take its first few steps; an ogre that wanted to get close enough to swat the pinkish, beautiful brick-built hotel out of its way before stamping off to ruin the beauty of everything else in its path.
The function of the low wall was to delineate the boundary between the hotel and the housing estate, rather than to keep people in or out. There was a gate to the side of the courtyard that could be unlocked for deliveries, and to allow the refuse trucks to collect the bins. Since it was easy enough to walk in through the front door of the hotel, and more difficult to get in to the courtyard, Emily amused herself by speculating that the rubbish in the bins had a higher status or was more valued than the guests. But she knew that it only seemed that way because most of the security in the public areas was more discreet. Subtlety was not important at the back gate.
She thought that security must be an odd business in a hotel because the management wanted people to come in and spend money in the restaurant and bar. Visitors were free to come and go. It wasn’t a hospital or a prison or a school. But the hotel management wouldn’t want members of the public just wandering in and unwrapping a packet of sandwiches and soaking up the atmosphere; it wasn’t a public park. Despite attempts to recreate the ambience of a rich person’s country house, with Wi-Fi and decent plumbing, a hotel wasn’t a rich person’s country house and guests were not really guests so much as customers. Security in a hotel like the Coram was bound up with snobbery. It involved letting the right sort of person come in. The people who lived on the estate next door—though it would never be put quite like that—were not the right sort.
Emily was just thinking that no one would ever come this way unless they had to—and it certainly wasn’t a shortcut to the British Museum, that had been the chef’s little joke—when she saw a pale, graceful woman walking toward her. She had a face Emily recognized but couldn’t at first place. Had they met? The other woman was a few years older, around thirty. Was it someone she had seen on TV? Then she knew who it was. There had been several newspaper articles recently about her wealth and success, no doubt timed to coincide with her new book release: it was Polly Penham. “Polly!” Emily shouted, strangely relieved not to be alone here; it was a bit creepy. “It’s Emily. From the conference? Were you looking for me?”
Polly stared back at Emily in frank bewilderment for a few seconds. She looked like a fox that has been caught rootling among household rubbish and doesn’t know whether to run into the road and risk getting killed by the traffic, or stay put and keep digging until it finds something to eat. “No,” said Polly. “I wasn’t looking for you. I came out here for a cigarette.” She opened her right hand to reveal the long stub of a barely smoked cigarette. It was white tipped, probably menthol. Emily was impressed that Polly hadn’t just thrown it on the ground—all the other smokers were much less scrupulous. “Don’t tell anyone,” Polly said. “I’m supposed to have given up. Did you see that article in Women’s Health magazine?”
Emily had not. She didn’t read Women’s Health magazine.
Polly shrugged and smiled, a little guilty. “I was paid quite a big fee. I made a fuss about giving up smoking and how wonderful I feel…Is that awful? It was true at the time, but I keep relapsing. Thank goodness my livelihood comes mostly from fiction. Let’s get away from this hideous, stinking place.”
“I have to get some chocolates from the kitchen,” said Emily, pointing in the direction she had been heading.
“Oh, nonsense! You can get one of the porters to do that for you. Or, look, let’s ask the manager.”
Considering how unpleasant it was out here, it was certainly getting crowded. But here was Nik Kovacevic, walking slowly toward them from the kitchen end of the
The function of the low wall was to delineate the boundary between the hotel and the housing estate, rather than to keep people in or out. There was a gate to the side of the courtyard that could be unlocked for deliveries, and to allow the refuse trucks to collect the bins. Since it was easy enough to walk in through the front door of the hotel, and more difficult to get in to the courtyard, Emily amused herself by speculating that the rubbish in the bins had a higher status or was more valued than the guests. But she knew that it only seemed that way because most of the security in the public areas was more discreet. Subtlety was not important at the back gate.
She thought that security must be an odd business in a hotel because the management wanted people to come in and spend money in the restaurant and bar. Visitors were free to come and go. It wasn’t a hospital or a prison or a school. But the hotel management wouldn’t want members of the public just wandering in and unwrapping a packet of sandwiches and soaking up the atmosphere; it wasn’t a public park. Despite attempts to recreate the ambience of a rich person’s country house, with Wi-Fi and decent plumbing, a hotel wasn’t a rich person’s country house and guests were not really guests so much as customers. Security in a hotel like the Coram was bound up with snobbery. It involved letting the right sort of person come in. The people who lived on the estate next door—though it would never be put quite like that—were not the right sort.
Emily was just thinking that no one would ever come this way unless they had to—and it certainly wasn’t a shortcut to the British Museum, that had been the chef’s little joke—when she saw a pale, graceful woman walking toward her. She had a face Emily recognized but couldn’t at first place. Had they met? The other woman was a few years older, around thirty. Was it someone she had seen on TV? Then she knew who it was. There had been several newspaper articles recently about her wealth and success, no doubt timed to coincide with her new book release: it was Polly Penham. “Polly!” Emily shouted, strangely relieved not to be alone here; it was a bit creepy. “It’s Emily. From the conference? Were you looking for me?”
Polly stared back at Emily in frank bewilderment for a few seconds. She looked like a fox that has been caught rootling among household rubbish and doesn’t know whether to run into the road and risk getting killed by the traffic, or stay put and keep digging until it finds something to eat. “No,” said Polly. “I wasn’t looking for you. I came out here for a cigarette.” She opened her right hand to reveal the long stub of a barely smoked cigarette. It was white tipped, probably menthol. Emily was impressed that Polly hadn’t just thrown it on the ground—all the other smokers were much less scrupulous. “Don’t tell anyone,” Polly said. “I’m supposed to have given up. Did you see that article in Women’s Health magazine?”
Emily had not. She didn’t read Women’s Health magazine.
Polly shrugged and smiled, a little guilty. “I was paid quite a big fee. I made a fuss about giving up smoking and how wonderful I feel…Is that awful? It was true at the time, but I keep relapsing. Thank goodness my livelihood comes mostly from fiction. Let’s get away from this hideous, stinking place.”
“I have to get some chocolates from the kitchen,” said Emily, pointing in the direction she had been heading.
“Oh, nonsense! You can get one of the porters to do that for you. Or, look, let’s ask the manager.”
Considering how unpleasant it was out here, it was certainly getting crowded. But here was Nik Kovacevic, walking slowly toward them from the kitchen end of the
Similar Books
