Smile

by Deborah Moggach

  • Contents •

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Deborah Moggach

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Smile

  The Wrong Side

  Making Hay

  Empire Building

  Lost Boys

  Stiff Competition

  Horse Sense

  Monsters

  Snake Girl

  Vacant Possession

  Some Day My Prince Will Come

  Read on for an extract from Something to Hide

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Deborah Moggach is the author of many successful novels including Tulip Fever and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, which was made into a top-grossing film starring Judi Dench, Bill Nighy and Maggie Smith. Her screenplays include the film of Pride and Prejudice, which was nominated for a BAFTA. She lives in North London.

  Also by Deborah Moggach

  You Must be Sisters

  Close to Home

  A Quiet Drink

  Hot Water Man

  Porky

  To Have and To Hold

  Driving in the Dark

  Smile and Other Stories

  Stolen

  The Stand-In

  The Ex-Wives

  Changing Babies

  Seesaw

  Close Relations

  Tulip Fever

  Final Demand

  In the Dark

  The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

  (first published as These Foolish Things)

  • For Mel •

  • Smile •

  WE HAD TO wear these SMILE badges. It was one of the rules. And they’d nailed up a sign saying SMILE, just above the kitchen door, so we wouldn’t forget. It’s American, the hotel. Dennis, the chief receptionist, even says to the customers ‘Have a nice day’, but then he’s paid more than I am, so I suppose he’s willing.

  I was on breakfasts when I was expecting. Through a fog of early morning-sickness I’d carry out the plates of scrambled eggs. The first time I noticed the man he pointed to the SMILE badge, pinned to my chest, then he pulled a face.

  ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘It might never happen.’

  I thought: it has.

  Looking back, I suppose he appeared every six weeks or so, and stayed a couple of nights. I wasn’t counting, then, because I didn’t know who he was. Besides, I was on the alert for somebody else, who never turned up and still hasn’t, being married, and based in Huddersfield, and having forgotten about that night when he ordered a bottle of Southern Comfort with room service. At least I’m nearly sure it was him.

  I was still on breakfasts when I saw the man again, and my apron was getting tight. Soon I’d be bursting out of my uniform.

  He said: ‘You’re looking bonny.’

  I held out the toast basket and he took four. Munching, he nodded at my badge. ‘Or are you just obedient?’

  It took me a moment to realize what he meant, I was so used to wearing it.

  ‘Oh yes, I always do what I’m told.’

  He winked. ‘Sounds promising.’

  I gave him a pert look and flounced off. I was happy that day. The sickness had gone. I was keeping the baby; I’d never let anybody take it away from me. I’d have someone to love, who would be mine.

  ‘You’ve put on weight,’ he said, six weeks later. ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, smiling with my secret. ‘More coffee?’

  He held out his cup. ‘And what do you call yourself?’

  ‘Sandy.’

  I looked at him. He was a handsome bloke; broad and fleshy, with a fine head of hair. He wore a tie printed with exclamation marks.

  I’ve always gone for older men. They’re bound to be married, of course. Not that it makes much difference while they’re here.

  When he finished his breakfast I saw him pocketing a couple of marmalade sachets. You can tell the married ones; they’re nicking them for the kids.

  When I got too fat they put me in the kitchens. You didn’t have to wear your SMILE badge there. I was on salads. Arranging the radish roses, I day-dreamed about my baby.

  I never knew it would feel like this. I felt heavy and warm and whole. The new chef kept pestering me, but he seemed like a midge – irksome but always out of sight. Nobody mattered. I walked through the steam, talking silently to my bulge. This baby meant the world to me. I suppose it came from not having much of a home myself, what with my Dad leaving, and Mum moving in and out of lodgings, and me being in and out of Care. Not that I blame her. Or him, not really.

  I’d stand in the cooking smells, look at my tummy and think: You’re all mine, I’ll never leave you.

  When she was born I called her Donna. I’d sit for hours, just breathing in her scent. I was always bathing her. It was a basement flat we had then, Mum and me and Mum’s current love-of-her-life Eddie, and I’d put the pram in the area-way so Donna could imbibe the sea breezes. Even in our part of Brighton, I told myself you could smell the sea.

  I’d lean over to check she was still breathing. I longed for her to smile – properly, at me. In the next room Mum and Eddie would be giggling in an infantile way; they seemed the childish ones. Or else throwing things. It was always like this with Mum’s blokes.

  I’d gaze at my baby and tell her: You won’t miss out. You’ll have me. I’ll always be here.

  Behind me the window-pane rattled as Mum went out, slamming the door behind her.

  I went back to work, but in the evenings, so I could look after Donna during the day and leave her with Mum when she was sleeping. They put me in the Late Night Coffee Shop. It had been refurbished in Wild West style, like a saloon, with bullet holes printed on the wallpaper and fancy names for the burgers. The wood veneer was already peeling off the counter. Donna had changed my world; nothing seemed real any more, only her.

  I had a new gingham uniform, with a frilly apron and my SMILE badge. I moved around in a dream.

  One night somebody said: ‘Howdee, stranger.’

  It was the man I used to meet at breakfast.

  He put on an American accent. ‘Just rolled into town, honey. Been missing you. You went away or something?’

  I didn’t say I’d had a baby; I liked to keep Donna separate.

  He inspected the menu. ‘Can you fix me a Charcoal-Broiled Rangeburger?’

  It was a quiet evening so we hadn’t lit the charcoal. Back in the kitchen I popped the meat into the microwave and thought how once I would have fancied him, like I fancied the bloke from Huddersfield, like I almost fancied Dennis in Reception. But I felt this new responsibility now. Why hadn’t my parents felt it when I was born? Or perhaps they had, but it had worn off early.

  When I brought him his meal he pointed to my badge. ‘With you it comes naturally.’ He shook salt over his chips. ‘Honest, I’m not just saying it. You’ve got a beautiful smile.’

  ‘It’s added on the bill.’

  He laughed. ‘She’s witty too.’ He speared a gherkin. ‘Somebody’s a lucky bloke.’

  ‘Somebody?’

  ‘Go on, what’s his name?’

  I thought: Donna.

  ‘There’s nobody special,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t believe it, lovely girl like you.’

  I gave him my enigmatic look – practice makes perfect – and started wiping down the next table.

  He said: ‘You mean I’m in with a chance?’

  ‘You’re too old.’

  ‘Ah,’ he grinned. ‘The cruel insolence of youth.’ He munched his chips. ‘You ought to try me. I’m matured in the cask.’

  Later, when he finished his meal, he came up to pay. He put his hand to his heart. ‘Tell me you’ll be here tomorrow night. Give me something to live for.’<
br />
  I took his Access card. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow night.’

  During breakfasts he’d paid the cashier; that was why I had never seen his name.

  I did now. I read it, once, on the Access card.

  Finally, I got my hands to work. I pulled the paper through the machine, fumbling it once. I did it again, then I passed it to him.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Seen a ghost?’

  * * *

  That night Donna woke twice. For the first time since she was born I shouted at her.

  ‘Shut up!’ I shook her. ‘You stupid little baby!’

  Then I started to cry. I squeezed her against my nightie. She squirmed and I squeezed her harder, till her head was damp with my tears.

  Even my Mum noticed. Next day at breakfast she said: ‘You didn’t half make a racket.’ She stubbed her cigarette into her saucer. ‘Got a splitting headache.’

  I didn’t answer. I wasn’t telling that last night I’d met my father. I couldn’t tell her yet. She’d probably come storming along to the hotel and lie in wait in his room.

  Or maybe she’d just be indifferent. She’d just light another fag and say: Oh him. That bastard.

  I couldn’t bear that.

  The day seemed to drag on for ever. Overnight, Brighton had shrunk. It seemed a small town, with my father coming round each corner, so I stayed indoors.

  On the other hand Eddie had grown larger. He loafed around the flat, getting in the way. I needed to talk, but nobody was the right person. Just once I said to him, raising my voice over the afternoon racing: ‘Did you know I was called Alexandra?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My Mum and Dad called me that, but when I was twelve I changed it to Sandy.’

  ‘Did you then?’ He hadn’t turned the volume down. Then he added vaguely: ‘Bully for you.’

  I didn’t know how to face him. On the other hand, I would have died if he didn’t turn up. I waited and waited. I nearly gave up hope. I had to wait until ten thirty. I felt hot in my cowgirl frills.

  He came in and sat down at the table nearest my counter. I walked over with the menu, calm as calm. I didn’t think I could do it.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ I said.

  ‘Me?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You didn’t trust me?’ He took the menu. ‘Oh no, Sandy, you give me a chance and you’ll find out.’

  ‘Find out what?’

  ‘That I’m a man of my word.’

  I couldn’t answer that. Finally I said: ‘Oh yeah?’ in a drawling voice. ‘Tell us another.’

  ‘Honest to God, cross my heart.’

  I looked at him, directly. His eyes were blue, like mine. And his nose was small and blunt, a familiar nose in his large, flushed face. I wanted to hide my face because it suddenly seemed so bare. He must be blind, not to recognize me. I was perspiring.

  Then I thought: why should he recognize me? He last saw me when I was four. Even my name is changed. Has he ever thought of me, all these years?

  Taking his order into the kitchen, my mind was busy. I stood in front of the dead charcoal range, working out all the places I’d lived since I was four … Shepperton, Isleworth, Crawley … There was nothing to connect me to Brighton.

  SMILE said the sign as I walked out.

  ‘You travel a lot?’ I asked, putting his plate in front of him.

  ‘A conversation at last!’ He split the ketchup sachet and slopped it over his chips, like blood. He nodded. ‘For my sins. So what’s my line of business, Sandy?’

  ‘You’re a rep.’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Your hands.’

  He looked down with surprise and opened out his palms. There were yellowed calluses across his fingers.

  ‘You’re an observant lass. Do I dare to be flattered?’ He put out his hand. ‘Here. Feel them.’

  I hesitated, then I touched his fingers. The skin was hard and dry. I took away my hand.

  ‘You’ve always been a salesman?’ I asked.

  ‘Well …’ He winked. ‘Bit of this, bit of that.’

  ‘Bit of what?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘Now that would be telling.’

  ‘You’ve been all over the place?’

  ‘It’s the gypsy in my soul,’ he said. ‘Can’t tie me down.’

  There was a pause. Then I said: ‘Eat up your dinner.’

  He stared at me. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  There was a silence. I fiddled with my frills. Then I went back to the counter.

  When he paid he said: ‘I know you don’t like old men but it’s Help the Aged Week.’

  ‘So?’ I put on my pert face.

  ‘You’re off at half eleven?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Let me buy you a drink.’ He paused. ‘Go on. Say yes.’

  The bar had closed. Besides, it was against the rules for me to go there. You’re only allowed to smile at the customers.

  But who knows where a smile might lead? It had led me here.

  He had a bottle of Scotch in his room, and he ordered me a fresh orange juice from room service. When it arrived I hid in the bathroom, so nobody could see me.

  His things were laid out above the basin. I inspected them all: his toothbrush (red, splayed), his toothpaste (Colgate), dental floss (so far, unused), electric shaver, aftershave (Brut, nearly finished). I wanted to take something home but that was all there was. The towels belonged to the hotel so there was no point. I wondered where he kept the marmalade sachets. But they weren’t for me.

  ‘Welcome to my abode,’ he said, pulling out a chair.

  I sat down. ‘Where is your abode?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  He paused. ‘You don’t want to hear about my boring little life.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said, giving him a flirtatious smile. ‘Tell me.’

  He hesitated, then he said shortly: ‘Know Peterborough?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there.’ His tone grew jaunty. Eyes twinkling, he passed me my glass. ‘A fresh drink for a fresh young face. How old are you, Sandy?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Nineteen.’ He sighed. ‘Sweet nineteen. Where have you been all my life?’

  I tried to drink the orange juice; it was thick with bits. There was a silence. I couldn’t think what to say.

  He was sitting on the bed; the room was warm and he had taken off his jacket. The hair was an illusion; he was thinning on top but he’d brushed his hair over the bald patch. Far away I heard a clock chiming.

  I wasn’t thirsty. I put down the glass and said: ‘What do you sell?’

  He climbed to his feet and went over to his suitcase, which had a Merriworld sticker on it. He snapped it open.

  ‘Let me introduce Loopy.’

  He passed me a rubbery creature dressed in a polka-dot frock. She had long, bendy arms and legs and a silly face. He fetched a pad of paper, knelt down on the floor and took her from me. Her arms ended in pencil points. Holding her, he wrote with her arms: TO SANDY WITH THE SMILE. Then he turned her upside down and said: ‘Hey presto.’ He started rubbing out the words with her head.

  ‘Don’t!’ I pulled his hand back. I took the paper, which still had TO SANDY WITH, and put it in my apron pocket. He looked at me with surprise.

  Then he put Loopy away. ‘Rubber and pencils all in one. Wonder where the sharpener ought to be …’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Just my vulgar mind.’

  ‘Where do you take these things?’

  ‘Ramsdens, Smiths, that big shopping centre,’ he said.

  I knew all the places; I connected him with them. I’d bought Donna’s layette at Ramsdens.

  He took out a clockwork Fozzy Bear, a Snoopy purse and a magnetic colouring book.

  ‘So you sell toys,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the child in me,’ he said. ‘I’m just a little boy at heart.’

  �
�Are you?’

  ‘Happy-go-lucky, that’s me.’

  ‘Anything for a laugh?’

  ‘No use sitting and moaning.’ He poured himself another drink. ‘Got to enjoy yourself.’

  I gazed at the scattered toys. ‘Just a game, is it?’

  ‘Sandy, you’ve only got one life. You’ll learn that, take it from me.’ He shifted closer to my legs.

  ‘Anything else in there?’ I pointed to the suitcase.

  He leaned back and took out a box. ‘Recognize it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Ker-Plunk.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were probably still in nappies. It’s a sixties line, but we’re giving it this big re-launch.’ He patted the floor. ‘Come on and I’ll give you a game.’

  He took out a plastic tube, a box of marbles and some coloured sticks. ‘Come on.’ He patted the floor again.

  I lowered myself down on the carpet, tucking my skirt in. This damn uniform was so short.

  ‘Look – you slot the sticks in, like this.’ He pushed them into perforations in the tube, so they made a platform; then with a rattle he poured the marbles on top, so they rested on the sticks.

  ‘Then we take it in turns to pull out a stick without’ – he wagged his finger at me – ‘without letting a marble drop through.’ We sat there, crouched on the floor. ‘If it does, you’re a naughty girl.’

  I pulled out a stick. He pulled one out. I pulled out another.

  ‘Whoops!’ he said as a marble clattered through the sticks.

  ‘Bad luck!’ he cried. ‘I’m winning!’

  Sometimes his marbles fell through, sometimes mine. I won.

  ‘Can’t have this,’ he said. ‘Got to have another game.’

  He poured himself some more Scotch and settled down on the floor again, with a grunt. We collected the sticks and pushed them into the holes, then poured the marbles on top.

  I didn’t want to play, but then I didn’t want to leave either. We pulled out the sticks; the marbles clattered down the tube.