Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  ‘Of course.’ When I reached my room, I noticed that my gloves were torn - damn, those were good leather Dents. I checked my anorak: no scratches or blood stains. I slipped off my jeans and examined them: no marks; no stains. My sweater I hung in the wardrobe. But I would have to put my bra and pants in soak; I had sweated.

  I luxuriated in the hot water, and thought of money and violence and Richard.

  Using the excuse that we had run out of milk, late afternoon of the following day I went to the corner shop and bought an Evening Standard. Searching through the pages, I found a report of my collision with the young yobs on page 5 - just a paragraph, saying that they were found by a passer-by who phoned for an ambulance. One was ‘badly bruised, but comfortable’ (was anyone ever nicely bruised; and how could anyone be bruised and be comfortable?). The other had a dislocated knee and fractured skull: he was ‘critical but stable’. That last one really worried me. Why the hell, Diana, didn’t you just walk away from it? But did I have a choice?

  But by the following Friday I had to put all of it out of mind. I rose early, collected my papers and put them carefully in order in my shoulder bag. I also took trouble over my appearance. I wore a burgundy-coloured, close-fitting wool dress with a roll collar, caught at the waist with a leather belt; black sheer tights; a pair of my I talian shoes. Over this ensemble, a black suede jacket with a faux-fur collar - and on my head a black wool beret.

  I had given Max a couple of days’ notice of my day off. He saw me to the door, looked me up and down and said:

  ‘Diana, my dear, you look like one of those formidable young business-women one sees in the Sunday supplements. Your young man should be very impressed.’

  I wasn’t going to rise to that. Instead I said; ‘Max, will you be all right? You know where your lunch is?’

  ‘Perfectly - don’t fuss.’ I kissed him on the cheek, and left.

  I had planned a route within Pimlico and extending out wards, so I could research all the details of the flats that were within that radius. I questioned the estate agent of the individual property that I considered was suitable for buy-to-let. The reason that I stayed within the region because there was a mix, both of expensive housing, but also old buildings that had been converted into flats used by students from the Chelsea College of Art and Design and other young scruffs. So I tramped the streets all morning, stopping only at a Starbucks for strong coffee about eleven. Which gave me the opportunity to sort the possible from the probables. I found I was left with three - all within a three-mile radius. Good. I finished the coffee, walked down a side street, and dumped the ‘possibles’ in a trade waste disposable at the rear of the Starbucks.

  I retraced my steps to the estate agents at the far end of Cambridge street and walked in. The young woman who assisted me earlier was sat behind her desk. She looked up as I entered, then smiled. ‘Hello, Miss Hunt: did you find what you wanted?’ (excellent English, but certainly French or Belgian) Monique Barre (for that was what the name tag on her collar) was a fair-haired woman about my age. She wore a dark green blouse (and from what I could tell rather lovely small rounded breasts) and a dark skirt. We continued our negotiations and she arranged viewings of the three properties I had in mind; I also took details of mortgage deals. As I left, I said:

  ‘Would it be possible for you to accompany me, when I view the properties Miss Barre?’ She look surprised, but said, ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Excuse me - but are you French?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bon. Au revoir, Mademoiselle. Merci.’

  ‘De rien, Madame. Bonne journee.’

  After that bit of showing off, I stood outside the estate agents, glanced at my watch - 15 minutes before my appointment with Richard at Harvey Nic’s. My searches had brought me full circle; I was at the right end of Sloane street; ten minutes’walk would bring me to the store: I hate being late for anything. I took the lift to the fifth floor. As I walked into the oval dining-room I saw Richard sitting by the window: he was wearing a dark-blue double-breasted suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. He wore a rose bud in his left lapel. The table was laid with a double white cloth, silver cutlery, and a small vase of yellow bud roses (so it’s roses all the way, is it, Richard?).

  Before he could say anything I leaned over and kissed him on the corner of the mouth. ‘Richard, cherie - how nice.’ Then I sat opposite and gave him a dazzling smile (at least I hoped it was a dazzling smile). In turn, he gave me an old-fashioned look .

  ‘Good afternoon, Diana; how are you? You actually look very elegant - but I’m sure you know that.’

  The waiter left us menus. I said: ‘Shall we have the ‘market menu’ - whatever that means?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And I’ll break my own rules about drinking in the middle of the day, and have a glass of chardonnay. Suit you?’

  ‘Very well.’

  I looked out the window. From where we were sitting we could see all the way down Knightsbridge.

  It had started to rain. The waiter brought our wine. I looked at Richard again. He sat perfectly still, smiling. I said:

  ‘You look like the manager of a rather grand hotel.’

  ‘I am the manager of a very grand hotel.’ He changed tack. ‘I suppose the conjunction of your names is not lost on you?’

  ‘You mean Diana the hunter? I wasn’t allowed to forget by a lecturer at college - boring bloody man. Actually I think he wanted to get inside my PPPs.’

  Puzzled, Richard said: ‘PPPs?’

  ‘Pretty Pink Panties’ - a joke among us girls. Richard smiled again: ‘Pink, eh mmm, interesting...’

  ‘Down, boy. Actually, my parents named me after that dim blonde who married Charlie-boy.’

  ‘She was immensely popular and well loved.’

  ‘I always had some sympathy for her husband - I know he had that horse-faced mistress. So what? She kept in the backround. Diana had all those dumb army boy friends she flaunted - and ends up with that dodgy gyppo. Anybody who gets involved with that Fayed family ask for everything they get.’

  ‘So that is her dismissed...more to the point, what are we eating?’

  ‘I thought Loch Duart salmon, and all the other nonsense they surround it with.’

  ‘Suits me, Diana.’

  We ate in silence, enjoying the food and each other’s company. Eventually Richard pushed his plate to one side and drained his glass. I had started on cherry clafouti, which was absolutely delicious. He watched me with some amusement. ‘You’re enjoying that. Or am I stating the obvious?’

  ‘You can be as obvious as you like, sweetheart: I’m a poor Norfolk girl who just likes her grub.’

  ‘I had come to that conclusion all by myself. Now then, I may have a proposition for you, Diana.’

  ‘Oh, good: it’s been a long time since I’ve been propositioned - mind you, it will cost you. I’m an expensive lady.’

  Richard looked exasperated. ‘Just be quiet for a moment and concentrate.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘First, do you have time after lunch? I’d like to show you round my hotel.’

  ‘What about the proposition?’

  ‘All in good time. Shall we go?’

  We strode down Knightsbridge; I had my arm hooked throught his, clinging to him under his umbrella. As we entered the warmth and soft lights of the Quest-Ritson, Richard handed the brolly and my coat to the concierge and said:

  ‘John: I am giving Miss Hunt the guided tour. If I am needed, just bleep me, please.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Templeton.’

  I could feel the eyes of the two receptionists as soon as we walked in; they didn’t stare - they were too well trained for that. But I could imagine what was going through their minds....

  ‘Well, well - who’s that with Mr Templeton, I won
der....

  ‘Maybe he’s got himself a girlfriend....

  ‘I always that he might be gay....

  So I followed Richard dutifully down the corridor to the lift doors. ‘We’ll start the tour on the sixth floor.’ We stood in the lift alone. I squeezed his hand and said:

  ‘Do you think I’ll be safe with you?’

  ‘Behave.’

  My first introduction to the sixth-floor suite of rooms was staggering: our feet sank into the deeep-red carpet; the walls were covered in damask paper, again deep red with an incised design of fleur-de-lys. Each door into the suites was burr yew, highly polished. I followed Richard, then stopped to look at the paintings positioned half way between each door. Richard said; ‘Do you recognize them?’

  ‘Yes.’ I pointed at one. ‘Fernand Leger - the others are by Kokoschka, Klee, and Kandinski. Oh, and the one opposite the lift is an early Picasso, Child Holding a Dove.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘So you should be.’

  Richard opened the door of one of the suites. I followed. It was not occupied. The first view I had was of a broad curved window, with dark-green velevet drapes tied back with gold swashes. I looked out: there was a tremendous view right across London. The green and gold theme extended across the room: Louis quinze chairs and sofa; soft pale green carpet. The bed was enormous; silk cushions were scattered across the headboard. The bathroom was figured marble; the accroutements (bath taps, shower head) were gold plated. Richard said:

  ‘What do you think? I’d like your opinion.’

  ‘What do I think? It is stupendous, Richard. I consider the gold plated taps rather vulgar - but the rest, wow!’

  I flung myself on the bed, showing rather a lot of leg. Richard said nothing, just stood, watching. I grinned at him, and said:

  ‘Fancy a quick shag?’

  ‘Don’t be coarse - it doesn’t suit you.’

  For the rest of the tour (thank God I didn’t have to see all the rooms - all eighty of them) I behaved myself and followed Richard meekly, saying nice things. Well, after seeing the kitchen (immaculate), renewing acquaintance with the dining room, and admiring the wine cellar which stretched all the way under the building, we returned to Richard’s office. Before we could enter, there was a voice behind us.

  ‘Well, hi, Richard. Who’s your lady friend? She looks expensive.’ We turned. The voice belonged to a middle-aged, overdressed American woman. Richard smiled and said: ‘ Mrs Greenberg, how nice to see you again. This is my friend, Miss Diana Hunt.’ Mrs Greenberg appraised me swiftly, then said:

  ‘What do you do, honey?’

  Richard answered for me: ‘Diana is a linguist. French and Italian.’ I was getting miffed at being spoken about as if I wasn’t there. I said:

  ‘And English, which I speak, write, and read perfectly. What do you do, Mrs Greenberg?’

  Richard intervened swiftly. ‘Mr and Mrs Greenberg are regular clients from New York. Will you excuse us? Diana and I have some business to discuss.’

  ‘Sure thing. Just send a waiter to the lounge, please Richard.’

  ‘Of course.’ He took my arm and guided me to his office. There was no old -fashioned charm here, though: everything was functional: a long steel desk; a PC and lap top; filing cabinets and drawers with hefty locks. There was one comfortable leather arm-chair which I took. Kicking off my shoes, I said:

  ‘And who the hell was that old bat?’

  Richard grinned: ‘Very old customers: Mr Greenberg is a banker; Mrs Greenberg is a lady who lunches and organizes charity functions.’

  ‘She looks as thought she could organize a concentration camp.’

  ‘For God’s sake don’t say that! They’re Jewish.’

  ‘So, sweetheart, what’s this proposition you have for me?’

  ‘Ah, yes, darling girl. I thought you might be interested in some extra money.’

  ‘Oh, yes...here? Can’t be done: my job is looking after Max Gilbert.’

  He brushed that aside. ‘You read French and Italian fluently, yes?’

  ‘Oui and Si.’

  What Richard eventually got round to telling me is that documents crossed his desk - such as brochures for the hotel, and others in the group - are translated into French and Italian, but not always very well. So would I like the job? The documents would be delivered to me; I would translate them; and return them. I said that would depend on the volume of work and the schedule. I also advised him:

  ‘You do realize, Richard, that there is a difference between being a linguist and a translator. I don’t have qualifications for the latter.’ Even so, I agreed to take a few papers home and see how I got on. I would phone him early next week. As we stood, he leaned against the office wall and held me against him, then kissed me. ‘What’s all this then, Richard?’

  ‘I’m a little out of practice, so I thought better late than never.’

  ‘You seem to be doing all right to me. How do you feel?’

  ‘I know I feel your breasts nice and firm and your tummy feels muscular. In fact I like all that I feel.’

  ‘Does that include my bum - you know, where you’ve got your hands?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But I’d better let you go now, Miss Hunt.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea. Perhaps we can continue where we left off fairly soon?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Later that evening, I was sitting in my favourite place - at the desk, overlooking the street, in Max’s lovely library reading through the documents. They were the usual thing: information for guests in English, French, Italian, and German. The latter I was not qualified to read - but I would still try. First of all the English, which was fairly sloppy when it wasn’t being terse; and somebody’s spelling wasn’t up to the standard I was taught: they didn’t seem to know the difference between ‘‘its’’ and ‘‘it’s’’ and ‘‘affect’’ and ‘‘effect’’ and ‘‘their’’ and ‘‘there’’. If the translation was taken from this, how could Richard expect the French and Italian to be correct? I was surprised that a hotel such as the Quest-Ritson would let that pass.

  Max sought me out. ‘How is it going, schoolmarm?’

  ‘Don’t you be cheeky.’ I explained what I had just found, and said: ‘Does that make me sound pedantic?

  ‘Not in the least; you are being paid to do a job, and you wish to do it properly.’

  ‘Thank you, Max.’

  (Now then: who would have thought glam Diana could have that side to her character? Thinking like some pompous old maid of a school teacher; and believe me I met plenty of those at grammar sxhool!)

  Then I turned in my seat and said: ‘Max: are you sure you don’t mind my doing this work for Richard? I mean...’

  ‘Of course not: remember the parable of the talents? You have a skill: use it. I’m pleased for you. By the way....

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My daughter Patricia and her daughter Laura are coming to lunch on Sunday. Will you be here?’

  Max knew very well that I wouldn’t let him down, but it sounded a bit scary - meeting Doctor Patricia and offspring.

  ‘Of course. I’ll do the meal.’

  ‘Thank you, Diana. I’ll leave you with your work.’

  (Oh, sod it!)

  Now I had a problem: one of my own making. A question: What was happening to the bloody-minded, independent Diana Hunt, who was not going to rely on anyone to get what she wanted? Sat in Max’s library at the desk overlooking the street, among all the wonderful books, I realized - with a shock - that I was content. And I had freedom. Max did not make great demands on my time; I could organize my day as I wished.

  I also now realized that I was being unrealistic previously, to think that I could always follow my star, leaving no ties behind me. (God, Diana; stop whin
geing to yourself. Haven’t you heard ‘No man is an island’? Well that applies to young women who think that they are smart-arses. So shut up.)

  I did most of the preparation for Sunday’s lunch on Saturday afternoon; by seven-thirty that evening I had showered and changed, waiting for Richard. I was wearing a pale blue roll-necked cashmere sweater and a dark-blue trousers; in my shoulder bag I had the translations for his hotel documents and also ‘necessaries’ if I happened to be staying with him for breakfast - that’s if I wanted that. Well, actually, I did. So when I saw him draw up outside the house I moved quickly, running down the steps from the front door, and jumped in his car. I said:

  ‘Nice wheels,’ then I stuck the tip of my tongue in his ear.

  Richard was startled, then looked annoyed. ‘Behave yourself.’

  He pulled quickly away from the kerb. I studied his profile: a rather bony face; it made him look distant, standoffish. During the short time I had known him he seemed to be something of a cold fish. I suppose I felt him to be a challenge - to break down the barriers, to see what was going on under that aloof, elegant exterior.

  ‘Oops, sorry, Richard, and good afternoon to you.’

  He smiled thinly. ‘Good day to you, Miss Hunt. You look and smell rather delicious.’

  Wow. I settled back into the leather seat of his Mercedes. I felt like a gangster’s moll in this car; maybe he would buy me a fur coat and jewels: on second thoughts, he might not. He parked the car in the undeerground tunnel space, and we ascended by the staff lift, emerging into another world, down the corridor, past the toilets, turning right into his office. I sat opposite him, in the chair where I had sat previously.

  Richard spread the papers across the steel desk and studied them intently; I was quiet; I said nothing. Eventually, he looked up and said: ‘These are excellent, Diana: I’m very grateful. Thank you.’

  I felt like saying, ‘Oh, bollox, Richard.’ But instead replied:

  ‘How grateful?’

  Again, the thin smile. ‘I have to speak to Reception. Could you wait in the Lounge?’

  I wandered across the lobby (now crowded with Saturday-night visitors), skirting the crowd into a corner of the lounge, and flipped through a magazine.