Free The Girl from the Savoy by Hazel Gaynor Page B

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.”
    â€œThey 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.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œMind 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œAnd to you both.” He looks at me. “The new girl. Am I right?”
    â€œYes, sir.” I touch my fingers self-consciously to my lips, hoping the last traces of Sissy’s Vermillion have been rubbed away.
    â€œSo my suite is your dress rehearsal!”
    â€œI’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
    â€œMovie stars. Actresses. Chambermaids. I suppose we all need somewhere to practice. 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.
    â€œWould you like your room attended to now, sir?” Sissy asks.
    â€œIndeed. 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.”
    â€œOf course, sir.”
    At the guest lift we hear him greet a friend. “John McArthur! What the devil has you at The Savoy?”
    â€œThe 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.
    A s 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 andnightclubs 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