Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  ‘You do have a super bod, darling, and I love the black undies.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Well shove over before I catch my death of cold.’

  So we snuggled cosily and sipped cabernet sauvignon. After this cuddly interlude, Mel sat up suddenly, and said: ‘Di, I feel awful.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well your Dad dead and things, and we’re lying in bed drinking wine....’

  ‘Don’t: you are here to comfort me, remember?’

  Melanie was still looking thoughtful. ‘How do you feel about your father, Di?’

  ‘What do you mean - feel?’

  ‘I mean, now he’s gone. Silly question really - but do you miss him? Were you close?’

  I didn’t want to answer these questions. But I felt I owed it to Mel, in some odd sort of way. ‘I don’t know whether I can say we were close, Mel; he was a very quiet man, never demonstrative. But he was always ‘there’, if you see what I mean. I just sort of accepted that he always would be. I don’t think I can say anything more.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to be nosy, Di.’ I hugged her. ‘You can say what you like to me Mel.’ I thought of something else. I said:

  ‘Will your parents wonder where you are? Look at the time.’

  ‘I told them where I would be of course. Why?’ I hugged her again. ‘Just looking after your interests. Shhhhhhh!’ Melanie stared. I could hear footsteps on the stairs. It was Peter and Penny. I switched the light off. We lay very still under the bedclothes for several minutes as we heard the bathroom being used, then their bedroom door closing. We sniggered at the same time at this bizarre situation: my brother in bed with his girl friend ; me in bed with my girl friend. Anyhow, Mel left about midnight, and I slept contentedly. Nearly all over now, Diana.

  Chapter 9

  KING’S LYNN: AUTUMN

  MELANIE WENT UP TO CAMBRIDGE to King’s College for the autumn term that year (I said to her before she left: ‘Watch them, Mel., they’re all queers in that college’). But actually, I saw little of her in the month before she left. The job at the hotel took up all my time: being housekeeper/receptionist was Morrison getting his pound of flesh.

  I was earning money and saving it; I spent very little: I didn’t have to buy much food or pay the usual household expenses. As far as I was concerned it was a good deal. I was fairly content. I thought of Melanie, of course, and we wrote to each other quite often. The following was the first letter she wrote after arriving in Cambridge:

  Darling Di,

  Wow! What did I expect when I arrived here? Another city of dreaming spires and dopey old dons wandering around the college in their gowns? No way. This is the busiest, noisiest place I can remember seeing. King’s is beautiful of course and the chapel is just as impressive as it is on the telly at Christmas. The traffic is horrendous - and that is only the bicycles; everyone seems to be going everywhere at top speed. The rest of the city is pretty awful - nothing but shops and department stores. The colleges seem to be under siege, squashed into their own space, being threatened by the 21st century - or is that just me being romantic? Just across from King’s is the market square, with old-fashioned stall holders, which is fun. The worst place is on St Andrews Street, an awful mall just opened called the Grand Arcade....Moan, moan....

  I share rooms with a girl called Holly who’s fearfully intellectual. She’s reading archaeology. In the summer she was on a ‘dig’ in Norfolk! (she’s from Dorset). Maybe she cycles out to the Fens or somewhere, because she wears these awful hiking boots that scatter mud all over the kitchen. Still, we seem to get along OK. At least she’s not fanatically tidy (and you know what I’m like!).

  I miss you, Di. More to follow

  Take care

  My love as always - - Mel.

  I still have that letter - and all the others that Melanie wrote to me. At the time, I didn’t know what I felt about our friendship: whether we were entering a new phase in our lives; that we would just slowly drift apart quite naturally with no regrets. Or we would really feel a deep sadness that we couldn’t resume our love.

  LONDON

  Well - as I will show - things did change, of course; in many directions, both in my personal and professional life. There was a lull at the end of that summer in the hotel - fewer bookings, some of the East European women went home on leave to their families. And that was the time when I had to stock-take all the linen - discard worn-out sheets; buy new. It was a tiresome, physically demanding job, and by the end of it I needed a break, so I had my hair done; it was too long: I like it just curling round my ears. I took a long-weekend off and decided to spend it in London. I needed somewhere to stay, so I looked on the Ship’s website (the hotel was part of a chain all over the UK). There was one just off Tottenham Court Road, near the British Museum. I booked myself in (with 10% discount for staff members). So: a dose of culture and some shopping. Perfect. But there was another reason for choosing London.

  Mr Gilbert said that any time I was in London I should contact him. I had never replied to his note, nor acknowledge his ‘gift’. Simply because, at the time, I was miffed that he seemed to put one over on me. Which was silly, I suppose. I travelled by train to London. It was a damp, cold morning, not a day to fulfil any expectations. I was wearing a dark red beret, same-colour roll-neck sweater, long dark-blue skirt, a faux-leather top coat and boots. I could see my reflection in the carriage window: I looked tired. I decided to leave contacting him until tomorrow.

  The Gryphon Hotel (where did they find such a name?) was situated in Malet Street, within walking distance of the British Museum. I climbed up six steps to a double-fronted entrance, into a tiled lobby with a mosaic of the fabled beast under my feet, and through automatic glass doors. On my left was a tired-looking padded carver chair, next to an old mahogany tall-boy with glass windows. There were two standard lamps (lit) either side of the walk to the reception. Like the Ship, the manager’s office was behind the reception desk; it was empty. It was very quiet, and had an old-fashioned air, slightly musty, with an odour of furniture polish.

  A young Asian woman stood behind the desk. She looked up as I entered. ‘Good afternoon. How may I help you?’ Her name tag said Monica Brown (odd?). How very polite, I thought. I said;

  ‘Hi, I’m Diana Hunt - I have a reservation.’

  ‘Oh, yes! From Norfolk? You are at the Ship Hotel?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  She gave me a brilliant, wide-mouthed smile, and passed a pen. ‘I don’t need to ask you what to do.’ So we went through the formalities, then directed me towards my room. (I don’t know why I am recording these unnecessary details, but they stayed in my mind: it must be the old-fashioned ambiance of the Gryphon that impressed me.) My room was on the third floor; a double bed with a pink satin eiderdown (!), a thick dark rug under and extending beyond the bed; highly polished floorboards. Either side of the bed were small cupboards (rather worn), each with a table lamp.

  There were two windows with sashes; the curtains, heavy plum-colured velvet. At the end of the room, an old chestnut wardrobe with elaborate finials. But the en-suite bathroom was up-to-date, with big white, fluffy towels. I was going to enjoy being here. There was the usual info, about fire warnings; breakfast times; restaurant opening for dinner; sample menus; places of interest nearby.

  I unpacked, took off my boots - and flunged them to the end of the room.

  Lying on the bed, I broke my promise to myself and phoned Mr Gilbert. The phone rang for a long time, and I was about to close it when it answered.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice was female and sounded irritated.

  ‘May I speak to Mr Gilbert, please?’

  ‘What do you want Mr Gilbert for? He’s very busy.’

  ‘My name is Diana Hunt and Mr Gilbert asked me to call if I was in London. I am now in London, and I’m calling. So
could you get him, please?’

  ‘I am not sure about that. You should call later.’

  I was getting fed up with this woman. ‘Look, who are you - his wife?’

  ‘Certainly not. I’m his housekeeper.’

  ‘Well you’re a bad-tempered one. Are you always this rude - or do you have to work at it?’

  ‘Well, really!...’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, you miserable old bitch - get Mr Gilbert now, or I’ll be round and kicking in the door.’

  I heard the receiver being slammed down. After what seemed an age - and I was getting even more impatient - I heard somebody pick up the receiver. He said;

  ‘Gilbert here.’

  ‘Diana Hunt.’

  ‘Miss Hunt! What a nice surprise.’

  ‘Your housekeeper didn’t seem to think so. What’s her problem?’

  ‘Ah: I’m afraid Mrs Bliss is somewhat protective of me.’

  ‘Bliss! That’s a misnomer. By the way, you naughty old man - thank you for the drawing. I noticed you scarpered before you took up my offer.’

  He laughed. ‘And you are a naughty young lady.’

  ‘I thought we had agreed on that some time ago. Can I see you? I’m in London for the weekend.’

  ‘I should be delighted. I’m engaged this evening. Would tomorrow suit you?’

  ‘Yes. I ‘d like to see your studio.’

  ‘Very well. You know my address?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then shall we say 11 o’clock.’

  So that was decided upon.

  (I must have fallen asleep, for I didn’t realize immediately that I was dreaming - or having a nightmare. I woke with an image of the Russian who tried to rape me; only this time he was lying on top of me and I couldn’t escape. I was terribly frightened. I woke with sweat pouring off my face . I rolled off the bed, staggered into the bathroom, removed my sweater and bra, and sluiced with cold water. What was its meaning (if any)? Guilt on my part? Or Somebody reminding me how lucky I had been?. I dried the upper part of my body and rubbed talc round my chest. Now I was a nice, sweet-smelling girl.)

  I was donning a clean blouse when the internal phone rang.

  ‘Miss Hunt?’ (It sounded like the Asian girl on Reception.)

  ‘Yes. Is that Monica?’

  ‘Correct, Diana. Are you free this evening?’

  ‘Yes, I am. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Mr Patel - the manager - wondered whether you would care to join him for dinner in our restaurant.’

  ‘That is very kind. Tell him I would be pleased to.’

  ‘Seven o’clock?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I picked up my notebook and pencil; I had about 30 minutes to complete my notes. I wondered, what was that all about? Still, a free meal was always welcome. Mr Patel was a tall thin Indian with a toothbrush moustache. He wore a dark-blue suit, a white shirt and striped tie. His shoes were black and highly polished. Not for the first time, I would notice that certain well educated Asians emulated white Englishmen in their dress. Mr Patel was very polite and formal.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Hunt. It is very good of you to join me.’

  Two could play that game (if it was a game). ‘Not at all, Mr Patel. It was very kind of you to invite me.’

  We sat at corner table near a window overlooking the street. Mr Patel sat back in his padded chair (a bit shabby, like the one in the entrance) and beamed at me. His English was crisp and pedantic. ‘So what brings you to London, Miss Hunt?’

  ‘Diana, please.’

  ‘Diana.’

  ‘Just a short break. I’ve been stocktaking at the Ship Hotel.’

  ‘Ah, of course it is the time of the year.’ A waiter hovered with a menu. Patel continued: ‘I am a vegetarian, Diana. But do not feel that you have to follow.’

  ‘Fine by me. If you are having the risotto, I will too.’

  ‘Very good! Neither do I drink wine.....but feel free.’

  ‘Thank you. Is there a half bottle of claret?’ (I was getting tired of this game. I wish he would get to the point - or was he just being enigmatically oriental?) The risotto and my wine arrived shortly, and while we were eating I took the opportunity to look round the dining room. Like the rest of the establishment, the room had seen better days; but it had an old-fashioned charm: there was not one piece of new furniture in the place. The wall facing the three long windows was wood panelled; along the length of the wall was a heavily carved (Victorian?) oak cupboard containing, I supposed, cutlery, condiments, etc. The only illumination was a double-bracket lamp on each wall. I noticed that one of the bulbs in one of the brackets was not working. The curtains were tie-backs.

  The few other diners seemed to be either middle-aged or old. They dined in a sedate manner, quietly, and didn’t speak to the other guests. They ate their dinner, then wandered off. Where did they go? Where was there to go? The lounge to drink coffee?

  But the food and wine were excellent. Mr Patel pushed his plate from him. ‘Did you enjoy your meal, Diana?’

  ‘Very much, thank you.’

  ‘So what is your impression of the Gryphon Hotel?’

  (We had got to it at last.) ‘My experience is that it is very comfortable; your cuisine is excellent. It has the added virtue of being quiet - no piped music or other distractions. I would say that you have a loyal clientele. Am I right?’

  ‘Perfectly correct. I always want to hear the opinions of other hotel staff members within the chain.’ (The fact that I had only been in the business for a short time didn’t seem to matter.) But was that enough in today’s market? I had the feeling that Mr Patel was proud of his hotel and the service he gave to his guests. But at the same time seeking confirmation from someone who worked at the lower end of the market made me think that he felt vulnerable.

  But it was of no interest to me, so I bid him goodnight and went to my room. While I was having dinner someone had been in the room, straightened the bed, tidied the bathroom, and put my book and papers in the bedside cabinet. What was Patel thinking - that I was a spy for the Company? Actually, I was rather flattered to think that I deserved this attention. I settled into its cosiness with an Italian/English dictionary, a copy of the Ossevatore Romano, and a notebook.

  The next morning I rose early, showered, breakfasted, and headed for Oxford Street for an hour’s shopping. After stopping for a coffee, I battled my way through several Tube stations and found myself striding along Millbank , past the Tate Gallery, and the back streets of Pimlico. Gilbert’s house was a tall narrow building with curving steps up to the front door. That morning the sun had come out, so it had been a pleasant walk. I looked up after ringing the door bell, and saw the light striking the window panes. I heard steps, wondering if the baleful Mrs Bliss would open the door. But it was Mr Gilbert. He was dressed in a similar way as I had seen him at the hotel: baggy trousers, neat check shirt, with a cravat tied loosely round his neck. He raised his arms.

  ‘Miss Diana Hunt - welcome! Welcome to my humble abode!’

  ‘Hallo, Mr Gilbert.’

  He closed the door behind us. The hallway was dark, but the elaborate leaded glass in the door threw a multicoloured pattern on to the tiled floor. I followed him into what was presumably his sitting room. There was a long window overlooking a short sloping garden, and he sat under this, the light behind him, so I moved my chair and sat obliquely. The furniture was old, but well cared for - polished (I smelled beeswax).

  ‘I expected to be greeted by the dragon’.

  Gilbert laughed. ‘She doesn’t come in at weekends.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  Gilbert laughed again. ‘I’m sorry about that, Diana; she is rather formidable. Mrs Bliss has the romantic notion that artists are always struggling and need pe
ace and quiet always. But, sorry! I am forgetting my manners. Would you care for a glass of wine - a white Burgundy perhaps?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘I thought it would be acceptable before and during lunch.’

  ‘Oh, are we having lunch?’

  ‘But of course! Didn’t I say?’

  I sipped the Burgundy - delicious as much as the claret we had drunk together when....

  ‘Thanks again for the picture, Max - you are some draughtsman.’

  ‘When I was at the Academy schools as a student I spent my first year drawing: I wasn’t allowed to touch a paintbrush.’

  We had lunch in a conservatory at the rear of his house. All through the meal ( a delicious one of smoked trout, gratin potatoes, and fresh rolls and butter, followed by cheese). He didn’t mention any family. I was intrigued - had he been married? had children? Max poured the remainder of the wine into our glasses. I was going to ask him about himself, when he preempted me.

  ‘So, what is the beautiful Diana intending to do with her life?’

  ‘That’s a big question, Max.’

  ‘Indeed it is, but...’

  ‘I read somewhere that the two most important thing for a successful, independent life were education and money.’

  ‘Seems reasonable.’

  ‘I obtained an education: fluent written and spoken French and nearly so in Italian.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘Ah, well. How will I get that? Perhaps in a large corporation, climbing the ladder? I don’t think so. I’m not a conformist. I like being in charge of a department in the hotel, but....’ I turned and grinned at him. ‘What about an artist’s model?’

  ‘The pay is poor; the job boring after a while.’

  ‘OK: what about a fashion model?’

  ‘You would do very well at that: your figure is outstanding; your height is in your favour; you would earn a lot of money; wear beautiful clothes....’