courtyard, head down, swinging arms covered hand to elbow in grubby gauntlet gloves. His gait was strange. He was wearing galoshes, and he had a cabbage leaf stuck to the sole of his left boot, but it wasn’t that. He exaggerated each step, as if he was trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other. Emily wondered if he had a drink problem. He had almost reached them before he even noticed them. His face was greenishly pale, his lips pressed together as if there was a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Ladies,” said Nik when he eventually noticed them. “This is no place for guests. Are you lost? Please follow me.” He began to make small but vigorous circular motions with his right arm: a small boy churning up his bathwater to make bubbles. They walked with him back toward the door that would take them into the shabby corridor, and then into the hotel dining room.
“I don’t know,” said Emily, feeling guilty now for neglecting her duty just so she could get away from the smell of the bins. “The chocolates? They’re in the kitchen. I really ought to—”
“They will be delivered to the conference area,” said Nik, removing his gloves and galoshes, and slipping his feet into the polished black shoes that had been left by the door. “Allow me to arrange it.”
Emily hesitated. She had promised Morgana, after all. But Nik put his arm up to bar her way. He said, “I insist.”
“I’ll get my books and help you with the gift bags,” Polly said. Emily left her waiting in the lobby for the elevator that would take her up to her room, its teasingly slow progress toward the ground floor tracked by the lights on an art deco brass panel. It seemed to hint that guests might have been waiting for the elevator to arrive since the 1930s.
“Don’t you wish you had a private elevator that could whiz you up and down really quickly between floors?”
Polly laughed. “Is that all you want? If there’s ever a vacancy, I’ll be your fairy godmother, Emily.”
Emily walked downstairs to the basement conference area where uniformed staff were setting up for the private dinner in the Montagu room later that night, the waiters and waitresses whispering and discreet as they brought in cutlery and glasses on a rattling trolley, the porters shouting instructions noisily to each other as they set up the tables. She looked in and smiled and waved hello. They nodded, smiled or ignored her.
“Yes, miss?” said one of the waitresses, clearly half expecting some daft instruction to break it all down and set it up differently. Her name badge said she was called Maria.
“No, it’s fine. Just having a look,” said Emily. “Thanks, Maria.”
The conference area was a place of low ceilings with no natural light. There was a cloth-covered table on one side of the room, and under it there was a row of gilt-colored paper gift bags with gold ribbons for handles. A big, brown cardboard box had been set on the table. It was stamped all over with branding for Zhush!, a company that made sexy lingerie—presumably its contents were also intended for the gift bags. Emily went up to it and tried lifting it. Whatever was inside weighed next to nothing. Either it was filled with the emperor’s new clothes, or something expensively wispy. Emily had lived long enough to know this: the smaller the lingerie, the more expensive it is. So it was probably something wispy.
Polly arrived promptly in a service elevator with a porter, he carrying the chocolates, she carrying a stack of her new paperbacks, She Knew Too Much , which were also to go into the bags. Stickers on the front of each copy of Polly’s book proclaimed that it had already been chosen for discussion by a television book club.
Emily wondered if any of the other authors ever got jealous of Polly’s success. But Polly was too young, too practical, too unshowy, too unpretentious, too helpful to inspire jealousy. Not many people would have stood there and helped Emily
“Ladies,” said Nik when he eventually noticed them. “This is no place for guests. Are you lost? Please follow me.” He began to make small but vigorous circular motions with his right arm: a small boy churning up his bathwater to make bubbles. They walked with him back toward the door that would take them into the shabby corridor, and then into the hotel dining room.
“I don’t know,” said Emily, feeling guilty now for neglecting her duty just so she could get away from the smell of the bins. “The chocolates? They’re in the kitchen. I really ought to—”
“They will be delivered to the conference area,” said Nik, removing his gloves and galoshes, and slipping his feet into the polished black shoes that had been left by the door. “Allow me to arrange it.”
Emily hesitated. She had promised Morgana, after all. But Nik put his arm up to bar her way. He said, “I insist.”
“I’ll get my books and help you with the gift bags,” Polly said. Emily left her waiting in the lobby for the elevator that would take her up to her room, its teasingly slow progress toward the ground floor tracked by the lights on an art deco brass panel. It seemed to hint that guests might have been waiting for the elevator to arrive since the 1930s.
“Don’t you wish you had a private elevator that could whiz you up and down really quickly between floors?”
Polly laughed. “Is that all you want? If there’s ever a vacancy, I’ll be your fairy godmother, Emily.”
Emily walked downstairs to the basement conference area where uniformed staff were setting up for the private dinner in the Montagu room later that night, the waiters and waitresses whispering and discreet as they brought in cutlery and glasses on a rattling trolley, the porters shouting instructions noisily to each other as they set up the tables. She looked in and smiled and waved hello. They nodded, smiled or ignored her.
“Yes, miss?” said one of the waitresses, clearly half expecting some daft instruction to break it all down and set it up differently. Her name badge said she was called Maria.
“No, it’s fine. Just having a look,” said Emily. “Thanks, Maria.”
The conference area was a place of low ceilings with no natural light. There was a cloth-covered table on one side of the room, and under it there was a row of gilt-colored paper gift bags with gold ribbons for handles. A big, brown cardboard box had been set on the table. It was stamped all over with branding for Zhush!, a company that made sexy lingerie—presumably its contents were also intended for the gift bags. Emily went up to it and tried lifting it. Whatever was inside weighed next to nothing. Either it was filled with the emperor’s new clothes, or something expensively wispy. Emily had lived long enough to know this: the smaller the lingerie, the more expensive it is. So it was probably something wispy.
Polly arrived promptly in a service elevator with a porter, he carrying the chocolates, she carrying a stack of her new paperbacks, She Knew Too Much , which were also to go into the bags. Stickers on the front of each copy of Polly’s book proclaimed that it had already been chosen for discussion by a television book club.
Emily wondered if any of the other authors ever got jealous of Polly’s success. But Polly was too young, too practical, too unshowy, too unpretentious, too helpful to inspire jealousy. Not many people would have stood there and helped Emily
Similar Books
