Room Service

By Diana Hunt

Room Service, the memoir of a young woman's progress from Norfolk country girl to success in London, is narrated by Diana Hunt from the time she leaves college. She is an ambitious, unscrupulous bisexual predator, with brains (she is bilingual) and beauty, who uses both to achieve her goals. This intriguing debut novel is another critically acclaimed title in Andrews UK's New Author range.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781849891554

Book preview

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Prologue

TEN YEARS PREVIOUSLY

Cromer, North Norfolk

THE FIRST PERSON I SAW DIE (but not by my hand on this occasion) was on my tenth birthday. My father had taken his family - me ( Diana), my mother, and brother Peter - to Cromer for the day. We had eaten our picnic lunch, and so my father had said he and I would have a stroll in the spring sunshine along the shingle beach. My brother had stayed with my mother on the edge of the promenade; probably more interested in two boys playing football nearby than going for walks with us. The fishermen had landed their catch and had now put up placards against their black wooden huts, announcing, FRESH CROMER CRABS (where else would their crabs come from?).

My father held my hand as we walked, and I could smell the tobacco pouch he kept in his jacket pocket. I used to love that smell - rich, mysterious, secret somehow. Sometimes he let me help with the ritual of pipe-filling (when my mother wasn’t looking). He would take two flakes from the rubber-lined pouch, place a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table and I would rub the tobacco between my hands until it made a pile like breadcrumbs. He would then slowly fill the bowl, strike a match and draw the flame slowly over the contents.

I would watch fascinated as the tobacco turned a deep red. It also made me cough; my father would laugh, tell me to wash my hands at the kitchen sink, then give me a toffee. I think that was the only secret he kept from my mother. I’m sure that he had no others. I was shortly to learn differently.

We had now walked about a quarter of a mile, so we halted and stood and looked out to sea; the water was calm, grey, flat; there were few people on the beach: early spring on the North Norfolk coast can be very cold. Then we noticed a young woman walk to the water’s edge. She seemed to stand there for an age; for some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Then, very slowly, she started to remove her clothes. She pulled her her dress over her head, folded it neatly and placed it at her feet. Nobody seemed to notice this except my father and me. I suppose I thought she was wearing a two-piece bathing costume, and she would start to paddle from the water’s edge. But she removed her bra and slipped off her pants, placing them carefully on her dress. She walked slowly into the water, and it moved higher and higher up her body, until she seemed to just float away - then she vanished. All this had now attracted attention from people further down the beach; I saw two men run towards the spot where she had left her clothes.

My father grasped my hand and pulled me away, walking quickly from the shingle. ‘But, Dad; that lady...’ ‘Come on, lovey; nothing to do with us. Your mother’ll wonder where we’ve got to’. I remember being dismayed with my father: why didn’t he do something? ‘And don’t say anything to Mum, all right?’ I was too stunned to reply, and on the way home I never spoke and I was ashamed at my my mother and father exchanging banalities on the journey. At that moment - I realize now - I lost something, whether it was respect, awe of my parents, I don’t know. Because I have never forgotten that day, my tenth birthday. In some odd kind of way it has prompted me to write this memoir, so read on.

Chapter 1

KING’S LYNN, NORFOLK

A POOR NORFOLK GIRL....That is not just a throwaway line: that is who I was until my metamorphosis - a deliberate change, not of character, but of attitude. So let me tell you about myself.

What do you think when you hear of King’s Lynn? The famous city of seafarers? Of Captain Vancouver? Or the tourists who swarm into my town in summer searching for its maritime history? Of Her Maj’s other place at Sandringham?

My family did not live anywhere near the tourist spots, but on the edge of the town, in a short row of terraced houses. We could be described, in French terms, as members of the petit-bourgeiosie. My father had a respectable, if humdrum, job as a senior wages clerk in a company on the industrial estate across the river Great Ouse. My mother had worked in the same department as my father apart from maternity leave when I and my brother Peter were born.

She was a tall, slim, obsessively clean woman: I inherited her height, but not her attitude. My mother’d favourite word was ‘nice’ - her world was incredibly narrow, divided into what was ‘nice’ or ‘not nice’. She always kept our home immaculately clean; and ran a strict regime of attendance. Each day was set aside for a particular task within our four walls.

My mother really lived in fear; a fear of being seen not to reach the standards she set for herself - I believe her greatest fear was, ‘What would people think?’ That included not only our relations, but neighbours who might call in unexpectedly. (I couldn’t care less what people thought.) Each Sunday we would have ‘tea’ in the front parlour; nobody ever entered that holy-of-holies. It was kept for ‘best’ (I used to ask myself, Best what?).

I can see now that it was easy for me to sneer at all this; but as I grew up I felt suffocated by my home. What of my father? He of course went along with my mother’s dominion of their home; his kingdom was his garden and his refuge his shed. In the early summer his garden was beautiful, but to me it was too regimented: neat rows of flowers, with not a weed in sight and the hedge clipped to a barber-like perfection. My mother, of course, said that we had the nicest garden in the street. There is a picture of my father in my mind, his bulky frame leaning over a line of chrysathanemums, his pipe in his mouth (my mother would not allow him to smoke it in the house).

My mother was a snob - but you can see that I was too.

At that time, I dreamed of escaping that comfortable prison. And as I was getting to the end of my studies at college I had laid a plan. I did this by listing my assets. I learned that I had a facility for languages even when at junior school; learning French was pleasurable; Italian, I walked through slowly but steadily. I was also aware that I was a beautiful young woman: tall, straight backed; lustrous black hair; oval face, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones; sensuous lips.

I had a brain and I was healthy; not athletic in the usual, sporty sense, but I had been a member of King’s Lynn judo club since I was fourteen and I had climbed the ‘coloured belt’ ladder until I was now aiming for a 1st kyu (brown), which led to the ultimate - the coveted black belt.

So nothing was going to hold me back.

I was in my final year at college when it happened. I had biked home, and not expecting anyone except my mother to be there: it was the day my father was at the weekly gardening club meeting; Peter was presumably with his mates, dismantling a motor-bike ( or whatever lads of his age do). I locked my bicycle in the shed, and walked into the house; it was very quiet. There was no sign of my mother, either in the kitchen or the livingroom. I called her. ‘Mum?’ No answer. I stood still for a moment, then I heard a noise from the direction of the bathroom - it was horrible; a deep coughing, a retching, and a moan. I ran upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Mum, are you all right?’ I pushed the door; it was ajar.

My mother was kneeling over the lavatory pan, being sick, a splash of blood ran over the edge, her face was as white as the bowl. ‘Mum! What’s happened?’

‘I’ll be all right, dear - must have been something I ate.’ She retched again.

Oh, no, she wasn’t: I ran downstairs and phoned for an ambulance, then I helped her into the bedroom and gave her a glass of water. I went with her in the ambulance after leaving a note for my father and Peter. I knew before she was diagnosed that it was cancer - colonic, in fact, at an advanced stage. She had been feeling ill and being sick for weeks. She had told no one, with the usual reason of ‘not wanting to make a fuss.’ I couldn’t imagine (in my young healthy state) why anyone could be so obtuse; to attempt to deceive themselves like that.

But my first reaction when I accompanied my mother in the ambulance and eventually spoke to the doctor was one of despair. Followed by one of anger - how could she be so selfish? Perhaps if she had reported to her doctor immediately she wouldn’t be so ill. But my motives were selfish, of course: this tragedy could seriously interfere with my future. And what about my father and brother? I knew who would be lumbered with them! Again that anger coursed through me like a virus. How dare they!

So we went through the routine over the months that so many patients and their families experienced. My mother had an exploratory operation: result: the tumour was too far advanced to be operable. My father’s reaction was to turn into himself; he refused to discuss it. Evening after evening, after we had visited my mother in hospital (she spent ten days there - it seemed like a hundred) I would make his supper then he would wander off into his garden, pipe in his mouth, and spend hours there or in his shed. One evening, when he had gone to bed, I was putting my bike away after judo practice when I found a bottle of whisky behind the plant pots. God - now he was escaping into a bottle. That was all I needed. My brother Peter handled the situation like his father: denial. He would creep up the stairs and knock on my bedroom door and ask, in a whisper, how mum was. I gave him the standard reply. During the weeks ahead I learnt a lot how men handle an emotional crisis. It has stood me in good stead ever since.

Eventually, my mother came home and I turned the front (‘best’) parlour into a sickroom. The routine was always the same; I would come home from college, attend to my mother, cleaning and making everything hygienic - in other words, I got all the disgusting jobs. My father used to sit next to her in an evening, saying nothing, watching his wife doped to the eyeballs, the drip on the hanger next to the bed was almost hypnotic to him. Did he really think that was some type of life-giving fluid that would cure her? At one time I came down the stairs to see him shutting the parlour door slowly and quietly behind him like closing the lid of a tomb. That was the only time I felt like crying.

Eventually, I had had enough. All this was affecting my studies. I cared about the family, but not to let it affect what I considered to be my future. I was now exasperated. One evening when my father and brother were eating their supper in silence, I broke into this wall and said:

‘Dad, Peter, I want you to listen to me,’ They didn’t answer. ‘I need a break, so I’m going to take one.’

My father, alarmed, said: ‘What do you mean?’ Peter just looked down at his plate.

Exasperated, I replied: ‘This is what is going to happen. For two days each week I’m not going to be here. I’ve got myself a part-time job - the evening shift at the Ship Hotel. I won’t be home until early morning. All those two days I’ll be revising for my exams. You will have to look after Mum on your own, or get someone in...’

My father got really upset. ‘I can’t do that! I can’t take time off work..’

And I got really cross. ‘What the hell do you think is going on here, Dad? Your wife is desperately ill in the next room - do you think she’s going to recover? How much time do you think Mum has got?’

My patience was now exhausted: But I had my way: I started my job the following evening. The Ship Hotel faced the river, across from the tourist office. It was typical of the type put up for a transient holiday population: clean, light, plainly furnished bedrooms with an en-suite shower, loo, and wash-basin. To the right of the reception desk was a bar and then the restaurant. ( the manager, Jim Morrison, said when he interviewed me, ‘You’re entitled to a free supper, Diana; but you won’t see any fancy French haute cuisine, just ordinary fresh, plain English grub’).

The manager’s office was behind the reception desk; that would be my station after 10p.m. - with the door locked. I had all sorts of lectures on the security of the establishment and health and safety rules. ‘It’s a ruddy nightmare, Diana,’ Morrison was an overweight man in his thirties with thinning hair and tired eyes’ but I liked him, and he always treated me decently. He was pleased that I spoke French. ‘You wouldn’t know any German, by any chance, would you?’ ‘A few phrases, Mr Morrison.’

‘Well, that’s useful. We get a few krauts here occasionally. They come up from Lowestoft - seafaring men, they like to long-rod fish off our coast.’

It intrigued me that a young man would use the phrase ‘krauts’; a term of abuse used by his grandfather.

So that was how the next few weeks passed; my mother slowly declining; my father and brother trying to adapt to the trauma. But I was determined that nothing should interfere with my two days; and anyway, I was busy revising. I would sit in the manager’s office after 10 p.m. with my notebooks and my supper of ‘plain, fresh English grub’ (which was excellent). Another rule I put in place was that no one was allowed to phone me at work, except in a really bad emergency. I said to myself, ‘first stage achieved. I had even persuaded the GPs’ practice to organize a Macmillan nurse to come in. I cared for my family, but not enough to allow them to thwart any of my plans. I had done enough.

But then something else came along to test me. I was on duty behind the reception (about 9.30 p.m.); the hotel lobby was empty; the last diners were about to leave the restaurant, and I was staring through the long glass automatic doors onto the forecourt. In the middle of this was a round stone fountain; at its peak was a statue in the shape of s dolphin, its mouth pointing to the sky: every three minutes (I timed it) it would spout a stream of water, which trickled down into the pond. Then stop. I found myself willing it to start again, timing it once more. It was hypnotic. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

The doors faced west; consequently, when two figures appeared at the opening doors they looked loke silhouettes. I jerked my mind back to what I was supposed to be doing. ‘Good evening, sir.’

The taller of the two said: ‘Good evening. You should have a reservation, name of Maddox?’ I pressed a few buttons on the screen. ‘Yes, Mr Maddox: one twin room en-suite: for one night. May I have your credit card details?’

‘That won’t be necessary. Will you take cash. I wish to pay the full amount now.’

‘Of course, Mr Maddox. But I won’t be able to give you a complete receipt until the morning. Will a till receipt be all right?’

‘That will be adequate.’ Maddox seemed to be a stiff-upper-lip character. He was smartly dressed in a light-weight tweed suit, white shirt and club tie. His shoes were highly polished brogues. That I took in in an instant. But what intrigued me was his companion: her was shorter and squat; with his roll-neck sweater and leather jacket he looked as if he had just come ashore from a cargo boat. He had flat slavic features and kept looking over his shoulder while Mr Maddox completed the formalities. They didn’t ask for refreshment or help with their baggage. A strange couple; I didn’t get the impression that they were ‘gay’; but who knows?

You get all sorts in hotels; I put them out of my mind. It was about 11 p.m. And I was in the manager’s office having my supper and writing an essay on Proust ( don’t you think that A la Recherche du Temps Perduis the most boring novel ever written?), when I realized with annoyance that I had left a note-book in my locker in the staff cloakroom. I locked the office door behind me, turned left at the reception desk; walked past the water-dispensing machine and descended the stairs to the staff room.

Half way down the stairs I turned left after a small landing: it was then that I heard a noise - a kind of shuffling. I turned and looked up. It was Maddox’s companion. I said, ‘What do you want?’ He moved forward. I instinctively moved on balance. Then he pushed his hand down my blouse, tearing it.

‘You like me, missy?’

He was leaning forward and attempting to grab my collar with his other hand; as he got closer I could smell the whisky on his breath. I quickly blocked his arm with an aikido jab on the radial nerve. He yelped and turned, and still holding the elbow I turned, dropped on my knees and pulled him sharply over my back. He went face forward swiftly to the floor with a crash, his head cracking against the concrete floor. He didn’t move.

Deep breaths, Diana; deep breaths: because I think I have just killed a man.

I ran to the bottom of the steps and looked down on him, at his flat, ugly features; his mouth was open showing cracked and brown teeth. His eyes stared back at me. I his fall, an oblong packet had fallen from inside his jacket pocket. I saw a pair of yellow rubber gloves in the corner with the cleaner’s bucket and mops. I put them on and picked up the packet. It was covered in waterproof plastic; but the corner had torn; what seemed like banknotes peeped through. I slipped into the toilet and hid it.

I stood again at the foot of the steps: nobody about. There was no choice; Iwould have to phone the emergency services.

‘Then, against the light at the top, another figure appeared - it was Maddox. He stared at me.

‘What happened to you?’

I tried to cover myself. I pointed to the floor. ‘That filthy pig tried to rape me - that’s what happened!’

Maddox shook his head. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss Hunt. He slipped away when I fell asleep....’

‘Who the hell is he? What’s he doing with you? What are you?’

He put his hand inside his jacket. I moved back, ready to run.

‘Please don’t be alarmed. I represent the UK Government.’ He showed me an ID in his wallet: on one side was a gold-blocked coat of arms; on the other side his photo that identified him as a Home Office official. He took charge of the situation further.

He said:

‘Do you have a change of blouse?’

‘Yes in my locker.’

‘Clean yourself up, Diana; make yourself a mug of strong sweet tea with a drop of brandy and lock yourself in your office....I’ll be along shortly to explain.’

I did as I was bid, and waited for him in the office. I still couldn’t come to terms with what had happened - Diana; you have been thwarted again. You’ve killed a man. With what would I be charged? Murder? Manslaughter? God! Would I never get out of this bloody mess?’

Maddox broke into my thoughts. He came into the office, locked the door behind him and sat opposite me. ‘Diana: tell me what happened,’

He was almost fatherly in his attitude. I said:

‘I was