Lifting the Lid(11)

‘I’ll just pop this over ‘ere, shall I, duck?’

Trevor turned to see that Peroxide was dangling a black lacy bra from her fingertips, and without waiting for an answer, she draped it over the arm of a chair next to the window. The other woman had her back to him, but he could tell from the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders that she was struggling to control her sniggering. His face burned as a dozen unlikely explanations flooded his brain.

‘Er… yes, that’s fine,’ he said. ‘It’s um… it’s my wife’s.’ Yeah, good one, Trevor, what with this being a single room in case you hadn’t noticed.

‘Course it is, lovie,’ Peroxide said with a smirk. ‘Anyway, we’re all done ‘ere now.’

As the two chambermaids gathered up their various sprays and polishes and slotted them into a plastic carrier, Trevor wondered if they had him down as one of those blokes who gets off on wearing women’s underwear or whether they just suspected he’d had a woman in his room. He didn’t even care if they thought it was a hooker. Far better that than being taken for a transvestite.

Still, no point worrying about that now. He had a job to do. The moment they closed the door behind them, he ignored the burst of laughter and snatched up his holdall. He knew he might not have much time. The real occupant could already be on his – or more probably, her – way back from breakfast. Not only that, but Milly might wake up any second and start howling the place down.

Oh shit. The thought suddenly struck him that he’d forgotten to hang the “Do Not Disturb” sign outside his room. This had been an integral part of his plan to make sure no-one went in and discovered Milly, and now the chambermaids were only minutes away from doing that very thing. Even more reason to work quickly.

He dived into the bathroom and was relieved to see the toilet was exactly the same as his own. Carefully – very carefully – he lifted the lid from the cistern. As he turned and placed it gently on the floor, his mind did a doubletake. What was that?





CHAPTER EIGHT



Sandra sat eyeing the last piece of toast in the silver rack in front of her.

Hell, it’s only half a slice. It’s not as if I’d be shoving down half a loaf. I mean, half a bloody slice. Get a grip, woman. You don’t even need to put much butter on it.

Maybe you could just do the marmalade and forget the butter altogether. Yeah, that’s it. Marmalade. No butter. Well you’ll have to have marmalade at least ‘cos it’s been sitting there for a while now, and it’s going to be as dry as the driest thing in Dryville on Saint Dry’s Day without something or other spread on it.

‘Would madam care for more coffee?’

‘Jesus,’ she said, snatching back the hand that was already reaching for the toast.

‘I’m sorry, madam. Did I startle you?’

She turned to see a waistcoated and bow-tied waiter with a dome of a forehead and an absurdly pointed chin hovering above her with a china coffee pot.

‘Er… No. Er, no, not at all. I was only…’

‘Would madam like some fresh toast?’ said the waiter with a slight inclination of his head towards the lonely piece in the rack.

He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t quite place him. In any case, he was obviously on to her with the toast thing. She could read it in his wide-set eyes, and what he really meant by all the madam this and madam that was: Okay, fatty, I can see you’re gonna scoff down every last scrap of food on this table, so why don’t I get you some more and you can have yourself a frigging party?

‘Excuse me?’ Her tone was indignant.

‘Would madam like more toast?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was miles away. Er, no. No thanks.’

‘Coffee?’ He tilted the pot towards her empty cup.

Was it the chin or the heavy, dark eyebrows that made him seem so familiar? Or perhaps it was the mouth, which looked like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to pout or sneer. But where had she seen him bef—

‘Of course,’ she said with a click of her fingers. ‘Quentin Tarantino.’

‘What?’ said the waiter, losing the ever-so-slightly-French accent in that one solitary word.

‘You know. Reservoir Dogs and all that. Kill Bill? Inglourious Basterds?’ Sandra beamed at him, delighted she had cracked the mystery.

“Quentin” now stood erect and bristling. ‘No coffee or toast then,’ he said in a seriously Birmingham accent as he began to turn away.

‘No, no. Both. Bring it on.’ She sat back, flamboyantly folding her arms and staring at the lonely piece of toast, a beatific grin still spread across her face.