . Anyway, my mother had this fling with another man. But she got pregnant with me. She told my dad . . . I mean not my dad but . . . she told him, and he went ape. But somehow they patched it up and he said he’d accept me as his so long as no one ever knew . . . And they kept the secret till I was thirteen, when Imogen overheard an argument they were having . . . They thought no one was in the house but Imogen was and heard them . . . And my father who isn’t my father reminded my mother about her fling and me . . . Afterwards Imogen tackled them about it. And so my mother told me because she knew Imogen would if she didn’t, because Imogen is like that. After that both my sisters . . . my half sisters . . . never liked me. They said I wasn’t really their sister anymore, and . . . Well, that’s it. That’s why my parents are odd.’
The Kissing Game: Stories of Defiance and Flash Fictions Page 3
