Chapter 2 – the final installment

…Up the first flight, up the second, round the corridor at top speed, and round until Lizzie came to a corridor she’d not seen before, walked through, and came to another flight of stairs: smaller, darker, more spider-ridden. Lizzie paused, then climbed up and found herself in what must be an attic.

She shut the door behind her and leant against it for a moment. Stupid place, she said to herself. Stupid place, stupid irritating, weird people. Ridiculous job. She’d tell the agency that they were taking liberties, sending her to a place like this- no wonder the two previous girls had jumped ship so quickly. Never mind the money. Never mind any of that. She’d leave this stupid job and these stupid people and go back home, go back and see Marie and Emma and tell them that she’d had enough. She imagined walking down to reception and giving Archie her tabard and telling him to take back his stupid apron, and she imagined the colour he’d go if after doing that she walked straight out. No no! She imagined how he’d look if after shoving her tabard at him, she pointedly lit up next to the no smoking sign, then – then blew smoke in his face, and then marched out.

She imagined Carl sitting behind reception with his mouth open, agog at her brains and strength and courage, and thought of him running out after her to say that he’d left his job as well, and they’d find new jobs together,

“and together, Lizzie…”

No no. She quickly gave him dark hair, and an Irish accent,

“and together, Eliza, we’ll make a new life- away from the hotel. We’ll get away from all of this.”

He gestured magnificently with one arm towards the grey beach, the fish and chip shops, the arcades – all of which looked rather less dingy bathed in a red glow from a magnificent Mediterranean sunset, and then as they were both silhouettes against the sun, the music would crash in, thundering chords and swooping violins, and he’d sweep her up in his arms and-

Lizzie’s train of thought was interrupted before the closing credits as she realised with a sudden embarrassed jump that the music she thought she’d summoned up so vividly for her love scene was not just reaching a triumphant crescendo in her head, but was echoing around the corridor she stood in. For a foolish, confused moment she wondered whether her daydreams were becoming real, and wondered why the prospect made her feel awkward, not happy… then she began to tiptoe towards the sound.

The first two doors she passed were closed, their doors dark around the edges… Lizzie continued further on, round the corner as she heard the music getting louder. It wasn’t, as she had originally thought, a radio: the sound was too crackling for that. And now she could also hear, weaving in and out of the recorded music, dragging lovingly on long notes, was a singing voice. Not the huge operatic voice that sang full-lunged an octave above. But a broken voice, a small cracked voice, a voice full of memories and smoke.

Lizzie, now moving as slowly as she could so as not to make a sound, peered round the door into the sunlit room. There was a woman in there, eyes half-closed, singing, pushing a besom broom round the room so that it was half cleaning implement, half dance partner.

Lizzie couldn’t accurately judge her age. Anything over thirty was to her all the same. She had long wisps of grey hair, streaked with occasional flashes of the black that it must once have been. She was small, and appeared all the smaller for the huge dress that she was wearing. A ball dress: crimson, satin, fading and heavily ruched, gathered, laced, frilled and flounced. Like a small child playing at being a princess, the woman had inexpertly shoved on the dress over the top of a polyester slip that was the colour of nicotine stains. The dress hung around her shoulders and trailed on the floor behind her. Lizzie was transfixed.

On the floor sat an old record player, the needle wending its way around and around the LP. Every now and then the record would jump, and the woman would take a moment or so to readjust before dancing back in to the beat.

“It’s Mrs Bellini.” Veronica’s voice was so soft it didn’t make Lizzie jump. She turned round, to find Veronica watching too, with something very like tenderness on her face. “She always dances when she’s working. I try not to disturb her.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a chambermaid too … but she doesn’t do the waitressing. She tends to look after the upper floors. I think they like to keep her away from the guests. These floors are never really full. Occasionally we’ll get a conference and fill them up, but normally they’re empty and she doesn’t disturb anyone.”

“No tabards, then?”

“No. Do you think they’d fit over her dresses?”

“Does she always wear them?”

“Mainly, yes. I don’t even know where they come from. She’s never wearing them when she arrives. Perhaps she carries them from home in one of her bags.” Veronica nodded towards a large pile of bags in the hallway. “But occasionally, she’ll arrive here wearing a plain black dress, and will wear that all day. I think those days are bad days for her.”

Lizzie knew all about bad days. “Are you two friends?”

Veronica’s eyes were suddenly as soft as her voice. “I barely know her. I think we’ve spoken two words since I started here.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t seem to want company. I think she’d rather be alone.”

Veronica had attempted to befriend Mrs Bellini. Years ago when she first started working, as her tea breaks began, she used to walk up to the second floor and tap softly on the door jamb, “I’m just putting the kettle on. Fancy any tea? Coffee?” Mrs Bellini just stared at her. The silence had been as mortifying as it was complete. Still, Veronica had persevered for a few days, plastering on a smile and asking, “Just thought I’d check – still not keen for a cuppa?”, “No tea today, sure I can’t tempt you?” Eventually even Veronica’s iron will had been worn down by the old woman’s obvious desire to be left alone. Strangely, Veronica hadn’t taken against her, though. You couldn’t feel malevolent towards someone like Mrs Bellini, you sensed that you could crush her as easily as a small bird in your hand. The old woman’s black eyes weren’t malicious; their expression was as hollow as her cheeks. And that was why Veronica liked to watch her singing. That was why she occasionally left the door downstairs open just a crack so that the barely perceptible strains of the music sometimes washed down the stairs onto the first floor landing like an irregular tide (“What the fuck is that godawful racket?” Carl said). Veronica liked to see Mrs Bellini looking, if not happy, then at least not immediately conscious of the sadness that she normally wore like a ball and chain around her feet.

Come on.” Veronica took Lizzie’s shoulder “Let’s leave her to it.”

Lizzie dug her fingernails into her palms as she went down the stairs, and as they came down onto the unfamiliar corridor, she kicked momentarily at the floral carpet before almost shouting out, hurriedly, “I’m sorry for losing my temper at you.”

Veronica gave Lizzie a look that was almost tender. “Ah. Forget it.”

And they did.