“You look like a film star.”
She smiled, only half believing. Young, but at the same time knowing what womanhood could bring her.
“Oh Rose, I wish I could have things like this. I wish I could always be pretty.”
I cupped her chin with my palm, kissed her cheek. “You are pretty, Hannah. Always.”
And then I tasted the red lipstick with my bloodied lips, my mouth stained by hers and hers by mine, the perfume in my throat like a swallowed bud. We fell back onto the bed and I pulled her on top of me, kissing her deeply, my hands locked around her back. She placed her hands on my shoulders, pushing me away, but I knew she was shy and it was what she wanted so I held her tighter, her body writhing on top of mine, her mouth moving on mine as I kissed her hard. Still she pushed and pulled and then she wrenched herself away, still in my grip, and the fabric ripped, an awful tearing sound as the fabric at the seam gave way, leaving a gaping gash down the side of the dress.
She stood, shaking. “You weird lessie!” She held the torn red satin in her hand and looked at me, pale faced, and very close to tears. “Look what you’ve done!”
I jumped off the bed and ran to Mrs French’s room. The heat of anger and shame scorched my cheeks. But Hannah was wrong, I wasn’t a lesbian. Watching her in that dress, seeing how pretty she was, made me think of Mrs Carron. Made me think that life could be different for me, if I could make myself like that. If I could be pretty and lovable.
I barged into Mrs French’s office, where she was sat writing at her desk, hardly catching breath, “Come quickly, Miss French! Hannah has done something awful.”
She threw her pen down and followed me back to Kiki’s room, where Hannah was sat on the bed, still in the torn dress, weeping.
It took Mrs French a moment, but I have to hand it to her, she kept her dignity.
“Hannah. I want you to clean your face, take off that dress, and come down to my office. Immediately.”
Of course, Kiki had to be told what Hannah had done and the hotel had to pay for a new dress. Miss French had to let Hannah go, as she obviously couldn’t be trusted, trying on resident’s clothes like that. I admitted that I’d watched Hannah get into Kiki’s dress, and that I should have fetched Mrs French straightaway.
“I suppose you felt afraid to stop her?”
“Yes, Mrs French.”
“You’re a good worker, Rose. And you’ve been with us – how long?”
“Four years, Miss French.”
“Well, Rose, I have to give you credit for coming to get me when you did. But I’ve decided to move you to another part of the hotel. Somewhere where these silly girls who’ve had their heads turned can’t influence you. Chef is short handed at the moment, so I’ll see about a move to the kitchens. Would you like that?”
I didn’t think I’d get on in the kitchens at first, but soon found my way. Chef liked me. I never answered back, just got on with the task in hand, never gossiping or slacking like other staff that came and went. When someone new arrived they would be introduced to me. “Rose has been here forever. Any questions, just ask her.” I’d take them under my wing. I’m like that. Staff moved on all the time, waitresses were especially fickle, and I hardly got to know their names before they left. I suppose one pretty, bubbly girl is much the same as the next.
I’d moved out of the staff accommodation and got my own place by then. Each night, smelling of oil and garlic, I returned to the small flat I rented, close to the sea. It was only a street from where I’d lived with Rita. It was my home. I suppose life was okay; I was rubbing along quite well, so it was quite a shock when my world was turned upside down.
I guess it was fate that brought you to me. You needed saving and by then I was ready to love.
Bartenders have to smile, and yours was quite convincing, but I could see behind it. You had the weathered face of a sailor, ruddy cheeks and a strong jaw. Your golden-red hair was beyond control. Most people wouldn’t think that such a roguish-looking man nursed a secret pain, but I knew it. As I said, survivors can sniff out the damage. I sneaked from the kitchen and saw how your face dropped when you had your back to the customers. People assume life is easy if you’re handsome, but I could tell it wasn’t true for you.
I finished my shift and walked through to the front of the hotel, into the empty bar area. You were turned away, polishing a glass, intently rubbing it as if you were conjuring a genie. What would be your wish? I wondered.
“Can I help you, pet?”
“Half of cider, please.”
You turned on the tap, shoulders tense, and the amber overflowed the glass. You wiped the lip of the glass with a napkin, and placed the drink in front of me.
“Can you put it on my tab? I’m staff.” I showed you my name badge, and you wrote it down. You relaxed, knowing that I wasn’t a paying guest so you didn’t have to put on a show, your head dipping as you picked up another glass to polish, your hands working quickly. I wanted to put my fingers on yours, tell you to stop working. There was no wedding ring on your finger.
“So, what do you do in this God-awful place, pet?”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
“I didn’t mean the hotel. I meant the town.”
“Oh, Felixstowe’s not so bad.”
“I think it’s a shit-hole.” A vein on your forehead throbbed blue.
“Where are you from?”
“Newcastle.”
I sipped my drink. “What brought you here?” I asked, watching your strong face, the arrogant arch of your nose.
“My wife.”
I hadn’t expected that. The cold cider iced my stomach.
You looked at me, more intently than before. You were already used to disappointing women and a half-smile played on your lips as you watched my crestfallen face.
“She’s a dancer. But now she’s dancing with someone else.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. The old bastard didn’t waste any time. We only moved here three months ago and now she’s living with him.” You poured what remained of a wine bottle into one of the gleaming glasses and swigged it down in one gulp. “The bitch.”
You were so raw, your pain so fresh, that I winced for you. I thought about putting my hand on your chest, telling you your heart would heal. Who knew better than me? But I stayed silent.
I drained my glass, picked up my coat, and left.
The next day slimy Simon was working behind the bar, and my shift dragged, but the following lunchtime the waitress – Melissa or Kate, I can’t remember – bounced in, ponytail swinging. For once I was glad of her chatter.
“That blond guy’s behind the bar again! He’s so lush. I thought he fancied me until he stopped me getting a nip of vodka – said I’d have to pay. Bloody cheek. I bet he helps himself when no-one’s looking.”
I worked on after my shift had ended, waiting until the bar would be quiet. When I got there you were wiping down the counter. You looked up, and didn’t put on your false smile. I was glad.
“Drink?” you asked, and I nodded, watching you pour two glasses from an open wine bottle. I didn’t normally drink wine.
“Rose red.” You slid the stem between my fingers as you spoke. I felt the tip of your thumb graze my hand. “I’m Jason, by the way.”
“Cheers, Jason,” I lifted my glass and sipped the drink. “What did you do yesterday? I noticed it was your day off.”
You raised your eyebrows. “Been checking up on me, have you?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I wondered what you’d found to do in this ‘shit-hole’.”
“Not much. Listened to music. Slept.”
“There is stuff to do around here, you know.”
“Oh yeah? I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Let me show you then. When’s your next free day?”
It was March and it had rained every day for a week, the sky swaddling the town in grey mist. I took you to the beach where we watched the angry sea, tasted salt in our mouths. Head bent, hands deep in your pockets, you told me about Emma, your exwife. I had no idea then how much she mattered.
You said she was a beauty, a slight whistle on the wind, like you were thinking of a prize gelding you once saw race. I knew about men and beautiful women; I’d seen how one had stolen Dad away. Mrs Carron’s beauty had been manufactured from bottles and peroxide, her body wrapped in silk and drenched in scent. My mum’s beauty was too subtle to hold him, too pale and distant.
We bought coffees from a kiosk, needing to hold something warm, and we kept the hot steam close to our faces. Spring had forgotten to arrive. I went to the public loo, feeling the temperature drop by degrees in the stone building. I briskly rinsed my hands in icy water, splattering the mirror as I shook them dry. I caught my reflection briefly, and then looked closer. No, I wasn’t beautiful. My hair wasn’t a style, and just hung around my face. My eyes were brown like mud and my skin was pale. At best, I was plain. So plain that if you hadn’t been so hurt, you would never have looked at me twice. But my plainness, my tall awkward body, would help me. Emma had left you for another man, but I never would. I would always be grateful for any interest you might show. A woman like me could never hurt you.
The pub had called last orders, so we staggered into the night air. At the hotel I sneaked in the Staff Only door, following you down the corridor. You were staying in one of the bedrooms that came with the job. I’d lived in one myself once, and it was strange to be on the staff corridor again, the brown nylon carpet snagging underfoot.
You were drunk. At the pub you had downed five pints in rapid succession, so your key slid as you tried to find the lock, but I didn’t offer to help.
Eventually you managed to open the door and find the light switch, throwing your keys and wallet on the bedside table. The small room was a mess, although the dingy flowered light shade barely shed enough light to see much. It was littered with pizza boxes and kebab wrappers. I kicked a can, spilling final dregs of lager onto the floor. You frowned, as if suddenly seeing the room through my eyes. There was nowhere to sit other than the bed. It was unmade; a bunched-up duvet, a crumpled under sheet, and I resisted the urge to straighten it. As you reached to switch on the CD player a pile of clothes got knocked to the floor. I bent to pick them up.
“Don’t.”
I froze.
“I don’t want you to do that.”
I righted myself, waiting as you collected your jeans and shirts, piling them back up.
“I need a coffee. You?”
I nodded. My voice had deserted me since I entered your room, and I was glad when you left, listening to your padding feet down the corridor to the communal kitchen.
I breathed in and the smell was delicious. The heat from the boiler pipes warmed the room, intensifying the smell of you. I was used to the aroma of a kitchen and could smell orange and basil from your aftershave, but underneath the earthy scent of sweat. I gingerly found a way to the bed, where the smell was strongest, neatened the duvet and sat on the edge. I bent low over the pillow, and saw fine gold threads of lost hair. I wanted to wind one around my finger.
I looked around, greedy to find out who you were: a guitar with a broken string, a portable CD player with a scattering of discs beside it, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels with a stub of candle pushed in the neck. The only things in the room that made it yours, along with a few bits of clothing and a razor on the enamel sink. Everything else was rubbish, newspapers and cans. Your wallet was on the bedside table, with your keys. I picked up the wallet and opened it. Inside was a clear plastic window, meant for a driving licence or credit card. But you had a photo. A blonde woman, pretty and delicate, wearing a white dress, clutching a bouquet. Wide, hazel eyes, and a full smile, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. Emma.
Hearing the kitchen door bang, I returned the photo and positioned the wallet. I thought about how I must look, nervously perched on your bed. Would you wonder why you’d invited me? I must look desperate, asking for it.The travel clock on the floor said it was nearly midnight. You came in holding two mugs, handing me the one with the chip.
“The milk smelt funny, so it’s black.”
“Fine. Thanks.” I blew on the steam, knowing I wouldn’t drink it anyway. My stomach was in knots. You put on a CD, some bluesy music, and sat on the bed next to me, your shoulders hunched as you sipped coffee.
“I should be going, Jason.”
“What about your drink?”
I took a gulp and the near-boiling water burned my tongue.
“I’ll walk you home.” You sounded reluctant.
“No need. I always walk home alone after my shift.”
“Yeah, but it’s midnight.”
I stood, wanting to escape, to breathe easy, to be alone, but I also wanted to be with you. You took off your jumper, the T-shirt underneath was tight on your body. You weren’t going to walk me home, then. You rubbed your eyes. “Christ, I’m done in.”
I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I walked home alone.
You’d only arrived in Suffolk a few months earlier and had no friends in the area. I wondered why you didn’t go back to Newcastle but was afraid to ask. Even though I knew you must still love Emma, I didn’t want to hear about her. Didn’t want to hear you say that you hoped she’d come back to you. Didn’t want to think about that photo you carried in your wallet.
We went to see a Bond movie at The Palace, the two-screen cinema in Felixstowe, a crumbling place where a weathered woman still offered tea or coffee on a tray before the main feature. You took a sideways glance at me. “From the ark, isn’t it?”
“I like it.”
The Palace was never more than a quarter full. There were only a handful of people watching the film, a group of teenage boys at back, and us. Once the light came down, I could hardly focus on James Bond, fixated instead by your bare arm leaning on the armrest between us, your long legs stretched out in front. Though facing forward, my eyes flicked sideways to your splayed limbs, your fidgety hands. I was like a schoolgirl, daring to imagine your hand on my thigh. I shuffled lower in my seat, pretending to concentrate, when all my thoughts buzzed to you. It was ninety minutes of torture.