Part I. Bristol
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party
April 2015
It's the scent of a woman's shampoo that gets him sacked this time. Not a perfume, no. A mundane shampoo, a delicate whiff of vanilla and orange that triggers some primeval response in that part of his brain that isn't thoroughly fried and gets him moving on auto-pilot, a slave to subconscious memories that he can't access and to his insatiable curiosity. Admittedly the woman in question happens to tick most of his boxes (brunette, slim, sexy, and confident), but considered objectively she isn't worth the hassle of looking for a new job - which is where this will end.
Luckily, he doesn't know this yet.
All he's aware of when he first catches sight of her is that twinge of appreciation that a pair of well-toned legs in high heels always arouses in him, especially when they are attached to a shapely body. She for her part doesn't notice him at all, absorbed in reading a sheaf of notes while carrying on a conversation on the Smartphone that's lodged between her raised shoulder and ear. When she speaks her voice, low and husky, ticks another of his boxes. He moves to the back of the lift as she enters it, used to being overlooked by hotel guests and perfectly content to get a good view of her well-rounded backside as she turns to face the doors that are closing behind her.
She has an unmistakeable American accent. "Okay, Shannon, I'll talk to Ed about it. But honestly, what do you expect if you treat your fellows like privileged guests instead of employees? In the future, make sure that they know they'll end up as fish fodder in the Raritan if they sneak off to other departments behind your back."
She throws back her head in irritation as she ends the call and scrolls down her contacts until she finds the one she's looking for. As she waits for the other end to take the call, the phone once more jammed to her ear, she digs in her bag for a pen with which she marks passages on the papers she's holding. He can't help grinning at such obsessive multi-tasking.
"Hello, Ed? Yes, it's me. ... Yes, I know what time it is at your end. I just got a call from Shannon. She says you enticed one of her fellows away from her into cardiology. ... It's my business because I'm making it my business. … Listen, Ed, I know what you're up to: you let other departments hire fellows, you observe them for a few months, and then you swoop in and cherry-pick the best. Saves you the bother of interviews, and first hiring and then firing mediocre fellows, and it makes your personnel budget look really good. It's a free trial period without any of the risks and unpleasantness. It's Got To Stop! ... Yes, I know I'm not the dean, but in two years, when Rosenbaum retires, I will be. ... You wanna bet?"
She tosses her dark, wavy hair and gives a low laugh that goes straight to his groin. "Ed, you know I could classify that last comment as sexual harassment, but I'll take it as a compliment."
She listens again, but soon she interrupts the person at the other end. "Whatever. But unless you want to go looking for a new job in two years' time, you'll stop scavenging from other departments." Her opposite must have said something rude, for she grimaces, saying, "Bite me!" before she drops the phone back into her bag.
The lift stops on the second floor to let in another group of guests. Shark Woman takes two steps backwards to make room for them, and that is when he catches a whiff of the shampoo and is catapulted from amused appreciation of her power play into the darker folds of primeval subconscious. The sensation isn't unknown to him - olfactory impulses are the only ones that'll trigger his warped memory, flooding his brain with sensations that have no connection to the present that his conscious mind is experiencing. It can be the sharp, spicy smell of curries from an Indian takeaway, or the mixture of petrol, melting asphalt, sweat and leather on a hot day; hell, once he'd gone through all the magazines at the ten o'clock shop across the road, sniffing each one of them because a waft of printing ink on glossy paper set off that queasy feeling of familiarity.
But never before have his conscious and his subconscious been so at war. His conscious is tipping its head in wary analysis, remarking drily, Attractive, but no pussy cat. More of a jaguar. Stick your hands through the bars of that cage, and you'll never play the piano again.
The little Lost Boy in him, however, is murmuring something incoherent about soft curves, warm down duvets, contentment.
Soft curves? the voice of common sense scoffs. She's all bones and angles. In jaguars, bite force in relation to body size is maximised. No playing around with their prey either - those teeth are employed to pierce the brain. At best, we'd end up with scratches and claw marks, if she deigned to notice us. So far, we haven't even registered on her radar.
Who's talking about Her? Lost Boy is quick to contradict. It's the shampoo we need to identify.
The rational part of his brain would like to point out that thousands of women probably use that same shampoo, but they've reached the ground floor and Ms Jaguar is leaving the lift. He should be continuing on towards the basement where the staff facilities are located, but before he knows it he's out in the lobby, following the mesmerising swing of her hips, registering out of the corner of his eye the scowl that Donald at the reception desk gives him.
He wouldn't have thought that a short person in such dangerously high heels could move so fast, but short of breaking into an unsightly jog there's no way he can keep up with her. He isn't above making a fool of himself in the interests of research, but there are the shallow steps leading from the pavement to the hotel lobby to consider, the ones she's striding down so confidently, but that he, even to this day, can only navigate at a shuffle. The disabled entrance is fifty feet to the left, but he can see through the fronds of the potted palms at the entrance that she's turned off to the right, her hand raised to hail a cab. He stops at the lobby doors to watch her get into the cab, tight-skirted bottom first, then legs with slim ankles swinging in parallel to each other in a smooth, practised movement.
He knows that the disappointment he feels is irrational. What would he have said if he had caught up with her? Hello, I'm Pete, your friendly hotel cook. What brand of shampoo do you use? She'd probably have called security.
He can imagine the headlines in the papers: MIDDLE-AGED PERVERT ARRESTED FOR ASSAULTING GUEST IN RENOWNED BRISTOL CONFERENCE HOTEL. He makes his way back to the reception desk, skirting the plush rugs that play havoc with his gait. Donald is still glowering at him.
"You're supposed to use the staff lifts," Donald says.
"Elderly and disabled," he replies, waving a hand at his greying hair. "Had to take the closest lift."
"There are people who run marathons with those," Donald continues, giving his leg a sideways glance.
He doesn't bother to point out that amputees running marathons use state-of-the-art prosthetics, not standard NHS issue that barely flexes at the knee. "Four stones less, and you could also be running marathons. Or, if you ran marathons, you'd probably weigh four stones less."
"I don't use my weight to get disability perks, now, do I?" Donald says virtuously. Janet, the junior assistant, gives him a sympathetic smile behind Donald's back. "And you're not supposed to use the roof terrace for a smoke. It's reserved for guests. If you hadn't been up there, you wouldn't have had to use the lift."
He decides to ignore that and glances at the notices posted on various billboards, guiding conference participants to the right meeting rooms. There's something in the Avon Room entitled 'Energy from Waste', and Severn Room is hosting a symposium on marine accident prevention. The only medical do is in Frome Room, the biggest of their four conference rooms. It's called 'Public Health in the 21st Century'. Not the most likely choice for the future dean of an American hospital, but what does he know?
Leaning on the reception desk and scratching an eyebrow casually with his thumbnail he says, "American, early forties, five foot three or so, brunette, probably here for that medical conference thingy. Which room number?"
"I'm not helping you to harass hotel guests. Your shift started fifteen minutes ago," Donald adds, glancing at the clock. "I'm reporting you, for tardiness and for violation of hotel regulations." Janet shrugs apologetically, but busies herself quickly when Donald, catching the grimace he pulls at her, whirls round to check what his assistant is up to.
"Sod you!" he mutters, pushing himself off the desk. Donald is a smug bastard, but unfortunately there is no doubt that he'll be late - later than his habitual twenty minutes - and that the complaints against him are reaching a critical mass.
Three hours later he's hot, frustrated and angry. The temperature in the kitchen is well over 30°C, the place is too small for the roughly forty people hurrying around in it, and the noise level is deafening. How the hell is he supposed to cook decent grub when all he's got is bog-standard ingredients and a bunch of imbeciles to assist him?
Baz, the chef-de-cuisine, is indifferent to his problems. "I'm on a limited budget, here, Pete. As for your staff," glancing over the harried, flustered faces scurrying around them like ants whose hill has been disturbed by a termite eater, "if you treat them like the humans they are, instead of like mindless zombies, they might just start using the brains God has given them." In a lower voice he adds, "You know that you get the best we have."
"I goddam should. I'm the bloody saucier in the bloody restaurant of the supposedly best hotel in the bloody county, but we're producing mush that a school kitchen would refuse to feed to its students!"
"You're exaggerating," Baz says calmly.
"Look at this fucking bean!" He picks up the offending object from a large crate of fresh vegetables. It droops limply.
"Hey, keep your pranks off my stuff!" the entremetier yells.
They are interrupted by one of the waiters returning with a tray. He comes straight up to Baz. "Table Seven. They say the gravy's too salty."
Baz rolls his eyes, but only says, "I'll take care of it."
The waiter puts down the tray and waits. The offending dish consists of Mini Beef Wellingtons, steaks with a mushroom topping served in a pastry wrapping, accompanied by a red wine sauce.
He's fuming, absolutely fuming, now: sauces and gravies are his domain. "There's nothing to take care of," he says, thrusting the tray back at the waiter, who gives Baz an imploring glance. "It's not just gravy; it's a red wine reduction, and it's not too salty. Bring them their food right back."
"Pete!" Baz says in a steely voice. All over the kitchen heads are raised; faces are peering out from between saucepans dangling from the ceiling; junior staff and trainees are inching closer to grab a prime position for the anticipated blow-up.
Help comes from an unexpected quarter. "Table Seven?" the potager, three ranges down, asks.
The waiter nods in confirmation. Baz raises an enquiring eyebrow.
"They sent the soup back, too," the potager supplies.
"Right," the waiter confirms.
Pete shoots a look of victory at Baz while a collective sigh of disappointment rises from the madding crowd robbed of its showdown: they're dealing with the kind of customer who finds a fault in everything, probably hoping for a free meal courtesy of the house if they complain enough. He moves over to the swing doors separating the kitchen from the restaurant - Table Seven should be well within view of the round glass panes set at eye level. He spots them at once: an elderly couple, probably here on one of those mini-breaks at reduced rates offered by the hotel during off-peak times. They're the picture of righteous indignation, he leaning forward, gesticulating and lecturing, while his wife listens and nods vigorously in agreement to whatever diatribes he's spouting. He can sense Baz behind him, peering over his shoulder.
"Here, let me through, I'll talk to them," Baz says. Better Baz than him. Baz is good at this kind of thing, defusing 'situations', calming guests, joking with them, drawing in the neighbouring tables till the troublemakers have a choice between giving in with good grace or appearing petty and foolish.
The neighbouring tables. She's at Table Six, mere feet away from the troublesome couple at Table Seven. Seeing her leave the hotel, he'd assumed she was going out for dinner (who could blame her, given the swill they serve here?), but she must have returned to have dinner with 'Distinguished Gentleman in Dark Suit and Red Tie'. Distinguished Ogling Creep is more accurate.
He turns round, grabs the tray from the astonished waiter, and overtakes Baz before he can reach the table. Baz throws up his hands in despair, hisses "Mind your step!" at him, and turns back to the kitchen. The couple look up when he looms over them. He plasters a greasy smile over his face.
"Good evening, I'm Peter Barnes, your saucier. That means I'm responsible for sauces, gravies, etc., etc." He rolls his free hand expressively. "I hear there's a problem with the ... ummm ... gravy."
"Damn right, there is! It's too salty." the man says.
"Language, Bill!" his wife admonishes.
He places the tray on the table, grabs one of the two empty chairs by the back and turns it round so he can straddle it, taking up a position between the man and the woman. The woman gapes at him; 'Bill' bristles. He takes a teaspoon from Bill's cutlery ("May I?") and dips it into the saucière on the tray. Then he slowly brings it to his mouth, closes his lips over the spoon, and sucks the sauce off it, closing his eyes as though in gustatory ecstasy.
"Ahhhh," he sighs, "heavenly - that hint of spring onion! Although you might be right: it could do with a trifle more of something."
Scrunching up his face in thought, he suddenly opens his eyes wide, as if blessed by an epiphany. "Salt! A teensy pinch of salt."
He takes the salt mill from the middle of the table and gives it a token shake over the saucière. Then he stirs the sauce with the same teaspoon that he'd used to taste it, scoops up some of the sauce in it, and offers the spoon to Bill's wife. "Problem solved. Try it now."
Bill's wife backs off, revolted. There's a low murmur from the surrounding tables; more and more guests are becoming aware of the scene at Table Seven and are now openly turning in their seats to see how it will develop.
He shoves the spoon almost into Bill's face. "You, sir?" he asks politely.
Bill's face has turned an unhealthy shade of puce. "You're ... you're crazy!"
"So I'm told," he agrees obligingly. "Nutty as a fruitcake. Come, try it - my reputation is at stake here."
"Get that spoon out of my face!" Bill splutters.
"No? I'm hurt." He licks the sauce off the spoon once more, and then swivels around to the next table, Table Six, his true destination. "Perhaps the lady and gentleman here will honour me with their opinion."
The room has gone unnaturally quiet - all conversation at neighbouring tables has ceased; everyone is focused on his antics. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the round panes of the kitchen doors, now obstructed by faces peering through it into the dining room. The man in the red tie is sitting stiff as a ramrod, his face a polite mask. The woman, attired, he notes with approval, in a low-cut dress of red satin, is staring at him in open shock and disbelief. That dress is quite something - no wonder her companion was leering at her cleavage so unashamedly earlier on.
"Sir, ma'am, if I may ask for your judgment on this matter?" He leans forward confidingly. "A matter of honour - I'm sure you understand."
A variety of scents assails his nostrils: their food, the chap's cologne, the floral arrangement on the table. He can't distinguish her shampoo. Damn! He needs to get closer. Once again he dips the same old spoon into the saucière. When he brings it up again, he allows it to hover in the air indecisively for a moment before he guides it towards the lady, saying, "Ladies first. Ma'am, if I may ask you?"
She's staring at him wide-eyed. He raises his eyebrows slightly, encouragingly. Not that he really wants her to take the spoon from his hand; he wants a chance to close in.
"Your behaviour is offensive," the Ogler in the red tie says.
There's a movement from the kitchen area - Baz must have given up all hope of a felicitous outcome and is now sending out his strongmen. He doesn't have much more time. He starts making aeroplane buzzing sounds as one would for a recalcitrant toddler, moving the spoon in concentric circles until it is right at the woman's lips, leaning ever closer to her as he does so.
"Open up now!" he says in a sing-song, nudging the spoon against her lips, his upper body looming into her personal space. She opens obediently and takes the spoon into her mouth, apparently hypnotised by his actions.
"Well?" he prompts her, his mind in a whirl. He'd expected her to slap the spoon aside and box his ears; she doesn't seem the type to be overrun by impudence, not even when it comes in the shape of a Sherman tank in human form.
"It's ... " Her voice rasps - she clears her throat. "It's great."
But he's hardly listening. He has leaned in so far that he's mere inches from her face. She doesn't flinch away, but fuck, fuck and triple fuck! The perfume she's using this evening is one of those expensive affairs that cover everything else. He's about to plant a kiss on her cheek so he can bury his nose in the hair that's falling in a soft wave over her ear when Baz's henchmen reach him and pull him back. Baz is behind them, apologising profusely to the incumbents of both tables and to anyone else who catches his eye.
He is dragged, almost carried, back to the kitchen. The doors swing open as if by magic and the crowd on the other side parts like the Red Sea as he's brought in. An unholy silence reigns, the hushed calm before the executioner's axe swishes down.
"What?" he says. "The Lady in Red said my sauce was great. So there!"
Baz comes back through the swing doors, shaking his head. He takes one look at the masses assembled around the kitchen doors and barks, "Back to work, all of you!" The kitchen staff dispel reluctantly.
"I don't understand you," Baz says to him. "I really, honestly, don't understand you."
He shrugs. He doesn't need Baz to tell him that this stunt wasn't worth the bother it's going to cause - he's no step further to identifying the shampoo, and the shampoo's user must now have him down as a total wacko; he won't get within fifty yards of her again.
"I pacified the couple at Table Seven with a free meal deal, but the chap at Table Six is going to complain to management."
He looks up from the toes of his shoes which he has been contemplating. "What's his problem? I didn't do anything to him - he wasn't even involved."
"You were more or less on his wife's lap."
"She's never his wife!" he says, distracted by the ludicrousness of such an idea. "He was leering at her far too desperately to be her husband. Besides, she isn't wearing a ring, and she has an American accent, whereas he's definitely a British public school product. He's just cheesed off because he wants to impress her. Instead he came across as a wimp who can't deal with a simple scullery boy."
"Your psychoanalytical skills would be put to better use if you applied them to holding down a job. You've botched this one up royally, and you'll probably get canned. I can phone around and see if I can find something for you, if you want. You're a right old fart, but you're the best cook I ever had." Baz sighs and turns back to his work.
After his shift ends he goes up to the roof terrace for a smoke. He doesn't allow himself to dwell on the thought that this could be his last smoke up here. He finds the place calming; one has a wonderful view of the city without being distracted by the noise of the traffic. On clear nights like these one can see the lights of Cardiff across the mouth of the Severn. He moves over to his favourite spot, the west side of the terrace overlooking the Avon Gorge, a dark snake winding its way to the Severn. Behind him are the lights of Bristol, cars still crawling through the streets despite the lateness of the hour.
He's within ten yards of her before he spots her. She must have noticed his approach long before he became aware of her, because she's facing him, leaning against the balustrade with her back. She's a lot smaller without her heels, and she exudes practically no aggressive sexuality now that she's clad casually and is hugging herself with her arms. He almost prefers her like this. Almost, because she's tense as a guitar string, which is not an attractive look on any woman. It doesn't surprise him, though - after his act in the dining room she probably has him down as a dangerous nutter. If it weren't for the ruddy shampoo, he'd leave; his tranquillity is disturbed by her presence, and the last thing he needs after tonight's ordeal is a hysterical woman who is convinced that he'll murder her. This, however, could be his last chance to get close to her, so he slowly moves to a spot about five feet from her, rather like a twitcher approaching a rare bird.
"Nice view," he says with studied casualness, as he pulls out his cigarettes. He takes one out, and then he offers her the packet, careful not to make any sudden movements.
"You know, I don't smoke."
He shrugs, filing away in the back of his head that where she comes from, they don't seem to use commas in direct speech. The way she says it, it sounds like, You know I don't smoke. "It's relaxing," he says. "You're a trifle tense."
She snorts at that. It's a pity that her face is in the dark. "Who's surprised?" she says.
"If it comforts you, I'll probably get dismissed." He turns out towards the horizon, lighting his cigarette and wondering what he can do to make her stay. But apparently she has no immediate intention of leaving - she, too, turns and looks out into the darkness. The light from the windows below them cast a faint glow on her face, so he can finally examine her. The fact that she isn't fleeing from his presence is interesting.
"How long have you been working here?" she asks suddenly.
"About six months," he answers, trying to get his mind around what is happening here. He knows that women find him attractive, especially women in the best years (or past their prime, depending on how one phrases it). For some unfathomable reason he seems to appeal to their mothering instincts or whatever it is that makes them swoop in on the kind of bad boy they would have avoided in their younger years. Possibly they are catching up on all the things they missed in their youth, and he's some midlife crisis diversion for them.
Whatever it is, it seems to have caught hold of the woman next to him, who should, if she had the slightest sense of self-preservation, be running for the hills yelling, Madman, madman! Not that he's complaining, but it's odd, definitely odd. She's mustering him now, one of her hands fidgeting with something, probably a chain, around her neck, tugging at it in a way that makes him want to pull her hand away before he's forced to crawl around on the ground to pick up scattered pearls or whatever it is she's wearing. He rubs his right thigh, or rather, the spot where his right thigh should be, abstractedly; it's a little tick he has that he can't explain, an automatic reaction to situations that are somehow out of his control. This situation is definitely developing in ways that he hadn't anticipated, but he needs to tread warily if he is to walk the narrow line between getting the information he wants and being charged with sexual assault.
He's still trying to figure out how to show interest without coming over as a complete pervert when she sighs, saying, "You know, you aren't exactly making this easy for me."
Excuse us? He isn't making things easy for her? Who is trying to make a pass at whom, please? Nonetheless, he can see where she got the idea that he's interested in her: he was, as Baz pointed out, practically on her lap down in the restaurant, and from her perspective it may seem as though he followed her onto the terrace. He's a bit surprised, though, that she wants him to take more of an initiative in the matter. After all, she's the Doctor Lady seducing the lowly scullery boy, and she doesn't strike him as the type who'd wait to be asked, although Americans tend to be odd about these things.
She's still staring down at the streets, so he has an opportunity to muster her. Considering that she's in the act of seducing a hotel employee she's inexplicably tense, nervous. Could he be wrong in assuming that she gets what she wants, whether at work or in bed?
"You're nervous," he remarks. So what? a part of him interjects. Never mind what she is or wants - get your bloody nose in her hair! But this is too interesting to miss.
She looks at him incredulously. "Is this a 'state the obvious contest'?"
"Why should you be nervous? You're picking up a man in a hotel at a conference where no one who could find out about it is ever likely to see you again. Where's the danger? Unless this is the first time you're doing this, and you're feeling guilty. Husband back in the States and two kids?" He looks at her left hand. "No, not a husband. Boyfriend, then, or partner, and some sort of family. Patchwork, perhaps. Something you don't want to lose if this goes wrong." Yes, that sounds likely.
Not to her, it seems, for she gives a low chuckle. Not a nice one, no. A 'this is ridiculous' chuckle. And she's facing him now, anger in her face. He should placate her before she waltzes off in a fit. Unfortunately, his curiosity is more powerful than his ability to placate irate females.
"Okay, not cheating on anyone at home. That makes your guilt all the more surprising. Unless your last partner was a real git, and you're worried about repeating the experience. A womaniser and cheater?" he thinks aloud. "Nope, can't be; you wouldn't worry about that before a one-night stand." It suddenly dawns on him: "You got raped."
A little movement of her head, just a twitch, shows him that the latter assumption is wrong - but not so wrong that she contradicts him verbally. Bingo! "He abused you. Hit you?"
She freezes and stares at him through widened eyes, her breathing accelerating. For a moment he fears that she's reliving some unpleasant experience that her ex put her through; he's heard of victims of domestic violence experiencing flashbacks and losing consciousness of their physical surroundings. After a few (very unpleasant) seconds she snaps out of it. His relief is short-lived.
"You. Are. A. Total. Ass!" She snaps each word off, the venom in her voice contrasting with its low tremulous tone. Then she turns on her heels and marches off.
He opts against following her. Somehow he feels that this is not the best time to ask her what shampoo she uses.