Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  ‘Thank you,dear - just a spot of Christmas shopping.’

  ‘A spot? Max -you are overwhelmed.’ Then I suddenly felt guilty. A thought and picture ran through my mind of Max struggling in the West End while I was having sex with Richard. But I shook the thought away, and said: ‘Come into the sitting room and I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘Splendid - I am rather tired. Tell you what! A cup of your magical green tea?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll run you a bath while you drink it.’ When I came down to tell Max his bath was ready I found him asleep on the settee; the mug of tea untouched on the round coffee table by his side. Well, I wasn’t going to let that lovely bath go to waste, so I threw my clothes on the bedroom floor and reached for my kimono. Bliss: I may have doubtful morals, but I am obsessively clean (and don’t let’s have any psychobabble about washing/guilt).

  As I walked into the the sitting room in (respectable) night clothes, Max was just waking. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I fell asleep!’

  ‘So you did. And the tea is cold.’ I interrupted him as he was about to say something. ‘Go and have your bath, and I’ll bring you a fresh cup.’

  I knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Enter!’

  I stuck my head round the door. ‘Where shall I put your tea, Max?’

  He waved a sudsy arm. ‘On the stool, dear girl.’ I stood over him. ‘Most kind - care to join me, Aphrodite?’

  ‘Aphrodite emerged from the waves; not into the water. I’ve had my bath, thank you very much. And don’t let your tea get cold.’ Cheeky old devil. But the cheeky old devil was in bed by the time I had made supper, for when I shouted up stairs that his meal was ready, he said, ‘Do you mind bringing it to my room? With cutlery and a glass of wine?’ What did he think this was - the Ritz? But we both ate our meal together - he in the bed; me sat on the carver chair where he usually ‘hung’ his clothes. ‘Excellent risotto, Diana.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He held out his glass to be refilled. ‘Is this what is called room service, Max?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so. This is your third glass of sauvignon blanc and your last.’

  ‘Dear Me! My housekeeper is now dictating my diet.’

  ‘You be grateful that I keep an eye on you like I do.’ I cleared the remains of our meal and washed the dishes in the kitchen, then I made sure the house was locked. As I climbed the stairs, I studied the tapestry again that Max’s wife had made; the theme of the lady and the unicorn seemed to me, at first glance, to be a typical setting from the Dark Ages - subtly menacing with its lack of perspective. But the more I studied it (I looked at it every evening as I was about to retire) the more I found different symbolism.

  The next morning I was placing Christmas cards around the room when Max called me from the landing. ‘Diana! I have something to show you.’ I went upstairs; he was stood outside the studio door. He took my hand. ‘Close your eyes.’

  ‘Max!’

  ‘Tush! Do as I say. Now: open your eyes.’ I stared at the canvas: it was my portrait, the picture Max promised he would do; I didn’t expect it to be finished; I was astounded. The painting was about 100 cm by 50 cm. It showed me from the waist upwards, turning to the left, a three-quarters view. I was dressed in what seemed to be a rustic leather waistcoat; underneath, a white blouse, unbuttoned to just under the breastbone and it certainly didn’t hide my breasts; a wide collar flowed on my neck. My right arm was outstretched; I was wearing a gauntlet, and resting on my wrist was a hooded peregrine falcon. My left hand was propped against my waist.

  On my head I wore a green forage cap with a bright feather sprouting from its peak. He had painted my face palely, with ruby lips in an enigmatic smile. The background was simple - a pine forest against brown hills. I didn’t know what to say. I could not take it in. Max squeezed my hand.

  ‘Well, darling girl: what do you think?’

  ‘God, Max - it’s wonderful! It’s me!’

  He grinned. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think? I don’t normally paint in acrylics; but this time it has come together quite well. Do you agree?’

  The technicalities passed me by; I hardly heard what he was saying. I was stunned: I continued to stare: in a mad moment I felt myself willing my portrait into life. Again he interrupted me: ‘The title is ‘Portrait of Diana’ - and it is my Christmas present to you.’

  Then the tears rolled down my cheeks, and then I realized Max was the only man who could ever make me cry like this. Max put his arm round my shoulder and I kissed him. ‘Oh, Max, darling, thank you so much.’ Again, he laughed. ‘Come now, don’t spoil your pretty face; we have places to go.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘I’m taking you out to dinner this evening. - and don’t tell me you’ve got nothing to wear. You have plenty of time to find a dress and the accroutements. Did you have plans for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Ironing. What are you wearing this evening?’

  ‘Black tie and dinner jacket.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to root out your shirt.’

  ‘How kind and efficient.’

  ‘It is just as well someone in this menage is.’

  ‘How right you are, Miss Hunt. Do you have a frock appropriate to the occasion?’

  ‘Of course. And my underwear will complement it - what little there will be.’

  ‘I am an elderly gentleman, and do not wish to know such indelicate matters.’

  ‘I love you, Max.’

  ‘I am very pleased to hear it. Now please continue with your duties.’

  The taxi turned down Shaftesbury Avenue and we joined the theatregoers and the last of the Christmas shoppers, then we turned into West Street and stopped at the corner. I looked round as I assisted Max from the taxi. I was wearing under my long black coat a black dress with a V-neck cut at the back and front with a simulated silver belt round my waist. I thought, Where has Max brought me? This looks like the scruffy end of the West End to me and I’m going to be overdressed. But he led me through narrow double doors. On the left as we entered was a curved staircase with a notice that said ‘Private Rooms’ (uh-oh...). There was a tiny cloakroom, again on our left.

  Then we walked into the dining room. Max said, ‘Welcome to the Ivy.’ This place was used to hosting the famous and the beautiful people, but we turned a few heads as the head waiter led us to our table. I loved it: the art-deco décor, the framed theatre posters; I could almost smell the greasepaint. It was full, but we had a table against the far wall with soft banquette cushions. The buzz was tremendous. Max asked:

  ‘Do you like it - I assume you haven’t dined here previously?’

  ‘Max, I love it. No, I haven’t.’ I loved it all; I loved being with Max; I loved the way the light caught his long silvery hair: so elegant. I had come to London all those months ago, wanting to take it in my elegant hand and squeeze all its fruits so I could taste every drop; now I was sat next to an elderly man in a restaurant and found that I was content, and wanted nothing more than this. (Diana, you have fallen on your feet - let’s hope it lasts. In other words, don’t cock things up.)

  A waiter hovered.

  Max asked, ‘Have you decided?’

  ‘Yes; I’ll have the wild rabbit and roquefort salad, please.’ I looked up at the waiter. ‘I don’t suppose the rabbit was shot this morning?’ The waiter gave me a weak smile, his pen poised. I said to him, ‘Don’t look so worried: I’ve skinned and cleaned more rabbits than you’ve ever served.’

  Max watched me, grinning. He said: ‘I’ll have the parsnip soup.’ I asked Max, ‘May we have roast chicken a la Les Landes - it serves two.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Now, ‘ he said, ‘We have that sorted to your satisfaction...’

  ‘Sorry, have I...?’

  ‘No, you have not. If I had been I w
ould have stopped you. Have you really skinned rabbits?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Uncle Frank used to go shooting at a farm near the Broads. The farmer was grateful; I used to go along with him. I am still a Norfolk country girl at heart, Max.’

  The waiter brought our starters. Max said, ‘Try the volnay, Diana; time to continue your education.’

  I took a gob-ful. ‘Light, smooth,’ I said. ‘It’s a burgundy, oui, maitre?’

  ‘Correct, ma petite. Any more observations?’

  ‘It reminds me of the white we had - Meursalt?’

  ‘Well done! The meursalt vineyards are just down the road.’

  After another stage in my oenological education, I couldn’t help but notice that Max looked rather pleased with himself (I fantasized that he considered me his muse; that I had given him a new lease of life; that he would forget his bloody birds and just make nude studies of me).

  I don’t know what they had done to the rabbit, but it was delicious. I looked again at Max, drinking his soup. He did it very delicately: a sip of the soup, the a nibble at the roll. Me - being a greedy cow - just launched into the terrine, and washed it down with two glasses of the wine. I said:

  ‘Max: where did all the interest in birds come from? I can’t really imagine you being one of the twitchers.’ (Silly queston, come to think of it: his Shore Birds of the Norfolk Coast couldn’t have started life in his studio.)

  ‘That’s simple enough: my father was a vet - the usual patients, dogs, cats, delivering calves. But he became something of an expert on bird diseases. I used to go field trips with him with my older brother. It was an invaluable experience for a wild-life artist.’

  ‘So I see. It made me think of my portrait, Max. I still can’t belive it.’ Max smiled. ‘But I was a little disturbed.’

  ‘Disturbed? Explain.’

  ‘The picture made me look...well...dangerous.’ Our main courses arrived. Max poured more Volnay.

  ‘Then I achieved my objective.’

  ‘Did you now - blimey!, isn’t this chicken wonderful. What do you mean, ‘‘You achieved your objective’’?’ Max laughed again. ‘When you are playing at this ju-jitsu thing...’

  ‘Judo.’

  ‘Quite. Well, when you are playing don’t you look dangerous?’ It always amused me that we never say we ‘‘play’’ judo; the phrase never seemed ‘‘serious’’ to us - almost frivolous. What could I reply?

  ‘So, you think I am some sort of femme fatale?’

  ‘That is enough flattery for one evening, Diana. Now, please pay attention.’

  I wondered what was coming next. He leaned rather conspiratorially across the table. ‘Regarding our forthcoming marriage.’ Max spoke in a whisper.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I consider that for both our sakes we should...’

  ‘.....have a pre-nuptial agreement?’ I grinned at him. He looked startled. ‘Correct: do you agree?’

  ‘Of course, Max. It is only sensible.’

  ‘Well, now we have that out of the way, there is the next step.’ His put his hand in his jacket pocket and withdrew a small box. ‘Open it.’

  Nervously, I did so. The ring had two large diamonds set in gold; they flashed as they caught the light. I was breathless; I couldn’t speak. But Max could. He said:

  ‘If you accept it, I believe I have made what is known as a proposal of marriage.’’

  I got up from the table and put my arms around him. ‘Oh, Max, Max - it’s absolutely gorgeous! I love it.’ Several well-known faces looked at us in amusement. Embarrassed, Max waved me down.

  We walked out of The Ivy in a daze - or at least I was walking on air. When we reached the street, waiting for the taxi, the cold night air brought me back to some reality. I clung on to Max, as the headlights swung in our direction. Then....by the pricking of my thumbs....Out of my corner vision I sensed two male figures. One pushed by me: ‘Sorry, girl, in a hurry, know what I mean?’ He grasped the cab door just as I went to hold it open for Max, so his left arm was at my right-hand side. As he tried to swing it back I went with it, at the same time I pulled his arm towards me and down so he was off balance and this movement coincided with me stabbing his foot with my stiletto heel so now he was completely off balance so I turned and jabbed an arm lock and heard his elbow crack as he dropped to the floor. I pushed Max into the cab and followed him.

  The driver didn’t need any encouragement to speed away. He said: ‘God almighty, Miss, what are you - SAS?’

  I gave the address in Pimlico then turned to Max. I was anxious, in case the incident had upset him. He was shaking - but with laughter. He said, ‘So that is what you do on a Wednesday evening?’

  I admired him for that. I said, ‘Not quite. Are you all right, darling?’

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

  ‘ You did ask if I was a dangerous woman.’

  Max went upstairs when we reached home, while I checked the house and locked the doors. I was hanging up my dress when there was a knock on my bedroom door. ‘Are you decent, Diana?’ Almost: I was wearing just my kimono.

  ‘Come in, Max.’ He sat on the edge of my bed in his dressing gown. I said, ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening, darling man.’ I lifted up my hand: the diamonds flashed. He smiled. ‘You wear it well.’ He stood. ‘And now it’s late. So sleep calls.’

  ‘Oh, no: tonight you stay with me, sweetie.’

  Gotcha.

  Chapter 19

  KING’S LYNN, NORFOLK

  IT MUST BE AT LEAST FIVE DEGREES COLDER, I thought, as I alighted from the train. I pulled up my coat collar and humped my bags to the exit. Lynn rail station was still the grubby, one-storey victorian monstrosity it always had been. If the city fathers were trying to encourage vistors, they might try by knocking this horror down and building a new station. I shivered as I waited for Peter and Penny.

  Welcome to North Norfolk - and yours truly thought she would never be seen here again. I didn’t recognize their car as it drew up; only Penny was driving. I bunged my suitcases in the boot and jumped in next to my sister-in-law, put my arm round her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Wow’, I said, ‘you look well; you’ve put on weight, Penny. Being pregnant must suit you.’

  ‘I love it, Diana. And you look prosperous. I could steal your coat.’

  ‘What’s with the new car?’

  ‘It’s not new (Pete says it’s waste of money buying new), so we got this second-hand Honda.’

  ‘And how’s my brother’s promotion going?’

  ‘Seems to suit him - he’s working all hours, of course.’

  I looked sideways at Penny: she had a healthy flush to her cheeks. I was pleased for them both; but for a moment I had a twitch of envy. Then dismissed it from my mind. I had arrived on a Friday afternoon; Christmas day was on the following Monday. So I had five days or so away from Max. I did not have concerns; he would be spoiled by his daughter and son-in-law (a doctor, like Patricia; I had yet to meet him). Even so I wondered if they would be cross-examining him him about me. But what the hell. I looked out of the windscreen. Penny turned the car into St James’ Road, and as we progresssed on to the outskirts of the town, I thought - of course - how small it seemed to me after the bustle of London. But I felt a familiarity with Lynn now I had returned and wondered what made me feel like that. Then it occurred to me - it was the river. I had lived with the Great Ouse all my life; but had exchanged it for the Thames.

  As we drew up to their house (‘their’ - how odd that sounded !), I noticed that the front door was newly painted a bright deep red; and there was a new brass knocker in the shape of a sea-horse in the middle. Very trendy; I didn’t remark on it. Also, when we dragged my cases down the long narrow corridor I saw that it also was freshly painted a muted apple green. Penny left me to my old room while she emptied sher shopp
ing bags in the kitchen. Now, entering my bedroom was strange; and of course it seemed terribly small. But I also had another feeling which I did not expect - I felt at home.

  Over the next few days, wandering around King’s Lynn like a tourist, it confirmed not regretting striking out on my own, heading for London. I had been lucky meeting Max, but I still would not come back permanently if that did not work out. This town was just a curiosity now. A quaint harking to my childhood, no matter how much I felt welcome staying with my brother Peter and his wife.

  When Penny left the house that evening to pick up Peter I worked in their kitchen on an evening meal; I felt it was the least I could do. Twelve months ago I wouldn’t have been so obliging. Then it would have been sheer bloody-mindedness on my part, justifying my non-action on what I had had to put up with before. Maybe Max had been a good influence on me? Hardly. We were always snapping at each other. What it amounted to was that Max had got under my skin: I had met my match. This also made me think of Richard. What to do about him? I didn’t have any illusions about our relationship. He wanted a beautiful woman on his arm, and he was prepared to pay for it in kind. And I needed elegant sex when he could make it happen. But I wondered, now, whether it could continue.

  Those musings were interrupted when I heard Peter’s voice at the front door. He threw his coat on a chair as he entered the living room.

  ‘God, here’s trouble.’ But he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Happy Christmas. You smell expensive, Sis.’

  ‘Chanel no. 5. Happy Christmas to you. So you’re going up in the world. You’ll be joining the funny-handshake club next. By the way, you both look good and the house is transformed. I like it. And it’s wonderful news about the baby.’

  Penny curled up to him on the sofa. ‘Before you get too comfortable, young Peter, get your sister a drink; there’s a bottle of bubbly in the fridge - courtesy of Max’s cellar.’ As Peter searched for glasses, Penny glanced suddenly at my left hand.

  ‘Diana! Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Yep: Max asked me to marry him. I accepted.’ Pete stood at the door, stunned. I waved my hand; the S-shaped setting caught the light and the diamonds flashed. ‘Married?’ I had got the reaction I expected, and grinned at the expression on their faces. Over dinner (‘Your cooking has improved, Sis.’ ‘I was going to say, Bruv, if you don’t like it you know what you can do), Peter said, ‘When’s the wedding?’