by Kerstin Gier
The only really challenging aspect of the job—apart from surviving the tropical heat in my chambermaid’s uniform and black support tights—was keeping Mr. Heffelfinger happy.
Mr. Heffelfinger was new here, and the first time he’d set eyes on the spa of which he’d just become manager, he’d been plunged into a deep depression. Admittedly, the spa area didn’t have much of the belle epoque charm that characterized the rest of the hotel, which had been built in the late nineteenth century. In fact, the spa didn’t really have any charm at all. The one thing that set this section of the hotel apart was its complete lack of beauty and style. The spa had been built in the basement of the south wing in the 1980s and hadn’t been altered since. Only the rooms on the west side had windows to let daylight in; the rest was just basement, and there was no pretending otherwise. The downlights set into the ceiling gave off a bright, harsh light, and the massage and beauty treatment rooms had the ambience of a dentist’s office. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in beige tiles with dark beige streaks, and underfoot were dark beige tiles with light beige streaks. There was only one sauna, the twelve-by-thirty-foot pool was distinctly average and rather on the small side, and the showers were a bit like those old-fashioned locker rooms you find in school gyms. Everything was kept meticulously tidy and sparkling clean, but with the best will in the world you couldn’t have called it pretty.
“I’ve seen abattoirs with more atmosphere. This is not a spa; it’s a catastrophe,” said Mr. Heffelfinger as he arranged semiprecious stones, scented candles, and an artificial magnolia branch on a silver platter. He glanced nervously at the door as he did so. Any minute now, Mrs. Smirnov from the Panorama Suite would be coming in for her herbal stamp massage, and since last night when I’d foolishly told him about the deluxe welcome package, the bodyguard, and the private jet, Mr. Heffelfinger had convinced himself that he would never be able to meet this lady’s expectations. There was clearly a great deal of professional pride at stake.
“I’m so ashamed I just want the ground to open up and swallow me,” he’d wailed. “Any elite guest who sets foot in this spa is going to go straight back out again and tell the world how low Manuel Heffelfinger has sunk. This is the end of my career.”
If I’d mentioned that Mrs. Smirnov would much rather be spending the holidays with her friends in the Caribbean or Saint Moritz, he would surely have burst out crying.
“That’s not true, Mr. Heffelfinger!” I’d said, trying to cheer him up. “Just look at this place! You’ve only been here three days and already you’ve done wonders with it. Mrs. Smirnov is going to love these luxurious drink dispensers with lime and cucumber slices. And the way you used a mirror to cover up that crack in the wall by the pool was genius!”
“Thank you—that’s kind of you,” Mr. Heffelfinger said, sniffing. He was probably in his early forties, a small, attractive man with short, neatly trimmed hair and perfectly manicured hands that trembled when he was nervous. “And I got rid of that ugly old tanning bed, don’t forget, which I’m sure nobody would ever have used again unless they wanted to look like a piece of dried meat.” He looked from the clock on the wall to the door and back again. There were only two minutes to go until Mrs. Smirnov’s appointment. “Heaven knows I’ve done all I could to dim that hideous lighting that showcases everyone’s cellulite and to make the tiles look a little less ghastly. But those are just superficial improvements! What good are scented candles and orchids when our guests are expecting a spa like the ones they’re used to from other luxury hotels? Have you seen a steam room anywhere around here? A chromotherapy sauna?” The words came rushing out faster and faster: “A gemstone sauna? An herbal sauna, a panorama sauna? An ice fountain, a plunge pool, a cascade shower? A Jacuzzi, an outdoor pool, a seawater pool, a thermal pool?”
He probably could have gone on like this indefinitely, so I interrupted him. “But you have made it very … very stylish and comfortable.” Well, compared to an abattoir, anyway. “Putting that daybed in the alcove was a great idea. I don’t know what you said to Fräulein Müller to get her to give you all this—all these cushions and vases and mirrors and jugs and silver trays.” Fräulein Müller had even rustled up a gilt-framed oil painting by an unknown artist to help decorate the alcove. The voluptuous woman in the painting, reclining on a chaise longue by a pool full of water lilies, had presumably been consigned to a junk room several decades ago because of her semi-nakedness. But here she fit in perfectly—and anything that covered up a few of these beige tiles was a blessing.
“Oh, Fräulein Müller is a true kindred spirit.” A smile crept over Mr. Heffelfinger’s face. “She even managed to unearth these bamboo screens in a storage room.”
The door opened, and his smile froze into a grimace of fear. I immediately felt guilty again. I really shouldn’t have told him about the bodyguard. He probably thought that if Mrs. Smirnov wasn’t happy with her spa treatment he was going to be taken out and shot.
But it was only Mrs. Ludwig from Room 107, who walked in wrapped in her bathrobe and looked around hesitantly. She smiled with relief when she saw me.
“Ah, my dear, I’m so glad you’re here. Now I can ask you what the etiquette is.” She pointed at her feet, looking rather embarrassed. “Am I allowed to wear the hotel slippers in the spa? I forgot to bring my own flip-flops from home.”
“Of course you are,” I assured her. “I can give you a new pair of slippers if yours get dirty or wet. Just say the word.”
“You’re a treasure, as always!” said Mrs. Ludwig.
Mr. Heffelfinger watched her as she walked past the sauna and the relaxation room and disappeared in the direction of the swimming pool. “At least I can be sure that lady doesn’t know me from Arosa or Saint Moritz.”
Then the door opened again, and Mr. Heffelfinger clutched at his heart. But it wasn’t Mrs. Smirnov (who was by now five minutes late). It was Tristan Brown. Since our meeting early that morning, I might perhaps have thought about him once or twice—okay, maybe more—but it still took me by surprise just how incredibly good-looking he was, as if I’d forgotten in the intervening hours. In Mr. Heffelfinger’s cellulite-friendly lighting, his skin was a gleaming golden brown and he made the horrible hotel bathrobe look like designer clothing.
“Good Lord,” whispered Mr. Heffelfinger, awestruck.
I thought that was a little over-the-top.
When Tristan saw me, he smiled, “Ah. Agent Sophie. Have I wandered into the playroom by mistake?”
“No, sir. This is the spa.” It wasn’t that I couldn’t think of a good comeback, it was just that our game wasn’t any fun with somebody else there. And I was also afraid that little beads of sweat were forming on my upper lip. I could only hope the lighting was as flattering to my complexion as it was to his. “You’ll find the Finnish sauna through here, and the pool at the end there. The water temperature is eighty degrees.”
A moment ago, his smile had been the smile of someone who knows exactly how irresistible he is. But now Tristan seemed positively amused. He shot a glance at Mr. Heffelfinger. “Eighty degrees happens to be my favorite temperature,” he said, strutting off down the corridor like a catwalk model for bathrobes.
“Did he say the playroom?” Mr. Heffelfinger looked horrified. “Does he think the decor looks childish?” He wrung his hands. “It’s too colorful, isn’t it? I knew it: Less is more, that’s usually my motto. It’s just that this place is so ugly I thought the more, the better…” He broke off as the door opened again.
All five Barnbrooke girls now entered the room: Ella and Gretchen first, followed by Gracie and Madison and, finally, Amy.
Mr. Heffelfinger gurgled something that sounded like “ChChCh,” his eyes wide with dismay. But I had no time to find out what was wrong with him because Madison immediately called out “Sophie!” and Gracie came rushing up to me and threw her arms around me.
I should point out that very close friendships can develop when you spend the whole day maki
ng glittery unicorns with somebody and inventing a secret language that only unicorns and their friends can understand. Which was what I’d done with Madison and Gracie and the three other children in the playroom that day, including Anton and Elias, the sons of a well-known thriller writer who was giving a reading in the hotel over the holidays. Anton had christened his unicorn Sparkleslasher and Elias’s was named Stabbyhorn, but apart from that they seemed to be perfectly ordinary children. Together we’d founded the top secret Unicorn Club.
“Ella and Gretchen say only real unicorns can grant wishes,” cried Gracie, and Madison added: “Rhubarbish swamp cows.” (The secret language wasn’t quite perfected yet.)
Mr. Heffelfinger, who still looked horrified, gasped out something in Swiss German that I couldn’t understand.
Ella and Gretchen paid no attention to the two younger children or to me. They were busy looking around and whispering to each other.
I knew at once what they were looking for. Or rather, whom.
“The pool is along there, right at the end,” I informed them.
“We know,” replied Gretchen snootily.
“We’re just having a little look around,” said Ella.
“Yeah—looking for Tristan Brown,” Madison explained. “We met him at dinner and he’s supercute and now Ella and Gretchen are fighting over which one of them gets to go out with him.”
“Nonsense,” said Gretchen. “We’re not fighting.” Then, under her breath but not quite quietly enough, she murmured to Ella, “And even if we were, it wouldn’t be any of that weird chambermaid’s business!”
Ella giggled.
Rhubarbish swamp cows, the two of them. I tried to keep my facial expression as neutral as possible.
“They’ve got waterproof mascara on,” Madison told me. “And Ella’s wearing a bikini with only one strap. And they don’t want us to come swimming with them. For obvious reasons.”
“Because you’re annoying and embarrassing,” said Ella. “You’re a pain in the butt, both of you.”
“I’m going to ask Tristan whether he’d rather go out with Amy instead of Gretchen or Ella,” said Gracie. “She’s so much nicer and smarter. I don’t know why boys always have to be so stupid.”
Amy blushed. I could see that even in this dim light.
“Can’t you just leave us alone?” Ella rolled her eyes. “Why can’t you just go to bed like normal kids?”
“No … no.… no children!” Mr. Heffelfinger spluttered, pointing to a sign on the door. At last I understood what he’d been trying to say the whole time.
CHILDREN UNDER 16 ARE NOT ALLOWED IN THE SPA said the sign, in four languages. (There was another sign on the outside of the door saying the same thing, which made more sense really, provided the children could read.)
Ella and Gretchen were delighted. “Ha!” Ella gloated. “Children and dogs are not allowed. At last, some sensible rules.”
“Come on, Mr. Heffelfinger, surely you can turn a blind eye just this once. They only want to cut through to the pool quickly.” I looked pleadingly at him. Gretchen and Ella had already sauntered off and were waving gleefully back at us over their shoulders. They hadn’t realized children were allowed in the swimming pool, just not the spa area.
“No! Out of the question!” Mr. Heffelfinger had recovered the power of speech. “They will be so kind as to go around the other way.” He jabbed his index finger at Gracie. “The last thing anybody wants to see when they’re coming out of the sauna naked is a … is a…”
“Child?”
“Exactly. A child is the last thing you want to see. Children have an unsettling way of staring at you without blinking. And a tendency to ask awkward questions when you’re naked. This is a place of relaxation! An oasis of calm! It’s no place for children.” He flapped his hands around violently as he spoke, as if trying to shoo away a swarm of bees. “Send them away before Mrs. Smirnov sees them and my fate is sealed.”
Although he was speaking in German, Gracie, Madison, and Amy had understood enough to know that Mr. Heffelfinger was less than pleased to see them. They’d already retreated to the door.
“Don’t worry, he’s harmless.” I smiled reassuringly at them and opened the door. “Come with me! You can get to the pool this way, too, and to be honest it’s a nicer route—no naked people.”
“Tell them adults don’t want children hanging around gawping at them,” Mr. Heffelfinger hissed after us.
I was definitely not going to tell them that.
“And tell them no jumping in the pool! No screaming! No lying on the loungers without a towel! No peeing in the water…”
I shut the door. “He’s a nice guy really,” I murmured apologetically. “He’s just feeling a little flustered right now.”
In the pool, Tristan was swimming laps—if you can really call thirty feet a lap. Ella and Gretchen had already taken their bathrobes off. They looked extremely peeved when I came around the corner with Amy, Gracie, and Madison, and Gracie belly-flopped into the pool right beside Tristan.
I couldn’t help grinning as I returned to the spa. Whatever Ella and Gretchen were planning to do to impress Tristan, Madison and Gracie were going to make it mighty difficult for them.
When I rejoined Mr. Heffelfinger, I found Mrs. Smirnov had finally arrived for her treatment (more than twenty minutes late) and was complaining volubly about what a complete disaster her day had been. When she realized Mr. Heffelfinger understood hardly any English, she switched to Russian, which immediately made everything she said sound a lot more dramatic.
Trembling, Mr. Heffelfinger led her into the massage room, watched closely by Mrs. Ludwig, who was now back from the swimming pool. She was sitting on the new daybed leafing through one of the glossy magazines Mr. Heffelfinger had put there.
“Good heavens,” she murmured.
“I know,” I said rather anxiously. “I hope his hands won’t still be trembling during the massage.”
“Oh, I was talking about the lady,” said Mrs. Ludwig. “She looks so familiar.”
“Mrs. Smirnov?”
“Is that her name? It must not be her, then.” Mrs. Ludwig sat up straighter. “But she looks just like the wife of that Russian oligarch who just gave three million to a marine conservation project—Viktor Yegorov. They say he’s richer than Bill Gates. Wait, I think there’s a photo in here of a charity event in Cannes, attended by Caroline of Monaco.” She started flicking through one of the magazines. “Oh, I do love these magazines. Though I never buy them myself, of course, because they’re too expensive. You don’t see many photos of Viktor Yegorov—he tends to stay out of the public eye—but his wife is often spotted at film premieres, celebrity parties, and charity events. And she’s always being invited to stay on the yacht of that real estate tycoon and his wife. Before she married Viktor Yegorov, she was a very rich supermodel.” She laid the first magazine aside and picked up the next one. “It must be somewhere in here. Ah—you see, my dear? That lady in the backless dress: Isn’t she just the spitting image of Mrs. Smirnov?”
I stared at the photo. It was true. Either Mrs. Smirnov had a clone, or …
“Stella Yegorov, thirty-four, turns heads in a gorgeous red Dolce & Gabbana dress as she parties without husband Viktor,” said the caption.
Stella was Mrs. Smirnov’s first name, too. It had to be more than a coincidence.
“Perhaps they’re here incognito,” Mrs. Ludwig mused. “It must be tiresome to be photographed all the time. And the press has been speculating recently about Viktor Yegorov’s uneasy relationship with the Russian government.” She beamed at me. “This is all terribly exciting! I think I’ll stay down here for a little while. Perhaps I’ll try out the sauna. It’s supposed to be very good for you. Do you have anything I can just pop my jewelry in, my dear? And what should I do about towels? Am I allowed more than two? Mr. Ludwig will be wondering where I’ve got to, but when I get back and tell him who I’ve met, he won’t believe his ears. Oh, this r
eally is a wonderful place!”
Yes, and full of surprises.
While Mrs. Ludwig delighted in trying out the sauna and waiting for the massage room door to open again, I poked my head around the door of the pool area to check that everything was all right. Tristan was sitting on a lounger surrounded by Ella, Gretchen, and Madison. He didn’t look bothered by all the attention—quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed to be rather enjoying it.
Gracie was floating in the pool on her back. She spat a stream of water at the ceiling and called, “Look, Tristan! I’m a whale!”
The only person missing was Amy. I found her outside in the corridor, leaning against the wall and looking rather unsure of herself.
“I should have brought a book with me,” she said awkwardly when she saw me.
I put down the basket of freshly laundered towels and began folding them and rolling them up. “There are much nicer places in the hotel to sit and read.”
“I know.” Amy sighed. “My favorite place is the window seat in the library. I’ve spent whole afternoons there with a book, watching the snow fall and stroking the cat. And I like the little vestibule on the second floor, too, behind the curtains. And the bay window in the bar in the early mornings, when there’s no one around. Nobody can find you there.”
“Who do you not want to find you?”
Amy shrugged. “Take your pick. My mom, who’s always telling me to stand up straight, Amy, you’ve always got your nose in a book, Amy, you need to learn to have a little fun, Amy. My dad, who always looks at me with this surprised expression as if he’s forgotten I even existed. That’s what happens, I guess, when you’ve got five kids. And Gretchen and Ella, who … well hey, you’ve met them. You know what they’re like.” She bent down to pick up one of the towels. “Can I give you a hand?”
I looked at her in surprise, but she seemed to be serious about the offer and asked me to tell her what to do.
“Mr. Heffelfinger wants them rolled up like this, see. He says it looks more elegant. And then we have to stack them up, six to every shelf. Yes, just like that.”