Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  ‘Are you sure, Mel? I felt I was dragooning you. I know I can seem to be controlling at times. Sorry.’

  Melanie grinned. ‘You mean you can be an awfully bossy cow .’

  I shrugged. ‘I have a confession, Mel.’

  ‘Oh, do tell: I love confessions.’

  ‘This is my first visit to Paris.’

  ‘Really? Gosh. I wouldn’t have known it, seeming to be so much at home - and speaking French and all that.’

  ‘It’s another dream come true for me, Mel. But I wouldn’t have wanted to be here on my own.’

  ‘You mean with, like, some tall dark stranger: you know, across a crowded room and all that. Maybe the Cafe Flore, and you would have some mad passionate affair, then part at the Gare du Nord, and never see each other again?’

  ‘You’ve been reading too much Noel Coward. No: being with you has made it perfect.’

  Melanie blushed, then squeezed my arm. ‘Well that’s all right then.’

  For the next few days we did all the touristy things - a river trip on the Seine with the bateau-mouche (we had never seen so many Japanese in such a small area, any judoka among you?); a couple of museums; and churches.

  The second day we had climbed the steps to the Sacre Coeur; exhausted after the climb, we felt like pilgrims. The inside of the church (as any tourist will tell you) was much larger than it seemed from the outside. Melanie motioned me to a seat near a bank of candles just as two small nuns climbed a step near the alter. They started to sing (in Latin); their sweet voices filled the cupola, and we were transfixed. We daren’t move. When they glided silently away, we went to the bank of candles and lit two - and this from me, with no religious feeling at all. Melanie whispered,

  ‘That is for your mother,’ And my eyes welled, and I was cross with myself.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Mel.’

  We crossed the river by Metro, and found ourselves outside the Musee d’Orsay. But I stopped and looked at Melanie. ‘I’m sorry, Mel.: I don’t think I even asked you whether you would like to....’

  ‘That’s all right, Di, and I wish you would stop apologising to me. I know you love all this French arty thingy.’ I could have kissed her; but why did I always feel that I needed her approval? Was this love?

  ‘Anyway, I have been in here before, you know - school trip ages ago.’

  So I let her guide me into the light-filled hall, with its sandstone plinths mounted with statues. We toured all the Impressionists works - Monet, Manet, Renoir; and Degas’s pastel painting of the ballet hidden behind a glass case in a darkened room. Then we walked along a corridor, turned left into an ornate small chamber. ‘There,’ said Melanie, ‘look at that.’ It was a ‘full-frontal’ painting of a young nude woman about three metres high. She was carrying a pitcher on her left shoulder and water was pouring out of it. Her expression was coy but knowing. I was transfixed. I said:

  ‘The Spring by Ingres?’

  ‘Yes’, said Melanie. She giggled. ‘She reminds me of you.’

  I smacked her bum gently. As we left, I looked back at the painting. No: she was nothing like me. I was much more sensuous. One of the delights of our trip was that we always made sure that we could get a view from the top of any building we visited; same with the Musee d’Orsay. We raided the bookshop on the ground floor, then staggered into the sunshine, I said to Melanie:

  ‘Where now?’

  ‘Boulevard Haussman.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘A certain department store.’

  ‘What! With this load? And we haven’t had lunch - I’m starving.’

  ‘Shush: I have a surprise - look, there’s a taxi.’

  The taxi dropped us outside Printemps, and I thought: Oh God: I know what Mel is like when she gets inside a store. We took the lift and shot to the top floor - and walked into the domed restaurant. Of course! The huge art nouveau cupola. Melanie grinned at me as we sat at a table.

  ‘Nice, Di?’

  ‘Wonderful, Mel.’ We seemed to spend a lot of our time in Paris eating and drinking - well, I suppose that is one of the things that people come to France for - ending my sentence with a preposition! - -(tho’ I know now that one can eat just as well in England - especially London. Well, I would know, wouldn’t I, when you consider the circles in which I move - correct grammar.)

  OK: the last but one meal description that time under the cupola at Printemps: crab salad, mayonnaise, fresh rolls, a carafe of rose.

  The next day was our last in Paris. Tomorrow we would catch the mid-morning Eurostar. As we took our final stroll round the Luxembourg Gardens (no children today, no donkeys, nobody sailing toy boats), I started to think about my relationship with Melanie. I had made a pact with myself not to get too involved with anyone: I was ambitious; I didn’t want anything, any encumbrances to divert me. I knew that Melanie had got a place at Cambridge, and she would go up in the autumn (unless she took a gap-year). I couldn’t imagine myself in Cambridge once a month to see her.

  How did I feel about her? I truly didn’t know. Was it just a strong friendship? Or was it love? (Our sexual game at her home was very pleasurable, but no more than a game!) Did I consider that I had lesbian tendencies? I had also been attracted to young men - but done nothing about it. I knew that some males thought my choice of sport - judo - was a bit weird; that all female judoka were lesbians. But I had learnt discipline, concentration, self-control in the dojo.

  ‘Penny for them - or should it be a euro?’

  I smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘Not worth a centime, Mel.’Then to my surprise I heard myself say: ‘Only that these few days have been the happiest I can remember - love you, Mel.’ God - why did I say that?

  Melanie returned the squeeze. ‘Well, that makes two of us.’

  Our hotel was on the rue Saint Beuve, from which it took its name: a three-star, but we considered it should be four. The entrance was elegant - cream painted walls, dark, tie back drapes, cream leather sofas. Our room overlooked the short, quiet rue. I was considering that I could get used to this touch of luxury while Melanie and I were lying in the bath face to face. We were covered in white suds, half way up our chests.

  ‘Euro for them.’

  ‘What again?’

  ‘You were miles away.’

  ‘Oh I was looking at your bosoms.’

  Mel flicked suds at me. ‘Your obsessed with my boob.’

  ‘Well they are so perfectly symmetrical. Have you ever thought of measuring them - no, I don’t mean your bra size - the rotundity etc.. You are the mathematician ....’

  ‘Come on - out. The water’s getting cold.’ We wandered around the bedroom naked, dripping suds on the carpet, hugging big fluffy towels. I shook out the red dress I bought in Lynn and hung it on the wardrobe, then sat on the end of Melanie’s bed. She stuck her feet out. I placed bits of cotton wool between her toes, then painted her toe nails pink. Mel looked up from her book.

  ‘Why pink, Diana?’

  ‘Matches your undies. And you are planning to wear a pink, flowery dress,’

  ‘Mmmm - so I am.’

  She went back to her book. After a bit, she said: ‘Did you know that Manet died at athe age of 51?’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes it was a result of syphilis caught as a young man. He had a leg amputated and died soon after. Apparently, the pox was as rife as AIDS is today in 19th century France.’

  ‘Yes, Maam.’

  I was at that age when sensuality filled my thoughts; or rather it only needed the right conditions for the sensations to stir. I draped the dressing gown over the bath and sauntered nude to the bedside cabinet and found my underwear. I said to Mel: ‘How do I look?’

  She peered over the edge of her book. She said: ‘You have a lovely skin, Diana; your scandalo
us red lingerie suits your personality.’

  I grinned. ‘Femme fatale?’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust you near any man this evening.’

  I replied: ‘Do you think that Paris is the appropriate place to lose our virginity?’

  ‘More the appropriate place to catch syphilis. Come on, let’s finish getting dressed.’

  As we walked down the stairs to the lobby, we heard two male voices. We stopped and looked at each other. Melanie whispered: ‘American?’ I nodded. She added: ‘Do you think we might click?’ As we passed by Reception the girl on duty said:

  ‘Bon soir, mam’selle. Ca va?’

  ‘Bon soir, madame. Oui, merci.’ And I said ‘Good evening’ to the two young Americans. They stood politely in the American way and shook hands. Their names were Doug and Phil. The former said:

  ‘Say ladies, can we persuade you to join us in a drink - a glass of bubbly?’

  We accepted of course and sat opposite them on the sofa, exchanging the usual pleasantries - How long have you been here? On vacation? What do you think of Paris? Phil was very attentive of his friend Doug, kept touching him on his arm, and remarking every time Doug made some observation: ‘Isn’t that so right, Doug?’

  Both of them were immaculately, if, over- dressed. Their clothes were obviously expensive. Doug kept patting Phil on his knee and nodding in a faintly patronizing way. Mel and I, thinking the same thing, glanced at each other. Doug said to both of us:

  ‘Well, as soon as you came into the lobby I just had to say to Phil, Those are really absolutely lovely frocks.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sirs.’

  ‘Well, you see, Mel?...’

  ‘Yes, Doug.’

  ‘We are in the garment business, Mel - San Francisco? - and we know quality when we see it, don’t we, Phil.’

  ‘Sure do, ducky.’

  All this was very entertaining and the bubbly was going down very smoothly, when I asked myself, How do we escape from these two charming gay Americans?

  Phil said: ‘Have you ladies any plans for dinner?’

  We looked at each other, both wondering what to say; feeling rather trapped. In normal circumstances if two blokes had tried to come on to us like this, I would have said, ‘Thanks all the same, but we have a date elsewhere’ - and escaped. But.....

  ‘Well, er, no...’ said Mel. She looked at me and I nodded.

  I decided to take charge of the situation. ‘As my friend said’ (coming over very formal), ‘what did you have in mind, gentlemen? Let me make something clear: we do not intend to move far from this hotel; we don’t wish to visit any gay bars; and we will pay for our own dinners. Vous compris?’

  That was quickly agreed, so we two lovely ladies strolled down the rue St Beuve arm-in-arm with our new American friends. I was with Phil, who was as tall as I: a handsome man, dressed down in leather jacket and moleskin trousers. In front, Mel hung on to her tubby escort, giggling every time he spoke. I said:

  ‘Those two seem to be getting on OK’

  Phil said: ‘And how about you two, Diana? Are you two together?’

  I knew what he meant. I said, ‘We are old college friends - known each other for three years. Just having a break after final exams.’

  Phil nodded. ‘Understood, honey. Are you lovers?’

  ‘You go too far, mister.’

  ‘My apologises, Diana; I didn’t mean to intrude. But I’ll tell you something, honey: you ain’t no sappho.’

  I didn’t reply. About ten minutes’ walk from the Luxembourg Gardens we found what looked like a well-established brasserie. Phil checked the menu on the door. We went in. It was a mid-week evening, so there was no problem getting a table. The interior had a lot of polished wood on the walls, with bracket lamps. The tables had crisp white tablecloths. The waiters wore long white aprons and black waistcoats.

  The menu was typical of an old-established Parisian restaurant. I ate snails in garlic butter; Melanie, onion soup. We both had coq-au-vin. But the boys pushed the boat out with foie gras, then duck a-l’orange. We drank two bottles between us of premier cru red Bordeaux.

  While I was ploughing through this deliscious meal in such elegant surroundings I thought, what on earth am I doing here, with two American poofs and my girl friend - it felt unreal. And I also thought, Diana, you are having the time of your life. When we got back to our hotel room (big hugs and vociferous compliments on both sides), I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling for ages. Eventually Melanie looked up from her book and said:

  ‘I’m not going to offer you a penny any more - are you all right, Diana? Are you aware that you are naked? Are you thinking of joining a nudist colony?’

  I laughed, then I slid a respectable t-shirt over my head. ‘That was quite an evening, Mel: did we have a great time, or didn’t we?’

  Mel jumped out of bed. ‘Wonderful, Di: super, in fact,’

  ‘Then come here and give me a cuddle.’

  I woke in the night with Mel’s arm around my waist. Now, it’s back to reality. But where do I go from here? The Ship, of course. But more forward planning will be needed. University? No way. Three years of slog. A degree with which I wouldn’t know what to do. Then spend the next five years paying off a student loan? No way. I’ve seen these graduates trying to instil subjects into a class of 40 ill-disciplined kids. No, Diana: better things are meant for you.

  Chapter 7

  KING’S LYNN: SHIP HOTEL

  ON MY RETURN TO KING’S LYNN, there were three priorities: checking my exam results; ensuring I was on top of my job; and hoping there was no new crisis at home. Reaching the hotel that afternoon, I immediately went to Mr Morrison’s office, but he wasn’t there. Sandra, my colleague on Reception, said, ‘Oh, hi, Diana. I didn’t expect you back on duty until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I thought I’d report in - show willing.’

  ‘Well Jim Morrison’s at the wholesalers; should be back in an hour.’

  ‘Thanks - it’ll give me time to unpack.’

  Sandra halted me. ‘Is that right: that you’ve taken over the Housekeeper’s job?’

  ‘Yes: that’s right.’

  Sandra pulled a face. ‘Sooner you than me. You’ll be at everybody’s beck and call, you know.’

  ‘It’ll suit me Sandra. At least I’ll be where my family’s not always pestering me.’

  She frowned. ‘I heard about your mum. Sorry. It must have been awful.’

  ‘Thanks, Sandra.’

  I looked around my small (but cosy) room at the back of the hotel grounds and thought: Yesterday, I was in a fine French hotel - it couldn’t be more different from where I was now standing. No matter. The rest of the afternoon I spent catching up on my chores, washing clothes, etc. After that weary couple of hours, I sat on my bed and flipped through the books I had bought at the Musee d’Orsay shop - books not only on artists, but on the history of the rail station (as of course it then was all those years ago); on art deco furniture. Finally, to add to my delusions of grandeur, a handbook on the wines of Bordeaux. As I was lying on the bed, half-reading, half -dozing, Phil’s business card slipped out of my book.

  PHILIP RETZER and DOUGLAS SIMON

  Couturiers

  San Francisco New York City

  There was an address both in San Francisco and New York City and an e-mail address. I put the card safely in my bedside drawer after wroting it in my address book. I glanced at my watch. Time to seek Mr Morrison. I had thought that I could time it so there was enough leeway to arrange to meet Melanie tomorrow at college. I was mistaken (thwarted, rather). It was a case of best-laid plans of mice....of mine (God: what a boring bloody man was Burns).

  If - in my egotism - I thought I could walk through all the ramifications of being the housekeeper at this place ( morceau de gateau, mam�
��selle!) I was soon disallusioned. Jim Morrison ran me through every inch of the hotel: not only did I have to account for every bed sheet, pillow-case, towel, toilet roll, free shampoo, soap - but when they should be changed or replaced. I would have to make sure that the cleaners and maids were doing their job up to scratch - and ensure that the whole hotel complex was immaculately clean.

  Not only that, I would have to deal with any complaints that might arise from the state of the rooms. As Jim Morrison told me:

  ‘We may not be the Ritz or have three Michelin stars for our grub - but this hotel must always be clean, neat, and welcoming. And if our guests have a complaint - they will be directed to you. Still interested in the job?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One other thing, Diana: I shall need you to take the early shift from 7a.m. Tomorrow on Reception - that’s before you start your housekeeping duties - OK by you?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morrison.’

  ‘Good: from now on you may call me Jim.’ One other thing he told me:

  ‘You will be working to a budget: any increase you consider necessary must be referred to me. And of course you will keep accounts up to date, so they can be examined at any time.’ (Oh my God, I thought: where’s my calculator?) ‘Talking of money, you’ll be on three months trial - but will be paid the going rate from Monday.’

  Which I found out would be most acceptable. So, any thoughts of my exam results dispersed rapidly as I went through the procedure of the resident housewife/mother/cousellor to the hotel - amd that wasn’t just to the male guests. I held a ground plan of the hotel in my hands and mid-morning - inspected every bedroom; by lunch-time I had got through just half of them - and was exhausted. I took a break; nobody was in the lounge; so I ate a sandwich and drank several cups of strong coffee. Then I thought: Why am I doing this? I have cleaning staff. Duly fortified, I called them together in the room behind the kitchen ( which was a kind of ‘housekeeper’s office’, mainly stuffed with toilet rolls, and sheets of work placements and was rather small) and said the following:

  ‘You will now know that I am taking over Mrs Jessop’s duties while she is on maternity leave. Please call me Miss Hunt. I expect that the high standard that Mrs Jessop set to be maintained. As you know, the Ship Hotel is known for presenting a clean, welcoming bedroom for its guests. And from what I have seen, I am impressed. I will admit that I am new to this position, so I would appreciate your cooperation. Remember, that the most important person here is not me or you, but the guest,’