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

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  Like Alice? Like Alice? Oh how that enraged me to be compared to my sister, who was indeed nothing like me, both mentally and physically. She was happy to sit in a salon all day long, discussing tinting and extensions, the latest in hair straightening and follicle treatments. She had dozens of certificates on the walls, of the competitions she had won both locally and nationally. I could think of no worse fate. To me, the preening and touching of other people's hair was akin to wiping up their mess, only I got to do it when they weren't there, so I didn't have to make idle chitchat while secretly thinking, You have the worst dandruff I've ever seen. You really are so pleased with yourself and your life, telling it all to a relative stranger. I don't really care about your holidays but I can imagine you now by the pool in Marmaris, with your young Turkish waiter giving you the eye and you setting aside a little cash for the filthy little liaison you have planned for later. Those social situations involving bodily contact mixed with forced chatter and restraint of my true opinion were a hideous prospect to me. No, housekeeping in a new city would suit me fine. I was poised to get that job. There was no other option.

  We arrived and I leapt out of the car.

  “Meet you at Broadmarsh for lunch at two?” I heard Mum shout after me, giving me four hours to squeeze in a bit of exploring of my own either side of the interview.

  “Yeah, yeah, I'll text you,” I said, rushing off, desperate to get myself together on my own. I had the purple dress and my make-up bag stashed in my handbag. A public toilet was inconceivable. Instead, I'd go to a department store to try something on and sort myself out in the dressing rooms. I had an hour to go before my interview and in that time I wanted to change, clear my head over a coffee and stake my prospective new place of employment.

  In a haze of adrenalin and nervous energy, I think I found one of the lesser department stores, which was a complete maze. It took me ages to find a set of changing rooms that didn't have queues around the corner. I was so nervous and not thinking straight. I was panicking already and had to take some deep breaths to calm myself down. I picked a plain cashmere jumper off a rail and handed it to the dressing room assistant.

  “How many?” she asked, chewing gum, clearly disrespecting me.

  “One. But, look, I'm trying this on and changing into this in my bag, here, see? I bought it three years ago so it's not recent. So I'm not nicking it okay?” I said, trying to cover all angles.

  “Yeah, yeah, you're not unique,” she said, handing me a security tag. “Go through.”

  The cashmere jumper slung on the floor and the curtain closed, I got to work. Baby wipes: they were lifesavers. Sweat removed from armpits and face, I re-sprayed myself with deodorant and started powdering my face. Just gently, to remove any shine. That was my only malady. I had always had quite good skin apart from a shiny t-zone. My face would also turn completely grey if the blood left it, which was often, given my tendency toward complete despair and anxiety.

  Once powdered, I applied mascara, a bit of natural blusher across my bones and a light smattering of lip gloss. Mother would have told me to plaster more on, which was hateful, and so I had waited until out of her sight. My long hair was already pinned back in an intricate bun of plaits and swirls so I just needed to throw the dress over my head. Now that I had only that option, I hated it with a passion. It wasn't right at all but then the grey suit might have said boring and the flowery dress would have said not serious enough. This said classy and perhaps above this job, but perhaps if that was the case, I'd certainly get it on the merit of being the worthiest candidate. It was a purchase I'd made on the Internet years before and never worn but I'd bought it simply because it was one of those things you tell yourself you will wear one day. With it fastened and hanging off my body, however, I decided it was disgusting and made me look slutty. My boobs were huge, my bum rotund beyond imagination and my legs thick, squat sticks that I had to force into a set of low heels. I was five foot six and 140lbs but that to me was gigantic. That was my perception back then. That's how I felt about myself. With a low metabolism – another delightful, long-lasting result of chemo – I had to watch every nibble. I was better off in boring fleeces, t-shirts and baggy trousers that didn't show me for what I was – a curvy woman. With my curves on show, I felt like I was making a statement that I didn't really want to make. Nevertheless, I shook off my fear and looked at my watch. Time to go. Checking myself, I almost didn't recognise what stared back. Handing the untried-on-sweater back to the assistant as I zoomed out, she said, “I didn't see you walk in, love.”

  Maybe I resembled a footballer's wife after doing myself up a bit. It was true, I was different in different outfits. I was taller, more eye-catching and I suppose I may have perhaps seemed of more substance. Attention was annoyance, however.

  A macchiato later, and I was bounding around the city, out of my mind with worry. I had lost my bearings and all the streets looked the same. Shit, fuck, bugger, bollocks, I told myself. Get a grip. I actually dared to talk to a stranger and ask them for directions. It was a day of so many firsts and I didn't know myself!

  I arrived, five minutes before the interview time of 11am, and walked in, scanning the large, airy, modern reception hall. My timing wasn't ideal. I'd hoped to arrive a bit earlier and pretend I was a fleeting visitor for a moment or two, just to absorb the atmosphere and become at one with the surroundings, so that I didn't make as much of a tit of myself in the interview.

  Someone walked up to me, in uniform, and asked, “Madam, are you lost?”

  “No, no, I'm interviewing today with Alex Grainger. Have you any idea where I might find him?”

  “Oh, right, yes, I'll let him know. Take a seat.”

  The member of staff busied off and I struggled to sling myself into a chair. My legs were stiff blocks that wouldn't be nursed into the seating position. I was rigid with fear. I suddenly caught sight of myself in a mirrored wall and saw my eyes, like huge globes, staring and darting about manically. From a distance, I decided I looked alright. I was perhaps demure and stylish. But over-qualified, of course.

  “Charlotte, is it?” a man asked, drawing me from my reverie.

  I turned and saw the man of my dreams. He was breathtakingly handsome, like a surfer, with tanned skin, blonde hair and striking blue eyes. God, he was so unbelievably lovely. Words left me. He was proportionately sized and gleaming. His throat, without a tie, attracted my line of sight straight away.

  “Err, yep, that's me!” I exclaimed, desperately trying to force my hand away from my body to offer it for him to shake, like he was gesturing to me. Somehow, my fingers met his and he shook my limp limb a little awkwardly.

  “Right, we'll go somewhere quiet to talk. My office,” he said.

  Fine, fine, I thought. Tell it from the mountain, this guy is fine.

  Even me in my maudlin, psychotic state, I could discern a prime specimen when I saw one. Where I came from, variety was thin on the ground. This man was effortlessly gorgeous and so damn ooh, I don't know, beautiful.

  We arrived in his office and he sat behind his desk. I sat down too, in a kind of jolting manner, and he noted my discomfort with some amusement. I decided he must have seen it all working in such a busy establishment.

  “Charlotte, can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  “A G and T would be nice.” I said the first thing that came to mind.

  He was a little taken aback, before smiling with some restraint, obviously a little tickled.

  “Tea? That okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I nervously giggled, chastising myself inwardly.

  Stupid propensity toward cracking jokes…

  He poured from a little sideboard that stood right by his metal desk. The whole room was furnished with metal objects in fact, but there were windows all around. There wasn't a damn bit of curtain or concrete to take the glare off my face.

  Cup placed before me and his tight bottom parked once more, he explained, “How much do you know about the hotel?�
�

  I had been studying. I told him, “It was opened in 1987 but has since undergone two refurbishments including an extension to bring capacity to 130 rooms. You are a four star hotel but think of yourselves as a five star. I noted that on your website. I guess the lack of a swimming pool brought your rating down. You are owned by a private company and therefore hopefully don't operate in the same way as my former employer, who thought thirty per cent off a stay in the same room I've cleaned day-in-day-out for the past five and a half years constitutes as a perk of the job.”

  I stopped, breathless. I rubbed a bead of sweat from my temple. I stared at him, feeling my eyes shiver with the strain of keeping a straight face, and we both burst out laughing. He fell forward in his chair and his head almost hit the desk. I had to cover my mouth. I was ludicrous and we both knew it.

  Gasping, he said, “Oh, I've been interviewing for weeks and nobody has made such an impression!”

  He wiped the tears from his eyes and I relaxed a little, even braving a sip of tea.

  “It's a long story, but please, look, have you got a reference there from Irene?”

  “Yes, it was impeccable. Always cause for suspicion.”

  “Well, yeah, I was anal. I am absolutely a complete and utter total perfectionist. I love to work.”

  “And the live-in bit doesn't bother you?”

  “Nope. No.”

  “See, that's what most of our candidates have had a problem with. They think living in a flat around the corner is akin to this. But it's not. The head housekeeper gets to go home but your job is to stay here at weekends and ensure our guests get everything they need, no matter how outlandish. We always strive to give them whatever. You have to be here in the building. That's all there is to it.”

  “That, really, really, is, fine, and I don't mind the hours. And you can trust me not to upset any guests. I hate that. I will always imagine how I would feel if I were expecting a five star night away and try to give them that.”

  Suppressed laughter again. He was warming to me, I knew. I was shameless because I just needed this for my plan to become the new me.

  “Look,” he hesitated, “Charlotte. You're a beautiful girl, clearly better than this job, totally destined for greater things. And you sound as perfectionist as they get, but…”

  “What? Listen, I really need this job. Please. You know I can do it with my eyes closed. I need to get out of my mum and dad's house. There are no other jobs available at the moment. I need this so bad, please. Listen, I'll be as relaxed or as strict as you want, as involved or uninvolved in management as you like. Whatever. I'll mould myself. Just give me this chance. I am happy in this work, really, I like it. You must be too, or else, why would you do it?” I pleaded.

  “We get to comment on the passing trade's lives. Most of whom are fuckups, of course.”

  I stared at him, twisted my lip, and tried to hold a straight face once more. It was no use. I had to laugh. I knew then our immediate chemistry was going to get me the job. He went quiet and tapped the desk, clicking his fingers.

  “I don't normally do this, with people still to see, but I think we can safely say, you're hired. We need some new blood around here, no matter how batty you are.”

  “Alex, I mean, boss, I mean, lord and master of my world, thank you!”

  I went to the other side of the desk and he grabbed me for a conciliatory hug, as though he were sorry for forcefully employing me in a job that was lower than my capability. I liked him so much already. It was obvious to me that he was gay, but still, he was something gorgeous to look at and I sensed we'd be great friends.

  * * *

  June 2007 was the turning point. I had my mum pack me up in the car and drive me down to Nottingham. She was very concerned about me moving to what she viewed as England's Gun Capital. To tell you the truth, I was terrified of what life in the city held for me. However, I knew that I needed to place myself in a new situation and move on.

  In a new workplace, I quickly found myself immediately accepted and took to the job like a duck to water. The Hollis on Maid Marion Way was a sizeable enough establishment to get lost in. I worked the night shifts, supervising room service delivery, porterage, customer requests – some of which were rather unique. I mucked in occasionally but somehow, I learnt how to take a step back and let others do the work. The lengthy hours meant I had to anyway, for I had never worked full-time before and knew if I did not take it steady, I might harm myself. My staff knew that I was the one who knew which chemicals took out which stains. This was something I prided myself on. Over the years, I had battled people's muck and filth with some thrill. To shine up a room previously rank with the hideous leavings of man was an achievement some days. I had tweaked my routine so that I knew exactly how to clean a certain-sized room within an allotted time. Cleaning and working alone, perfecting hygiene on an epic scale, had been my domain at the chain hotel. I had found sense in tackling mess and acting the almost invisible wizard who made a room presentable for the clientele who expected it to look as if nobody else had ever stayed there. I mean, how many people consider this? A hotel is a room for hire, i.e. it has been used by many others. I never understood the romance of this really, for I much preferred my own sheets, pillows and mattress at home, which had only been used by me.

  My speciality was transferring from Hygiene Queen to Conjuror of Anything a Guest Wants. This began with the mantra, Anything Is Possible. The hotel did have a policy of providing toiletry items if requested. If guests called for raspberry-flavoured condoms, fine, I'd get them. Warm slippers, sure, I'd do it. Vanity kits with tweezers and floss, yep, done. The hotel had a budget for these little things and I started stocking up with all kinds of bits and pieces. Throwaway knickers, medicinal creams, contact lens cases, even a massage chair that could be loaned out on occasion. I thought of everything I may myself want if I were staying there. The staff were a little sceptical of things I stocked but most items did get use! There were also my notorious spot checks. The chambermaids working on the same shift as me began to fear my wrath. Upon entering a room, it was the carpet first. A single hair would enrage my temper. That meant the chambermaid had not vacuumed properly or had been using a machine with a full bag. Sloppy, in my opinion. If a strand lay there, I would sniff it out. I had a keen eye. The TV had to be pristine, without prints, the bed with hospital corners, the bathroom without a single globule of water left un-wiped. No speck of dust on shelves or behind cupboards. There had to be not a single irritating remnant of a former body being in that chamber. That was my line, and I always stuck to it. My boss became surplus to requirements and I became feared, but I revelled in it. However, Alex adored my influence and I took a lot of headaches out of his day. He was a man in his early 30s and had worked in hospitality all his life. Whenever we had five minutes, we would always have a giggle. He always knew how to make me smile.

  “How did you survive in that tiny little place before coming here?”

  “I honestly do not know, sweetie, I don't. It was all middle-aged women slagging each other off! I was always caught in the middle,” I told him.

  “Probably not getting it enough,” he sniggered.

  I laughed too but darkness soon clouded my thoughts.

  “I know a frustrated hen when I see one.”

  I almost fell to the floor at the brazenness of his honesty. I wanted to chastise him. Instead, he grabbed my hand and assured me, “We shall never be anything but great friends, you and I.'

  I believed him. I had been going back home to Epworth on my days off, but I soon stopped and instead stayed at Alex's place. We seemed to share an unspoken affinity that transcended our own individual issues with identity.

  One drunken night, a shift in our relationship occurred. I had pulled a ten-hour shift that day and knew I was pushing it, but it felt like a change of scenery had very much breathed new life into me. The mean streets of Nottingham at night could be rough and ready but nevertheless, always beckoning, with
variety ranging from the world's oldest watering hole to the new, trendy bars that lined the city's more industrial outskirts. I enjoyed people-watching with Alex and drinking ludicrous cocktails in other hotel lounges while we eyed up the competition. These games of ours we played were great distractions from a growing bond between us that was becoming undeniable. Every time he touched me, I jerked with some sensation in my stomach. He had started to notice I was intensely attracted to him, making jokes about it. I did not think it was funny, though. As before mentioned, he was physically perfect and would outstrip most male models. With some spurious legend attached to his life story, he may have had women quivering over his style and elegance for centuries longer than Robin Hood had. But, the most arousing thing about him was that he saw the world like I did and felt a dire need to pick it apart or else crumble himself. That he and I understood one another without words made him irresistible…

  “Charley, baby, you looked very hot tonight. Why didn't you try to pull that jock who spoke to you?”

  His hand on my shoulder made me want to run away and hide.

  “I dunno, darling, I dunno, I just… don't need that.”

  “You're a fox, though, sweetheart, don't you see that?”

  “Don't say that to me, Alex, I don't need a liar in my life.”

  “But, I'm not shitting you, I'm being real. Hell, even I would shag you!”

  “Really?” I giggled.

  “Yeah!”

  “Well, I think if I just…”

  “I know,” he murmured, with a change in his tone, “I know…”

  He moved toward me and placed his hands at my waist. He did for me what any good friend would and I was so happy he had suggested it and not me. He showed me I was desirable, even to him.

  I remember my heart was pounding. My chest heaved. His delicate kisses against my mouth made me gush in my knickers.