Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  ‘So did I.’ Max laughed out loud. ‘Pour me another glass, dearest girl.’

  ‘You know something, Max?’

  ‘What do I know, Diana?’

  ‘You are a scheming old devil, aren’t you?’

  ‘Lovely lady, let me reply by saying that I have reached the stage in my life whereby I grasp any gift that comes my way.’

  ‘Like any sexy young woman - especially someone who is also as clever as me - or should I say I?’

  ‘Precisely. Don’t forget: in the new year I get my bus pass.’

  The next day, Max vanished into his studio after breakfast and I was left with Mrs Mills and the Monday chores. The mail was late, and I didn’t hear the rattle of the letter-box until mid-morning when Mrs Mills and I were taking a coffee break in the kitchen. I left them on the hall table; I don’t open letters in front of Mrs Mills. Since our intimate conversation - or better, our conspiratorial discussion - Max started to come down for a snack lunch:

  - I hope you are not going to be getting under my feet, Mr Gilbert.

  - You, Miss Hunt, will adapt yourself accordingly to my wishes.

  How nice to know that we understood each other. I put the letters in two stacks on the coffee table in the sitting room. We were eating hot cheese canapes and drinking green tea. Max said: ‘I’m getting used to your exotic tastes in teas.’

  ‘They are good for you, darling man.’

  He replied: ‘Why are women always wanting to do things they assume to be good for men?’

  ‘One of two reasons. It is either instinct within the female; or knowing that men are pretty useles at looking after themselves.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I said : ‘I have a duplicate form from the letting agents confirming a tenant.’

  Max said ‘Oh’ again.

  ‘It seems that my tenant has put down the necessary deposit and three months’ rent in advance.’

  Max pinched the remaining canape. ‘And does it state this woman’s profession?’

  ‘Personnel consultant: a Ms Dawn Hope, whoever or whatever that is.’

  ‘Well, I have a letter from my son, concerning you.’

  ‘Have you now.’ Uh, oh: what now....

  Max smiled. ‘It’s rather amusing. I don’t know what Paul thinks I am. However, there’s a note for you.’

  ‘For me?’ Max handed it over. This is what his son said:

  Dear Diana (I assume that I am allowed to address you by your first name?)

  So. You’ve swept my father off his feet, have you? Well, well. Dad is full of surprises. It is almost like a Victorian novel. ‘Housekeeper weds lord of the manor.’ But I understand that he proposed to you Dad has told me the circumstances, so all I can say is, ‘Good luck to you both.’

  Hope to meet you soon.

  Paul Gilbert.

  I smiled at Max. ‘Well, that sounds encouraging.’

  ‘Paul is a good boy, dearest girl. Though I do wish he would stop running round the Arab world, and find himself a nice wife and come back here. But then...’

  ‘You cannot...’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Perhaps this new domestic situation in which Max would be finding himself was making his attitude to his son and his life alter. I said:

  ‘Has Paul never contemplated marriage? Ever been engaged?’

  Max shrugged. ‘Every time he comes home he seems to have a different, glamorous-looking woman of doubtful ethnic origin on his arm. He’s making pots of money, of course.’ As if the two automatically go together - which they often do , of course. It did cross my mind to say that the only person to carry on the family name would be Laura. But if....No, forget that. Max continued: ‘Of course there’s my brother Philip and sister Prudence.’ For some reason I was astonished. The fact that Max may have had siblings never occurred to me. However, I didn’t want to go into that now, so I cleared the scrappy lunch away, and he vanished into the studio with a mug of green tea.

  The next day I had a rendezvous with Monique Barre. She was going to bring me up to date on my tenant, so I took her to lunch. We sat in front of bowls of vegetable soup and fresh rolls in an Italian cafe, just before the lunch-time crowds invaded. We agreed to speak French, for which I thanked her.

  ‘You know, Diana, I think sometimes that I will forget my own language!’

  ‘How’s the soup?’

  ‘Excellent. I don’t normally have time for much lunch.’

  ‘And you a French woman! From Lyons!’

  She shook her her head, ‘Even the Parisians do not eat lunch as before - it is all business, business - sandwiches and coffee at their desks’.

  ‘Then how do they get through the day? All that work on an empty stomach. They will make themselves ill.’

  Monique smiled and said: ‘I think you are more of a Frenchwoman than I, mon ami: do you ever think about anything else except food and drink?’

  Well.....

  There are books, designer dresses, Italian shoes, lace undies, sex...

  ‘I am a sybarite.’

  ‘Comment?’

  ‘A sybarite is defined as someone who believes the pursuit of pleasure is the highest good.’

  ‘That sounds like a dictionary definition, Diana.’

  ‘It is. I collect second-hand dictionaries - English, French and Italian.’

  ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Ten English, three French, two Italian.’

  ‘What a strange person you are!’

  ‘So what are your interests, Monique?’

  ‘Ah, not many: I am studying for the exam for the Institute of Chartered Surveyors.’

  ‘I am impressed. As it happens, I’m, taking an Italian exam for the Chartered Institute of Linguists next week - aren’t we clever? But what can you tell me about my tenant, Dawn Hope. You met her, I understand?’

  ‘Of course: I accompanied her when she inspected your apartment.’ Monique shrugged. ‘A quiet young lady. Very well dressed; she seemed to have plenty of money. She seemed satisfied with everything. She was obviously pleased with the furnishing. I do not think you will have a problem with your tenant.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Look? Her appearance?’ Monique seemed surprised with the question. ‘Well, about my height. Blonde, short hair, slim but with a figure; as I said, nice clothes - you always ask such strange questions! Like a detective.’

  (You don’t know the half of it, cherie.) I just can’t help being nosey; and I like to know who I’m dealing with (sorry, with whom I am dealing). I smiled that aside and said: ‘I mustn’t keep you you too long from your work, darling girl.’

  ‘Why do you call me that?’

  ‘It is just the local patois between friends in my home town. And you are, mon amie, very pretty.’ Monique blushed. How cute.

  When we got outside, we kissed in the French fashion, cheek-by-cheek, and I hugged her arm, lightly brushing her breast; I had a brief feeling of desire; but Monique did not seem to notice. I said: ‘We are friends, aren’t we? You must come to lunch and meet Max.’

  She smiled and squeezed my arm. ‘Of course, Diana. I would love to.’

  Hers was just a formal reply. But I said to myself, You really are a cow at times, Diana Hunt.

  Chapter 16

  IT IS A STRANGE EXPERIENCE sitting for one’s portrait. With Max, it wasn’t just a case of making an appointment with the artist, sitting on a chair and letting him get on with it. His instructions (for that is what they amounted to) would be, ‘Just hold that position, Diana, for a moment.’ A moment it was not - usually 15 minutes. I could be ironing my smalls or his shirts. I would have to stand still immediately (I burnt a sports bra because of that - much to my annoyance).

 
This went on for weeks, and I was getting supremely pissed off with it. But eventually he vanished into his studio and gave me some peace. Then there was the problem - or rather two problems: The proposed purchase of the flat and Richard. The flat I had decided upon - I would go ahead with the purchase. Richard was a more difficult decision; I was still trying to work that one out.

  So I had the strange sensation during the next two or three weeks - before Max vanished into his holy-of-holies - of being under inspection, as if he would suddenly appear from nowhere and ask to me sit still. Actually, I was getting fed up with it. So I made my excuses and went off for the day. Not that I needed excuses: the final details on the flat were being brought together, and I had to be on my toes.

  As advised by Max, I used his solicitors in the City, climbing gloomy stairs to their office. I expected some scrawny old man wearing a wing collar, black jacket and striped trousers. (Well. What else would a poor country girl know?) I let myself in to double doors with several names painted on the glass panel, all with abbreviated letters after their names (mostly Ll.B). Contrary to what I expected, the Reception area was light and airy - walls painted in pale green; inverted bowl lights on the wall; a couple of old oils showing venerable Victorian portraits of the original partners. There were Scandinavian-style chairs in leather and chrome which were much more comfortable than they looked. I gave my name and was shown almost immediately into an office. The middle-aged man who rose from behind the desk smiled, shook my hand and said his name was Wallace.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Hunt. And how is dear old Max?’

  He didn’t look the sort to deal with trifling matters such as conveyancing. He wore a charcoal-grey double-breasted suit, crisp white shirt, club tie, and Rotary club badge in his buttonhole. I would say - if asked - that he had an air of gravitas lightened by a humorous mouth. It was obvious the boss-man’s office, for its size and quality of furnishings demonstrated it couldn’t be anything else. He sat behind a desk the length of an airport runway. For a couple of minutes I thought I would trust him with anything. I sat opposite, undid my coat and crossed my legs, then my common sense asserted itself. He didn’t seem to notice my last gesture: this man had seen it all before. It was like having an interview with God.

  I said: ‘Mr Gilbert is very well, thank you, Mr Wallace. He sends his regards.’ Max hadn’t, but that wasn’t important. ‘And thank you for looking after my flat purchase. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Not at all. Not at all. I didn’t actually do it myself...’ (I thought not.)...’But it occurred to me that I would take the opportunity to introduce myself.’ He was a charmer, this one. And from what I had experienced the old charmers were the worst of all. But I was flattered. Mr Wallace said:

  ‘As I understand it, you have placed a large deposit on the flat. But you don’t intend to live there?’

  ‘Correct. I am buying it as an investment. I live with Max.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. And you would wish us to draw up all the necessary papers and tenancy agreements.’

  It wasn’t a question. ‘Yes. I would be grateful.’

  He smiled again (in the right circumstances that would have me across his desk). ‘After all’, he continued. ‘We have to look after your interests.’

  So that was it. Half an hour later I walked out of his office, the proud owner of a new, stylish flat in a desirable area of London, with the estimable Mr Wallace or his staff hopefully looking after my interests. So the next week I was dashing all over London, trying to furnish the flat, and getting home late in the evening; this made Max grumpy; I was tired - and we ended by snapping at each other. Neither of us liked this at all. Previously, when we were battling it was a war of wits, both of us rather enjoying it. I usually let him win (male artist’s ego, and all that). At the same time, thinking to myself, Just you wait until we are married, Max Gilbert.

  But at last I had the flat as I wanted it. All I had to do now is hope that the agents would find me a tenant quickly. I had let myself into the house one of those final evenings, sighing with relief (and at the same time wondering what I had let myself in for), and looking forward to some peace and quiet. When I walked into the sitting-room, Max was slumped in a chair with a drink in his hand. I took a deep breath and said:

  ‘Hello, Max. Sorry I’m late. How are you?’

  ‘Somewhat annoyed and worried when you didn’t phone, Diana’.

  I flung my coat on a chair. ‘I’m sorry, Max, my phone battery was dead.’

  He took a long gulp of his whisky. ‘Hardly a good reason. You didn’t notice the time - it is nearly nine p.m.’

  Patience, Diana. ‘Have you eaten, Max?’

  ‘Hardly - you weren’t here!’

  I was getting fed up with this; the selfish old man in a sulk like a school-boy. I said:

  ‘I’m sure you were capable of getting something - you know how busy I’ve been, Max. Be fair.’

  ‘And I’m beginning to have doubts that your flat purchase was a good idea.’

  That really got my goat. ‘Oh, yeah? And aren’t you being just a tad selfish? Well listen to me, Max. I’ve had a pig of a day, I’m exhausted, so I’m going to soak in a bath for hours. If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.’ I completed this display by running out of the room and slamming the door.

  I lay in the bath, simmering - with hot water, suds, and lovely smells; and simmering with anger. How dare he! After all I had done for him! Selfish old git....Then I succumbed to the sensuousness of the bath, and dozed. Eventually, Richard came to mind - and the memory of that luxurious bed in the Quest-Riston hotel. Richard lying on his back with his eyesd closed. Me sat astride him and flinging away the peignoir and stretching, and thinking - It’s lovely being a tart.

  Then I drifted back slowly to reality and thought, Ah, well, forget the day. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in, Max.’

  He stuck his head round. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I am.’

  He sat on the bathroom stool and we looked at each other warily. ‘Are we still friends, Diana?’

  ‘Course we are, darling man. I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you lately.’ (3)

  ‘And I am sorry that I’ve been an old grump. I ....I’ve missed you.’

  ‘And I’ve missed you. By the way: are you staring at my boobs?’

  ‘I always obtain great aesthetic pleasure from your body.’

  ‘God, you do talk some rubbish at times. Now clear off while I dry off and make myself decent.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want any assistance?’

  ‘Bugger off, Max.’

  Was Max getting saucy in his old age?. However, when I went downstairs in my kimono and pyjamas he was in the kitchen sorting through the fridge, so asked him to leave well alone and go and find a white wine from his cellar. By the time he came back, I had laid the table with cutlery and glasses. He placed the chardonnay on the kitchen table, opened it, and poured two glasses. We clinked glasses and he said: ‘A toast, my sweet - new beginnings?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘What is that delicious smell?’

  ‘Your favourite - fish pie.’

  ‘How on earth did you do that in the time?’

  ‘If you had looked in the freezer you would a stock of meals ready frozen. I did them before getting involved with all the business with my flat. All you had to do was heat ‘em up.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I should have told you, so sit down, Max, and I’ll dish up. But do you think we should be eating this late - it’s 10 pm.?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Max stayed with me all night. What a soft touch I am. His arm around my waist. When I woke in the morning he had gone.

  I wasn’t qui
te sure what last night was all about. I suppose it was because Max needed consoling, and I was prepared to give it. Honestly, one of these days I would have to decide whether I was Mother Teresa or a tart. The next morning I phoned Richard at the hotel, but he was busy and wouldn’t be available until lunch-time. So I got on with all the household chores: the mind-numbing repetition did something for my mental stability. When Max emerged from his studio, he seemed very perky, his faced pink and smooth. I thought: you know, Max, you really are quite a handsome man at times. I took the coffee into the drawing room, and we sat in silence; he seemed far away. Then I said:

  ‘Max.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell me about Laura - or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘No: not at all. What would you like to know?’

  ‘Where you met; have you always lived here? What did your wife do? - I mean was she an artist ?’

  Max laughed out loud, then shrugged, and grinned at me.

  ‘Max!’

  ‘Very well. We met at the Chelsea Arts Ball.’ A picture came to my mind immediately - Max and Laura in the swinging sixties, living it up, smoking pot, drinking chianti from straw-covered flasks -Carnaby street, BIBA....I suddenly felt quite envious. I said: ‘Was she a student with you?’

  ‘No: Chelsea College of Art and Design. Now let me ask you a question. You have seen the tapestry on the wall at the head of the stairs?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It looks like pictures I’ve seen of the Middle Ages? Medieval? I don’t know....A woman with a horse with something sticking out of his head. A uni..?’

  ‘The lady and the unicorn - the symbols occur throughout tapestries at that time. The original is in the Musee de Cluny, Paris, but made in Flanders Well, Laura worked it’.

  ‘Your wife made it? All of it?’

  ‘Yes. It is derived from the original, but smaller; as you can see, it is four feet square with fewer details. It still took her two years.’

  ‘Crikey! That’s amazing, Max. Did she do others?’

  ‘She and her students. She eventually taught at Chelsea.’