Free The Girl from the Savoy by Hazel Gaynor Page A

“And even then it is quite unnecessary. Get rid of it. Immediately.”
    â€œYes, miss.” I rub the handkerchief frantically at my lips, turning to the girl beside me, who nods to confirm it is gone. As O’Hara continues down the line Sissy leans forward and mouths an apology. I shush the voice in my head that wonders if she 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?”
    â€œSissy Roberts will assist you with your rooms again today. Tomorrow, you’re on your own.”
    â€œYes, miss.”
    â€œAny questions?”
    â€œNo, miss.”
    â€œI presume we won’t be seeing any crimson lips tomorrow?”
    In my head I tell her it’s Vermillion. “No, miss. We won’t.”
    My inquisitor nods firmly and swishes away with her sticky-outveins 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.”
    â€œWell, she looks at me funny. Like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.”
    â€œShe 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.”
    â€œLet’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.”
    â€œSnyder? 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.
    â€œThe 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 toward 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.
    T he service floor is even more confusing than it was yesterday. A steady stream of porters, maids, chefs, and waiters fills the narrowcorridors. 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.
    â€œDo you