Paula grimaced as she turned into the manicured, landscaped lawns of the Sea View Hotel, where she had been employed for the past six weeks as a chambermaid, or house assistant as they were called in the hotel. The Sea View was only in its second season, having been purpose-built by Gerry Murphy, who owned the site. It had been left to him by his uncle. Gerry Murphy was a young man in a hurry. He had plans for St Margaret’s Bay. Big plans. Hotels, resort centres and leisure activities. Gerry wanted a big slice of the tourist action and he was determined to get it. The Sea View had been built in record time and nothing but the best had gone into it. With sixty bedrooms, a swimming-pool, hairdressers and a crèche, it seemed like the crème de la crème of hotels to Paula’s innocent way of thinking.
She loved working there, not particularly as a house assistant . . . reception was where she aspired to be. But the air of hustle and bustle and glamour and elegance were like an injection of adrenalin into her veins. She loved watching the guests. Their clothes, their expensive luggage all fascinated her. Some day, she too was going to be able to swan into a hotel and order drinks or room service at the snap of her fingers. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Monica Boyle heading up the path on the other side of the large dividing lawn where Tony, one of the porters, was laying out loungers and umbrellas.
Paula quickened her step, she wanted to get in before Monica. Monica Boyle was a prize cow and Paula hated her guts. It hadn’t been her fault that Monica’s boyfriend, Peter, had developed a crush on Paula and kept pestering her to dance every Thursday night at the local disco. Did Monica honestly think that she would look twice at Peter when she was going with a catch like Conor Harrison? Was the girl deluded? Whatever had got into her head, she accused Paula of deliberately flirting with Peter and trying to break them up. Nothing that Paula could say to her would convince her otherwise. Since then she’d been a real wagon and unfortunately was also working as a house assistant in the Sea View for the summer holidays. Her snide comments and sneaky little ways had been very difficult to put up with. But who cared any more, thought Paula happily, today was her last day there.
Monica Boyle gave a great sigh of exasperation when she saw Paula Matthews striding briskly towards the hotel’s entrance. How she detested that stuck-up little bitch . . . and how she envied her. Monica knew that when the Lord had been handing out good looks, He had skimped on her. God’s gift to men she wasn’t, especially when compared to Princess Matthews. Monica, at five foot seven, overweight and spotty, always felt like a lumbering elephant beside the petite but perfectly rounded blonde. As hard as she might try and find a flaw . . . and she had tried, Monica had to admit that when God created Paula Matthews He had given her it all. Big blue eyes, framed by perfect dark wing-tipped eyebrows. A delightful little button nose (not like her own beak). Shiny blonde hair, skin so creamy and peachy and completely unmarred by spots it would make you weep. A body that was slim and lithe with curves where curves were meant to be, not wobbly flabby bulges like her own. If that wasn’t enough, Little Miss Perfect oozed self-confidence and had a bright bubbly personality that made her one of the most popular girls in the school. Whether Monica liked it or not, Miss Paula Matthews was perfection on legs. Some people just had all the luck. Still, that didn’t give her the right to swipe other girls’ fellas.
Monica gave a snort as she quickened her pace. She had been dating Peter Reilly for six months and had practically let him go all the way, the shit, when the Princess fluttered her eyelashes at him one night in the parish disco. Paula had been there on her own because that Conor Harrison, her boyfriend, was up in Dublin. Blatantly. Deliberately. Right under Monica’s nose, she flirted with him. And Peter had gone running, as quick as his bandy legs could carry him, asking her to dance and making a right prat of himself.
Humiliation seared her heart at the memory. Her cheeks burned as she recalled the sly nudges of her classmates, who tittered and giggled as Peter made an ass of himself, buying Paula drinks, flattering her, saying she was the most beautiful girl in the world . . . no . . . not the world . . . the universe. Of course he’d been as pissed as a newt. He’d drunk half a flagon of cider before going to the dance. But Princess Paula lapped it all up and enjoyed the adoration. Needless to say, the following week, when Mister Conor was back, the two-faced wagon hadn’t deigned to give Peter a look, despite all his efforts. Then of course he’d come crawling back to her.
It had been a hard decision to make, whether to take him back or not. But a faithless, fickle boyfriend was better than no boyfriend. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, she decided after a turbulent wrestle with her hurt pride. So she took him back, but she was being very grudging with her favours. Much to Peter’s dismay.
Well, thought Monica grimly, putting on a spurt as she saw her hated rival come parallel to her on the opposite path, Paula Matthews had better watch her step because if she could do her a bad turn ever, she would . . .
‘Good morning, Miss Kelly.’ Paula greeted the head housekeeper cheerfully as she signed her name in the attendance book. Behind her, she could hear Monica Boyle thundering along the corridor. Paula gave a little smile of satisfaction. She had made it to Miss Kelly’s office before her antagonist. That would give Miss Boyle the needle for the day. Now she was in the best position to get the job of cleaning the manager’s office. There was always fierce rivalry over the job of cleaning Mr Gorman’s office. Cleaning the manager’s office was the one way of getting noticed by him and getting noticed by the hotel manager was of paramount importance if one wanted to go further . . . to reception, for instance. Meeting people at the front desk. Being in the thick of it. It would give her great experience for when she finally went looking for a job in Dublin, after she’d finished school. Besides which, cleaning Mr Gorman’s office was a doddle compared to cleaning the public areas, like the foyer and toilets, which were always done before breakfast. The hotel manager was a neat and tidy person, and so was his office.
‘What do you want me to do this morning, Miss Kelly?’ Paula asked politely just as Monica barged past her to sign on. Sheila Kelly tapped the duty roster with her pen.
‘Today’s your last day, Paula, and you’ve a family wedding, haven’t you, later this afternoon so you wanted to go a bit early?’
‘That’s right, Miss Kelly.’ Paula gave her boss a smile. Miss Kelly smiled back thinking it was a pity all her house assistants weren’t as hard-working and dependable and as cheerful as the young teenager in front of her. She had been a bit dubious about taking her on, and Monica Boyle too, for that matter. They were both only fifteen. But Mr Gorman was all for employing staff from the locality and once there was a letter of permission from the parents all was in order. Paula Matthews had proved to be an excellent worker despite the housekeeper’s misgivings and she was only sorry she was leaving so early in the season.
Miss Boyle was another kettle of fish and could do with pulling her socks up a bit. She was far too fond of nipping into the staff hall for a cigarette, and flirting and gossiping with the housemen and porters. And she was just a bit too lax about her work. Only last week her duties had included cleaning the manager’s office and she had forgotten to empty the wastepaper basket. Mr Gorman was decidedly unimpressed and, as Monica was on the housekeeping staff, this reflected badly on the head housekeeper’s training of her assistants. Sheila was furious and ordered one of her assistant housekeepers to keep a very watchful eye on Madame Boyle’s work.
Paula did her share of flirting and gossiping, to be sure. She was extremely popular with the male staff but her work was always done properly and that was all Sheila cared about. Paula Matthews’s bedrooms were a credit to her. They were always finished by the end of her shift. She wasn’t like that lazy lump Mrs Gunne, who invariably left two or three rooms unfinished which the rest of the assistants had to help her with. The housekeeper didn’t mind someone not being finished before the end of shift. Sometimes it was unavoidable. Guests often liked to linger in their rooms and that
tended to delay the process. But Mrs Gunne was far too cute, and used that excuse at every opportunity. If she thought that the housekeeper wasn’t wise to her tricks, she had another think coming. Sheila Kelly had worked her way up from the bottom to her present position. She knew all the tricks of the trade, and young and all as Paula was she was worth three Josie Gunnes any day. She had actually caught the woman sitting on a bed in one of the rooms eating fruit from the complimentary basket. Josie hadn’t even the grace to look ashamed. What a pity Paula was leaving, a good worker was worth her weight in gold in the housekeeping section.
Paula waited patiently as the housekeeper flicked through the duty lists until she found hers.
‘Ah yes, here we are, Paula. I’ve given you the manager’s office, my office, and five overnights on the top floor. The room numbers are on your sheet. Then you can just relieve Maddy Carroll in the linen room for an early lunch at twelve and you’ll be free to go at twelve-thirty.’
‘Thanks very much. Miss Kelly.’ Paula was secretly chuffed. This was the third morning in a row that she’d been given the manager’s office and only overnights. That was brilliant, most of the overnights left after breakfast so she wouldn’t have to hang around waiting for her rooms to be vacated. And Miss Kelly had only given her five rooms to do. Usually she had twelve. Miss Kelly liked her, she knew that. The housekeeper had told her several times that she was an excellent worker. God knows her mother had trained her well. There was always plenty of hoovering and polishing and bed-making to be done at home and, whether she liked it or not, she had to do it. Getting paid to do it made it much more palatable. Paula knew if she was going to get on, her work would have to be up to scratch. Any fool knew that. And it paid off. Look at today when she’d only five bedrooms to do before getting off early. In the background she could hear Monica’s sharp intake of breath as she read her duty list. The assistant housekeepers were always on Monica’s trail, checking out her work. It was her own fault, of course, because she was so slapdash. If she wasn’t careful she’d get the boot. Monica had once called Paula a lick-arse after Miss Kelly complimented her on her work. If Monica expected Paula to be annoyed she’d made a big mistake.
‘Monica, the fact that you can’t differentiate between lick-arsery and ambition is the reason you’ll never amount to anything and I will.’ The other girl was horsing mad and had called her a stuck-up fuckin’ bitch.
‘Charming,’ Paula drawled, not in the slightest put out. She didn’t give a hoot what Monica Boyle thought about her one way or the other.
‘Oh and Monica, I want you and Esther to divide up Paula’s remaining rooms between you as she’s leaving early today,’ the housekeeper instructed her thoroughly disgruntled colleague as Monica went to replenish her work-basket with clean dusters and polish and bathroom cleaner.
She had cleaned the two offices before it was time for breakfast in the staff hall and at eight-thirty was tucking into bacon and egg. Monica arrived five minutes later, full of glowers and muttered comments about people skiving off expecting other people to do their work. She was just about to fill her plate when one of the assistant housekeepers came and demanded that Monica finish hoovering the foyer before she started breakfast. She told her that she should know better than to leave one of the public areas half done before breakfast.
Thank God I won’t have to sit looking at her mush for breakfast, Paula thought gratefully. And then I won’t have to see her until September. The thought cheered her up immensely and she enjoyed her breakfast, joining in the lively chit-chat and banter that went on around her. She was just finishing her coffee when Esther Walsh arrived in beetroot red and giggling uproariously.
‘Oh lads, ye’ll never guess. Amn’t I just after barging in on top of the hunk in 301 and there he was standing in all his glory with a willie on him that would put a randy elephant to shame. I’m not the better of it.’ She collapsed in a chair all afluster.
‘Arrah you have all the luck, Esther Walsh, he’s a fine thing, why didn’t you give his stalk a pull, you might have got a big tip when he was leaving?’ Josie Gunne gave a lewd chuckle.
‘Oh you’re a filthy-minded slut, you never think of anything else,’ giggled Esther.
‘That’s ’cos I never get any, my fella’s got a permanent brewer’s droop,’ Josie snorted.
That’s what you think, Paula said to herself. Charlie Gunne was a notorious lecher always making crude comments to the young girls of the village. It was well known, except to Josie, that he was having an affair with Angela Brennan, the local hairdresser. And hard up she must be to let a creep like Charlie Gunne near her, Paula considered as she finished her coffee and headed off to make up the bedrooms.
Number 208 was vacant so she drew the curtains, opened the windows wide, put the breakfast tray outside the door and then began to strip the bed. The guest who had stayed the previous night had left the room in good condition. Sometimes people left them in a shambles, she reflected, as she put on fresh pillowcases and spread freshly laundered crisp white sheets on the mattress.
She didn’t get away so lightly with her second room. There were red wine stains on the bedspread so she had to go and get a clean one from the linen press. There was a big cigarette burn on the bedside locker that necessitated a call to maintenance, and there were two shitty disposable nappies in a corner of the bathroom and a scummy ring around the bath which made her heart sink.
When she knocked on the door of her third bedroom, the door was opened by a woman in her mid-twenties. She was wearing a pristine terry-towelling robe and had obviously just showered and washed her hair. She was tanned and glamorous-looking and Paula felt a familiar twinge of envy. How she would love to be on the other side of that door. It must be wonderful to be a guest in a hotel. To have room service breakfast and not have to wash up after it. To be able to get out of bed and not have to turn around and make it. To be able to linger in a bath with water that came up to your shoulders and not have to worry about how much hot water you were using. What luxury.
‘I’ll be checking out in about twenty minutes,’ the woman assured her, and in the background Paula could see a smart suit laid on the bed and a slim leather briefcase open on the floor. A businesswoman! Paula was deeply impressed. Businessmen occasionally stayed at the hotel but this was the first time she had seen a smart sophisticated businesswoman. She wondered what line of business she was in. It didn’t matter. It was clear she had it made whatever she was. Paula closed the door with a smile. She could do up the room next door. She knew it was vacant because she’d seen the couple who’d occupied it walking down the corridor with their luggage. She’d made up the bed and was standing at the big trolley in the corridor getting soaps, shower caps and shampoo for the bathroom when the woman walked out of the bedroom. She smiled at Paula and strode briskly down the corridor. Paula watched with huge admiration. The woman looked so classy and in control in her superbly tailored grey suit with a scarlet silk scarf around her neck and a matching red silk triangle in her breast pocket. In her right hand she carried her briefcase, and over her right shoulder a smart shoulder bag. In her left hand she carried an elegant overnight bag. She oozed confidence and Paula felt uplifted looking at her. There was nothing to stop her from being like that woman. Nothing at all. One day people would look at her and be as impressed as Paula was right now. With renewed vim and vigour she turned back to her trolley. Somehow she knew she was going to get out of St Margaret’s Bay and go on to greater things.
A door across the corridor opened and she saw Brian Whelan, one of the barmen, emerge with his arm around Kim Bennett, one of the waitresses. He winked when he saw Paula. Kim, who was only six months married to a local fisherman, laughed as brazen as you like. Helen maintained that St Margaret’s Bay was a den of iniquity. Sin City she called it. Her aunt was always amazed to hear of the various affairs and carry-ons. Dublin was only trotting after them, she maintained.
Paula was dying to see Helen. They were going to have
so much fun in the next few weeks. She had been living for her trip to the capital and now it was almost upon her. Paula hummed a cheerful ditty to herself, knowing that in a couple of hours she would be as free as a bird for the rest of the summer.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come to this wedding with you, Helen?’ Anthony Larkin enquired grimly.
‘No, thank you,’ his wife responded curtly with icy politeness.
‘You can’t go down there on your own. What are people going to say?’ Anthony paced up and down the kitchen.
Helen glared at her husband as she paused momentarily from wrapping Louise’s wedding present.
‘Frankly, Anthony, I couldn’t care less what people say. If you think for one minute I’m going down to St Margaret’s with you in tow playing lovey-dovey couples just to keep other people happy you’ve got another think coming. A hypocrite I am not and never have been. I don’t go around being two-faced about things. I leave that to you,’ she said bitterly.
‘There’s no need for that,’ he retorted. ‘No need for that at all. I think you’re being totally unreasonable. I’m only thinking of you.’ Helen ignored him. How dare he! Just how bloody dare he arrive in at that hour of the morning as if nothing was wrong, all prepared to go to Louise’s wedding. And the galling thing was he expected her to fall at his feet and thank him for his magnanimity. Well stuff him!
‘Look, Helen, there’s no need for this kind of behaviour. We should discuss it. We are adults, after all—’
Foreign Affairs Page 9
