One Summer Night At The Ritz. Jenny Oliver
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Then she had paused and added, ‘And nothing that is admirable is wasted.’
It was Enid in some sense that had kept her sane while her mother’s sanity slowly dripped away.
And now, through Enid’s diaries she had not only found reference to her own grandmother, Enid’s friend Kate, who her mother had never spoken of, but they had also found out about a love affair in Enid’s past that had left her pregnant with her daughter Martha and alone post World War Two. The man who had left her was a corporal named James Blackwell. His grandson, Jane had found through Google, was William Blackwell, a notoriously hard businessman who owned and ran the Blackwells hotel and restaurant chain.
‘So where did you say you wanted to meet?’ Emily had asked before cramming practically a whole scone with cream and jam into her mouth.
Jane had bitten her lip and looked a bit guilty. ‘I don’t know something came over me.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Annie had frowned, her teacup poised at her lips.
‘Well, I just thought if I’m going to do this, I want to do it properly, so I emailed back and said how about a drink at my hotel and he said, what hotel is that, and I said,’ she’d paused, made a face, then finished, ‘The Ritz.’
Emily had guffawed out her scone in bits on the table.
‘That’s attractive, Emily!’ Annie had sniggered.
Jane had still looked guilty. ‘It was stupid. It was a bit of an impulse because he’d been so snotty. And that was where Enid had gone to meet James Blackwell and so it felt like a kind of homage. Oh I don’t know. But now, not only have I got to meet this guy – god knows what we’re going to talk about – but I’ve had to book a room at the bloody Ritz.’ She’d held her hands up to her temples. ‘It’s more money than I’ve ever paid for anything, ever. But I told myself that I haven’t had a holiday for more than ten years. Proportionally, one really expensive night is nothing, is it? All I have to do is have a drink with this guy and then I can go out and see the sights. I can see London. Go on the Eye or, no not the Eye, I could go to the Summer Exhibition at the RA or have dinner somewhere cool like… I don’t know. I’ll research somewhere cool. That’s what people do, isn’t it? What’s it called? Flaneur-ing. I could be a flaneur.’
Emily had scrunched up her face. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about but, personally, I think it’s goddamn marvellous. And you know what it means?’ She had cast an eye over Jane’s ripped jeans, broken Birkenstock sandals fixed with a bit of electrical tape, baggy flower-print blouse. ‘It means finally, at last, I can give you a makeover.’
That was why Jane now found herself sitting on a kitchen chair surrounded by dresses and outfits that Emily had brought with her hanging from the curtain rail, why Annie had brought a bag of shoes with her, and why Emily had lifted up her golden scissors and lopped off the whole of Jane’s plait.
It felt like the summer would never cease. A scorching July had led to an equally frazzling August, but now the heat felt like normality, like packing a jacket was almost unthinkable. Jane had packed her cagoule though. She had also packed a good pair of walking shoes. In the zip pocket in the side of her suitcase she had one of those travel purses that clips around the waist and sits, supposedly invisible, under clothing. She had packed nervously. She hadn’t been away much. Whenever they had gone anywhere when she was a child they’d taken their home with them; moving the boat from mooring to mooring.
As she wheeled her case off the Tube train and up the escalator, she suddenly hit the hustle and bustle of the ticket exit. The machine wouldn’t accept her Oyster card. She tried twice. The people behind huffed. Finally, on the third attempt, the doors opened but the exit wasn’t designed for her bag and the doors closed on her as she was pulling it through. The guy behind her tutted like it was the end of the world and said, ‘What are you doing, you stupid cow?’ She hesitated, trying to yank her bag though the flip doors of the exit, but it wouldn’t budge. The guard came over and tapped the doors open with a bored sigh. Her bag turned so it was only on one wheel and as she struggled to right it, people marched past from behind, a steady stream bashing into her. When she tried to move, someone running to get through the barriers tripped on her suitcase. ‘Jesus, woman! What d’you think you’re doing? Bloody tourists!’ he shouted, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder, his hands outstretched like she was an idiot.
Jane froze.
She pulled her suitcase up so it was pressed against her ankles and stood for a moment. It’s OK, she told herself. This is all part of the adventure.
She thought about what Emily would do. How she’d have someone else carrying her case by now and would be sashaying up the steps like she owned the place. Or Enid. She would have just barged her way through and sworn back at anyone who swore at her.
‘Right,’ she said to herself. ‘Come on, Jane. Move.’
Brushing her newly honey-blonde-streaked hair out of her eyes, Jane put her shoulders back, stood up straighter and made a bee-line straight ahead, no matter who was walking straight for her. Like London Underground chicken, she didn’t swerve or veer, just headed for the Exit sign. She bumped and tripped and swerved in front of, but she just held her head high and kept walking until she was up the stairs and out in the open and all the panic fell away.
Everything in her bag suddenly felt superfluous as she stood in the bright sunshine looking across at the buildings, the bus tour stand, the tourist stall. She wanted to unzip the lid and hand her travel purse, rape alarm, waterproof and sturdy boots to whoever would take them. She wanted to be standing in the heat and smog of the city unencumbered. It was so big, so hot, so bright and addictively overwhelming. She looked behind her at Green Park, saw above the wall the lush green of trees and then down at her feet the pigeons pecking at leftovers. She saw a sign for Buckingham Palace and a wave of unexpected excitement flickered through her. She knew from her pocket A to Z that Constitutional Hill was straight ahead and Birdcage Walk and Westminster Abbey and…she glanced around searching, took a few steps, dodging out the way of the steady flow of tourists and business people, looked up, and there it was. Bright-white bulbs spelling out The Ritz.
She stopped right where she was, entranced. She heard people swear at her but, this time, she didn’t care. In front of her was by far the most brilliant building she’d ever seen.
It was like a castle. Grey brick at least eight stories, a million windows and a million arches, with chimneys like turrets and flags drooping low in the heat. Her heart did an involuntary flutter. She did a silent nod of thanks to Emily for making her ditch the Birkenstocks and for forcing her to sit for an hour with foils on her head.
Passing the fruit and veg stand and heading under the arch of the hotel’s covered walkway, Jane could feel her pulse race. There was fine jewellery for sale in the window and tourists peering in through the etched-glass windows of The Rivoli Bar, trying to get a peek inside. There were limousines and black taxis pulling up out the front and doormen, exactly like in Enid’s diary, with black top hats and long jackets embroidered with gold.
‘Can I help you, madam? Offer directions?’ said the one nearest her as she got to the entrance.
‘No I’m here,’ Jane said.
‘You’re a guest with us, madam?’
Jane nodded. ‘Yes, I have my booking.’ She started to rummage around in her handbag.
He held up his hand to stop her. ‘Madam, come this way. Welcome to The Ritz.’
She paused, stopped rummaging as she found that the man had picked up her case and was ushering her through the revolving door. ‘Reception is right this way.’
‘Thank you very much…’ She paused and looked at his name bag. ‘Trevor.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ he