The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted (5 page)

As he turned to head towards the staff dining area, he caught one of his feet in the legs of a chair. He swayed for a moment, arms paddling in the air before crashing to floor. The twisting chair sent the entire table thundering onto its side. Another two chairs were upended in the carnage. The noise was stupendous. At least one of the chairs had been smashed to kindling.

I helped Oliver up. It was like watching a newborn foal get to its feet. ‘Are you all right?' I asked.

He flicked at his trousers and adjusted his cardigan. He pulled out a pristine white handkerchief and mopped at the cut on his hand. ‘It's nothing, thank you, Kim,' he said.

A small crowd of waiters and waitresses had come over. They gawked, fascinated, but said nothing. Anthony had also come down from the reception. He cocked his head to the side and scratched at his neck.

‘Not fighting already?' he said. ‘You haven't even had a drink yet!'

‘I am sorry, sir,' said Oliver. ‘It was my fault. I tripped and… the table went over.' He looked at the debris. ‘And some chairs too.'

The staff goggled at this strange, exotic creature in their midst. Anthony glanced at them. ‘Nothing to see, folks – just another accident in the dining room. Happens all the time, as you'll soon see. Just get back to your dinner.'

As they drifted off, Oliver again apologised. ‘I am very sorry, sir – please deduct the repairs from my salary.'

‘Tush!' said Anthony. ‘Give me a hand setting this table back. The handymen will fix it all up in no time.'

We righted the table and the two broken chairs were taken away from the dining room. Anthony returned with a dustpan and brush and swept up the shards of wood and varnish that were on the carpet. It was strange to be standing there in the dining room as the manager grovelled on the floor cleaning up after our accident.

He looked up at Oliver. ‘I'm going to have to watch you,' he said. ‘You're going to be a terror when we've got real food and real customers!'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Don't call me sir – I'm Anthony.'

‘Yes, Anthony.'

‘To start off with, just take things slow,' he said. ‘It might seem easy. But becoming a good waiter takes time.' He stood up, dustpan and brush in his hand. ‘Particularly with someone like you!' He laughed. ‘Look at those feet of yours!'

For the first time, I looked at Oliver's feet. They were huge and encased in the most vile, spatulate brown leather lace-ups.

We went over to have our tea and as we joined the rest of the staff, there was a definite lull in the conversation. We could have just grabbed our spaghetti and quietly taken a seat, but after everything that had happened, that seemed tame.

‘Hi,' I said to the twenty or so staff.

Some smiled. Two of the nicer waiters waved. Darren nudged his neighbour, Janeen. ‘That's the Winker,' he said.

He meant to be heard and I heard him. But know this about me: I have never been one to refuse a dare.

‘And you must be the Wanker.' I grinned at Darren as I spooned up some bolognese.

He gawked at me. ‘Are you calling me a wanker?' he demanded.

‘Well if the cap fits…' I followed Oliver over to a table in the corner. Some of the staff giggled. They looked from me to Darren and back again.

‘Who the hell are you with your la-di-da accent anyway?'

I winked at him, goading him. ‘I'm the Winker,' I said. ‘But to my friends, I'm Kim.'

Darren chewed his spaghetti, wondering how next to insult me.
I thought that he was going to start swearing. But instead, Oliver stepped in. ‘We are going swimming after tea,' he said, a seraphic smile on his face. ‘I have a bottle of Armagnac. Would anyone like to join us?'

The rain hammered at the windows. You could hear it drumming against the glass.

A young guy, plump with blonde foppish hair, raised his hand; that was Roland. ‘I'm in.'

Janeen, sitting next to Darren, piped up. ‘I'll come,' she said, before adding, ‘Come on! It'll be fun!'

As icebreakers go, it doesn't get much better.

Anthony watched in bemusement as we trooped out of the hotel. Janeen had dug up some towels.

‘Where are you going?'

‘We're off for a swim,' I said.

‘All of you?' said Anthony. ‘In this?'

‘We have this!' Oliver flourished his bottle.

‘You're going to need a hell of a lot more than Armagnac if you're going swimming!' said Anthony. ‘You must be mad!'

‘That's why we work here!' I said.

Anthony gaped before hurrying from the dining room. ‘Wait one second!' he called.

We looked at each other. Some nervous; some pumping themselves up; some staring at the monsoon outside. Janeen was cajoling Darren, but he and a handful of others were still refusing to come. I wasn't sure whether it was the prospect of swimming in the icy Channel, or whether it was falling in with something that I had suggested.

Anthony returned with the drinks trolley. He handed over two bottles of brandy, a bottle of Armagnac, some Baileys and some Courvoisier.

‘Wish I could be joining you,' he said. ‘Somebody's got to hold the fort.'

One by one, we ducked out into the rain. Janeen and another waitress crossed the road and the rest of the bedraggled crew followed behind. No one had an umbrella. We were soaked before we'd even walked two hundred yards. We could not have been any wetter if we had been in the sea itself. It was strangely liberating. Gradually an air of chattering hilarity swept through our motley band of bathers.

‘Looks like we have started something,' Oliver said.

‘It's going to be a daily event,' I said. ‘Before breakfast?'

‘Please not before breakfast,' Roland said.

‘After dinner?' Oliver said.

‘After the pub?' Roland said.

‘We'll be keeping the lifeboat men busy.'

We followed a wet path down through the woods to the beach. It was muddy and parts of the path had been turned into a torrenting stream. Oliver slipped, taking out Roland as he careened down the hill. The pair thumped into a silver birch. Roland swore and we laughed. There was this realisation that we were on an adventure. We were all soaked, our clothes drenched, but no one gave a damn. It was a magical half hour.

After the wet woods, the path meandered through dunes of spiky grey-green marram grass. The rain looked like it was easing off and we could even see a glimpse of sunshine fighting through the clouds. The wind was still crisp. At the top of the last hillock, we paused for a moment before linking hands and tearing onto the beach. A girl fell, taking Oliver with her in a giggling heap. The rest of us were all suddenly ripping off our clothes, as if possessed by this delirious frenzy, stamping out of our wet trousers and hauling the clinging shirts from our backs.

Was it drink? Had they slipped something into our food? Or was it just this ecstatic release that you can sometimes share with a stranger?

There was a pause when it came to pants and bras. Were we really going to strip off in front of these people we didn't know? In front of these people that we'd be working with day and night for the rest of the year? Was that really such a good idea?

Oliver pulled the stopper of the Armagnac with his teeth and took an almighty swallow before passing the bottle on. Janeen, teeth chattering, gulped some brandy. I can remember Michelle and Tracy, eyes wide at all this heaving white flesh, as they sipped from a bottle of Baileys.

Oliver had opened the other bottle of brandy. He must have poured a quarter of the bottle down his throat without once pausing for breath.

‘Let us do it!' he said, and with that, he hauled off his blue boxers. We watched goggle-eyed as he raced naked to the sea.

I am not one to flaunt my nakedness. This was not the sort of thing that I ever did. I had been skinny-dipping with lovers, paddling in warm seas on star-lit nights. But I'd never been skinny-dipping on a frozen English beach with a group of strangers.

Janeen passed me a brandy bottle. I swallowed. It was rough, like drinking liquid fire and I could feel the liquor razoring the back of my throat. The second shot was easier and suddenly I could feel heat and madness pumping through my veins. I shrieked to the skies, hauled down my boxers, and in an instant I was also tearing towards the sea.

I hit the water at a flat-out sprint. It was electric cold, jagging at my skin. Arms, legs windmilling through the ice-cold water, I swam at the horizon. I was a wild thing, in a thrashing frenzy to ward off the cold. I watched as the rest of the crew raced into the water, screaming with excitement and with not a stitch of clothing on any of them. It was an extraordinary sight. Young women with swinging breasts and flailing hair, young men with white pasty, padded stomachs.

Oliver, still with his glasses on, swam over to me. It was still cold, but now at least bearable. ‘It is a good start, yes?' he said.

‘It's the perfect start.'

‘I do not think I have ever managed to get twelve young women to take all their clothes off before.' He sniffed and then added, ‘At least not as quickly as this.'

‘Hark at you!' I exclaimed. ‘I thought you Germans were doing this all the time.'

‘On the contrary,' he said. ‘It is you little Englanders who are so obsessed with nudity. On the one hand, you are quite terrified of it. Yet in your dark hearts, you cannot get enough of it.'

‘You were the first in, though,' I said.

‘Otherwise you would all still be, uh…' He paused, searching for the right word, ‘You would all still be standing on the beach, quite terrified at your own indecision!'

We had started to swim back when we saw the horsewoman. She was galloping through the surf on a magnificent piebald bullet, the sea and the sand thundering all about her. Almost directly behind her, the sun was setting low on the horizon. She had her head low, almost touching the horse's mane. She was so focused on her horse and the sea and the ground ahead of her, that she did not immediately see us. A couple of the girls, wraith white, were shuffling out of the sea.

The horsewoman eased to a walk, before bringing her horse to a halt in the thin surf. She looked at the girls. She looked at the swimmers' slick black heads out in the sea. And then she clapped her thighs and roared with laughter.

She had pulled up just near to where Oliver and I were walking up the beach.

There was no point in trying to hide my nakedness, so with a touch of a swagger I looked her in the eye. She looked the part, skin-tight white riding britches, a trim beige jacket and brown leather riding boots. The boots reached up to her knees; age and polish had given them a patina of rich chestnut. In fact, now that I think of it, the woman's clothing was absolutely faultless. Everything was of the very best. She was spattered by sand and sea. I could not tell her age. She was lovely.

She started to clap.

I gave her an elegant, practised bow, my hands sweeping out to the side, as if I were on the stage at Covent Garden.

‘I wish I could join you,' she said. Her voice was a deep, confident purr, so seductive. It was the voice of a woman in her prime. I guessed she was in her forties.

‘Don't worry,' I replied, one hand resting casually on my hip. ‘It's going to become a regular feature.'

She smiled, open, friendly. ‘And will you be taking many of your Knoll House guests with you?'

‘I certainly hope so,' I said.

‘Well…' I could feel her eyes raking me from head to toe. ‘I better come up and see you then.'

I watched in silence as she cantered off through the surf and into the distance.

On the beach, the others were trying to get dressed, but with wet clothes and not enough towels, it was difficult. The euphoria had passed and, like Adam and Eve, we were all suddenly aware of our own nakedness. The girls hid behind towels as they struggled with their trousers, and the guys turned their shirts into makeshift loincloths, tying them tight about their waists.

I hobbled from one foot to the other as I pulled on my boxers. Only Oliver had no mind for clothes, standing there in his glorious nakedness, the seawater still glittering on his glasses as he drank Armagnac. Michelle and Tracy goggled at him before Tracy rolled her eyes, their own mad swim of five minutes earlier now all but forgotten.

I remembered the four crisp fifties that my father had given to me – was it really only that morning? ‘The first round is on me!' I said. Easy come, easy go.

‘And the next round,' said Oliver. ‘That will be on me!'

It was like a shot in the arm. The team was rejuvenated.

We went back to the hotel. The shower in a Spartan breeze block outhouse was skin-tinglingly hot, thawing me from the outside in.

I tossed my wet clothes into one of the hotel's washing machines and joined the rest of the bathers as we walked to the pub. The Bankes Arms was about a mile away and it was nearly dark by the time we arrived. It was a traditional country pub, with black beams and comfortable chairs. A cluster of oddments decked about the room: animals that had been badly stuffed and Toby jugs and jolly bric-a-brac statues, a cupboard full of games and a wall of books.
A fire was blazing hot in the hearth. I liked it as soon as I walked in.

The publican, Michael, was barrel-chested, with a lustrous black moustache and a florid red face. He wore a shirt and tie, with a white apron and clips at his elbows.

He carefully inspected a fifty pound note.

‘You don't mind, do you?' he said, holding a note up to the light. ‘It's not that I don't trust you—'

‘It's just the company I keep.'

‘We don't see many of these.' He meticulously scrutinised the next note, checking not just the middle strip but also the watermarks. ‘Leastways not from the likes of the Knoll House staff.'

‘Maybe I'm different.'

‘There's no doubt about that, young man!'

I asked for a Guinness and offered Michael a drink. He had a pint of the local bitter and would sip from it occasionally as he delivered the drinks to the rest of the staff. Individually, they all came up to thank me; some introduced themselves, some not.
I was touched.

Janeen came over. She was voluptuous, poured into tight blue jeans and with a clinging V-neck T-shirt. She had full lips that were thick with scarlet lipstick. She came straight up to me and, without a word, kissed me full on the mouth.

‘Cheers,' she said. ‘I like your style.'

‘And I like yours,' I said. I leaned over and kissed her straight back. She smelt of perfume and salt and vinegar crisps.

She let out a rich peel of laughter. She was always laughing. ‘Does that mean you're my boyfriend now?'

‘I don't know.' I took a first sip of Guinness, my eyes never once leaving hers. ‘What would your other boyfriends say?'

Tracy and Michelle were watching, bemused and enthralled at what was being acted out in front of them.

‘I
do
like your style,' she said. She was drinking a pint of lager top. When she sipped, an erotic trace of white foam stayed on her top lip. The glass was red with her lipstick.

She was from London, she told me, and, like Darren had worked at the Knoll House the previous year. They'd dated for a while, but apparently things worked better between them when they were just friends.

Like me, Janeen had no idea what it was that she wanted to do with her life. She told me about the unusual spelling of her name. ‘My dad was such an idiot!' she said. ‘They'd decided on my name, so he went off to the register office to register my birth. He doesn't have a clue how to spell Janine, so he just spells it like how he thinks it ought to be spelt: J-A-N-E-E-N. What a wally!'

She grabbed my hand. ‘You're all right,' she said. ‘Let's go to the snug.'

‘The snug?'

‘Yeah, we're gonna snog in the snug.'

‘I'll bet you've never used that line before.'

Still holding my hand, she led the way to the back of the pub.

‘Are you any good?' I asked.

‘Me?' she crowed. ‘I'm the best you've ever had!'

‘And I've had a few.'

She turned and raised a suggestive eyebrow.

‘I bet you have, you dirty beast.'

The snug was the smallest snug that I had ever been into. There was just enough room for a small curved banquette and a round wooden table. There were two candles on the table and it reeked of cigarette smoke.

A young couple were already on the banquette. I recognised them from the beach.

‘'Ere!' Janeen said. ‘Richard, Anna, get your skinny arses out of here! We need this snug more than you do.'

It was all very good natured. ‘Anything for the king of the skinny-dippers,' Richard said. He was slight, with a central parting and a thick unruly mop of hair. He shook my hand as he walked out of the snug. ‘Don't do anything I wouldn't do.'

Janeen cackled. ‘So everything's up for grabs, right?'

Anna smiled as she stepped out of the snug. She had a lovely smile, but I rarely heard her speak. Of all the staff, Anna was the shyest.

Janeen and I squeezed past the table and onto the leather banquette. The walls were dark, all but black in the candlelight. Janeen's thigh was pressed tight to mine. She clapped her hand on my knee.

‘The snug,' she said.

‘And the snog?'

There was no build up, no elusive pecking as her lips roamed round mine, no gentle glide from kisses to open-mouthed abandon. She kissed me hard on the mouth, her tongue immediately wet between my lips. I don't know what perfume she wore, but if I were to smell it now, it would be immediately underpinned with the tang of crisps and the smell of smoke and beer.

Janeen was all over me, her hands quickly working their way under my shirt, bludgeoning me with her open red lips. It was surprisingly unerotic. It might perhaps have been many men's ultimate fantasy, to be ravaged by this houri within moments of meeting her. But as we kissed, I found that I was strangely dispassionate, not so much aroused as curious as to what would happen next. How far would she go? How far would I go? Would she want to sleep with me that very night – and if so, would I go through with it? Did I even want to sleep with her? I didn't know.