Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  ‘Ah, Diana, let me introduuce Daphne Hinxton. Daphne, meet Diana Hunt’.

  Mrs Hinxton shook my hand and we both said ‘please to meet you’. And Richard said, ‘Diana is coming with me to the golf club bash.’ I said, ‘Emergency supplies - I didn’t have a dress.’ Mrs Hinxton glanced at the bag and said, ‘That is a very good place. I shop there myself.’ So that was all right, then. She made her excuses and left: ‘Look forward to seeing you both this evening’.

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘The secretary’s wife.’

  I ordered cappuccino and a sticky bun with almonds and cashew nuts. ‘She looks rather smart, Richard.’

  ‘She is rather smart: a lawyer - local solicitor.’

  ‘Oh.’ Richard watched me gulp the pastry down. He smiled at me. ‘Hungry, are we?’

  ‘I’m always hungry when my hormones are all over the place. By the way, what’s on the menu tonight?’

  He shook his head. ‘Come on - home we go.’

  Rather to my surprise, I found myself doing what Richard wanted me to do. When we got home, he left me with the newspaper in the sitting room and told me I wasn’t to disturb him while went off to his study and made business phone calls. At lunch-time, I made sandwiches and coffee; it was like living with Max. We sat at the kitchen table. He pushed his plate away and said:

  ‘Now then, Diana Hunt.’

  ‘Yes sir. I promise I will wash the dishes....’

  ‘Be serious for a moment. This evening you will be on your best behaviour. Some of the guests are my friends; and without being too pompous I have a certain standing in the community which is very useful to my business at the Quest-Ritson. Understand?’

  ‘d’Accord. I promise you, darling man, that I will be meek and quiet.’

  ‘No need to go that far. Just be pleasant and cheerful.’ Crikey! He was laying down the law - and strange as it seemed, I didn’t mind. I bet, though, all his snooty pals will wonder who I am. So, by early evening I stood in front of a cheval mirror in Richard’s bedroom wearing the new plum-coloured dress, fine (respectable) black tights and high-heeled Italian shoes. At first, I thought the bosom on the dress might be too revealing, but decided it was this side of decent: I didn’t want anyone thinking they could park their bike in my cleavage (as the saying goes). But there was more to come. Richard approached, looking sheepish. He was carrying an oblong box. He opened it. It contained the necklace. ‘Will you wear it this evening, Diana? You see, it was my grandmother’s. I know that you said...but it could be kept here with the dress...?’

  ‘Oh, Richard: you are sweet. Of course I will.’

  Next, I inspected him. He was one of those long-faced tall Englishmen who looks good in clothes. I straightened his black bow-tie, straightened his cuffs, and flicked imaginary dust off his lapel. He said:

  ‘Do I pass muster?’

  ‘Darling man, I shall be very proud to accompany you.’ So far, so good. And off we drove to meet his sporty friends and me to be on my best behaviour.

  ‘What is your handicap, my dear?’ That was the second time I had heard that word today.

  ‘Pardon?’

  I was sat next to an elderly, florid-faced man (on a table of four people) on my left; Richard was on my right; and the old chap’s wife was at on Richard’s right. I thought the oldie was a bit deaf, for he leaned over and muttered (or else he was looking down my cleavage), ‘Mmmmm’.

  I patted his hand and said: ‘I’m not a golfer, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Not at all. Have you been a member long?’ (I thought I had to say something)

  ‘Ages and ages. Don’t play much now. May I ask your name?’

  ‘Of course. Diana Hunt. And yours?’

  ‘Cyril Hart. That’s my good lady next to young Richard.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Cyril. That’s a lovely necklace your wife is wearing.’

  ‘ ‘Spose it is: silver wedding present I bought her. Did Richard buy yours?’

  ‘On loan: it was his grandmother’s. But you have excellent taste.’

  He took a sip of his wine. ‘And if I may say so, so does Richard.’

  ‘And you are naughty - but I like you.’

  He laughed. ‘You are too young to remember Dick Emery.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  I caught Richard watching me; he smiled, then turned to Mrs Hart. Cyril said:

  ‘What do you think of the food?’ It was an odd question to ask of a guest.

  ‘Good. A tasty clear soup and excellent turkey. Did you enjoy yours?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve got the usual Christmas pud. But I’m not allowed cream.’

  ‘Oh, goody; I love puddings,’ I said, paraphrasing little Laura. I looked side ways at Cyril and thought, Poor man: you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself. Is this just another duty dinner? But after my last remark he laughed. So far, so good. I was quite pleased with myself.

  The waiters started clear the plates. Coffee was served. There was rustling at the top table. Richard leaned to me and whispered, ‘Now for the boring bit - the speeches.’ I recognized the man who got to his feet - one of the many to whom I was introduced when we first entered the welcoming scrum. And like most of these affairs, one meets them, they give their names, and the next day they and their names are forgotten. It seems this man was the club captain, and he spoke about what was expected of him - golf competitions, lame jokes about handicaps; I was only half listening.

  Then Daphne Hinxton’s name was called, and I woke up. She was presented with a trophy, thanked the assembly and sat down. I could feel that the party was drawing to a close, for which I was grateful, for I needed the Ladies’ loo; a waitress showed me where. I was on my way out, when I bumped into Mrs Hinxton.

  ‘Oh, Diana. Did you have a pleasant evening?’

  ‘Yes, thank you: I enjoyed myself.’

  She smiled. ‘Richard must bring you over to the house soon.’ Yet another remark that meant nothing.

  On the way home, Richard said: ‘Well, Miss Hunt. I hope you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Especially the food and wine.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised. But your behaviour was impeccable.’

  ‘I know. And I like talking with Mr Hart.’

  ‘Sir Cyril Hart, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Crikey - what’s he done? Given dosh to the Tory Party?’

  Richard didn’t answer. When we reached his house, I said: ‘I’ll be all motherly and make tea if you like. Yes?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was lapsong-suchong for him and green tea for me. We took our teas upstairs. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘If you wish to sleep on your own tonight...?’

  What a funny old-fashioned man he was. ‘No: I want to be with you. But I’d like a

  pair of your jim-jams if I may.’

  Richard fell asleep almost immediately. But I lay awake for a while. I felt cosy and safe with him, wearing his pyjamas (though I had to undo the top two buttons of the jacket). It made me think what I should not think: had I made the right decision in marrying Max? Maybe I should marry Richard? I knew he would jump at the chance. I would have everything: a lovely home; a position in the community; money. I wouldn’t be burdened with children. But what would do with myself? Take more language exams? Join the WI?

  God forbid. But with Max...ah, now there was a stimulus. Living in that funny old house with such creativity, such battle of wits.

  No contest.

  Chapter 18

  LONDON: THE BUDOKWAI

  I COULDN’T MOVE, AND FELT OVERWHELMED by the smell of sweat and grubby cotton. My left hand was holding tight on to her obi and my right over her head and gripping her collar. Continually, I tried arching my back, my bare feet flat on the
tatami, but I couldn’t move because her chest was pressing on my stomach, her right hand under my left thigh, her left arm round my shoulder, gripping my collar. She was holding me in a perfect yoko-shio-gatame. We were allowed ten seconds in which to escape. If we had been in a contest situation, after 25 seconds the ref. would have called ippon! And the match would have been over.

  Wednesday evening at the Budokwai, ‘women’s evening’. We were being led by a third dan in ground grappling (ne-waza). Matches are won and lost in these techniques, by ‘hold-downs’, strangles and arm locks. My speciality was leg throws leading into grappling, but this evening my partner was too good for me. After an hour, the sensei stopped the class and bowed us out. My partner shook my hand and grinned. ‘Good practice, Di?’ I said nothing except ‘Yeah, thanks, Susan.’ And after rolling round the mat for an hour, being dumped on by this Susan who was built like a tractor, I was in no mood to be polite.

  As I drove the scooter down Gilston Road, I thought, Why do I do it? Why do we bounce each other across the mat - getting bruised and scratched, and let ourselves be exposed to dislocated elbows and knees? The thing is, judo gets under your skin, you just can’t keep away from the dojo; even though we are battling each other, there is still this feeling of camaraderie - and everybody is so damned polite.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, I had the Italian language exam the following week.

  So after that little moan to myself I reached the sanctuary of home to find Max sprawled on the sofa, with a rug round his knees and a glass of port on the coffee table. He was watching TV. I glanced at the screen; there seemed to be a lot of women - young and middle aged - prancing around in their underwear. ‘Max,’ I asked, ‘what are you watching?’

  He grinned. ‘It is all about self improvement and morale boosting for these ladies. This young man is attempting to enhance their self-confidence.’

  ‘And you are a dirty old man.’

  ‘Tush! It is called artistic licence.’ I left him to it, and went upstairs to my bath. Lying in the steaming water, I thought what shall I buy Max for Christmas - silk scarf and suede gloves? Richard? A Cross fountain pen. Peter and Pennie? A pile of baby clothes. So that was decided upon. As I got out of the bath and rubbed myself dry, I checked for damage; I wasn’t sure, but it looked as if there might be bruise coming on my left arm. I am a vain woman, and any blemish on my body I take as a personal affront. After ten years of judo, you would think I would dismiss that as a normal hazard.

  I changed into silk pyjamas and slipped into my kimono and joined Max in the sitting room. The TV programme had finished and he was watching the news. I joined him on the sofa, took his hand, then kissed him on the cheek. Ever since I had said to Max that I loved him I had tried to work out my feelings - and now, much to my surprise, I realized that there was more than a touch of hero worship; maybe the father I had lost - and never really knew. I waited until he had retired before I checked the house back and front, then I went upstairs myself. There was no sound from Max’s room, but I opened his door slowly and peeked in. He had gone to sleep; his bedside light had been left on; so I switched it off, then bent over him.

  I lay in my safe bed, thought of Max, and started to weep. Oh, you sill, silly sod, Diana Hunt.

  But the following Wednesday came round quickly enough. Fortunately, I didn’t have far to go; the exam was being taken at the Kensington and Chelsea College in

  Hortensia Road. So I joined all the other candidates standing around in a gloomy

  annexe at 9.45 am. And what a rum-looking lot they seemed to be; why do intellectual women always have to be so disdainful of their appearance? The men were not much better; but then, most were young. One or two glanced at me and my clothes, with an expression almost amounting to She can’t be serious - she looks too well off. (Don’t take that as the situation: those were just fanciful thoughts as we were called into the examination room.)

  The invigilator colected our papers at exactly 13.01, and we trooped out of the hall, that strange mixture of numbness and relief on our faces. I thought, Diana, you need a drink. But before that, I phoned Max; he took an age to reply. He had an imperious voice on the phone:

  - Max Gilbert!

  - Max it’s me, Diana,

  - Ah, yes. Where are you speaking from? And how did you get on?

  - OK, I think. Look, Max. I’m famished. I’ll get some lunch, do some shopping and see you later. OK?

  - Of course, Darling girl. Take care.

  I walked down the Fulham Road and found (inevitably) an Italian restaurant; at that time of the day it was crowded, of course, but the waitress found me a cramped corner table next to a dusty rubber-tree plant. I ordered vermicelli soup, hot rolls and a glass of valpolicella (breaking my own rules). It was one of those family places that had newspapers in a rack, so I picked up La Stampa. I slurped soup and chuckled between spoonfuls at Italian antics: the usual scandals. Corruption in Naples (so what was new about that city?), and a hilarious story in the north of the country about a peasant family who had been collecting their dead relatives’ pensions for the past ten years; no wonder their neighbours wondered how they could change

  their Fiat every year.

  I finished my soup and rolls and glanced idly round the crowded restaurant over the rim of my wine glass. Then I stopped quickly, put down the glass, picked up the newspaper and tried to hide my face, for if I was not very much mistaken, at the other end of the room sat Richard Templeton; and opposite him was a young blonde woman. I couldn’t believe it. She was paying great attention to him, and Richard was smiling and waving a hand. The girl wore a pink suit with a very short skirt; her legs were crossed and - even from where I was - I could see the outline of her pants. My God, she had wonderful legs. I was so cross. I was so miffed, I could have strode over and slapped her face. What did Richard think he was doing? The two-timimg sod!

  But instead of doing that, I sneaked out and crossed the Fulham Road. I had to think. Or rather, I needed distraction, so that made me concentrate , which meant starting Christmas shopping - which dragged me very quickly into reality. By four’o’clock I had had enough of that madness - so I took a taxi to the Quest-Ritson Hotel. I left my packages (except one) with the concierge and glanced round the lobby: silver and green faux conifer branch decorations were hung across the ceiling with twinkling little lights. At the entrance to the restaurant there was a magnificent Christmas tree with candles ablazing. There was nobody about, except the receptionist. As I approached her, Richard’s office door opened and who should emerge but the blonde in the pink suit, with Richard following. He was holding a long camel-hair coat up for her.. She thanked him. Then Richard saw me.

  ‘Diana! This is nice. You haven’t met Priscilla - my sister-in-law, have you?’

  Priscilla? His sister-in-law?

  ‘Oh, no. Hallo.’ We shook hands. She said:

  ‘Pleased to meet you. You’re the linguist.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I’ve heard all about you.’

  All? I hope not. ‘Take no notice of your brother-in-law. He’s a charmer. And by the way, now I’ve got a witness, Priscilla, he hasn’t paid me for the last batch of work.’

  Richard glared at me over her shoulder. She sensed something, for she shrugged on her coat. ‘Got to dash - thank you for lunch, Richard. Very nice to have met you Diana.’

  I followed Richard into his office; he closed the door behind him. I sat in his chair and swung my legs out.

  ‘What was all that about, Diana?’

  I grinned at him. ‘Sorry, darling - I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘You’ll get your bottom smacked, Miss Hunt.’

  ‘Ooh, coo - sexy.... Will that be before you get your present or after?’

  ‘Present? What present?’

  ‘Christmas, of course.’ I dug the package out of
my shoulder bag and slid it across his desk. Richard reached for it, but I put my hand over his. ‘Not to be opened until Christmas morning.’

  ‘Of course, but beautifully wrapped.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do less for my lover. By the way, you don’t have half an hour to spare, by any chance? I just feel....’ This time we were in one of the ordinary doubles, and also he was lying on top of me, which (rather to my surprise) I rather liked. I squeezed his narrow hips with my thighs, then he slumped, poor man; but I didn’t want to embarrass him so I kissed him and rolled him gently away I said:

  ‘That was really rather nice, darling: you are such a considerate lover.’

  ‘I was going to say ,’’We aim to please’’, but perhaps that sounds too much like a hotel manager.’

  I laughed. ‘There was nothing wrong with your aim.’ He didn’t reply, but watched me as I dressed, pulling up my knickers and fastening my bra. But then he said:

  ‘You are a scarlet woman, Miss Hunt.’

  ‘I’m glad you like the colour.’

  W e must have both felt rather naughty, sneaking out of the room (which of course gave our liaisons a certain piquancy); but Richard strode down the corridor, very much the Manager, while I ran up two flights of stairs and took the lift to the ground floor from there. As I emerged, and made for the front of the hotel, I glanced at the receptionist: she smiled and shook her head slowly.When I got home, I did not feel as though I was too late. Max was nowhere to be seen, so I went straight to my room and hid Richard’s gift to me in my wardrobe.

  I heard the front door open and close - then Max called: ‘Diana, required!’

  I ran downstairs and saw Max still wearing his greatcoat and hat; his ebony stick was on the floor. He was encumbered with parcels. ‘Max - what on earth are you doing, or what have you been doing?’ I picked up the packages and his walking stick, and helped him off with his coat.