A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One)

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “I'm here to see Miss Lottie,” he announced authoritatively.

  She opened the door a little wider, still not giving eye contact, still submissive, still mute.

  “Come in,” she murmured.

  His heeled brogues clacked against the parquet flooring. The green-grey walls of the corridor were damp-ridden and cracked like shattered glass. He shuddered at the sight of the unwelcoming interior and started to wonder why he was putting himself through this. Always, the reminder came: money.

  She closed the door behind him, locked it, offering, “Can I take your coat?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  He peeled it off his dampened form and she hung it on a lousy hook on the wall nearby. He tried to shake his trousers and shirt away from his skin to get the air to them, while she avoided staring, continuing to look at the floor. He knocked into a putrefying wall as he moved about, and flinched in an exaggerated manner, feeling sure the very personality of that house was catching.

  “This way,” she finally said, and led him further into the property. The air was bitterly cold as they travelled down the hollow tunnel and the dankness of this former domicile made his lungs wretch at the thought of minute fungi entering his system. He wasn't one for being concerned about hygiene, but this was taking the biscuit somewhat. It was a danger zone and should possibly have been torn down decades before, he decided.

  When they reached the end of the corridor, they entered the former servants' quarters and continued further still. A set of hazardous steps later, and they were in a wood-panelled hallway of sorts.

  She stopped, pointed to a door and motioned, “In there. She will join you shortly.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He grabbed the brass handle, before being forced to shove the heavy door open, with the lintel sticking from wear and tear.

  Once inside the spacious room, he saw a roaring fire and darted toward it straight away. He held out his hands and tried to will the rising heat to absorb the moisture clinging to his clothes.

  Some minutes passed. He looked around and discovered he was in some sort of drawing room. It was in need of repair too, but was certainly more civilised than anything else he had so far seen. Heavy, discoloured wallpaper with a gold-leaf pattern hung loosely all around, curtains clung to tall windows and cobwebs were not in short supply amongst the rusting candelabra and old pictures no longer recognisable. He almost reached for the whiskey on a steady but unloved mahogany sideboard nearby, but thought better of it. She might offer it anyway, he decided.

  That small pulse of nervous energy crept up on him again and he considered a tipple once more, to calm his nerves. He was just about to crack open the flask when… she crashed in, efficiently tackling the rickety door, slamming it behind her. He did not even have chance to blink, before she offered him her hand. He took it and looked down to view her shapely little palm, in his, blurting out, “That was you, out there? You…? I noticed that scarring on your hand before, when you took my coat.”

  “Good job, Heath, good job,” she said mockingly, “too bad my hands always give me away.”

  His fetish had already been uncovered.

  “But, how…?” he trailed off, “…you're really not the same person!”

  “I just wanted to demonstrate the first rule of Miss Lottie, shall we say, Ruse Number One.”

  “Okay…”

  “Come, sit,” she insisted, motioning to a studded leather armchair. “I can tell you are gasping, so shall I pour?”

  “I was just about to grab a snifter…”

  “You were? Oh, well.”

  She handed him a tumbler and he took the liquor quickly, now much more nervous. Her short, brown hair was slick and tucked back behind her ears. She wore large, silver hoop earrings, a white shift dress without tights or stockings, and inoffensive tan leather ankle boots laced up. The room they occupied was chilly but she seemed accustomed to the temperature, refusing to shiver in the surroundings. She went over to stand by the fire and he admired her figure. She was curvy, not athletic, but certainly not without a fair amount of muscle tone. The clothing before had masked her feminine physique well. Her skin was actually fresh and clear. She'd added a small amount of make-up and seemed slightly flush from a shower. The most disarming thing of all was that her stance and aura had changed entirely, and therefore, the notion that she was a different person altogether wasn't ludicrous. In fact, she was. Though, also, the same. He couldn't quite get over it.

  “Horrible weather,” she started.

  “I didn't think we would be so stuck for conversation!” He chuckled. “Though I admit, now I'm here, I am struggling to know where to start.”

  She smirked with confidence as she stood with her back to the flames, looking directly at him. “Well, I offered to show you what it is I do exactly. I mean, it would indeed be much easier to demonstrate rather than explain. However, I guess, we need to maintain some balance here.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, secretly also thinking, And in the eyes of God I'm still married.

  “I know what you may imagine, but, I shall prove you wrong.”

  He smiled back at her and slurped more whiskey, adding, “Perhaps, start by telling me how you came into this profession?”

  “Perhaps, start by telling me your story?” She spoke tersely, commandingly. Her sweetness had an edge of sourness.

  “I… I am not a journalist.”

  “What, then? Policeman? Or someone looking for fun?”

  “Almost right… private investigator… private detective, even. Less glamorous. Is what it is,” he moodily admitted.

  “Who is trying to find me?” she asked.

  “You know. Him.”

  “Oh. Does he know you found me?”

  “No. I needed to make sure it was you first. I now know. I will get paid as long as I get you to admit why you left. He wants to know the real truth. He accepts your decision but he cannot move on until he knows why you did what you did. His words.”

  Heath was really very clueless about what had happened between these two people he was mediating between. He had no idea what he was getting himself into.

  “Heath, look, I'll tell you everything. I will. I had decided already to do so. You can do what you like with my story. I have felt for months like my luck was running out and that I'd had all I was worth and more. I know it is time to give this up. But, let's get one thing straight, that man is not… innocent. Do not feel sorry for him, okay?”

  She was bitter about that, he knew. He saw a brief snapshot of pain cross her dainty features, which were animated one second and closed off the next. He sensed she was complex when he saw her thoughts take her off somewhere else entirely.

  “Whatever you say, I am just here to listen, that's all. But… he did pay a lot. A heck of a lot. He has been paying me for two months. I've had all my contacts on the case, all my efforts concentrated on this. On you. It has been… expensive, frequenting all the places you do.”

  She was silent for a moment or two, calculating something in her mind. She was making peace with some thought or other.

  “I have a lot of money, Heath. I would not allow you here unless I thought you pliable to my cause. Now, listen, I mean to start a new life after we have our chat here. I do. Use my story for your own gain if you like. Get yourself out of this distasteful line of work. Just do not let Him near me.”

  What did he do to her? Heath thought. It did not matter, though he was intrigued to find out.

  “I accept,” Heath agreed, gleefully pouring another drink, nodding faster than the Churchill dog that sat on his dashboard back at the car.

  “Okay, here we are.”

  She retrieved a large manuscript from a black satchel on the floor. She slammed it down on the side table near him.

  “It's all there. My life story. I have been hard at it for a year.”

  The green-eyed monster stirred inside him. How the heck do people finish theirs, just not me…?

  She
stood, looking down at the floor, her hands behind her back. She bore a shrewd smile only she could interpret, for it was the result of some far-off memory.

  “I think before you begin reading, I must say this… that from what I can gather, you are a divorcee, or perhaps, separated. You have the wounded, deprived look about your manner. You gauge me to be a harlot… a malicious, immoral harpy even, perhaps? You wonder, does that bitch's thirst for debauchery know no bounds? These conclusions you draw so easily, yet ignorantly.”

  “But‒” he started to say, in defence of himself.

  “I'm talking,” she insisted.

  She raised her head and stared him out, seeing the shock set in across his face. She availed him of his concern, reassuring, “Yes, I decided to allow you into my confidence. I decided, for a simple reason, to allow you to know the truth of my life, for many think they imagine what it has been like, but none really have a clue. For, it seems, you do not have any concept of the true nature of my work or me.”

  He threw the last of his drink down his neck, reached for the bottle and poured, slaking his thirst once more. His eyes creased and he smiled with a, So, I've been served? grin, and he nodded in acceptance, quite merrily.

  “I'm ready for whatever you have to throw at me.” But still, he could not help but think she was just a fallen woman with a penchant for sexual escapades.

  “You want to know who I was before, how I came to be this way, etcetera, etcetera…?”

  “Of course,” though her question was rhetorical and she was clearly in the mode of her working persona.

  “Fine,” she muttered, and moved to sit in an armchair opposite him. She sipped her drink. “There's a reason I drew you to this mansion. It's where the Chambermaid's story began. However, first, you need to hear how I began.”

  He picked up the first page and started tearing through her words.

  Chambermaid's Rule No.1

  The Ruse

  “Housekeeping!”

  The Chambermaid marched into the suite, where a man stood by his bed for the night, freeing the small suitcase that sat atop the mattress of its contents. He glanced sideways, a little nervously, and acknowledged the woman.

  He muttered, “Erm, I didn't…”

  “Pardon for the intrusion, sir, we messed up. Your bathroom wasn't crossed off the list. Seems it didn't receive the proper cleaning. Every bathroom has to be steam cleaned between guests' stays.”

  “God, listen, it doesn't matter. I don't really care about that.”

  “Sorry, it's a health and safety policy. Unless you want another room…”

  “Get on with it then,” he grunted, desperate for her to just get out.

  “Thanks,” she enthused, grateful. She wheeled in her trolley of cleaning goods, taking it toward the open door of the bathroom. She clattered and clunked about over the kinks in the hotel carpet and heard a barely audible tut escape his mouth. Without him knowing, she was assessing his demeanour and behaviour. She was already getting a picture of the man's tastes and desires from his almost unreadable body language. Today's client was an unwitting servant who would not know that he had been set up (his wife had organised Lottie as an anniversary treat).

  She dove in the bathroom and as she shut the door, he glanced in her direction again but would not have caught a very good look at her face. She would seem to be a generic hotel-worker-type, with one of those unattractive, bland uniforms, plus lank hair and a colourless face.

  In the bathroom, she knew he would hear the low whirring of her portable facial sauna. But to him, it would seem some kind of small machine she used to carry out her “steam-cleaning”. He would imagine so. Why wouldn't he? Honestly. Why would he believe anything otherwise? She was just a bland hotel cleaner.

  She peeked out between the door and saw him sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up his mobile phone and checked it, probably out of fretfulness. His wife had stayed behind at the bar a little longer than she said she would…

  Lottie retreated back behind the door and recommenced work. With her face brightened, and hair moist, she looked different already. Radiant. She slicked back her hair. She applied false lashes. Easy. Bright red lipstick. Black eyeliner. She ripped off the baggy uniform to reveal her lingerie beneath. She slipped a pair of heeled shoes out of the cart and replaced her plimsolls with those. She shook her limbs into shape, leaving behind her former hunched demeanour, and became the Chambermaid.

  She knew he would be waiting for her to get the hell out of there, finally. He was probably imagining all sorts of scenarios.

  He tapped at the door gently and scared her.

  “Are you done? If not, it doesn't matter. In fact, I will pay you to leave right now. Please. My wife is going to be back any moment and this is meant to be a make-or-break night.”

  At the ceasing of his desperate pleas, he heard a series of seemingly unfortunate events unfold behind the door. Bottles and towels tumbled down on the poor cleaner and she screeched, before assuring him, “I'm okay, I'm okay! Just had a little scare… Listen, mister, I have got a serious problem on my hands here. Found some cockroaches under the bathmat. Dead ones. You never know when two more may turn up for their funeral, however. This is real bad, mate, you know? Could close the hotel!”

  She was desperately trying to remove shampoo from her leather corset.

  “Shit!” he shouted.

  “Listen, gimme a minute or so while I sort this.”

  Behind the door, he had no idea what was going on. All the time, he was being drawn in further to the ruse, forced to occupy himself while he tried to patiently wait out the minutes and seconds this girl was potentially ruining his passionate expectations. She heard him switch on the TV set, apparently attempting to idle himself away with one dreary teatime show after another.

  The bathroom door creaked open and she pushed her trolley out, clattering around again. He did not bother to look behind himself. He breathed a huge sigh of relief at her having finally finished her inconvenient hygiene intervention.

  The door closed and he muttered with the remote doing his gesticulating, “Thanks love, you done?”

  “I most certainly am sir,” she replied, in a deeper, sultrier tone. His ears pricked up immediately. His head spun slowly and all he saw was a sleek body, kitted out in leather and lace, heels and stockings. He saw it all out of the corner of his eye and his trousers stirred. He pieced all the events together and the realisation hit.

  “I should have known it was you,” he chuckled. The element of surprise intrigued as much as aroused him.

  “Now, sir, now, you have to do exactly as I say, beginning with closing your eyes.”

  “Yes Chambermaid,” he agreed, turning the TV off and throwing the remote away. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Keep those eyes closed otherwise there will be trouble…” she warned, huskily.

  “They're closed, they definitely, are, closed…”

  (That's the first and last time I will ever refer to the Chambermaid in the third person. She is me, was me, and always will be me. However, as we shall see, she is not the entire me…)

  Chapter II

  February 2007

  Many surely imagine all sorts of sensational scenarios that explain how I came into my trade. Part of my story could be termed as idyllic, but, not really. My true self is dull and far from unique. Within the space of just a few years, I achieved success through word of mouth amongst a network of secretive, creative professionals looking for unusual entertainments. But the nature of the real me I am to divulge to you, well, she is… as you shall see.

  My clients all knew me as the Chambermaid but what they did not realise was that my adopted role was one I actually used to occupy, in the very modern sense of the word. I remember my last day on the job…

  I was faced with a horrific scene. Truly, it was. My employment at that veritable chain hotel I will not dwell on, suffice it to say that I was underpaid, overworked and undervalued. This particular day, I was
desperately trying to make up a room as quickly as possible. When I look back now, I do not know how I stomached such a job. I more often than not had a very small window to achieve all that I needed to. It was unfortunate that this was a particularly grubby affair: scattered fag ends, used condoms hidden between gaps and crevices, bottles of wine both empty and still half-full dotted around, sheets and pillows strewn, the toilet backed up and bins full of takeaway cartons. The smells, the sights and the atmosphere left behind by the previous occupants would not be easily remedied. For someone like myself with a penchant for cleanliness and order, this was nightmarish, but I refused to let situations like this overturn my usually restrained manner. The high scent of fornication made me want to heave but I wouldn't let this bring me down. I'd tackle it.

  I was so regimented that I rarely had a bad day. I perpetually arrived at work a full quarter of an hour before my shift. I always pressed my uniform the night before and hung it up. I had a shower before work, without fail. I was always ready for the start of a shift with a spring in my step and a routine perfected over many years that allowed me to get those rooms clean no matter what I came up against.

  If I noticed a single fibre of my own clothing out of place or even a small amount of white matter, I would have to change. All my colleagues finished their shifts with scuffs and marks all over their trousers and tops, but I always ensured I left the building quite pristine. I turned up for work everyday relishing the challenge ahead: to escape those bacteria-ridden cesspits without a trace of me having tackled them.