The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted (4 page)

‘My sister would definitely like you,' she laughed. ‘What's your name?'

I was formally introduced to Mark and Julienne and little James.

‘Do you know about the Knoll House's puddings?' said Mark.

‘No. They any good?'

‘They're the main reason we go.' The boy laughed and the woman smiled and the man patted her knee, and I glimpsed an instance of the small pleasures that are to be had from marriage. They are not like the adventures of being a single man; there is none of the electric heat that comes with waiting for your lover at the airport; there is no thrill of the chase, nor that exquisite ecstasy that comes with the taste of new love. But there are compensations: a child's smile; a cup of tea in the morning; a peck on the cheek as you go to work; and a warm meal, perhaps, when you return. Forgive me, for I know full well that this is just me, perverse to a fault. It would not matter if I were the Bachelor-King or if I were married to the most beautiful woman that has ever walked this earth. Whatever I've got, I will always want what he's having.

They dropped me at the bus stop by the hotel and they all waved me off as I shouldered my rucksack. ‘Good luck!' said the man.

‘Don't forget about that sister!' I called after them.

I gave them an affectionate wave that ended in a sloppy army salute.

I looked up at the hotel. Perhaps there was a prick of memory, but I didn't recognise the place. It was solid, white, comfortably robust and it stood at the top of a hill with sweeping views out over the forest and down to that grey wash of sea. The building seemed to be pre-war, purpose built as the perfect family hotel.

The drive curled round the hotel and as I walked up I finally saw something I recognised, without a doubt, from my childhood. The pirate ship was still sailing serene in the playground, with its black sides, its ropes and its wheel on the poop deck. I'd once climbed up to the crow's nest, my mother screaming at me to be careful as my father quietly urged me upwards.

I knew my way to the reception. As I went in, shards of memory continued to spike into the light. A swirling carpet, wooden panels and stained glass windows. It wasn't flash, like some five-star London hotel, but homely and pleasant, the sort of hotel where you would be quite comfortable coming in straight from the beach in your flip-flops and your sandy shorts.

The young receptionist was laughing away with a vigorous man in his forties: the ever-smiling Vicki and my new boss, Anthony. He, too, almost always smiled, save for the very last time I saw him. Now he stood, as he always stood, in his dark suit, positively rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of whatever the day would bring. It did not matter if the old couple were complaining about their room not being ready, or the young family belly-aching about the pet dog, for Anthony took everything in his most majestic stride. Vicki was also lovely. Too lovely for me. In my perversity, I find that a woman can almost be too lovely and too kind for me to fall in love with them. With the sweet I must always have the sour.

Anthony broke off from his joshing to turn to me. ‘And you must be… don't tell me…' He paused, trying for a moment to recognise my face before realising that we had never met. ‘You must be Kim!'

‘Hello Anthony.'

He came out of the reception, clapped me on the shoulder and shook my hand. ‘Welcome to the team!' he said. ‘You've been here before, you say?'

‘When I was six.'

‘It hasn't changed a bit,' he said. ‘They've probably even still got the same TV in the communal telly room—'

‘Probably showing the same TV programmes,' I added.

‘Ooh!' he said delightedly. ‘Oh, very good. I like that! My dear Vicki, we have a fly one here. I shall deploy him with all of our tricksiest customers.'

I shrugged and smiled and Vicki smiled at me. Freckles and a lovely blonde bob, and altogether way, way too good for the likes of me.
She was wearing the front-of-house's grey skirt and white blouse and elegant black court shoes.

‘Have you had lunch?' asked Anthony.

‘I have, thank you.'

‘Vicki will show you your room, then. It's not much, I can tell you – in fact, if it were a cell in Belmarsh, it would probably be infringing the prisoners' rights.'

‘It'll be fine,' I said. ‘I've just been in Asia for a couple of years. The rats would wander through the dorms at night.'

‘Well, I haven't heard of any rats here,' said Anthony. ‘At least not of the rodent variety.'

He winked at me and we all laughed. I already felt like I was a part of the Knoll House family. Tea was being served in a couple of hours, and until then Anthony encouraged me to explore the hotel, make myself at home. The Knoll House would be opening in a couple of days' time, the Thursday before Easter.

Vicki took me out to the staff quarters. I held the umbrella and enjoyed the feeling of her arm nudging against mine. We walked out past the hotel's new extension, past the playground, and onto a tarmacked path that meandered through the firs to the staff quarters. They were behind a little hillock and shielded by more firs: a long strip of breeze block.

‘How long have you worked here?' I asked Vicki.

‘I came a year ago,' she said. ‘I was a waitress but they moved me to the front of house.'

‘You were wasted in the dining room.'

She giggled charmingly. ‘These rooms aren't great. But we have a lot of fun. I met my boyfriend here last year. He's a barman now.'

‘I bet a lot of the staff start dating each other.'

Again, another smile. ‘Most do. Some of them even get married.'

‘I bet he'll soon have that ring on your finger.'

‘Maybe – who knows.'

She gave me a key and I opened the door to room number eighteen. It was warm and fuggy with a single bare light-bulb hanging from the ceiling. A bar-heater was on in the corner and with the window closed, the condensation was dribbling dark on the breeze block walls.

I scanned the room, taking in the grey-tiled floor, the built-in bed, the basin and the tiny wardrobe. On the bed was a pillow, white sheets and – of course – a grey blanket.

‘Perfect,' I said.

‘I'm sure you won't be spending much time here,' she said. ‘Loo and showers are in the wash-house round the corner.'

‘Perfect.'

‘If you want more blankets, just ask.' She hovered at the door. ‘See you at tea.'

I unpacked my rucksack and hung up my two pairs of black trousers. I placed my shirts, jumpers and the rest of my clothes in the two drawers. I had three books, including
War and Peace
– a book that I not so much wanted to read as thought that I ought to read. I had bizarrely thought that there would be plenty of time for reading at the Knoll House, but as it was I did not read a single word of
War and Peace
while I was there, nor have I since.

I switched off the heater, opened the window, and tried to bounce on the mattress. It was as hard as a Judo mat. It would be some weeks before I ever had a good night's sleep there.

I walked back to the hotel through the rain, gave a wave to Vicki at the reception and started to explore. On the coastal side of the hotel, there were bars and lounges, and set aside from the main hotel was the crèche and the children's dining room. The communal TV room seemed like it was out of some bizarre time warp. It was the only television in the entire hotel, and was surrounded by perhaps thirty or forty beige-coloured armchairs; the only time I have ever seen anything like it was when I used to visit my grandmother in her retirement home. Only the most desperate telly-addicts could stomach the room.

Up the main staircase, I found something else I remembered from my childhood. A chair, a Chippendale-style armchair, with wooden armrests and a padded green seat. But it was a chair for a giant, the seat fully four feet off the ground. I sat on it, my feet swinging easily above the ground. How many thousands of guests must have done the same thing before me? Or, perhaps more pertinently, how many of them, I wondered, ever had the nerve to make love on that monstrous old antique?

Upstairs, an army of maids was already giving the hotel its spring-clean.
I checked out a couple of the sea-view rooms. They were the most expensive rooms in the hotel. I was surprised at how low-key it all was. They were the sort of rooms you might find in a friend's holiday home by the sea. Each room had just a couple of twin beds, a desk and armchair and an unfussy bathroom. In place of a television there was a radio on the bedside table.
I still marvel at the incredible chutzpah of the hotel's managers, so wilfully denying their guests one of the most basic staples of modern life.

Hands in my pockets, I ambled through the warren of bedrooms, eager for the next excitement. The hotel smelled clean and aired and fizzed with expectation. To everyone I smiled. They all said hello. It seemed as if by joining the staff I had been elected into this most exclusive and affable club.

There were many more rooms on the top floor – scores of rooms, I do not know how many. As I walked along the corridor, I could hear a man's voice. He was a Londoner. ‘Come out tonight,' he said. ‘See the lads.'

A woman replied. Her English was good, but accented; perhaps Scandinavian. ‘You're so classy, Darren.'

The irony was lost on him. ‘So you'll come?'

I padded quietly along the corridor.

‘I don't think so,' she said.

‘You'll like it.'

‘Yeah.' It is difficult to express all the different meanings that she managed to convey in this single word, but I think the chief of them was mocking humour.

I walked past the room. The door was of course open. Darren was slouching against the door frame, his hand cupped over the top of the door. He looked very cool in blue jeans, white T-shirt and a tight-fitting grey V-neck. He had cropped black hair spiked with gel. He wore baseball boots with the laces undone.

Beyond Darren, I had a glimpse of the woman. Her name, I later learned, was Annette. She was the prettiest of all the housemaids and was making up one of the beds. She was in the maid's uniform, a blue gingham dress to the knees. I saw cheekbones and a mass of honey blonde hair.

Darren scowled at me. I winked.

Over the years, the carefully timed wink has become a part of my very fibre. It has such a wealth of meanings. I use it as a greeting; and as a riposte; as a flirtation; and it can also be a goodbye. It is that wonderful weapon that every child should have learned by the age of seven. My father used to deploy the wink at all times. I remember how he would be entertaining important army grandees, but would still, when he caught my eye, have time to give me a little sly wink, as if to say, ‘It's all one big fat joke, isn't it?' He had quickly taught me to wink – properly – with either eye. It would take me some years to learn how to use it judiciously. At one stage, I would even wink at teachers after I'd recited the answer to some question. Senior citizens also did not care much for a wink, perceiving it – correctly – as a sign of puppish disrespect.

But girls… Girls can, on the appropriate occasion, be charmed by a wink. It has an edge. I remember a summer party when I was a teenager. I'd just left school and was standing out in the garden with a group of students. I don't know what we were talking about, but for a second my eyes wandered. I caught the eye of a girl. She had shoulder-length black hair. I had never seen her before. It was only for the briefest of moments. On instinct I winked at her. She blushed and laughed. But I know she liked it. She told me so herself.

Winking has many uses, but it should be remembered that a wink can also be an incendiary. When I winked – cheekily, breezily – at Darren, I was in fact giving him a little dig in the ribs, as if to say, ‘Bit of a fall you've taken there.'

Then I gave him my most disarming smile before continuing to stroll on down the corridor. I could feel his eyes burning into
my back.

At teatime, I wandered over to the dining room. There was a screened off section, tucked away in the corner, where the staff had their meals. I could hear a number of them already gathered for tea. I felt no urgency to join them and instead went over to the broad bank of windows that looked out to the sea. I tried to recall whether I'd been in the room before, but nothing seemed to prick me. Rain was spitting at the windows, as I stared out at the grey swirl of the ocean.

‘It is not really swimming weather, is it?'

I turned. I liked the sound of his voice. It was very precise English, with the slightest hint of a German accent. ‘Spot of rain isn't going to put you off, is it?' I said.

He smiled at me. ‘No, it is not going to put me off. But you, on the other hand; you are obviously a fair-weather swimmer.'

‘Me?' I laughed. ‘I love swimming in the rain.'

‘Especially when it is cold.'

‘And a biting wind. You can't beat it.' I said. ‘So shall we have a dip after tea?'

‘I think it would be… how do you say in England? …churlish not to.'

He sounded like the very image of some of the bluff army cadets that I had known at university. I laughed and thrust out my hand. ‘I'm Kim.'

‘Oliver,' he said. ‘Oliver Braun.' We shook hands. I looked him in the eye and I liked what I saw. Oliver was an eccentric string bean, a good hand taller than myself, with silver-rimmed glasses and tufty hair that had to be flattened down with gel. Instead of jeans, he was looking preternaturally middle-aged in grey slacks, white shirt and – of all things – a green cardigan. But on Oliver, somehow it all worked. He had large white hairless hands and an Adam's apple that was permanently jiggling in his neck. He was also, without doubt, one of the most spectacularly clumsy people that I have ever met.

‘I think we're going to like it here,' I said.

‘Shall we eat?'