This is no showbiz interview. The picture was taken as Vince left the theatre last night. Reading on, I discover he froze mid-sentence and forgot his final, all-important line. Apparently, when he failed to regain his composure, he shuffled off and the play ended on an awkward note. His agent confirmed he is taking a break from live theatre for the immediate future. No way! How could an actor with his stature and stage presence disintegrate over one line? I’m still puzzling it over as I push through the doors of Magik Kube and change into my sliders. A one-man show is a big responsibility for any actor, but he seemed totally in control of the script, the audience and me.
This morning the whole world seems to have descended on Kensington High Street, forcing up the price of walk-ins. After all these years, I still find it astonishing how much people will pay at short notice to sleep in a long thin box. The singles are billed as ‘compact’, and in the en-suite rooms the toilets are little more than opaque corner cubbyholes. Business people embarking on sneaky lunchtime affairs must have their work cut out to get the passion going. Who wants to watch Barry from Accounts having a pee through poorly frosted glass before the magic occurs? My app pings as people pop their keys into the exit sensor box. As rooms are rentable by the hour, most of our day is spent prepping spaces for the next guest and checking them in. Changing beds here is an art and the horizonal stacked pods require the speed and elasticity of a gymnast– I often find myself sprawled across a bed smoothing the sheets to the precise requirements of Kai and his stupid ruler. Long ago I decided the worst kind of bully is the one who doesn’t care but imposes his will anyway. How could Eva bear to get flirty with him?
I pull out my phone and scan my feeds. The recent video for my #ChuckOutTheTrash hashtag has been re-shared by quite a few people. And while I’m pleased it’s doing well, I’m slightly regretting shredding up my bills as I don’t know how much to pay the milkman. Mind you, he’s usually at the Halloween party, dressed as Dexter.
I take a quick peek at our most expensive suite, the one I caught Eva canoodling in the other day. It’s not often hired out because it’s cheaper to stay in Buckingham Palace. The bed is made, and everything is tidy, but one of the mirror tiles on the wall is cracked from floor to ceiling. I stop dead in front of it, heart beating loudly in my chest. Not my bad luck, I tell myself. They broke it, so they can replace it and shoulder the consequences. But this is bigger than three drains or an open umbrella in the hall– the seven-year clause puts it into the serious action category and the bad luck could rub off on us all. I message our maintenance man, who texts back to say he’ll sort it when he’s next in. Looking at the rota on the Magik app, my heart sinks.
I decide if I can prise it off the wall it’ll minimise misfortune for everyone. Now officially on my break, I nip down to retrieve the screwdriver from the filing cabinet of random things. Eva is keeping the temp company at reception, and they watch me rummage for the tool. Whizzing through every drawer, I discover my misplaced slippers under a pile of paperwork but fail to locate the screwdriver. So, I pick up the secateurs I last used to trim flowers a drunken guest stole from Kensington Gardens.
‘Whose balls are you looking to cut off today, Blane?’
I turn to face a skinny man in an even skinnier T-shirt who saunters up and grabs Eva by the waist. ‘Always yours. But you still haven’t grown a pair in all the years I’ve been here. Any reason for the royal visit, Sir Kai?’
‘Call it my Silver Jubilee. Twenty-five years on this planet, and almost a decade spent trying to avoid coming into this shithole. Are you working through your lunch, Blane? Very commendable but don’t imagine we’re going to pay you for it.’ He lounges against the reception desk like he’s been here all day. His long dark hair is pulled into a ponytail and tied with a piece of elastic. A choppy fringe is pushed to one side and there’s a shadow of stubble under his chin. Eyebrows that almost meet in the middle are poised to best express infinite sarcasm while his pupils are dilated– he probably hasn’t been to bed. Annoyingly, he still looks like a male model.
‘And get you, coming to work on your extended holiday. Aren’t we lucky, everyone? Is Ayia Napa closed?’ The temp and Eva both shake their head in warning. But our juvenile manager doesn’t intimidate me. In fact, every moment of his smirking presence riles me up further. As I wrap my fingers around the handles of the secateurs, the backlog of unanswered customer complaints flashes into my head, along with our crazy-busy workload and lack of management support. And more than anything, Kai’s long hair really irritates me. I want to trim back his superpower. More than trim; I have a sudden desire to lop it off.
But I am not that kind of girl.
Am I?
I hold up the garden tool and open the blades, trying to ignore the wink he gives Eva. ‘I came for a screwdriver. There’s a broken mirror panel in the executive suite,’ I say slowly.
This prompts another smirk and a fresh dig. ‘Here she goes again with the crazy superstitions.’
‘No one could find Eva on Monday morning. You two broke the mirror messing about together when you should have been working, didn’t you?’ When she blushes and he confirms it with a nod, I let rip. ‘And you chose to do it at the start of the week when the weekend guests needed to check out and complain that their rooms were too small and their en suites too pervy.’ My volume rises as I become more incensed. ‘I spend all my time concentrating on avoiding ladders and stepping over the cracks in the pavements while you casually break a mirror and think you can walk away scot-free?’ Fuming with the injustice of it, I snap open the blades with the fingers of my right hand. And before I can talk myself out of it, I take two steps towards Kai, grabbing his ponytail. For the first time in our entire working life, he springs into action, swinging around and lunging for the tool. After a brief tussle he takes the secateurs, holding them up like a trophy.
‘Be careful!’ I shout. ‘This could be even more disastrous than the mirror. If you open blades but don’t cut anything then airborne spirits might get angry and brood …’
I stop talking when all eyes land on me. Kai’s smirk is replaced with a look of pity as he snaps the blades closed and chucks them back into the filing cabinet.
My phone rings as I trudge to the Underground at the end of my shift. When Eva’s number flashes up, I steel myself to deal with the backlash from this morning.
‘Tell me why you annoy boss-hole.’
Her words are as sharp as the discarded secateurs, and I instantly become defensive. ‘First, tell me why you slept with him?’
‘Why you have problem with that?’
‘Because he’s a useless manager and we hate him.’
‘Changed mind. Find him hot. When you last had sex, Daisy?’
Cringing at her question, I mentally spool through the last year of my love life and can’t come up with anything more substantial than a burst of sexting with a random follower on Valentine’s Day. Before that there was Mr Outdoors. His arrival, at a semi-decent restaurant, dressed in a cagoule, plastic walking trousers, and shoes that looked like ski boots, was the first of a series of awkward moments.
But Eva’s moved on anyway, telling me she needs a bed for a few days until she finds somewhere new to live.
‘Why? I thought you were sharing with a group of women?’
‘Landlord found out about dog.’
‘What dog?’
‘Give Calpol for sleeping but still bark …’
‘Eva– you gave a dog Calpol?’
‘Ask all parent how they get baby to sleep!’
