The Woman Before Me

by Ruth Dugdall

  Later, when the messages started coming from Rita and occasionally from Mum, I knew that I wasn’t really alone. I also learned not to fear death. Rita could now smoke to her heart’s content and she’d never cough again.

  One Saturday Annie was chatty as usual, taking my arm as we walked. “Now Rose, I’ve done a bit of checking around and there’s a job going at The Grand.”

  “The hotel on the seafront?”

  “That’s it. It includes a room and I think you should go and see about it. You need to look forward now, duck.”

  Annie helped me a lot after that, and she never forgot to call for me on Saturday evenings. I took the job at The Grand and forgot my dreams of going to university. The pay was poor, but included board and lodging. They started me as a waitress but after customers complained that I didn’t smile, they switched me to being a chambermaid.

  I’m so grateful for that time now, for all I learnt. Everything was new. I even had a new home in the staff quarters, a room filled with Rita’s furniture and my most prized possession: the birds nest, carefully stored in a drawer.

  I sometimes think back to the faded grandeur of The Grand: the Edwardian brickwork, the large staircase that swooped down into reception, the steel kitchen with its pots and pans hanging overhead. The fizz of water boiling over, the sizzle of chips in oil, the reek of kippers each morning. And I think of you, Jason. How you smiled like you’d just woken, the graceful movements of your long, lean body. How your hair was always tied back, golden-red curls escaping.

  You came into my life and changed everything.

  16

  Black Book Entry

  Survivors recognise damaged people and the first time I saw your face I knew you were hurting.

  My heart was beginning to mend. Mum’s death was still very sore, as was the loss of Rita, but I comforted myself with the thought that they were with me always. Sometimes I forgot that they were spirits, and set out extra plates or two coffee mugs. Death didn’t stop me talking to them; in fact, I was closer to Rita and Mum in the spirit world than I was to my father and brother who lived just an hour up the coast. I’d never returned to Lowestoft, but I knew that Peter now ran the shop. I wondered if he still stuffed his hand into the glass jars of sweets, or if he’d outgrown his love of sugar. Dad and Mrs. Carron had a bungalow close by, and helped out when needed. Peter was married. The wedding was a small affair, he explained on a scrap of notepaper. I was invited to the party afterwards but I didn’t go.

  I don’t want to bore you. The part of the story before you arrived into my life must be so tedious for you. But it’s all necessary, Jason. So many things have to be told, I shouldn’t waste time. Let’s move on.

  At The Grand I’d become a permanent fixture. If people thought I was sullen or rude, it didn’t matter, as I was good at my job. I never took a single day off sick, and I didn’t mind working on Christmas day. I was a good chambermaid; I liked the work, making the rooms neat and tidy, seeing different clothes swinging in wardrobes and wondering about the guests with all their strange and unknowable lives. I never took anything, but sometimes squirted a bit of perfume from the dressing table on my wrist, or had a little look through a suitcase. Just curiosity really, who wouldn’t have? Sometimes guests complained about jewellery cases being moved or underwear being mislaid, but no one took the complaints seriously. All chambermaids snoop—it’s only natural. And I liked looking at guests’ jewellery, their bits and pieces. It was an innocent enough pleasure.

  You get to know a lot about people when you clean up their mess. Mrs. Stokes was someone I knew well, though we never had a conversation. When I cleaned her room she would be in the dining room, wolfing a full-English breakfast, before trekking down to the beach hut she’d hired. I knew this, because it was what she wrote on the postcards, half-finished on the dressing table, each one scrawled with the same message. She visited every summer for three weeks, but only brought two dresses and one summer raincoat that she would drench in Yardley’s English Lavender. The bath was always dry, the soap still wrapped, as if using perfume meant she didn’t have to wash. Half way through her holiday she would rinse her knickers in the sink, leaving them dripping on the radiator, drenching the carpet. They crunched like stale crisps when I folded them back into the drawer. She should have bought more, it wasn’t like she was hard up. She had two hundred pounds stashed in her suitcase, and she was hardly going to spend all that on postcards and cream teas.

  Mrs. Stokes liked to read, those thick books with a woman on the front in jodhpurs or a skimpy nightdress. When she’d finished with one, she’d throw it away and start another. I would spy them in the bin, like a gift left just for me, but would resist the urge to hold the book until I’d finished my job. I built up quite a collection that way. I also had an assortment of shampoos and expensive shower gels that guests had left behind, some hardly used.

  Another guest I got to know well was Miss Talisker. She would only stay for one night at a time, and it was always a last minute booking. She’d arrive early. Sometimes I wouldn’t have finished cleaning the room from the previous guest. She only ever brought one piece of luggage: a leather vanity case, postbox red and very classy. Even if I were still polishing she’d start to unpack it. I’d dust the dressing table, watching her in the mirror as she took out her gold lipstick, her silver cigarette lighter, the white and purple box of cigarettes: Silk Cut, her favourite brand. She’d place a skimpy nightdress, sometimes still with its price tag, on the pillow. Then she’d go downstairs to wait for the man, always the same one. He would come much later, and when she returned with him to the bedroom I’d be long gone. The next morning, while she was at breakfast, I’d clear away the empty champagne bottle from her room and put the flowers into a nice vase. She never bothered to take them home, which I thought was a waste.

  Sometimes, if I was ahead of schedule, I’d slip between the sheets and close my eyes. Miss Talisker’s perfume smelt of pine forest, or maybe that was her lover’s aftershave. The sheets had the sweet aroma of burned fruit, so I thought that must be what sex smelt like. I thought about it happening to me, in that bed, and wondered what it would be like.

  One morning I was paired with Hannah, a new girl. She was pale with dark hair and a stud in her nose. I was nearly twenty and she was a few years younger, and they put us together so I could show her the ropes. We started off in this woman’s room who we all knew as Kiki. She was a regular guest, as she sang at the Spa Pavilion during the summer season, and at Easter too. Of course, we thought Kiki was very glamorous, going on the stage every night, and she smoked these thin cigarettes that come in a cream tin. I took a tin from the waste bin once. I kept it for years. All her dresses were long and sparkly, and I showed them to Hannah. We took a few out, holding them against us. Hannah was shorter than me, and slim, so when she held a red cocktail dress against her I could tell it would fit like a glove.

  “Try it on.” I urged, knowing she was itching to.

  “I daren’t, Rose. What if Miss French finds out?”

  Miss French was the housekeeper, a dragon of a woman who scared most of the staff half to death. She was always kind to me though.

  “She won’t know. Go on. I bet it’d look great on you.”

  Hannah quickly threw off her uniform, a white blouse and navy skirt, revealing frayed knickers and a grubby bra.

  “Help me, then.” she said, and I eased the red satin over her body, tight as a second skin. My hands shook as I tied the thin strap around her neck, an imperfect bow at the nape. I pulled the zip, watching her pale flesh being closed in by the silver teeth.

  We both watched her reflection in the mirror, astounded at her transformation. She looked wonderful.

  “Wait!” I said, rushing to the bedside cabinet. At the back of the drawer, behind her dirty laundry and the mandatory Bible, Kiki hid her jewellery in a pink leather box. I pulled it out and unclasped its gold fastening. I knew exactly what to choose and it took just moments to hand the
sparkling earrings to Hannah, who pushed the silver wire through the pierced hole in her neat lobes. I watched her swishing her head to the pleasing jangle of the diamante.

  “I look beautiful,” Hannah said. I wondered why she was surprised.

  The room was hot with our excitement, our daring, and in the impulse of the moment I reached for Kiki’s makeup bag on the dressing table and took out a lipstick.

  “Rose, don’t. What if someone sees?”

  “You can wipe it off afterwards. It’s just for fun.”

  But I was deadly serious, and I concentrated so hard I bit my own lips when putting the glossy red stain on hers. The lipstick, which had a perfume like hot plastic, stretched her mouth. I made her lips bright and glossy, and as red as the blood on my own. I reached behind her head, tugging the elastic band that was holding her hair trapped, and it fell loose around her shoulders. She didn’t look in the mirror, but at me, and I felt a surge of pride that she wanted my approval.

  “You look like a film star.”

  She smiled, only half believing. Young, but at the same time knowing what womanhood could bring her.

  “Oh Rose, I wish I could have things like this. I wish I could always be pretty.”

  I cupped her chin with my palm, kissed her cheek. “You are pretty, Hannah. Always.”

  And then I tasted the red lipstick with my bloodied lips, my mouth stained by hers and hers by mine, the perfume in my throat like a swallowed bud. We fell back onto the bed and I pulled her on top of me, kissing her deeply, my hands locked around her back. She placed her hands on my shoulders, pushing me away, but I knew she was shy and it was what she wanted so I held her tighter, her body writhing on top of mine, her mouth moving on mine as I kissed her hard. Still she pushed and pulled and then she wrenched herself away, still in my grip, and the fabric ripped, an awful tearing sound as the fabric at the seam gave way, leaving a gaping gash down the side of the dress.

  She stood, shaking. “You weird lessie!” She held the torn red satin in her hand and looked at me, pale faced, and very close to tears. “Look what you’ve done!”

  I jumped off the bed and ran to Mrs. French’s room. The heat of anger and shame scorched my cheeks. But Hannah was wrong, I wasn’t a lesbian. Watching her in that dress, seeing how pretty she was, made me think of Mrs. Carron. Made me think that life could be different for me, if I could make myself like that. If I could be pretty and lovable.

  I barged into Mrs. French’s office, where she was sat writing at her desk, hardly catching breath, “Come quickly, Miss French! Hannah has done something awful.”

  She threw her pen down and followed me back to Kiki’s room, where Hannah was sat on the bed, still in the torn dress, weeping.

  It took Mrs. French a moment, but I have to hand it to her, she kept her dignity.

  “Hannah. I want you to clean your face, take off that dress, and come down to my office. Immediately.”

  Of course, Kiki had to be told what Hannah had done and the hotel had to pay for a new dress. Miss French had to let Hannah go, as she obviously couldn’t be trusted, trying on resident’s clothes like that. I admitted that I’d watched Hannah get into Kiki’s dress, and that I should have fetched Mrs. French straightaway.

  “I suppose you felt afraid to stop her?”

  “Yes, Mrs. French.”

  “You’re a good worker, Rose. And you’ve been with us—how long?”

  “Four years, Miss French.”

  “Well, Rose, I have to give you credit for coming to get me when you did. But I’ve decided to move you to another part of the hotel. Somewhere where these silly girls who’ve had their heads turned can’t influence you. Chef is short-handed at the moment, so I’ll see about a move to the kitchens. Would you like that?”

  17

  Black Book Entry

  I didn’t think I’d get on in the kitchens at first, but soon found my way. Chef liked me. I never answered back, just got on with the task in hand, never gossiping or slacking like other staff that came and went. When someone new arrived they would be introduced to me. “Rose has been here forever. Any questions, just ask her.” I’d take them under my wing. I’m like that. Staff moved on all the time, waitresses were especially fickle, and I hardly got to know their names before they left. I suppose one pretty, bubbly girl is much the same as the next.

  I’d moved out of the staff accommodation and got my own place by then. Each night, smelling of oil and garlic, I returned to the small flat I rented, close to the sea. It was only a street from where I’d lived with Rita. It was my home. I suppose life was okay; I was rubbing along quite well, so it was quite a shock when my world was turned upside down.

  I guess it was fate that brought you to me. You needed saving and by then I was ready to love.

  Bartenders have to smile, and yours was quite convincing, but I could see behind it. You had the weathered face of a sailor, ruddy cheeks and a strong jaw. Your golden-red hair was beyond control. Most people wouldn’t think that such a roguish-looking man nursed a secret pain, but I knew it. As I said, survivors can sniff out the damage. I sneaked from the kitchen and saw how your face dropped when you had your back to the customers. People assume life is easy if you’re handsome, but I could tell it wasn’t true for you.

  I finished my shift and walked through to the front of the hotel, into the empty bar area. You were turned away, polishing a glass, intently rubbing it as if you were conjuring a genie. What would be your wish? I wondered.

  “Can I help you, pet?”

  “Half of cider, please.”

  You turned on the tap, shoulders tense, and the amber over flowed the glass. You wiped the lip of the glass with a napkin, and placed the drink in front of me.

  “Can you put it on my tab? I’m staff.” I showed you my name badge, and you wrote it down. You relaxed, knowing that I wasn’t a paying guest so you didn’t have to put on a show, your head dipping as you picked up another glass to polish, your hands working quickly. I wanted to put my fingers on yours, tell you to stop working. There was no wedding ring on your finger.

  “So, what do you do in this God-awful place, pet?”

  “I’m in the kitchen.”

  “I didn’t mean the hotel. I meant the town.”

  “Oh, Felixstowe’s not so bad.”

  “I think it’s a shit-hole.” A vein on your forehead throbbed blue.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Newcastle.”

  I sipped my drink. “What brought you here?” I asked, watching your strong face, the arrogant arch of your nose.

  “My wife.”

  I hadn’t expected that. The cold cider iced my stomach.

  You looked at me, more intently than before. You were already used to disappointing women and a half-smile played on your lips as you watched my crestfallen face.

  “She’s a dancer. But now she’s dancing with someone else.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too. The old bastard didn’t waste any time. We only moved here three months ago and now she’s living with him.” You poured what remained of a wine bottle into one of the gleaming glasses and swigged it down in one gulp. “The bitch.”

  You were so raw, your pain so fresh, that I winced for you. I thought about putting my hand on your chest, telling you your heart would heal. Who knew better than me? But I stayed silent.

  I drained my glass, picked up my coat, and left.

  The next day slimy Simon was working behind the bar, and my shift dragged, but the following lunchtime the waitress—Melissa or Kate, I can’t remember—bounced in, ponytail swinging. For once I was glad of her chatter.

  “That blond guy’s behind the bar again! He’s so lush. I thought he fancied me until he stopped me getting a nip of vodka—said I’d have to pay. Bloody cheek. I bet he helps himself when no one’s looking.”

  I worked on after my shift had ended, waiting until the bar would be quiet. When I got there you were wiping down the counter. You lo
oked up, and didn’t put on your false smile. I was glad.

  “Drink?” you asked, and I nodded, watching you pour two glasses from an open wine bottle. I didn’t normally drink wine.

  “Rose red.” You slid the stem between my fingers as you spoke. I felt the tip of your thumb graze my hand. “I’m Jason, by the way.”

  “Cheers, Jason,” I lifted my glass and sipped the drink. “What did you do yesterday? I noticed it was your day off.”

  You raised your eyebrows. “Been checking up on me, have you?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I wondered what you’d found to do in this ‘shit-hole.’”

  “Not much. Listened to music. Slept.”

  “There is stuff to do around here, you know.”

  “Oh yeah? I’m not sure I believe that.”

  “Let me show you then. When’s your next free day?”

  It was March and it had rained every day for a week, the sky swaddling the town in grey mist. I took you to the beach, where we watched the angry sea, tasted salt in our mouths. Head bent, hands deep in your pockets, you told me about Emma, your ex-wife. I had no idea then how much she mattered.

  You said she was a beauty, a slight whistle on the wind, like you were thinking of a prize gelding you once saw race. I knew about men and beautiful women; I’d seen how one had stolen Dad away. Mrs. Carron’s beauty had been manufactured from bottles and peroxide, her body wrapped in silk and drenched in scent. My mum’s beauty was too subtle to hold him, too pale and distant.

  We bought coffees from a kiosk, needing to hold something warm, and we kept the hot steam close to our faces. Spring had forgotten to arrive. I went to the public loo, feeling the temperature drop by degrees in the stone building. I briskly rinsed my hands in icy water, splattering the mirror as I shook them dry. I caught my reflection briefly, and then looked closer. No, I wasn’t beautiful. My hair wasn’t a style, and just hung around my face. My eyes were brown like mud and my skin was pale. At best, I was plain. So plain that if you hadn’t been so hurt, you would never have looked at me twice. But my plainness, my tall awkward body, would help me. Emma had left you for another man, but I never would. I would always be grateful for any interest you might show. A woman like me could never hurt you.