The Maid(5)

When I let him go, he plunked down, his head banging ever so slightly against the headboard. I backed away from the bed then, my own arms rigid by my sides.

I shuffled to the other bedside table, where there was a phone, and I called down to the front desk.

“Regency Grand, Reception. How can I help you?”

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m not a guest. I don’t usually call for help. This is Molly, the maid. I’m in the penthouse suite, Suite 401, and I’m dealing with a rather unusual situation. An uncommon mess, of sorts.”

“Why are you calling Reception? Call Housekeeping.”

“I am Housekeeping,” I said, my voice rising. “Please, if you could alert Mr. Snow that there’s a guest who is…permanently indisposed.”

“Permanently indisposed?”

This is why it’s always best to be direct and clear at all times, but in that moment, I can admit that I’d lost my head, temporarily.

“He is very dead,” I said. “Dead in his bed. Call Mr. Snow. And please dial emergency services. Immediately!”

I hung up after that. To be honest, what happened next all feels surreal and dreamlike. I recall my heart clanging in my chest, the room tilting like a Hitchcock film, my hands going clammy and the receiver almost slipping from my grasp as I put it back in its place.

It was then that I looked up. On the wall in front of me was a gilt-framed mirror, reflecting not only my terrified face back at me but everything I’d failed to notice before.

The vertigo got worse then, the floor tilting like a funhouse. I put a hand to my chest, a futile attempt to still my trembling heart.

It’s easier than you’d ever think—existing in plain sight while remaining largely invisible. That’s what I’ve learned from being a maid. You can be so important, so crucial to the fabric of things and yet be entirely overlooked. It’s a truth that applies to maids, and to others as well, so it seems. It’s a truth that cuts close to the bone.

I fainted not long after that. The room went dark and I simply crumpled, as I sometimes do when consciousness becomes overwhelming.

Now, as I sit here in Mr. Snow’s luxurious office, my hands are shaking. My nerves are frayed. What’s right is right. What’s done is done. But still, I tremble.

I employ Gran’s mental trick to steady myself. Whenever the tension got unbearable in a film, she’d grab the remote control and fast-forward. “There,” she’d say. “No point jangling our nerves when the ending’s inevitable. What will be will be.” That is true of the movies, but less true in real life. In real life, the actions you take can change the results, from sad to happy, from disappointing to satisfactory, from wrong to right.

Gran’s trick serves me well. I fast-forward and pick up my mental replay at just the right spot. My trembling immediately subsides. I was still in the suite but not in the bedroom. I was by the front door. I rushed back into the bedroom, grabbed the phone receiver for the second time, and called down to Reception. This time, I demanded to speak with Mr. Snow. When I heard his voice on the line saying, “Hello? What is it?” I made sure to be very clear.

“This is Molly. Mr. Black is dead. I am in his room. Please call emergency services immediately.”

Approximately thirteen minutes later, Mr. Snow entered the room with a small army of medical personnel and police officers filing in behind him. He led me away, guiding me by the elbow like a small child.

And now, here I sit in his office just off the main lobby in a firm and squeaky maroon leather high-backed chair. Mr. Snow left some time ago—perhaps an hour, maybe more? He told me to stay put until he returned. I have a lovely cup of tea in one hand and a shortbread biscuit in the other. I can’t remember who brought them to me. I take the cup to my lips—it’s warm but not scalding, an ideal temperature. My hands are still trembling slightly. Who made me such a perfect cup of tea? Was it Mr. Snow? Or someone else in the kitchen? Perhaps Juan Manuel? Maybe it was Rodney at the bar, a lovely thought—Rodney brewing me a perfect cup of tea.

As I gaze down at the teacup—a proper porcelain one, decorated with pink roses and green thorns—I suddenly miss my gran. Terribly.

I put the shortbread biscuit to my lips. It crunches nicely between my teeth. The texture is crisp, the flavor delicate and buttery. Overall, it is a delightful biscuit. It tastes sweet, oh so very sweet.





I remain alone in Mr. Snow’s office. I must say, I am concerned to be running so behind on my room-cleaning quota, not to mention on my tip collection. Usually, by this time in my workday, I’d have cleaned at least a full floor of rooms, but not today. I worry what the other maids will think and if they’ll have to pick up the slack. So much time has passed, and Mr. Snow still hasn’t come to fetch me. I try to settle the fear that’s bubbling in my stomach.

It occurs to me that a good way to sort myself is to track back through my day, recollecting to the best of my ability everything that occurred up to the moment I found Mr. Black dead in his bed in Suite 401.

Today started out as an ordinary day. I came through the stately revolving doors of the hotel. Technically, employees are supposed to use the service door at the back, but few employees do. This is a rule I enjoy breaking.

I love the cold feeling of the polished brass banisters leading up the scarlet steps of the hotel’s main entrance. I love the squish of the plush carpet under my shoes. And I love greeting Mr. Preston, the Regency Grand’s doorman. Portly, dressed in a cap and a long trench coat adorned with gold hotel crests, Mr. Preston has worked at the hotel for over two decades.