Room Service

by Diana Hunt

With relief, I walked out of that bleak, air-conditioned prison and into sun-drenched Sloane Street. Now for some serious shopping.

  I strode past Harvey Nichols until I came to the shoe store I wanted - Sergio Rossi. I felt like the girl in the silly TV commercial, with the red stilettos. Not bothering looking through the window, I removed my sunglasses, went straight in and was immediately confronted by a saleswoman. ‘Good morning, madam; may I help you?’

  ‘Good morning. I sincerely hope so. I’m looking for a pair of simple elegant shoes, either in a burgundy, a dark blue, black, in crocodile or leather; two-inch heels at least - very little decoration.’

  ‘Of course. Please take a seat.’

  I loved this elegant shop. It even smelled expensive. The very soignee assistant in the black dress brought out a single shoe; she held it like a chalice in both hands. It was snakeskin, deep burgundy, beautifully shaped - it was gorgeous. She slipped it on my foot: it felt like a glove. Then she brought the other. ‘Would madam like to try....?’ Madam would. I strode up and down the cream carpet. I said:

  ‘They’re lovely. Do you have them in black also?’ They did. And they were perfect. I wanted them both.

  ‘What is the price of each pair?’

  ‘They are both £325.00 per pair.’ I thought, then said:

  ‘I will give you £600.00 for both pairs.’ She opened her mouth as if I had insulted her. And frostily, said, ‘This is one of our most popular lines.’

  ‘Look, I said, ‘I’m not middle class - I don’t mind haggling. Do we have a deal, or do I go next door?’ (three doors down was Ferragamo). I walked out with both pairs at six hundred quid. Now for the next deal. Which was next door, number 205, Sloane street - Alberto Ferretti, for really slinky dresses.

  The assistant in Ferretti’s assured me (well she would) that mauves and purples were the colours that season. And there was this this chiffon and silk layered dress in mauve and black that was bellasima!. I tried it on. God - it flowed over me and I thought I was going to take off. I bought it immediately. It cost me £800 (no discount here). Last stop before lunch: La Perla, where I bought a yummy cream silk chemise bordered with lace and matching briefs. (What a tart you are, Diana; what a tart.)

  I felt as tho’ I was floating down the street; then suddenly I felt tired - shopping for clothes in such a rarefied atmosphere is such hard work. But: lunch. I crossed the street to what looked like an eating place. I would have gone to the fifth floor at Harvey Nichols, but that was too far to walk. Then I stood still; next door to the cafe was a hotel, and I didn’t notice its name until now, the Quest-Ritson - well, well, well. I went inside.

  One always knows when one enters the best hotels - they’re the quietest. If you enter a hotel lobby and it is a babble of noise, you can be sure that it is not quite first class. The staff have not been trained to be anonymous and efficient (e.g., The Ship). The Quest-Ritson was as silent as a tomb. It had a fairly short lobby; to the left was the concierge’s desk, and as I passed he said, ‘Good morning, miss, may I be of assistance?’ (I hadn’t come across a greeting like that since reading a Victorian novel).

  I held my bags up and he took them from me. At the end of the lobby was the Reception. The counter was of polished rose wood; on either side there was an onyx lamp with a dark green shade. To the right they had placed a pie-crust table; a long Murano glass vase held lilies. The scent was almost overwhelming. I stood away from the concierge’s stand and took this all in. Suddenly, there was a sound of high-pitched, foreign voices: six matronly women approached the receptionist. One of them tried to ask something in limited English. The young man was nonplussed; he was doing his best to understand, but making heavy weather of it. The ladies were getting rather agitated. I walked straight over, and said to the youngster, ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I think these ladies need something, but I can’t understand. I was just about to send for the manager.’

  ‘I speak Italian - let’s see if I can help.’

  - Bongiorno. Signora.

  Relief dawned slowly on the face of the woman who was trying to speak English.

  - Can I be of assistance?

  I found where the confusion arose. They were asking for their reservation to be confirmed and wanting their keys. He was trying to tell them that the rooms were not quite ready. It tested my knowledge of Italian, but I got through without stumbling. Then I said

  - While you are waiting may I suggest that you take lunch in the terrace restaurant?

  I pointed to the sign and led the way, with much thanks from all the ladies.

  Grazzi, grazzi!

  Prego.

  Then I heard a man’s voice behind me; ‘May I ask who you are?’ As I turned, I found myself looking at a youngish-to-middle- aged man, about my height, wearing a dark grey suit: a figure of authority.

  ‘You may - but who are you?’

  ‘My name is Richard Templeton, I’m the manager.’

  ‘And my name is Diana Hunt.’

  He held out his hand. ‘I saw what you did, Miss Hunt. I want to thank you for saving the hotel some embarrassment.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr Templeton. But I would have thought that an establishment of this standing would have had a bilingual receptionist - not that it is any of my business. Anyway, will you excuse me. I came in for lunch.’

  He followed me into the terrace restaurant. It was a pretty little room, over looking a garden (a very expensive piece of real estate!). I placed myself away from the chattering Italian women; but one of them waved to me. Mr Templeton hovered as I sat at a small round table, which was laid with a crisp white cloth and knapkin.

  ‘May I sit?’

  God; he was so formal he made feel uncomfortable. He said: ‘Our bilingual receptionist is on lunch break. It was just unfortunate. Do you speak any other language?’ Now a waiter hovered. Templeton continued: ‘I recommend the Parma ham with salad and fresh rolls. A glass of champagne, perhaps?’

  ‘Then I’ll have that. But no bubbly. Green tea. And yes, I speak French.’

  ‘Ah, bilingual.’

  ‘Trilingual. I speak English as well. Is there anything else you would like to know, Mr Manager. My age? My family tree? My sex life?’

  He was nonplussed; he looked round to see if anyone else had heard. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pry.You are very frank, Miss Hunt.’

  ‘I come from Nelson’s county - we don’t waste words.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘I doubt it. Look: there are only two reasons why women come into posh hotels: they are either ‘‘ladies who lunch’’, or tarts.’

  ‘And which are you?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind.’

  He stood, and put his fingers in his waistcoat pocket and handed me his card. ‘That is my private number, Miss Hunt. Perhaps you would like to call me some time?’

  ‘When I’ve decided that I really am a tart?’

  ‘No: certainly not. I don’t know what you do; but you could be an asset to this hotel.’

  I lifted my shoulder bag off the floor, opened it and scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper. ‘I don’t why I’m doing this - but that’s my number.’ Why did I do it? Anyhow I dismissed it when the waiter brought my lunch. I glanced at my watch as I finished the (excellent) meal: time I was getting back to Max. I called for the bill. The waiter said it was on the house. I see....

  When I arrived home (home! A Freudian slip), I heard music coming from the direction of the sitting room. I placed my shopping in the hall and looked for Max. He was sat in an armchair; beside him, a small table with what looked like a glass of sherry on it. He waved me to a chair, then put his fingers to his lips. I remained silent and upright. He never took his eyes off me until the music finished. Then he said:

  ‘Well, what do yo
u think of that?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about music.’

  ‘Nevertheless, your opinion, please, Diana.’

  ‘Spooky.’

  ‘Correct - it is called Danse Macabre. Written by Saint-Saens.’

  ‘I came across him in the middle of my French studies. Mmm...born 1835 in Paris.’

  ‘Well done! Now, all is well with my esteemed accountant?’

  ‘Yes; Mr Partington thanked me for presenting your papers in good order!’

  Max ignored my sarcasm. ‘And what else have you been doing?’

  ‘Never mind that, Max. Did you eat the lunch I left you?’

  ‘I believe I had the sandwich and flask of coffee.’

  ‘Well I prepared dinner before I left - it should only take half-an-hour.’

  Max rose to his feet. ‘Then I shall open a bottle of wine. Red? White?’

  ‘Red - we are having lamb chops. But I shouldn’t bother: there’s a half bottle of Merlot from last evening. By the way, how is the work going?’

  ‘Quite well. Quite well.’

  ‘So, are you going to show me?’

  ‘I might, I might.’

  As he sloped off to freshen up, I recalled the ‘Freudian slip’ earlier. Surely I wasn’t looking upon Max as a father figure? Ridiculous. I put our dinner in the the cooker and set the timer; then I went to my room and hung up the dress, but resisted the temptation to try it on again.

  As usual, Max and I sat in the conservatory over our meal. We ate silently for a while then he said: ‘Diana, I worry over you at times.’

  I was astonished. ‘Max - what can you mean?’

  ‘I am thinking you are a young healthy woman with a bright mind. And you are stuck with an elderly gent looking after his welfare. You should be out, enjoying yourself with people of your own age - find a nice young man.’

  I was rather annoyed at this. ‘Max: it was a choice I made. You’re not trying to get rid of me, I hope?’

  ‘No, no - certainly not. It’s just....’

  ‘I’ve never been more content and felt such freedom. And anyway, I meet people at my gym. It’s fun.’

  ‘Ah, the martial arts...?’

  ‘That’s right. Anyway if I find a boy-friend I don’t suppose you would like a strange young man sleeping in your house?’

  He laughed. ‘Certainly not. I’d give you the money for a hotel!’

  (Max remarking on ‘martial arts’ was of course judo; shortly after arriving at Max’s home I registered at the Budokwai judo club in Gilston Road, Chelsea, by showing them my British Judo Association record card. ‘Oh, good,’ said the secretary, ‘Ladies night is on Wednesday - you can help out.’ Thank you very much: as long as it doesn’t mean twenty 10-year-old girls. The club may be in Chelsea, but there is no comfort at that dojo. It is very plain and bleak. The only decoration in the larger dojo is an oil painting of the Budokwai’s founder, Gunji Koizumi, on the far wall. We always bow to him as we enter.)

  ‘Money for a hotel’ indeed! The thing was, I bet Max would. I sometimes wondered what this ‘conventional family man’ (his words) was really like underneath. I had experienced his roguish sense of humour, as you will remember. There was something attractive about Max - but why? Looking at him, one would see an elderly gent about five-foot eight, fairly slim (he had kept his figure); a longish face; eyes set widely apart; thin lips; beaky nose; sharp eyes. He could be dapper when he wanted, but most of the time he wore baggy trousers, an open-necked shirt under a grey cotton jacket - his working attire; the jacket was smeared with streaks of paint.

  Speaking of which, I would love to poke around this studio. But I would never invade his privacy. Clever Diana; street-wise Diana was finding that she was learning to love Max - sod it!

  Against my instincts, was Max becoming a father-figure? So Diana, against all mythology, who wanted be a femme fatale, had better start thinking again. But would that make any difference? And then I felt mean; many girls would envy me. Here I was living in a desirable part of London with a cultured man, and more or less pleasing myself. Oh, sod it!

  But I had a further problem, albeit a pleasurable one: £80,000 stuck in a building society account. I would have to make that earn its keep. Plus of course the 7000 euros (remember that?). I had just spent just over £1400 on clothes from that bundle. Next on the list was getting an easy method of transporting myself round London. A Vespa would be the answer.

  I went to bed satisfied with the day.

  Chapter 12

  LONDON: ROYAL ACADEMY OF ARTS

  MAX SAID: ‘I once did a commission for a woman who wanted a painting of the ducks on her garden pond.’ We were in a taxi, riding down Piccadilly, when he came out with this remark. I looked at him sideways. He was looking very dapper in his black bow-tie and evening suit; his CBE decoration hung across his crisp white shirt front. (I had to lift his outfit from the back of the wardrobe and send it to the cleaners; God knows how long it had been since he had worn it. I also made sure that his white shirt was impeccable. I don’t know why I am mentioning this; just having a moan, I suppose.)

  I was wearing my new dress and shoes. Max said I looked ‘alluring’, whatever that meant. However, I replied:

  ‘Ducks in some woman’s back garden pond? Max, what are you talking about?’

  ‘It wasn’t a semi in suburbia, Diana. This was Lord Hanbury’s estate, and Lady Hanbury commissioned me.’

  ‘And how large was this so-called pond?

  ‘Actually it was small lake surrounded with willows.’

  ‘How did you manage to paint the ducks if they didn’t keep still?’

  ‘Very amusing. The finished painting showed their house in the distance, looking across from my view of the lake. It was reproduced on the cover of the brochure sold to visitors.’ I nearly said: Max, why are you telling me this? But he sometimes came out with these irrelevant remarks, apropos of nothing. Now my mind was wandering.

  The taxi turned left into the wide courtyard leading to the entrance of the Academy steps, skirting the statue of Joshua Reynolds. One of the stewards opened the taxi door. ‘Good evening, Mr Gilbert, madam.’ There was a buzz as we entered, and people moved forward as Max, followed by me, was greeted. When he introduced me to a couple of his fellow academicians (male and female), curious, quizzical expressions were behind their smiles. I was very amused. I could guess their thoughts: Has old Max got himself a fancy woman?

  But I had things to do; so, guided by one of the stewards, I was led, up the stairs, to the room where the auction was to be held; it was newly opened, and they called it the John Madejski room (presumable after the guy who funded it). There was gold filigree everywhere - ceiling, walls, and the delicate chairs that were arranged in two rows in front of the auctioneer’s rostrum. There was a table holding canapes and glasses of bubbly and the catalogues on which Max and I had burnt the midnight oil.

  The room began to fill with the great and good, so I started handing out catalogues then took my place alongside the autioneer from Bonham’s. I noticed several faces from the TV and newspapers - businesmen, showbiz types. Then Max got to his feet and walked to the front and made his speech.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Good evening and welcome to the Royal Academy. First of all, I would like to thank the Council of the Royal Academy for permission to hold this charity auction in this magnificent room. I know some of you here were directly involved in its refurbishment. Also, for Bonham’s kindly agreeing to oversee the proceedings - and not charging commission. A first for a London fine art auctioneers, no doubt! (Laughter and a grin from John Holroyd, the auctioneer.)

  ‘But to business. There are two organizations close to my heart that we are supporting this evening - Royal Academy Schools and Macmillan Cancer care. The first is where I learnt my craft, and I could not h
ave had a finer alma mater; the second, as some of you know, I have personal experience.

  ‘So let the proceedings commence! Dig deep in your pockets and purses. I wish you a very pleasant evening. Thank you!’

  A long applause.

  Not all the pictures to be auctioned were hung; some were on easels, especially those on my left. I noticed them particularly because the scenic background was the both the River Great Ouse and the coast off Norfolk. And not all of them were birds; there were a couple of landscapes, obviously painted much farther north. I could make out the blue hills behind the conifers.

  My task, like Mr Holroyd’s, was to notice who was bidding; they had all been given a bid number written on the back of their invitations (my idea). When the gavel went down, it was my responsibility to write the number and the final amount bid for the picture. I soon found out that the job required constant, concentrated attention: these people were here to spend their money - and to show that they were spending it; the Press were here, and the bulbs flashed. But from where I was sitting I had an over view of the guests; many of whom, as I said, I had seen in the media. But there was one man at the back whom I met only just recently - Richard Templeton. What on earth was he doing here? He didn’t bid for any of the lots until towards the end, and then it was two signed lithographs of the great spotted woodpecker. He won the bid. It cost him two thousand pounds. Why on earth did he buy them? As I wrote the details down, he smiled, and I felt myself blushing - me! I was really rather cross.

  My discomfiture was spared when Max got to his again.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! You will be please to hear - (I had to do a rapid calculation) - that thanks to you all we have raised the handsome sum of £56, 000 and 75 pence for my charities...

  Long applause.....

  ....my thanks once again to the Council and John Holroyd of Bonham’s - and not to forget Miss Diana Hunt for all her work compiling the catalogue. She was invaluable to the whole evening. Thank you all again!’ Max bowed. I was amused: Max was a real ham, obviously enjoying the attention. The stewards started clearing away, but I needed a drink; I skirted the crush, but felt a touch on my arm: it was Templeton and he had two glasses of champagne in his hand.