by Laura Briggs
"It's my father's event. I have two tickets, but I don't have a date in Cornwall, I don't know a soul here except you," he said. "So I thought maybe you'd like to come."
"I see." I was trying hard to think of a kind way to refuse. An evening with Ronnie's father didn't sound like fun — and sounded like a definite means of exposing my real position to my ex. "I don't think your father would like that," I said.
"No, I asked him — he's fine with me bringing anybody," persisted Ronnie. "I told him about you, and he thinks it's fine. Besides, I thought you would appreciate the event more than anybody else. Literature lovers are obviously more your crowd than mine."
I realized the event he was talking about was the gala — the gala of twenties'-era glam, being held in the hotel ballroom. "Your father's event is the Randhouser Foundation's ball?"
"Of course. He donated some money last year. It's a great tax write-off," said Ronnie. "Will you come?"
I shouldn't, I knew. What if I was supposed to be working at the party? But the opportunity to meet the people who sponsored the Ink and Inspiration grant — how could I say 'no'? It would be one chance, one night, and the odds that Ronnie's father would do more than say hello to me were probably slim in a room full of more important people.
"Sure," I said. "I'll come with you."
"Thanks, Maisie," he said. "Look, I have to go — the morning habits of the green woodpecker begin about now," he said, checking his watch. "I'll meet you at the doors at seven, okay?"
"Sounds great," I said. I waited until Ronnie disappeared through the doors to scurry towards the kitchen again.
"Where were you?" demanded my partner at the serving station.
"Helping a guest with a problem," I said. I realized I had buttoned my smock incorrectly, and fixed it discreetly while the latest guest was turning away with their portion of bean salad. "Do you know if I can rent a dress in the village?" I asked. "Something formal — I mean, 'posh'?"
How I was going to get out of Ronnie's invitation if I had to work might be a slight problem. As well as the fact that I would be there all right — just in a server's apron or smock. There was certainly no more dramatic way to tell him the truth, I thought, as I ate my lunch from the brunch's leftovers. It would be uncomfortable and awkward for us both if it happened.
I had taken a seat between Molly and Riley, the latter giving me another Casanova smile when I chose this chair. Earlier, I had seen Katy give the back of his head a smack for a similar gesture, so I was guessing this was Riley's modus operandi.
"Ever find your friend?" he asked me, suddenly.
"My friend?" I had forgotten about that excuse. "No, he had definitely left already," I said. "He didn't leave a forwarding address ... at least, it says 'private' in the book, so I guess I can't track him down."
"That's what guests put when they're a bit posh or a bit famous — or a bit weird," said Riley.
"Brigette warned you for talking about guests like that," said Katy, as she checked her makeup in a little compact mirror; she was the only girl on staff who wore makeup besides me, and Brigette with her nude lipstick.
"Only Mr. Trelawney's allowed to know where they've gone. Your friend must be a bit rum." Riley took a sip from his coffee.
"I'm guessing he's a bit intimidating," I said. "Mr. Trelawney. Judging from the way everybody talks about him."
"Intimidating? Not the word I would choose," said Riley. "Fearsome, perhaps. Man-eating, if he's in a mood. But only if you pressed me to say it."
"You shouldn't say those things," said Molly, who blushed deep red as she protested. "He might be listening." She lowered her voice a little. "If he ends up in trouble, we all would."
"Why would he end up in trouble?" I asked. "He's the manager."
"But not the owner," said Molly. "The hotel belongs to Ms. Claypool. She's a rich businesswoman, travels the world. She's hardly ever at the hotel, what with international board meetings and merger deals and what not ... so Mr. Trelawney runs the Penmarrow for her."
"I've heard as strict as he is, she's ten times worse," said Katy. She screwed the lid back on a bottle of vibrant nail polish.
This didn't sound promising for me to plead with the hotel manager for his sympathy ... or if he suddenly discovered that Marjorie Kinnan was an imposter, either.
"I guess Mr. Trelawney probably keeps a tight hold on address information," I said, tentatively. "He wouldn't give it out to anybody — not even so much as a city's name."
"Not unless it's an emergency," said Molly. "I suppose then he tells someone. But why?"
"I'm just curious." I knew Molly was giving me a strange look for this question.
Brigette appeared in the dining room doorway. "Riley, Gomez," she said, clapping her hands for their attention. "It's departure time for guests. What are you both doing still eating lunch?"
"Her Highness rings," muttered Riley. "Trying not to faint dead away from hunger," he answered her a little too loudly before he shoveled another mouthful between his lips.
After lunch, I helped Molly push the cleaning cart into the elevator and take it upstairs to clean the newly-vacated room. The second floor was practically empty, according to Brigette's latest color-coded chart of vacant rooms. That's a lot of sheets and pillowcases to wash, I reflected — and a lot of carpets to clean.
Stripping bed linens, scrubbing sinks, discovering misplaced items — an earring in a soap dish, a sock under a bed. Every step of the hotel's rigorous sweep through of vacated rooms kept me busy enough not to think about my problems, or the experiences which had landed in my path this past week.
Only one room on this floor wasn't being cleaned, in the east wing of the hotel, a suite at the far end of the hall. We cleaned the rooms on either side of it, but the suite's door remained locked, and Molly ignored it as she lifted a stack of clean towels for the next room.
"Is the guest in the suite not leaving today, Molly?" I asked. "They're going to be pretty lonely on this floor until the new wave of guests."
"That one? That room's only cleaned on Mr. Trelawney's orders," said Molly. "A guest has a permanent key to it, but they only come to the hotel now and then. When they're here, they put out the sign when they want it cleaned."
"Who are they?" I asked, curious.
"Don't know. Never met them," said Molly. "But I think they're a writer. I've heard before that one comes to stay at the hotel. Sometimes they bring a friend or two."
Mr. Davies must be the person who possessed the key to this suite, obviously. This was his room in the hotel: a room kept just for him, where he had probably written chapters of his novels in the past.
"There's no one staying in it right now, I take it?" I asked, hopeful I was wrong.
"Not now," said Molly. "I think they were here a few weeks ago, but they've gone since then."
"When will they come back?" I asked. "Do they notify the hotel?"
Molly shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea," she said.
Davies wasn't holed up inside of those walls finishing his future bestseller, but there might be a clue in there somewhere about where he had gone. I might finally have my chance to ask him for help.
***
My key unlocked the door easily. I opened it and crept inside, making sure no one else on staff was in the hall outside. A newly-arrived couple was emerging from their room with some beach towels, but they didn't notice a maid visiting the suite at the end of the hall.
I was sneaking in, just for a quick peek. I only had a week left, and at its end I would have to confess that Marjorie wasn't real or catch a bus and leave before they demanded my official documents again. If I wanted my departing destination to be one helpful to my writing, I needed to find a clue regarding Mr. Davies' whereabouts.
I closed the door behind me and turned around. I was standing in a spacious room decorated with dark, polished furniture, except for a wicker armchair in the corner, beside a reading table. Through the adjoining door, I could see a bed covered
with a draping sheet to protect it from dust. Dead ahead of me, centered beneath the big picture window, was a writing desk.
An old 1930s Royal typewriter — exactly the kind that Alistair Davies was rumored to have used to type the copy of his first book for his publisher. I clicked one or two of its keys with a feeling of awe. I gazed out the window at the view that might have inspired the Uninvited Hauntings' climactic storm scene.
I pulled open the right hand drawer and found sheets of hotel stationery, identical to my letter's. Feeling guilty, I opened a few more, finding staplers, hole punches, extra pens and envelopes — but nothing personal. Not a map with a city circled on it, for example.
I glanced down in the wastebasket. It was empty, except for one scrap of paper. In books and the movies, of course, this is always the vital clue. I plucked it out and uncrumpled it — finding the remains of a candy wrapper instead of an address on a scrap of paper.
With a sigh, I admitted defeat. There wasn't a single clue in this room about Alistair Davies' whereabouts or when he was coming back to this suite. How was I ever going to find him before I had to leave?
***
"Four of you are assigned to assist the serving staff and kitchen for the upcoming ball," said Mr. Trelawney. "I will read the names now. Bloom, Gomez, King, and Livingstone. You will report to the kitchen at five to help assemble hors d'oeuvres trays, then follow my instructions regarding the event itself."
I breathed a sigh of relief. My name — my alias, that is — wasn't among them, so Mr. Trelawney hadn't taken to heart my original hints about working at it.
I had hired a dress from a shop in town, and had it waiting in my room. My cleaning shift didn't finish until after six, but, thankfully, it wasn't my turn to help clear the dining room after dinner. I slipped up the back stairs to my room, plugged in my curling iron with an outlet adapter, and opened a tube of lipstick from my cosmetics case.
Chasing down one of the foundation's committee members wasn't on the agenda for tonight. Nor was begging a former Ink and Inspiration recipient to become my new mentor. But if the opportunity presented itself for me to befriend a more experienced writer, I intended to take it. Especially since it was nearly impossible that Alistair Davies would return before I had to leave the Penmarrow — unless the author had dropped a valuable diamond cufflink behind the bed, maybe.
Ronnie was waiting for me outside the ballroom. "Wow, Maisie, that's a beautiful dress," he said. "You look incredible tonight."
"Thanks," I said. Ronnie's eyes had widened when I approached — he had never seen me in a formal gown before. Even when we both attended university formals, I had worn the same cute cocktail dress I bought from a secondhand shop, one with a fluffy tulle skirt more like a ballerina's than a sophisticated ball gown. Whereas this dress was a long black satin one, backless, with a gentle drape effect across the shoulders. I felt glamorous in this dress, and I also felt safe from recognition. I probably looked nothing like normal Maisie Clark in her summer sundresses and sneakers — more like Cinderella after her transformation.
Ronnie tucked his arm in mine. "Shall we go in?" he asked, and escorted me through the doors of the ballroom, opened by the room's attendants.
It was the unveiling of a scene of glitz and glamour, matching my long-imagined fantasies of fictitious Jay Gatsby's parties. The chandeliers were lit up like white diamonds with fiery yellow hearts, with splashes of color from expensive formal gowns and glittery jewels, and cufflinks and watches that cost more than my first car. On the left side was a tuxedo-clad orchestra playing jazzy tunes as bow-tied waiters and posh waitresses circulated silver-plated trays of champagne, caviar on crackers, and chocolate truffles.
A waiter stood on a white ladder, pouring a champagne tower that looked like a mountain of crystal flowing with bubbly, ivory foam, as onlookers applauded. Waitresses circulating caviar, crab puffs, and gilded petit fours wore beaded flapper gowns in champagne white — there was even a server dressed like a cigarette girl, only wearing a case of hand-rolled chocolate cigarettes that looked paper-thin and delicious.
The 'art' Mr. Trelawney had mentioned was propped on easels: tall, embossed posters printed with William Golding's original book covers. I recognized them from old college textbooks, and from a display in the university's library on first editions by English authors.
Laughter, music, conversation, and elegant couples dancing in the middle of the room. It was a swinging event as lively as a Jazz Age speakeasy, in an elegant setting worthy of the upper crust. I was dazzled by it, because it made the 'grand affair' the manager and housekeeper spoke of seem like an understatement.
"Champagne?" A waiter held out his tray of flutes for us — thankfully, not someone from the hotel staff. I accepted one, careful to glance around for any coworkers present in the room. If Ronnie was going to learn the truth, I wanted him to learn it from me, not by accident.
"I forgot to ask. What's the name of the writer who's reading your work?" said Ronnie.
I choked. "Uh ... um ... you probably wouldn't have heard of him," I said.
"Try me," he said. "I know English wasn't my strong suit, but you made me read a few contemporary novels when we were in college. I read reviews in the Times. Sometimes, that is."
A Dark and Glorious House was not one of the books he had forced himself to read. "Alistair Davies," I said. "But it's only a 'maybe' right now. If he has time."
"Isn't he the guy who won some kind of prize for his book ... what was its name ...?"
"Uninvited Hauntings," I said. "He didn't accept the prize at the awards ceremony six years ago. It was big news in the world of literature."
"Hey, wouldn't it be nice if he introduced you to his editor? Maybe you wouldn't have to bother with the Pen and Paper prize."
"Actually, it's Ink and Inspiration," I said. "The name of the foundation's mentorship prize."
"I thought it was a publishing contract," he said.
"A publisher reads it ... but it's not a guarantee that you'll be published," I explained.
"No money?"
"They give you a grant to sponsor the process of writing the manuscript's final draft." It wasn't about the grant, but the chance to be read by one of the top literary houses in the country, maybe the world. A writer needs nerves of steel for the next part, which was a trial by fire with editors, multiple drafts, and, for the lucky, additional advice from their mentor from the Tucker program. A few writers never reached the finish line, but I was determined that I would, given the chance.
"What would you live on without a grant?" he asked, sounding puzzled. "Isn't that the whole point?"
"If the grant didn't exist, I would just work another job after my savings ran out, the way I always have," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "I've been writing the whole time I was in Los Angeles, working at the cafe, you know. Even before I was accepted by the Tucker workshop."
I was fairly used to long days waiting tables, followed by long nights of struggling with characters' motivations. The money I had saved for the mentorship program represented the first time in my life I had planned to be writing without any other employment.
"Look, don't say things like that around my father," he said, lowering his voice.
"Ronnie —"
"It's just ... you know how he is. Talk about the grant and the big publishing contract, okay? Talk them up. I want him to think of you as the writer you are, not the waitress you were." He lifted a petit four from a passing tray. "Oh, there he is — Dad, over here, Dad." He waved. "You remember Maisie, obviously."
"Miss Clark." Those steely blue eyes didn't bother to sweep over me with admiration, but latched onto my gaze firmly. "My son tells me you're on the verge of becoming one of the world's next great novelists. He's not wrong, I trust?"
"I'm doing my best," I answered. It was hard to be brave with this reply, because I was under the same stare that had melted the willpower of Wall Street in board room meetings. Maybe I didn't care about his approva
l, but it didn't make me immune to the sting of his disdain.
"You were always keen on literature. That's what you studied at the university, isn't it?" continued Mr. Sutcliffe. "You were always dragging poor Ronnie off to some book club or literature society."
"I think 'dragged' is a little unfair," I said. "Ronnie was just trying to broaden his horizons." I accepted a second glass of champagne from a server's tray, something I wouldn't do if I wasn't under duress.
"Life can't be all numbers, can it?" said Ronnie, trying to make a little joke. "But publishing contracts can be really lucrative, can't they, Maisie? That writer who's thinking about sponsoring you — he's, what? A millionaire now?"
"Probably." Someone like Alistair Davies had probably made several million from his books over the past nine years. "But I'm sure he would still be a writer if he only made a few thousand. That's how it is when you love it," I answered.
"A few thousand doesn't seem worth it," said Mr. Sutcliffe, with a grunt of contempt. "I quit my first job because I only made twenty thousand a year at it. 'Working for experience, they called it.' I wouldn't accept that answer, but went to every firm in town every day for three months until I found one willing to hire me for twice that salary. Lived by credit and gambled against mounting charge account bills because I believed in my skills all the while I was circulating my resume and cold-called executives' secretaries — that's when Circus Enterprises called and I moved into my first real office. That's called success."
Twenty thousand was more than I made last year at Fiesta Cafe. "Wouldn't it have made more sense to have saved some of that twenty thousand, then quit?" I suggested.
Ronnie cleared his throat, hastily interrupting. "What's your book about, Maisie?" he asked. "You used to be really into highbrow lit stuff — the kind of thing that Pulitzer committees love."
"It's sort of a dramatization of a classic poem," I said. "In a style inspired by gothic literature." I felt uneasy talking about it before an audience as unappreciative as Ronnie's father. "It received a positive critique in my workshop, though." Scott hadn't been crazy about it, but he did concede that my — current — style was nice.