might have done it on purpose to land me in trouble.
Finally, O’Hara is satisfied. ‘Everything seems to be in order. Let’s have a good day’s work and remember …’
The girls all join in a chorus of rehearsed instruction. ‘The smallest things can make the biggest difference. Attention to detail in everything. Our guests are our priority.’
O’Hara nods approvingly. ‘Quite so. Now, off you go – and, Dorothy …’ What now? ‘Yes, miss?’
‘Sissy Roberts will assist you with your rooms again today. Tomorrow, you’re on your own.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Any questions?’
‘No, miss.’
‘I presume we won’t be seeing any crimson lips tomorrow?’
In my head I tell her it’s Vermilion. ‘No, miss. We won’t.’
My inquisitor nods firmly and swishes away with her sticky-out veins and pointy elbows. I lean back against the wall and breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, miss. No, miss. Three bags full, miss.’
Sissy digs me in the ribs. ‘Cheeking the head of housekeeping already? I’d keep those thoughts to yourself if I were you. You’ll land yourself in trouble muttering under your breath like that. The hotel has eyes and ears. The less said the better.’
‘Well, she looks at me funny. Like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.’
‘She will scrape you off her shoe if she hears you bad-mouthing her. Keep your mouth shut and your corners neat.’ She grabs me by the elbow. ‘Sorry about the lipstick. Next time, wipe it off before you come downstairs, you silly sod. She’d have marched you straight to Cutler if it wasn’t your first morning. I’m certain of it.’
‘Let’s call it beginner’s luck, then, and forget all about it.’
Sissy checks the new house list as we make our way to the storerooms. ‘Well, look at this. Beginner’s luck indeed. First room on your list, Miss Dorothy Lane, is occupied by a Mr Lawrence Snyder. Friend of the governor. Manager to the stars.’
‘Snyder? That vile man we saw yesterday?’ I think about the way he looked at me. I think about the way I’ve been looked at like that before.
‘The very same. Gladys will be as sick as a dog when she hears. She’s convinced he’ll have her on the next boat to America.’ She nudges me in the ribs. ‘Well, come on. We won’t get much done standing around daydreaming. The rooms won’t clean themselves.’
I follow her as she strides off towards the linen stores, but my thoughts are elsewhere and my heart has rushed back to my room and wrapped itself around the photograph beneath my pillow.
The service floor is even more confusing than it was yesterday. A steady stream of porters, maids, chefs, and waiters fills the narrow corridors. When anyone in livery or formal dress passes, we step aside to make way for them. Sissy points out the head chef, a formidable Frenchman who forbids anyone, other than kitchen staff, to enter his storerooms. I catch a glimpse of some of the recent deliveries: gallons of cream in great vats, mountains of fresh pineapples, tanks full of live lobsters, vast saddles of venison, haunches of ham, and great slabs of beef. The hotel bakery alone is the size of a small house. My mouth waters at the aroma of freshly baked loaves being lifted from the ovens on huge paddles by red-cheeked young boys and burly men. Sissy swipes two milk rolls from the nearest tray, earning herself a friendly flick at her backside with the end of a paddle.
‘Do you ever see the guests when you’re in their rooms?’ I ask when we’ve loaded our trollies. ‘Gladys was telling me that the ladies sometimes keep maids talking for hours, to pass the time.’
‘They ask for more soap to be sent up, or hand towels, but really it’s just an excuse to have a bit of company. Bored, you see. I suppose there’s only so many times you can admire yourself in the mirror. It’s mainly the hairdressers and manicurists who are personally requested in the guests’ rooms. They spend hours up there, drinking coffee and eating delicate little cakes. Get sent bouquets and earrings and perfume and all sorts by their regulars. And they always get a good tip. Half a crown if they’re lucky.’
‘Really?’
‘Mind you, I’ve heard some guests show their gratitude in ways that might not be appreciated as much as a bouquet of roses, if you know what I mean.’
She winks as we step into the lift and ask the attendant to take us to fourth.
‘I didn’t think things like that would go on here,’ I whisper.
Sissy scoffs at my naïveté. ‘Same old divide. There’s us downstairs, and there’s them upstairs. A maid is as easily taken advantage of at The Savoy as she is anywhere else. You’d be a fool to think otherwise.’
The lift jolts to a stop and we step out as a gentleman emerges from a room to the left. He tips his hat as he passes. Larry Snyder. We stand to one side and wish him a good morning.
‘And to you both.’ He looks at me. ‘The new girl. Am I right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I touch my fingers self-consciously to my lips, hoping the last traces of Sissy’s Vermilion have been rubbed away.
‘So my suite is your dress rehearsal!’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’
‘Movie stars. Actresses. Chambermaids. I suppose we all need somewhere to practise. My suite is all yours. Feel free to fluff your lines – or should I say pillows!’
He smiles warmly and I mutter a thank you.
‘Would you like your room attended to now, sir?’ Sissy asks.
‘Indeed. I shall be gone for the day.’ He walks on a few paces, stops, and turns around. ‘There might be a few papers scattered around the place. Leave them where they are, would you. Work in progress on a new script.’
‘Of course, sir.’
At the guest lift we hear him greet a friend. ‘John McArthur! What the devil has you at The Savoy?’
‘The wife, Snyder. The wife has me at The Savoy, and both my bank balance and I are suffering dreadfully as a consequence.’
Sissy and I burst out laughing and enter Snyder’s room.
As I sip my cocoa over supper that evening, my feet throb and my arms ache. I glance at the clock on the wall. The productions across London will be reaching their final act by now, the girls in the gallery hoarse from shouting their appreciation, the restaurants and nightclubs ready to welcome the after-show crowds for supper and dancing. I’m so tired even the thought of dancing makes me feel weary, and when I climb into bed I’m too exhausted to even read one page of Sissy’s magazine.
I shuffle under the blankets, listening to the scratch of Mildred’s pen on the page as she writes in her diary. I can’t think what she can possibly have to write so much about. Her life seems to consist of nothing more than the hotel. No hobbies. No interests. No dreams. By the time she turns out the light, Gladys is fast asleep and Sissy is already snoring. The room is plunged into darkness, but I know the lights from the hotel suites and the restaurant and ballroom still shine all around me. For a while, I listen to the distant sounds of music and laughter that float along the corridors, enticing me to follow, until I grow sleepy and close my eyes and I set my dreams free to drift and dance among those who have already made theirs a reality.
Sometimes I would happily swap the lonely peaks of stardom for the jolly camaraderie of the chorus.