Free Hotel de Dream by Emma Tennant

smile, the words had come unbidden to her lips at the sight of the unexpected visitor.
    â€œAh, Mrs Routledge!”
    The Queen turned, and in a shaft of light from Miss Briggs’s room looked up at the landlady on the stairs above her. “We are delighted to meet you here at last. And we have matters to discuss. Shall we repair to the lower floor?”
    â€œMiss Briggs!” Mrs Routledge trembled with rage, caught her foot on the uneven stairs and came down with a thud by the side of the impostor. She took hold of the gartered shoulder roughly and pushed Miss Briggs back into her room, where they stood confronting each other on the lino floor, the tired boards groaning beneath Mrs Routledge’s weight.
    â€œWhat the hell do you think you are doing dressed like this? I’ll … I’ll …”
    â€œPlease, Mrs Routledge.” Miss Briggs’s smile was sweet and gracious. “I have assumed the mantle of responsibility now. A little respectfulness would be quite in order, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œBut where did you get those clothes from?” Mrs Routledge stared at the tiara, saw it was paste with several stonesmissing, hissed in disgust at the tatty white net dress Miss Briggs must have run up that evening she had asked to borrow the electric sewing machine. She thought of the cocktail party—for this was what tomorrow’s meeting with Mr Rathbone had become in her mind, Mrs Houghton and Mr Rathbone chatting and discussing acquaintances in common while Cridge, carefully bathed and combed, handed the drinks—and her shoulders sagged, so that for a moment the straight-backed Miss Briggs did seem a superior and controlled person in comparison with her. Then she turned on her heel and went to the door. Miss Briggs put out a restraining hand.
    â€œMrs Routledge, I am not quite ready to appear in public like this yet.”
    â€œIs that so?” But Mrs Routledge felt a tiny flicker of hope. The cocktail party sprang into her mind once more.
    â€œMy subjects must become accustomed to the change. Please rest assured, Mrs Routledge, that I will not come down to the dining room in … in my regalia.”
    â€œVery well then. But I hope you’ll get rid of this nonsense soon, Miss Briggs.”
    â€œThere is too much licence, too much licentiousness in this country, Mrs Routledge, do you not agree?”
    â€œI don’t see what that’s got to do with it.” Mrs Routledge’s tone was gruff; she went to the top of the stairs and began to go down.
    â€œYou will! Dear Mrs Routledge, you will!”
    The maddening, queenly voice followed Mrs Routledge into the foyer and rang in her ears as she took up her position in Reception. She sighed deeply and picked up the mail, most of which was expensive-looking and addressed to Cecilia Houghton. There was one letter for The Proprietor, Westringham Hotel; and Rathbone Group of Companies was inscribed on the back in heavy cream on white, with an emblem underneath—a brooding eagle over crossed swords. Mrs Routledge caught her breath. With a thudding heartshe ran a varnished fingernail along the top of the envelope and slit it open. A belch of stale air from the basement heralded Cridge, but she paid no attention to him as she perched her spectacles on top of her nose and began to read.

Chapter 9
    After Cecilia Houghton left for Harrods, Johnny and Melinda sat in the room in the state of despairing silence which was usual to them when their author was not feeding them with scraps of dialogue, meaningful pauses and the occasional burst of eloquence at a moment of tension in their relationship. Johnny was chain smoking, and Melinda watched him at this habit with the sullen contempt of seven years’ familiarity. Often she wished that Mrs Houghton was less intellectual and observant, and was a writer of ordinary romances: that way there would be fewer sexual hang-ups (they were in the middle of one