The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted (6 page)

I had had my eyes closed, concentrating on the texture of Janeen's lips against my own. I opened them. Janeen's eyes were already open. Inches apart, we stared at each other. She broke off and drank more lager.

She ruffled my hair. ‘I am the best, aren't I?'

I said the only thing that could be said, ‘You are the best.'

‘You know what I figure?' she said. ‘We could have pussyfooted around. But at the end of it all, I fancy you, you fancy me, so why not just get on with it?'

‘A good philosophy,' I said. ‘So does that mean we're going to bed later too?'

‘You
are
a dirty beast.' Another wet kiss. ‘I don't normally sleep with guys I've only just met. But seeing as you asked so nicely…'

‘You'll make an exception for me?'

‘God, I love kissing you.' She straddled me, her knees on the banquette and her blonde hair hanging in a light curtain about our cheeks.

‘You don't like kissing me. You just like kissing,' I said.

‘I can like both, can't I?'

‘Course you can.' I slipped my hands under her T-shirt and my fingers roamed about her back. ‘So along with being an A-grade kisser, are you also an A-grade lover?'

She smiled at me, wicked, taunting. ‘What do you think, my dirty, dirty, little beast?'

‘Well…' I let the word drag out. ‘You're not a virgin. At least,
I don't think you are.'

‘Dirty,' she said, kissing me again. ‘So very, very dirty.'

‘I'm not dirty,' I said. ‘I'm just cheeky.'

I think I was enjoying the banter more than the actual kissing. Was it possible that I would be able to laugh her into bed with me? I was thinking about it very clinically. It's not that I wanted to have sex with Janeen, but I didn't not want it either. I was curious. I had never once come close to sleeping with a woman that I'd only just met. So, from that point of view at least, I was up for it. It was something new and fresh and untried and therefore, almost by definition, had to be experienced.

I idly looked over Janeen's shoulder. Darren was staring at us. He was drinking a pint of lager and just standing there watching us. I had not seen him since we'd left him at the hotel to go swimming.

‘Don't look now,' I whispered in Janeen's ear. ‘Darren's watching the floor show.'

She turned round and gave him the finger. ‘Haven't you got anything better to do than watch us snog?'

He glowered, drank more lager and walked off.

‘Bless,' Janeen said. ‘He can be really sweet.'

‘Just jealous,' I said. ‘I bet once upon a time, it was him who you were snogging in the snug.'

‘Right where you're sitting now,' she said. ‘Though snogging was only the half of it.'

‘Anyway, moving swiftly on.'

‘Yes, what were we talking about?

‘We were talking about your virginity,' I said. ‘Did you really offer it up to me tonight?'

‘Please don't be gentle with me.'

It was my turn to laugh. Normally, I'm the one with the rapier repartee, but Janeen could more than hold her own.

Oliver poked his head into the snug. ‘At last I have found you!' he said. ‘May I have the pleasure of buying you lost lovers something to drink?'

‘You certainly can,' Janeen said. She wanted another lager top.

‘A lager top?' he said. ‘What is the top?'

‘Lime cordial,' she said. ‘Though blackcurrant's all right.'

‘I will try it.' He shambled off to get the drinks.

We went back to kissing. Suddenly there was a terrific crash from the bar, followed immediately by the sound of shattering glass. Everything was still.

Janeen broke off and looked at me quizzically.

‘Sounds like it'll be another few minutes before we get our drinks,' I said.

‘You think that was Oliver?'

‘Who else was it going to be?'

‘What's he going to be like as a waiter?' she asked.

‘It'll be interesting to watch.'

Janeen attacked my mouth again. The problem with this full-on kissing, and nothing but tongues and wet lips, is that it all becomes rather mechanical. You have an awareness of this shared intimacy, but after a while your mind starts to wander.

I remember thinking, Do I really want to make love with Janeen tonight? I was sure that she would be energetic, and doubtless depraved. I was not at all sure if it was what I wanted. One thing was beyond doubt: it was definitely a very bad move. Taking a new colleague off to bed on the very first day of work? It was nothing but the most feckless recklessness. But on the other hand, Janeen was sexy and up for it, and I was bitterly single and had been for many months, and to boil all my ambivalence down into just four little words. Why the hell not?

Oliver delivered our drinks. He was wearing another cardigan, yellow this time. It was wet and stained all down the front.

‘Coming to join us?' said Janeen.

‘Yes please.'

With Janeen now perched on my lap, legs to the side, there was just enough room for Oliver to sit next to us on the banquette. A candle toppled over as he squeezed past the table. I righted it.

I was pleased to see him. Kissing Janeen had been quite exciting, but in short order it had become monotonous.

‘How you doing?' Janeen asked Oliver, stretching over and ruffling his hair.

He smiled good naturedly, as one might do towards the friendly overtures of a toddler.

‘I love your glasses,' said Janeen. ‘Can I try them?'

She put them on. ‘God they're thick!' she said. ‘I can't see a thing! You're as blind as a bat!'

Oliver continued to smile. ‘They suit you, Janeen,' he said. ‘They make you look very sophisticated.'

Janeen, struck a pose, her index finger light against her cheekbone. ‘Like this?'

‘Just like my old professor,' said Oliver.

‘
Just
like her?' I asked.

‘It was a man, actually, well over seventy years old, but the similarity with Janeen is quite striking.'

Janeen took off Oliver's glasses and started to play with them, swinging them between her fingers.

‘So tell us, Oliver,' I said. ‘What brings you to the Knoll House?'

‘What do you think?' he said.

‘It's obvious,' I said. ‘You're the owner's love child, conceived during a week of passionate madness when he was stationed in Berlin. And now finally, after all these years apart, he wants to get to know his only son. Your mother has been in two minds about it for some time. Of course, she wants what's best for you and is eager for you to get to know your father, your real father. But she still worries about you. How will it be, you coming to Britain like this? Perhaps you will develop a passion for warm beer and pies. And she worries about herself too. Should she come over? Should she visit? What will it be like when, finally, she comes face to face with her one true love?'

Oliver tugged at his lower lip. ‘How did you know?'

‘It was when I saw you with the owner this afternoon, and the way that he shook you by the hand. As he turned away, there were tears in his eyes. I saw him wipe them away with his fingers.'

Oliver sighed as he steepled his fingers. ‘It has not been easy for me, but with friends like you, Kim, and you, Janeen, I believe that this whole experience will be bearable.' He stretched out his long, angular arms and held our hands. ‘Thank you, my friends.'

Janeen stared at Oliver, looked at me, and then stared at Oliver again. ‘Do you two know each other?' she said.

‘We're brothers,' Oliver said. ‘Twins separated at birth. I was brought up in Berlin, while Kim was taken back to Britain to be raised by his father's older sister. She was a spinster who lived on the outskirts of London. So although we have never met before, we have an affinity. Instinctively we know what the other is thinking.'

‘You're pulling my leg!' she said.

Oliver and I looked sombrely at each other, before breaking into a rich peel of laughter. We chinked our glasses. ‘Cheers!'

‘So what the hell are you doing here?' I asked.

‘My father runs hotels,' he said. ‘I wanted to learn about them in somewhere that was far, far away from home. And a good opportunity to improve my English.'

‘Your English is already perfect,' I said.

‘No, not yet,' he said. ‘Though perhaps if I had an English girlfriend.'

‘We'll soon sort you out,' said Janeen. ‘Specially if you keep on buying drinks for all the staff.'

We joined the rest of the staff at the bar and continued drinking till late. Janeen stood next to me, thigh to thigh and with her arm proprietarily around my waist. I looked at her through fresh eyes. She was quite pretty, brazen and brash and so totally different from anyone else that I had ever dated. Now that the frenetic kissing had stopped, I was enjoying the warmth of her leg pressed to mine.
I made up my mind. I was going to go for it. I fancied her. I fancied spending the night with her. What did I have to lose?

In life, I find that I tend to be thrown into one of two situations. The first is like a glacier; there is a grinding momentum to events. It doesn't matter what you do or what you say, nothing can change the slow inevitability of it all, and at times, it seems that the only thing that can end this inexorable grind is death itself. A marriage, a career, children, mortgages – these are the train tracks of our lives which can only be changed through the most incredible force of will. And as we get older, life on the train tracks becomes ever more enticing, and so depressingly difficult to leave.

In the other kind of situation, everything can turn on a sixpence. It does not happen so often now that I am married and middle aged. But there was a time, once, in my youth when but for a misplaced word or a single false step, things would have turned out quite, quite differently.

I never did sleep with Janeen.

As it happens, it all hung on just a few silly little words that happened to burble out of her good-natured mouth.

She'd just been off to the toilets with one of her girlfriends. They came back giggling. The rest of the staff were getting ready to leave. Janeen had a packet of vending machine condoms. She waved them above her head. ‘Look who's pulled tonight!' she said.

A cheer went up around the pub. Roland wolf-whistled and the Knoll House staff glanced at me, thinking I know not what.

I do not embarrass easily, but I blushed. Janeen came over to me and, as if picking up her prize from the tombola stall, she slipped her arm through mine and kissed me. Her red lipstick stayed on my cheek. I had been sold to Janeen and she had made her mark on me.

Oliver was inscrutable. ‘Would you first like a nightcap?'

I was drunk and on the very verge of taking Janeen back to bed. But from all the madness of the storm, it was like I had glimpsed the gleam of a lighthouse in the night. All at once, I could see the shattered ships that had already smashed themselves to pieces on the rocks.

I looked at Oliver and then I looked at Janeen who now, in the bright light of the bar seemed blowsy compared to that succubus in the snug.

‘I'd love one,' I said.

I loosed Janeen's hand from my arm and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thanks for a fun evening.'

‘But it's not over yet!' she said.

‘I'm all in tonight,' I said. ‘But another time…'

‘There's never going to be another time.'

‘Well.' I stroked her cheek. ‘It's been fun anyway.'

We walked back in clusters, Janeen with Darren, while I padded along beside Oliver. The road was not lit and we were enveloped by tendrils of moist mist.

‘About that drink,' I said.

‘Yes, I must get some more Armagnac,' he said. ‘And some more brandy too. I'm afraid it's all been drunk.'

‘So there never was any nightcap?'

‘No,' he said. ‘It was the best I could think of at the time.'

I looked at him, face forwards, striding stolidly into the darkness. Realisation dawned. Sleeping with Janeen on the first day that I'd met her would have been bad, a disaster. It would have been like opening all the stopcocks on board ship just as I was setting sail out to sea.

‘Thanks,' I said.

‘You are welcome,' he said. For a while we walked in silence. I liked the sound of the gravel underneath our boots. ‘She is very pretty.'

‘She'll have lots of boyfriends.'

‘If that is the case, you are better to set yourself apart.'

‘Untouchable. An iceberg.'

‘I am told that women are most attracted to what it is they cannot have.'

I snorted. ‘Just like the rest of us then.'

I wondered if it was part of our hard wiring. From our earliest years, we hear our mothers say that we can't have something – whether it's a chocolate or a toy – and from that moment it becomes an obsession. From mere mild curiosity, we suddenly long for this forbidden fruit more than anything else in the world. I find this business of desire all so unfathomable. What is it that makes me swoon one moment and feel entirely indifferent the next? They call it chemistry, but even now, after I have fallen in love many times over, I still have no inkling what it is that creates this elusive alchemy.

Anthony gave each of the knives a polish with his napkin and placed them side by side on the table. He examined the two forks and the spoon before also positioning them on the table. A white napkin was folded and placed onto a side plate. He held the wine glass up to the light and that was also inspected before being placed on the table.

We watched, committing all these little details to memory. For the first time we were in our hotel uniforms, black trousers and white tunics. Some of the waiters felt embarrassed at having to wear this label of servitude. But after a lifetime of school uniform, it was like slipping back into a pair of comfortable old slippers. I liked the tunic and I liked the name tag. I had admired myself in the bathroom mirror. It was a good cut and I looked sleek.

The faces of the waiters and waitresses were a perfect study. Some, like Oliver, were devouring every detail. The old hands, like Janeen and Darren, were standing at the back. I noticed how his hand strayed to her bottom. She moved it away, but smiled all the same.
I was lurking somewhere in the middle, feigning interest, as I quietly sized up the women. Michelle was sweet; Tracy was pretty; Janeen was almost sexy. I can't really put my finger on it, but her looks and her hair had this synthetic quality, appealing from afar, but up close it left me cold. I was relieved that I had not slept with her. There were some other women I liked. But no one left me weak at the knees.

‘We got that?' asked Anthony. ‘The cutlery and the glassware has to be spotless. If it isn't, you don't just dump it back in the cutlery box. You go and clean it!'

As one, we nodded. At lunchtime, we were going to be given our first dry run. A number of locals, friends of the management, had been invited over for a cheap lunch. It was considered to be a safer way of introducing us to fine dining rather than inflicting us straight onto the paying customers.

We were allocated our stations. I was given a number of tables in the corner of the room, set by the windows. Even at a glance, I could see that they were the best tables in the house, with views out over the coast. The best table of all was directly in the corner. With your back to the wall, you looked out at the entire dining room, while out of the windows you had a commanding view of the gardens and the sea.

‘This is Enid Blyton's table,' Anthony said. ‘She was a regular here with her husband. He was a keen golfer.'

‘Who sits here now then?' I asked.

‘Wait and see,' he said. ‘But let us just say people with high expectations. Such clientele as may be looking for that little bit more.'

‘The awkward squad?'

‘It'll be your job to make sure they stay happy. Be polite, but not servile. Smile, but without being unctuous. Chat charmingly, but without being overfamiliar. Engage with the clientele, but know when to shut up. And flirt with the girls if you must, but do please, Kim, kindly refrain from sleeping with them.'

‘At least in the hotel.'

‘And also out of it.' He adjusted some of the cutlery that I had already laid out. ‘Leave enough room for the side plates.'

‘We set the vegetables in a bowl in the middle and let them help themselves,' he continued. ‘You can try silver service if you like, but practice by yourself first of all.'

By chance, his eyes happened to rest on Oliver, who was diligently laying up some of the window tables next to mine. He was placing the cutlery with the most fervent concentration, peering at each knife, each fork, before placing them very precisely onto the table.

Anthony shook his head. ‘He means well, that boy,' he said. ‘But I'm not sure the dining room is for him.'

‘He's eager,' I said.

‘I know that!' said Anthony. ‘Perhaps if we gave him a trolley… there might be less chance of him doing himself a mischief.'

‘Or the customers.'

Oliver gave the table one last critical survey, before spotting a smudge on one of the side plates. He snatched up the plate and polished it with a dishcloth from his belt. His cuff flicked one of the glasses. It bounced off a chair and fell to the floor, but miraculously did not smash.

Anthony winced as he walked away. He called out over his shoulder. ‘Oliver! Well done! Good job! You've got it!'

We had an hour to ourselves before lunch. I went out to the playground and sat on one of the swings. Very gently, I started to swing. My feet scuffed in the play bark. I wondered if my mother had ever pushed me on that swing when I was younger.

I wondered if I was going to enjoy working at the hotel.

‘Can I join you?'

‘Of course,' I said, without turning round. It was one of the maids and when I looked at her, I saw that it was the pretty blonde woman who had been chatted up by Darren the previous day.

‘Hi,' she said. ‘I'm Annette.'

‘Kim,' I said. ‘Enjoying Studland?'

‘It beats Sweden.'

‘I've never been to Sweden. I've always wanted to go.'

‘And I've always wanted to leave.' We were both swinging in tandem. She was like a carefree young girl. ‘Why do you want to go to Sweden?'

‘The women are so beautiful.' I caught her eye, and there was just enough edge on my voice for it to glide from the cheesy to the ironic.

Annette laughed. She was beautiful. What a gorgeous moment, swinging in the spring sun with that beautiful Swede by my side.

‘Why did you want to leave Sweden?' I asked.

‘The men,' she said. ‘So ugly.'

‘I'll bet they are.'

‘And over in England…'

‘The men aren't much better,' I said.

‘You said it!'

We both laughed. Although her English was perfect, Annette had that delicious hurdy-gurdy accent that can only come from Scandinavia.

‘Tough break,' I said. ‘You come all the way over to England searching for fit guys, and all you find is—'

‘That I have jumped straight out of the frying pan into the furnace,' she said.

‘Why aren't you working in the dining room?' I said.

‘All the jobs had gone,' she said. ‘But I like it with the maids.'

‘Don't have to mix with the men.'

‘So ugly!'

‘Particularly that guy who was asking you to the pub yesterday.'

‘Yes!' she said. ‘He was bad!' She looked at me meaningfully. ‘But there are many men here who are much worse!'

I laughed. I was so happy, swinging with her in the sun. I looked at her bare legs, and the way her dress clung to her thighs.

An open-top Mercedes sports car, sky blue, was cruising past the playground. There were two women inside. The driver had brown hair and sunglasses, while her companion was a blonde with a red beret.

‘Must be coming up to lunchtime,' I said.

Annette waved as I wandered out of the playground. By chance
I happened to leave just as the two women were getting out of their car. They were both about forty and chic. The driver, a brunette, was the more understated in a suede skirt and a light top. She had a warm, open face. She was laughing. Her blonde passenger was wearing a tight black skirt and a ruffled blouse in shocking pink. They were on the forecourt when Anthony bustled outside to greet them. He kissed them both before leading them in. His hand was cupped very lightly on the brunette's back.

In the dining room, there was an anticipatory hum as we waited for the first guests. Black shoes gleamed with new polish. Trousers were pressed, tunics pristine. I rubbed my hands together. They were wet with sweat. Oliver was standing by the windows looking out to the sea, his hands behind his back. His Adam's apple bobbled in his throat.

‘I have never done this before,' he said. ‘My father would not allow it.'

‘You're going to be fantastic,' I said.

‘I am very clumsy. I smash things.'

‘You'll be fine. They'll think it's all part of the show.'

The first diners were coming into the room. Anthony escorted them to their tables. A young family from Swanage was given a table by the windows. The children were on best behaviour.

I gave them a minute to settle and then went over with some menus. I smiled, cheery, effusive. ‘Welcome to the Knoll House Hotel,' I said. It was perhaps a little formal, but I stuck with that opening line for the rest of my time there.

I fetched them bread and a jug of water, and milk for the children and a bottle of Sancerre for the parents. I poured the wine, giving the bottle a twist to stop the drips. The man tasted it. ‘Lovely,' he said. I filled the two glasses.

Anthony had been watching me from the central station. ‘Very nicely done, Kim,' he said. ‘Let me introduce you to some diners.
I would like you to look after them.'

They were the two women who I'd seen earlier in the sky-blue Mercedes. They were already sitting at Enid Blyton's table. The brunette was sitting with her back to the wall. She had a light smile as we walked over; she was interested in everything and everyone.

‘Ladies, this is Kim. He'll be looking after you today. Kim, this is Greta.' The woman with the blonde hair shook my hand. She had a tight, bird-like face, quite angular. ‘Hi Kim,' she said.

‘And this' – was there a beat just then, or is it my imagination? – ‘is Cally.'

Cally smiled at me. She looked playful, fun. Up close, I would have said she was in her late thirties. No rings on her fingers. She was wreathed in a halo of confidence.

‘Hi Greta, hi Cally,' I said. We all looked at each other. I wasn't quite sure if it was a social situation or whether I should be getting on with my job. ‘Can I get you the wine list?'

‘We'll have a bottle of the house champagne,' Cally said. She was English, not country, but she was not City either; she could glide easily between the two. ‘Thank you, Kim.'

I walked away with Anthony. He was pleased and laid a hand on my shoulder. I could hear Greta laughing behind us. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something quite brazen about her. The other woman, Cally, was the kinder of the two.

I filled a wine cooler with ice and took it out to the table with two champagne flutes. The champagne was in the fridge. I took the bottle and proffered it to the ladies. ‘Thank you,' Cally said.

They watched in silence as I peeled back the foil. I unscrewed the cork wire and, very gently, eased off the cork. It hissed as it popped and a trace of white vapour flickered around the neck. I caught a whiff of the champagne. I would have liked to have had a glass myself.

‘You've done this before,' Greta said.

‘Many times.' Since it was house champagne, I didn't offer them a taste. I poured an inch of champagne into each glass. When the fizz ebbed, I topped up the glasses.

‘So do you have a girlfriend?' Greta said. A smile was playing on her lips as she stared at me.

‘I don't have a girlfriend,' I said, looking at her steadily. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?'

‘No, I don't,' she said. ‘Are you offering?'

‘Are you asking?'

I don't think Greta had expected such a lively interchange. I glanced for a moment at Cally. She wanted nothing to do with this little game. She sipped her champagne and stared out of the window.

‘You're probably way too young for me,' Greta said. ‘But champagne does make me very randy.'

Again I looked at Cally. She seemed quite serene, oblivious to her friend's banter. She did not look at me.

The two women each had a crab salad. I offered them bread rolls but they did not want any. The dining room was fast filling up. There was no time for any more easy banter.

I remember it being like an endless conveyor belt of little tasks, constantly juggling from one thing to the next. I had about seven tables in all and would scurry from one to the next trying to keep my charges happy: the young family wanted more bread for the boy; the old couple by the window were still waiting for their starters; another family needed their plates cleared before they descended on the pudding table; and in the corner of my eye,
I glimpsed Greta waving the empty bottle of champagne above her head.

When I took over the second bottle of champagne, Greta had disappeared to the restrooms. Cally was sitting very easily at the table, her chin upon her hand, watching me in silence.

‘What are you doing here?' she said.

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘I'm marking time.'

‘All your university friends are working in London.' I noticed her fingers for the first time. They were strong, powerful hands and flecked with paint. For a moment her hand strayed to her mouth before she touched her neck.

‘They are working in London,' I said.

‘But you don't want to go because you don't know what to do.'

I laughed as I worked at the cork. ‘I didn't know you knew my stepmother.'

‘You're different from the other waiters here.'

I suddenly realised why her fingers were flecked with paint. ‘So what's it like being the local artist?'

She smiled easily and looked down at her hands. ‘Very good,' she said. ‘You're going to do well.'

The cork popped and I made to fill her glass. ‘Not for me, thank you,' she said. ‘Drinking at lunch always kills the afternoon.'

Looking back, I wonder if, even at that very early stage, there was a frisson between us. I think I liked her. I wanted to impress her. And I definitely found her beautiful; age, as I have already said, is irrelevant to beauty. If you've got it, you've got it. But there was also an awareness that Cally was unattainable. She was out of my league.

I could sense that my other guests were all clamouring for my attention. But I wanted to talk to Cally.

‘What will you be doing this afternoon?' I said.

‘Just painting,' she said. ‘At teatime I'll go for a ride.'

‘What do you paint?' I leaned over the table and filled her glass with water.