Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  ‘I’m fine.’ he kissed Penny as I heard the taxi. On the way to the hospital,I found myself holding Peter’s hand, and he squeezed my hand. He and my father had always been ‘matey’ - the usual male things, fishing in the Ouse, mending bikes. Perhaps I had been envious. And of course the conflict (unspoken), in my teens, between my mother and me.

  We hurried down the long corridors again until we found the IC unit. The ward sister came up to meet us. ‘Are you Mr Hunt’s son and daughter?’

  ‘Yes, yes: what’s happened?’

  She led us into a side room. Dr Kelly was there and he motioned us to a chair. I shook my head. ‘What’s happened to our father, doctor?’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you both, but Mr Hunt died an hour ago.’ Peter slumped in the chair. I held on to him. It was a pointless question, but I asked it:

  ‘How?’

  ‘His heart just gave out, Miss Hunt. There was nothing more we could do. Again, I’m very sorry. I understand you lost your mother last year?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sister Newton will help you from here.’ He turned to leave. ‘Again my condolences.’

  So Dad died of a broken heart. Looking back, I don’t know what I felt then - a great emptiness - anticlimax. Another life had left, among many from this hospital. In the following days, the dreary bureaurocracy kept our minds occupied from the reality of what had happened: the death registration, funeral arrangements, meeting with the family solicitor. Three days later I was back at work. Jim Morrison came to see me in the stores office one lunctime.

  ‘This is very sad, Diana. Your family have really had it rough over the last few months. My condolences, of course.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim.’ I managed a grim smile. ‘I have been rather a nuisance lately, haven’t I?’

  He shook his head. ‘The message is the same; take whatever time you need.’ I thanked him. The funeral was arranged for the following week; Peter informed the relations; there were the usual written condolences. A representative from my late father’s firm wrote and said he would attend the service. Then I thought: Peter and I are making these arrangements, and we are the only ones who do not want to attend. I phoned Peter at work. ‘Pete: do you and Penny have plans for this evening?’

  ‘No: she’s going out with her mother.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, no: I think we should meet up - let’s have an evening meal here.’

  ‘What at the Ship?’

  ‘Yes: we need to talk; we’ve got to think about the future.’

  ‘OK, Di. I’ll see you about half-six.’

  I needed to get this right, without upsetting Peter, and queering my own pitch. At six p.m. I locked the stores, went to my room, washed, freshened my make-up and changed. As I entered the dining-room, Mike stood near the bar. He looked at me warily and a little embarrassed. I suddenly realised he might be attracted to me. I said:

  ‘Mike: OK if my brother and I eat here this evening?’

  ‘Of course, Diana. Sorry to hear about your father.’

  I touched his arm, and he flinched. ‘I’ll see you later, Mike?’

  ‘Sure.’ Good grief; had I frightened him?

  When Peter found me sitting at a corner table, he waved and I beckoned him over. I noticed as he sat down (still wearing a dark business suit ) that he didn’t look as worn as he did after our mother died. In fact, he seemed to have put on weight and to be more positive. Good; that would make it easier for me when I said what I wanted to say. For now he said:

  ‘What are we going to talk about, Sis?’

  ‘Let’s eat first, Pete. I’ve ordered fish and gratin potatoes - is that OK?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘And a bottle of chardonnay - better than all that beer you swill with your mates.’

  ‘You’re still a bossy cow.’

  He looked at me as if I was going to give a sharp reply, but when the bottle arrived I grinned and poured him a glass. We were both hungry, and we got through our meal without exchanging more than a few words. Eventually, I said:

  ‘You know what we have to discuss, don’t you?’

  ‘You mean dad’s will?’

  ‘Do you know what’s in it?’

  ‘Only vaguely. We split down the middle, don’t we, Sis?’

  ‘So I understand. Have you heard from the solicitor?’ Peter shook his head.

  ‘Well, it’s about time. I’ll contact him in the morning.’ Pete gave me an odd look. I said:

  ‘Do I sound cold-blooded?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘I’m being practical - we have to look after our interests, Pete.’

  ‘I don’t see any problems.’

  ‘Which brings me to my next thought. What about Penny?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Peter: don’t be obtuse. She lives with you in our house. May I ask you another question?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you going to get married?’

  ‘That is really none of your business.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Except, if you do, she will have legal rights as your wife - and she will own half of everything of yours.’

  ‘So you think you’ll miss out, Sis?’

  ‘No I will not. I won’t allow that to happen. Look: I have a suggestion.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That when probate is granted, you buy me out. Half the value of the house. You and Penny will have it to yourselves.’

  ‘You’ve worked it all out, then. But where will I get that sort of money?’

  ‘Come on, Pete: take out a second mortgage on the house. You work for a building society - you’ll get a good rate.’

  ‘OK, I’ll think about it. But now I want to say something. There’s something I don’t want.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A repeat performance with Dad’s sister like last time. You upset a lot of people, Di.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for that stupid woman throwing her weight around I wouldn’t have said anything. Anyway, point taken. I’ll behave.’

  ‘Good’

  (What has happened to my quiet little brother? It must be Penny’s TLC: all those hot dinners and cosy sex. Goodness! He’s quite assertive.)

  We parted on good terms. The restaurant was half empty - again, that time of the year. I cleared the table (doing the waiter out of a job). Mike came across, and said:

  ‘I’ve just heard about your father, Diana. Very sorry to hear it. And your mother died last year. That’s rotten.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Mike?’ He took the dishes from me. We looked at each other. I said: ‘Are you all right, Mike?’

  He looked away. ‘Well, yes, OK, I think’.

  It suddenly dawned on me. Well, well....The aloof Mike fancied me! ‘Perhaps we could have a drink later, Mike?’

  He shook his head, ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I don’t know - somehow, it doesn’t seem decent.’

  Such morality! Such sensitivity. I left him quickly and occupied my hand with an hour’s boring paper-work in my office. At least I wouldn’t have it to face in the morning. After that I went and locked myself in my bedroom, and did what I usually did when experiencing any fed-up-ness/irritation/frustration - washed my hair and took a shower. I lay in my bed in my kimono, staring at a book on the life of Henri Matisse, not reading it, beneath my tiny bedside lamp - and thinking of Dad and Peter. I doused the light. Poor old Dad - but was he poor? He had always been a modest man; did his day’s work without complaint; was always conformist as far as my Mother was concerned; loved his garden. He seemed to be content with his life’s lot. Was he to be envied - by a person like me , his ambitious daughter?

 
; If I had been ‘sensible’, I would accept that. But I could not live a life like my parents. Let Peter and Penny do that - one reason why I planted the idea of buying me out. The other reason is that sort of money would buy me freedom and get me out of King’s Lynn.

  The following day - which was particularly onerous - the image of Mike flicked occasionally through my mind. I was rather touched by the vibes I had got from him. As it happened, I had to stay late to supervise the maids with bed-changing and cleaning for a party of OAPs we were expecting the following day. I came down the stairs. Mike was leaning against the bar.

  ‘Hi, Mike.’

  He straightened and said; ‘Oh, hallo, Diana.’

  I asked; ‘Have you eaten yet, Mike?’

  ‘No way - do you think I had time?’

  ‘Chef gone home?’

  ‘They’ve all gone home: there’s nobody here but us chickens.’ Mike was a tall, skinny, but rather elegant man, and obviously well educated. Observing his gestures when he was working, I thought he might be gay. I asked:

  ‘Are you gay, Mike?’

  He turned on me. ‘You’re an impudent young mare - why do you want to know?’

  I didn’t answer that, but said: ‘ Is there anything decent left to eat and drink?’

  I could see he still wasn’t pleased with me. ‘I’ll have a look .’ While he was doing that, I poked around the bar, and made two G&Ts. Then I searched and found a bottle of Fleurie. We had cleared the tables. So I reset one with glasses and cutlery. Mike came upon this and looked at me quizzically. He carried a silver platter: there was hot roast beef in red wine sauce and vegetables.

  ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘The kitchen - where else, you silly cow.’ We clonked glasses (the G&Ts).

  ‘Cheers!’ he said

  ‘And up yours too,’ I replied. We downed the gin. I sat opposite him. He said:

  ‘Would madam care to eat? I recommend the beef.’

  ‘Course I want to eat, you stupid sod. Get on with it.’

  I poured the Beaujolais, and we clinked glasses again. Mike said: ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘The food, you silly mare - what’s it like? Is it to madam’s satisfaction?’

  I squeezed his hand. ‘Mike, it is absolutel delicious, and beautifully served.’ There was silence after that while we ate. I was starved. Mike pushed his plate away, and looked at me over his wine glass. He was the first to speak.

  ‘You know, Diana, you are one scary lady.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes: it is right. Do you know what they say about you round here?’

  ‘I can imagine: but tell me more...’

  ‘That you are a ruthless bitch; that your efficiency puts everyboddy’s back up. And you are too ambitious for your own good.’ After that tirade, Mike was sweating - either that outburst, or the wine and food. He hung his jacket over the back of his chair and pulled at his black bow tie.

  I laughed. ‘Wow! But why should I not be surprised? I’m not.’ I poured the remainder of the bottle. I said: ‘Are we a bit pissed?’

  He shrugged. ‘Probably. I know that I’m tired, a bit depressed, and should not drive home.’

  I thought quickly. ‘ Do you like me Mike?’

  ‘What? Does anyone? I am fascinated by you.’

  I stood and stretched out my hand. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on. Stay with me.’

  Soppy fool that I was, I took him by the hand, and led him away, switching off all the lights. In my room, our clothes soon stood in a sweaty heap on my bedroom floor. We stood under the shower and let the hot water and suds run over us. Then I turned it cold and he shuddered. I switched it off and he clung to me; he was so skinny. I dried him with a large towel and he lay on my bed on top of it; his eyes were closed... I wrapped the towel round him. After drying myself, I donned my kimono and lay beside him. Mike opened his eyes and turned. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you say thank you, you silly sod?’

  ‘I did.’ My kimono had fallen open, and he placed his hand on my stomach. ‘ You have some nice muscles there, Miss Hunt.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

  I placed my hand between his legs. ‘Are you willing?’

  ‘I believe so. Oh my God....’

  Eventually, I sat on top of him and my whole body trembled and jerked several times. So this is what it is like. Did he realise that he had just deflowered a virgin? But his eyes were closed all the time while he was in my body. I leaned over and my breasts brushed his cheek after I kissed him. (You are right, Doug: I am definitely not a sappho.)

  I woke, then turned; the bed felt empty. Mike wasn’t there; his pile of clothes had gone with him. I suddenly had a mental picture of him creeping away, naked, clutching his clothes, and had a fit of the giggles. I slipped out of bed and sorted through my dress and underwear. Today was going to be laundry day. I soaked the blood-stained towel in cold water in the wash-basin and folded the condom (pinched from the packet in Pete’s bedside cabinet) in toilet paper. Never flush condoms down the loo: they block the drains. If I was going to be a tart, I will be an environmentally friendly tart. And also the cleanest: After this session of post-coital housekeeping I took a shower, washed my hair, donned clean clothes, and applied make-up. I was tremendously hungry.

  The hotel was quiet that early, but I found my own breakfast - toast and coffee. Well, Diana Hunt: what have you got to say for yourself? Say? I’ll tell you what I’ve got to say: God1 I can still feel him inside me. The first time for a woman is supposed to be rough and dinstinctly messy. But (as always) I took charge of the situation; and when I sat on top of him I felt as if he was drilling for oil.

  Typical of selfish me: I never considered how he might feel. Neither did I think whether he had any STD, or whether I could get pregnant (condoms could split).

  Chapter 8

  THE DOLDRUMS. Isn’t that a maritime phrase? That is how I felt during the next few days - waiting for confirmation of this-and-that. And of course liaising with my brother. But of course the funeral eventually came round. Peter and I walked behind the coffin into the Crematorium chapel, feeling the eyes of the congregation on me, running-a-gauntlet. But I hardly heard the conventional phrases from a minister I didn’t know, and who didn’t know us. Why should he? I never attended church services, neither had my mother and father: this was ‘observing the decencies’, as the hypocritical English phrase has it.

  Penny held Peter’s left hand, and I held his right; but no one held mine. I didn’t want it. Melanie attended with her parents, but sat discreetly at the rear of the chapel. When my father vanished from our sight and we filed out of the chapel, there was a little chattering in small groups; then everybody walked to their cars. Mel hurried up to me and we hugged each other; she smelled so fresh and sweet. I whispered, ‘I must see you soon.’

  Mel returned the whisper, ‘I’ll phone you at home this evening - late. OK?’

  Peter was driving our late father’s Corsa, and as I climbed in the back he said, ‘How many are coming back to our house, Sis?’

  ‘I don’t know; I’ve made sandwiches and laid out cups and saucers. I don’t know how many - and I don’t care.’

  Peter put the little car in gear and drove at speed out of the crematorium grounds. But there were one or two cars parked round the corner of our home (The house was at the end of the terrace) when we arrived. As we closed the door behind us, I asked Penny: ‘Could you deal with the tea-making, Penny. I need to be upstairs.’ And that’s what I did. I kicked off my shoes, slipped off my black dress and hung it in the wardrobe, and lay on the bed. But I didn’t have much time for dozing. Penny shook my shoulder:

  ‘I think you’d better come down, Diana. People are pre
paring to leave. Come on - here’s your dress.’

  So I ‘observed the decencies’, and inclined my head and shook hands, and eventually the house was empty. We sat - the three of us - round the kitchen table in silence.

  Peter was the first to speak:

  ‘You remember what you were saying in the Ship, Diana?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at Penny, who was looking straight at me. ‘Well, we’ve talked it through; and all being straight with Dad’s Will, we agree.’

  ‘Thank you, Pete. I might as well tell you that as soon as I can I’ll be leaving Lynn.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ asked Penny.

  ‘I don’t know yet. For now I’ll be at the Ship Hotel as long as they’ll have me. If I decide to stay here a night I’ll let you know. OK? What do your parents think, Penny?’

  She blushed. ‘I haven’t told them.’

  ‘That is probably wise, Penny. Look, I would appreciate you not telling anyone about my plans - it’s all in the air at the moment.’

  Then the phone rang. Peter answered it, looked at me, then passed the receiver. For you - some girl.’

  ‘Di? It’s Mel. May I come over - now?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  ‘You’re not alone.’

  ‘No, but never mind.’

  I left Pete and Penny washing crockery. ‘A college friend is coming over . We’ll be upstairs, out of your way - OK?’

  Peter said: ‘We won’t be here - Penny has told her parents we would be round theirs for supper.’

  Twenty minutes later I opened the door to Melanie; rather she burst through, her scarf flapping, and with a bottle wrapped in tissue paper. I slammed the door behind her then hugged her tight. ‘Been to Oddbins, I see?’

  ‘Cheek - this is Waitrose.’

  We trotted upstairs; Melanie threw her coat over a chair; kicked her shoes to the end of the room; dropped her jeans and sweater on the floor - then slid under my duvet.

  ‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you!’

  She grinned. ‘Isn’t this cosy?’ I got a corkscrew and two glasses from the kitchen. ‘Super,’ she said, and poured the wine. We clinked glasses. I removed my dress for the second time. Mel looked at me.