Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  ‘Mmmmm. On the other hand...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think it would be interesting to be a millionaire’s mistress - a courtesan.’

  Max laughed, but rather nervously. ‘A hazardous profession.’ He was obviously remembering my offer at the Ship Hotel.

  ‘Perhaps the danger would appeal to me. That is enough about me, Max - what of you? I know that you are a well-respected painter. A CBE and an Academician. Do you have family? A wife?’

  ‘My wife died three years ago. I have a son and a daughter - very conventional.’

  ‘‘Is either of them an artist?’

  He laughed. ‘No, thank goodness. My daughter is a doctor at Guy’s Hospital; my son an engineer, flitting around the world.’

  ‘You promised me that I could look around your studio.’

  He rose stiffly out of his chair. ‘So I did.’ I followed him up the stairs - there were three floors to the house, including the ground floor; the effort didn’t seem to bother him. He opened a door on the left of the landing, and I followed him. We always expect painter’s studios to be a mass of untidiness - canvases, paint boxes, brushes dumped where they were last used; the floor scarred with easels. That again must be a romantic notion. But Max’s studio, first of all, was bathed in light; there was a glass roof that sloped from an apex down to a white-painted wall. All around me the room was immaculate: canvases were hung - without frames - on the other walls. There were two easels and two benches. On the benches were neatly arranged jars of clean brushes. These benches had long drawers, presumably holding paper and other tools of his trade.

  But what was most startling were the paintings. What did I expect? Certainly not this. Every canvas, of different size, depicted birds. Birds! And I don’t mean the demeaning description of women. These creatures were so beautiful, not just because they seemed so accurate in the depiction of the species - they were alive. Alive in the situation that Max had put them; shore birds squabbling over scraps; crows in a field by a motorway hunting; swallows migrating; elegant swans driving mallard away from their cygnets. I was overwhelmed. Birds had always signified freedom to me. I used to watch the aggressive seagulls on the Great River Ouse for hours, envying their swooping, diving, their joie-de-vivre.

  ‘Oh, Max - these are absolutely astonishing!’ Impulsively, I hugged and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you for showing them to me.’

  I turned to the far wall. There was a picture of a woman, perhaps in middle age, looking sideways at the viewer. Her expression - her fine grey eyes and high cheekbones, strong jaw, firm lips - showed a woman of perception and intelligence. I said:

  ‘Your wife, Max?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Laura.’

  ‘She was an impressive woman, Max - at least from her portrait.’

  ‘Yes, Laura was -in more ways than one.’ Max didn’t elaborate. As we descended the stairs, he said:

  ‘Do you have plans for the rest of the afternoon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then there is something else I want to show you.’

  We left his house and turned the corner. I put my arm through his, and said:

  ‘Where are we going? Tell me.’

  ‘Patience, child.’

  We climbed the steps to the Tate Gallery. My first visit, and being guided by a distinguished painter. We walked by a confusion of painters, Max giving a brief description of each (which I could hardly take in), including the iconic 1970s portrait of Hockney’s painting of the Clarkes and their cat, Percy. We turned into yet another gallery. Max stopped suddenly. ‘There we are.’

  I stared, horrified, for a moment, then stood back. It was a large canvas, hung just above eye level. It pictured a large black crow, it claws grasping a dead pigeon, blood flowing from its side. The crow was glancing sideways, a wicked yellow eye looking for any bird who would dare to take its kill. The bird crowded the picture; there was very little background, just dark clouds rising above a line of orange setting sun.

  I stared at Max, and said: ‘Max, this is terrible and astonishing - what made you paint it?’

  ‘I have tried to paint all aspects of bird life. This, of course, shows Nature red in tooth and claw. My father was an ornithologist; I used to accompany him on field trips - and he tried to show me not only the beauty of wild-life, but its raw struggle for survival.’

  ‘You’ve certainly done that.’

  We left the Tate and stood on the Embankment, watching the Thames eddy and flow, and the afternoon draw to a close. I said:

  ‘I’d better be getting back’. I moved my shopping bags from one hand to another. Max still stared across the river. He said:

  ‘Don’t go, Diana.’ (How many times would I hear men say that to me in the future!)

  ‘What do you mean, Max?’

  ‘I would like you to stay at my home tonight. I need your company.’

  ‘This is a surprise.’ Suddenly, the idea seemed very attractive. ‘But what do you want, Max?’

  ‘Just knowing you are there in the house. Will you?’

  ‘Yes, Max, I will. It’s just as well that I bought new jim-jams today.’

  He laughed. ‘I haven’t heard that expression since my daughter was small.’

  I slipped my arm through his again. ‘Come on - let’s go home.’

  There was never anything in the least sexual that night I stayed with Max. But I did wonder on that first evening in his house what would happen. The answer was nothing. Well, perhaps not just nothing; I was thinking of course of the cheeky offer I had made to him in King’s Lynn - maybe he wanted to take me up after all. I felt at home in his funny house; it had obviously not changed since his wife had died. The dreaded Mrs Bliss kept it spotlessly clean; but the character of the rooms had remained in stasis - except his studio. I felt alive as soon as I walked into it.

  We had a supper of omelettes and butter and rolls in his conservatory (which I prepared), then watched the sun go down over his garden. Max said very little, and I was content to do the same. Eventually, Max went to his room and I washed the dishes, then made a phone call. I had a room that was obviously his daughter’s; it had that air of femininity, even without the text-books on biology and anatomy.

  There was a shower-room attached to the bedroom (just like Mel’s - how the middle classes live!), so I took advantage, and dressed in my new silk (well, actually, satin-polyester) pyjamas in a fetching shade of pink. I flung myself on the bed and read one of his daughter’s novels; it was surprisingly raunchy. About an hour later there was a knock on my door.

  ‘Max?’

  He stuck his head round the door; he was wearing an old-fashioned wool dressing gown.

  ‘May I come in, Diana?’

  ‘Sure.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Come here, Max, and let me give you a cuddle.’

  He lay in my arms, his head against my bosom, his arm round my waist, and fell asleep. I thought: Am I every man - and woman’s - comforter from now on? Good grief - I don’t want that! At the same time I thought, You now have a bolt-hole, Diana, whenever you want in London.

  (But. Diana Hunt: What do you think you are doing? You are responsible for inviting an old man into your bed, to comfort him. Have you never heard of dependency? You are creating the situation. It is your responsibility. What about independence? And not relying on any one? You can’t have it both ways.)

  When I got back to King’s Lynn I faced a long day’s work housekeeping and on the reception desk. So that evening I did not feel like speaking or listening to anyone. Fortunately, I wasn’t disturbed in my cosy room and I could put on my night-clothes and slump in front of the TV. It was one of those evenings where each programme was
more mind-numbingly fatuous than the last. But I welcomed them: I didn’t have to think; I didn’t have to concentrate.

  I switched off the TV and my bedside light, dozed and thought of Max. In my mind I thought of him as an ‘an old-fashioned gentleman’. He certainly was not the archetype artist, temperamental, unreliable in his relationships, ruthless in pursuit of his art. He called himself ‘conventional’. There was nothing conventional in his paintings; on the the first glance, perhaps. But on a longer look the essentials of his birds came out: beauty and savagery.

  What a mass of contradictions we all are.

  I was returning to boring normality. But that was OK: I worked; wrote to Mel. (missing her ), she wrote to me; Penny and Pete had settled into a domestic routine; I spent my evenings reading art books and Italian newspapers. One incident broke this routine and gave me some satisfaction.

  I mentioned that my room was at the rear of the hotel; actually on the first floor, and my bedroom window had an inspiring view of the kitchen door, the boiler room, the garbage collection point and the bike shed, so I rarely looked out and always kept the curtains drawn. But on this particular morning I was finishing dressing when I peeked throigh the curtains and noticed two maids (the English women) smoking and chatting to the breakfast chef. I noticed their bike baskets were full; something was packed inside plastic supermarket bags - and they should have been working.

  I went downstairs and confonted the two women:

  ‘Are you on duty?’ I startled them, and they tried to hide their cigarettes. One said: ‘Just having a quick fag, Di,’ and she laughed.

  ‘Miss Hunt to you, Marlene. How many times have I told you: no smoking in the hotel’s time?’ I strode over to the bicycles and tore open the plastic bags.

  ‘Ere!’

  What I suspected: it was pathetic; lavatory paper, soap, shampoo, a towel.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  The other one said: ‘Them’s me perks.’

  ‘This,’ I said, ‘is stealing. Go to Mr Morrison’s office now - your fired.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘Try me.’

  As I followed them, the chef said: ‘It’s only a few bits and pieces...’

  ‘And they’re my responsibilty.’

  I am not what is generally regarded as a nice person (you will have gathered that), but I do have my own rules - mostly learnt in the judo dojo: always respect your opponent or practice partner; never abuse your judo knowledge, especially on someone less skilled that yourself; always demonstrate humility even in victory - in other words, keep your ego buttoned up. But these two women irritated me: they were lazy, dirty, and dishonest. (Yes, I know: you are about to remind me of the Russian. But the circumstances were slightly different, don’t you agree?)

  Morrison agreed with me, and they were dismissed on the spot. If he had not agreed with me, I would have resigned. One thing I was sure of - the news would spread. There is no worse place for gossip than a hotel. But by the next day, I had banished it from my mind.

  Something else I decided upon was not contacting Max Gilbert; there was that small voice in the back of my head that said Leave well alone, Diana: you don’t know what you would be taking on.

  The winter season loomed at the Ship so I tried to forget Max, but every time looked at the drawing he did of my back (which was now framed and hung over my bed) I got a twinge. But all those summer memories faded as we approached the Christmas season. The Ship had a regular bookings for functions and parties; and guests stayed over so they could drink - which some, of course, took to excess. That was fine for profits, but I got fed up with the bloody awful mess they made in their rooms (which I made sure was extra on their bill). I promised the maids a bonus for this work: actually, if I had been them I would have felt like walking out.

  During this time, Melanie came down from Cambridge. She wrote to me before she left, and when I read her letter I realized how much I had missed her sparkling company. Even so, it was a couple of weeks before we could meet. I was feeling drained with the pressure of that ‘holiday’ period (the quotation marks are deliberate). We met in the Tuesday Market Place on an icy, cloudless day; a Sunday, but the town was still crowded with Christmas shoppers. Melanie looked her usual pink-faced healthy self, her frizzy blonde hair poking out of her woollen hat; she had wound a multi-coloured scarf around her throat; the long ends hung down over her coat.

  We ran to each other and hugged. She felt, even under her voluminous garments, as if she had lost weight. We pulled away. She said: ‘Well, Di., and how are you ?’ I slipped my arm through hers. ‘Like you, probably: doing nothing but work - I’ve spent all morning pinning up tacky Christmas decorations in the foyer.’

  She grinned up at me. ‘Gosh, yes. Don’t believe anything you read about Cambridge and wild student parties. Everybody works fearfully hard. But I think I’m doing OK.’

  ‘What about your room-mate - the scruffy archaeologist who brings bits of pots and bones home.’

  ‘We’re like ships in the night, actually. Hardly ever see her.’ We crossed the road into a cafe. Mel. Grabbed a couple of seats and dumped her shopping bags on the floor while I got the coffee. I removed my beret and gloves and unbottoned my coat. Mel grinned at me.

  ‘You know, darling, that you like like a Russian spy in that outfit’. I was wearing the long faux-leather coat, maroon roll-neck sweater, dark-blue trousers and black suede boots. I said:

  ‘Do you mean sinister-looking,as if I might carry a knife in my stocking top?’

  Melanie giggled. She replied, ‘Are you sure you don’t want any chocolate cake?’

  I stared. Melanie certainly hadn’t lost her appetite; she was one of those girls who didn’t change - whatever she ate (envy, envy...). She licked her fingers and swallowed the remainder of her coffee. ‘Do you wear stockings, Di? You know, those sexy hold-up things?’

  What a romantic you are, I thought. I lifted up a trouser leg. ‘No: blue ankle socks.’

  Melanie squeezed my hand. ‘I’ve missed you, Di.’ I squeezed back. ‘God, yes, Mel., I’ve missed you too.’ I laughed. ‘This is crazy.’ I was uncertain of my feelings, but suspecting where they were going, and it bothered me. Never get involved, was part of my plan. I said: ‘I’ve got the whole afternoon off: shall we go to the hotel?’

  ‘An assignation, do you mean?’

  ‘If that is what you want, Mel.’

  Yes, please - now.’

  I was surprised at the fiercness and urgency of her reply. What else had they taught her at that college?

  I sat beside her in a stiff silence in her mother’s car; Mel drove with urgency the couple of miles to the Ship Hotel. I was fearful of Mel - me, Diana Hunt. As we approached the car park (the evening now turning into an orange grey dusk), I suddenly made out a flashing blue light of a fire engine in the corner of the main part of the hotel; there was activity; people running in a tight circle. Then I realized what the orange glow was in the sky: it was nothing to do with the sunset - this was fire, and it was at the hotel. I said to Melanie:

  ‘Turn round, Mel - go to the rear of the building.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do it now, Mel. You should go home.’

  ‘No.’

  I pushed my room key into her hand. ‘Then go to my room, phone your mother on my internal phone, tell her where you are - and do exactly as she tells you - understand?’

  There were tears below her eyelids. ‘Oh, Di!’

  ‘Not now, Sweetheart - move!’ Was this the first time that daddy’s girl did not get her way? I never thought of her as spoilt. But now she had to do as she was told. Not only because it was an emergency; but because if I did not control the situation our relationship would deteriorate - for us both. That was what I thought later: right now, I hurried where Jim Morrison was sta
nding, at the far corner of the main entrance to the Ship.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Looks like an electrical fault behind the bar.’

  ‘Electrical fault - what do you mean? Is there anyone hurt? Anyone inside, Jim - that is a quite a blaze.’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘What do you mean - have you checked the guest list, for God’s sake?’

  Jim turned and snapped at me: ‘Everything’s been checked - everything’s under control - there is nothing you can do. None of the bedrooms have been damaged.’

  ‘Well, I only asked - I do have some responsibility, you know!’

  He touched my arm. ‘Sorry, Diana: it’s been quite a night.’

  Then I felt a real fool. ‘Well, sorry to you, boss. I just reacted.’

  ‘Your instinct was right. But leave it to me. Off you go.’

  When I reached my room the corridor was in darkness; the door was unlocked, the room also in darkness, the curtains closed. But I didn’t switch on the ovehead or bedside lights - just hung my coat and others in the cupboard. I sat on the edge of the bed, then threw my boots to the corner of the room, and said ‘ Sod it!’

  Where was Mel? Gone off in a huff, I suppose. Silly cow. Then I felt a movement and a still small voice (but not my conscience):

  ‘Di, are you cross?’

  I switched on the bedside light. A small round face peeped above the duvet. ‘Mel! What the hell are you doing there, you silly girl?’

  She sat up. At least she was fully dresssed, apart from her coat and scarf. ‘Sorry, Mel.’

  ‘Did you phone your parents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well don’t you think you should? They know I work here and you visit me. They have probably heard about the fire on local radio. So just put two and two together.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got my mobile.’

  ‘Then use it.’ She did as I asked; while she was phoning, I went to the bathroom to freshen up. As I came out, with a towel round my shoulders, sans sweater and bra, Mel said:

  ‘You’re right, Di: Mummy had heard. Actually, she’s invited you for supper.’