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  Title Page

  ROOM SERVICE

  A Memoir

  by

  Diana Hunt

  With an introduction by

  Alex Robinson

  Publisher Information

  Room Service published in 2010 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © 2012 Diana Hunt

  The right of Diana Hunt to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Quotes

  ‘To fail as a prostitute is comical’

  - Soren Kierkgaard

  ‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore’

  - John Ford - title of a play

  ‘She speaks eighteen languages and can’t say No in any of them’

  - Dorothy Parker

  Introduction

  by Alex Robinson

  My first encounter with Diana Hunt (later Mrs Diana Gilbert) was at a meeting of the West London branch of the Alliance Francaise. As is usual on these occasions, we had to name who we were and our occupation. Of course, we had to speak in French - whatever our level of expertise. There were about a dozen pople of both sexes at the meeting and we were chatting before the lecture. The reason for my attendance was that the publishing company of which I was a senior editor had recently opened an office in Brussels; they needed someone who had at least a working knowledge of the language until a permanent representative could be appointed. Hence my attendance that evening - but with a little apprehension, as it was some years since I had held a conversation in French; the last time was at ‘A’ level. I had read natural sciences at university.

  The first impression of Diana , a beautiful brunette with carefully coiffed hair and expensive, but simple, clothes, was her height, at least six foot. But what also struck me was the way she stood: she didn’t slouch; on the contrary, her back was straight, and with her legs a foot apart, her arms folded across her bosom: her message seemed to be, Don’t mess with me. I came to the conclusion that Diana was an athlete of some kind. This was just idle speculation on my part. But she turned to me and said the usual ‘Bon Jour’ etc. I replied. She looked straight at me; I felt under inspection.

  ‘You haven’t spoken French for a while, have you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no.’ I thought that was a bit rude. She followed it with another question.

  ‘What is your profession?’ I explained about the publishing venture; that I worked on technical publications.

  ‘Are you married, children?. Do you live in London, Mr Robinson?’ She caught my expression. ‘Oops, I’ve done it again. Sorry, nosey me. But I can’t help asking questions.’

  I couldn’t stop myself smiling. ‘And how do you earn a crust, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a housekeeper to a very distinguished man.’ She made it sound a risque occupation. Was I supposed to think she was his mistress? I mentioned she was expensively dressed-- a grey silk blouse and a fine grey tweed skirt--so there was nothing provocative there. Even so, she commanded my attention (and a couple of young men in the room). I mentioned one in particular. Diana didn’t even look in his direction, but said, ‘Do you think he wants to jump in my knickers?’ I was going to make some suitable reply when our lecturer called us together.

  So that was my introduction to Diana Hunt. As you can imagine, that was a memorable meeting, not only for her personality, but also for her straight talking. I wondered from where she originated; there was a definite rural burr behind that precise English. She told me later: Norfolk, ‘Nelson’s County’. She seemed rather proud of that fact; which I thought unusual, for she didn’t seem the sort of girl to hark to the past.

  As I was leaving the evening’s session, I turned my mobile on and called my wife. ‘I’ll be home in about half an hour, Susan.’ ‘Very well. Have a good evening?’ ‘It was hard work.’ ‘What were the rest of the people like - no matter, it’ll wait.’ ‘I was chatted up by a young woman - at least, I thought I was chatted up; she was rather rude.’

  ‘I’m going to stop you going there. You’ve obviously made a hit.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not. What are you doing?’

  ‘Making jam.’

  ‘What again?’

  It took me about 45 minutes to reach my front door. I was met by a fruity, sticky smell. I walked straight into the kitchen, and kissed my wife.

  ‘Hi, husband.’ She held a long spoon at my face. ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘When you sup with the Devil you need a long spoon - but yes, delicious. But what is it?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be a secret, but I’ll tell you: blueberry and raspberry; the secret is getting the balance between the fruits and sugar correct.’ My wife is a pharmacist; my worry is that she might be bringing her work home. We sat round the kitchen table that Friday evening having thick vegetable soup and fresh rolls. I poured her a glass of white wine. Susan said:

  ‘Tell me more about your mysterious girl friend.’

  ‘She is not my girl friend.’ (Why do wives do that - put you on the spot.) ‘Nothing much to tell: expensively dressed; housekeeper (or more) to what what she called a distinguished gentleman. Excellent French.’

  ‘I see.’ My wife is a quiet woman; perhaps her profession has made her ultra-discreet. Anyone surveying ‘her’ kitchen would notice that it absolutely shone, stainless steel pots and pans and tools; every jar and bottle arranged in alphabetical order. It frightened me at times. I called it the food laboratory. A fat tabby cat lumbered by. I said:

  ‘Why does Hodge always sit on my kitchen chair, and nobody else’s?’

  Susan said: ‘Mmmmm. Can’t help you with that, I’m afraid.’ That was dismissed. But she continued:

  ‘I’ve got an idea, Alex, on how to improve your French oral/aural.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Take me to Paris for the weekend.’

  Our adolescent son Jonathan must have overheard his mother, for as he walked into the kitchen he said, ‘Aren’t you a bit old for dirty weekends, mum?’

  ‘Less of your cheek, number 2 son. And remove your disgusting trainers before coming any further into my kitchen.’

  I wanted to close this conversation about Miss Hunt. I said, ‘Forget Paris: it would be more like Brussels - which is the most boring city in Europe.’

  Anyhow, I forgot about all that; my new responsibilities claimed all my time for the next few weeks. I spoke to Diana Hunt at the meetings, but only briefly. The final meeting was at the end of the course. The Alliance Francaise always arranged a small party - the usual gathering, canapes and wine. Diana came up to me as I was deciding which particular cheese-wotsits and wine I was going to have. ‘Oh, hallo, Diana.’

  She grinned at me. ‘Hallo, Alex. Can I pick your brains? You’re the one in the publishing trade, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied warily.

  ‘Don’t look so scared. I need information. It’s like this, Alex: I’ve written a memoir, and I wish to have it published. Can you give me any tips?’

  In spite of myself I was intrig
ued. What sort of memoir would a woman in her twenties have that would be publishable? Diana said: ‘ It’s about a poor Norfolk orphan girl who makes her way in the wicked city, using her brains and her sex - there’s also violence and dollops of culture.’

  ‘It sounds like the sort salacious story that the semi-literate go for.’ Then I told her to look in The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook (‘I think Max has a copy’) for an agent who specialized in that sort of thing. And also advised her about a covering letter, return postage etc. She thanked me, I left for home - and that is the last I saw of Diana Hunt, until a few weeks later. I was in the garden at the rear of our house, pruning roses, when Susan called to me:

  ‘Alex; coffee break.’

  Dutifully, I removed my wellington boots, sitting on the step. On my right, just inside the garden entrance, was the door to the poky lavatory; pinned to the door was a notice: ‘Anyone who enters without removing their muddy boots will die a thousand deaths. One was inclined to find these little yellow Post-its from Susan dotted around the house, warning of dire consequences if any of her three boys (me and our two sons, Philip and Jonathan) were to transgress. Examples were not replacing the lid on the lavatory seat, leaving the cap off the toothpaste, and dumping dirty socks at the foot of the laundry basket. As you can imagine, we were all really scared of her.

  Elizabeth David of Maida Vale pushed the cafetiere and mugs towards me. ‘You be mother.’ I did as I was bid, then helped myself to a chocolate brownie. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ she said, and spread a copy of the Daily Telegraph in front of me. There was a story dominated by a photograph of Diana Hunt and Max Gilbert. They were attending a charity auction of his paintings in aid of cancer research. Susan said:

  ‘That’s a lovely dress she’s nearly got on.’

  ‘Miaowwww. And Max Gilbert is a distinguished artist.’

  ‘More your interest than mine. Do you think she is his mistress?’

  ‘How would I know? He’d be a fool if she wasn’t.’

  Susan sniffed. ‘Maybe she keeps french letters in her Gucci handbag.’

  ‘What a charming old-fashioned phrase.’

  We were interrupted on our musings by voices in the hall. I heard Jonathan say something like, ‘Oh all right, then.’ He came into the kitchen followed by a leggy girl about our son’s age. Jonathan scowled. He said:

  ‘Mum, Dad. This is Rebecca.’ He seemed rather put out. Rebecca wore a very short dark skirt, bolshie-red woollen tights, and black suede boots. A long knitted scarf was wound several times round her throat, dangling over her sweater; her beret was of the same material. She said, ‘Hi, Mr and Mrs Robinson!’ Then whispered into Susan’s ear, who said:

  ‘Of course, Rebecca, I understand: up the stairs, second on the right.’

  ‘Thanks awfully.’ She ran out of the kitchen and we could hear her clomping on the stairs.

  ‘Who,’ I said to Jonathan. ‘is that?’

  Jonathan scowled again. ‘She’s at the college. Captain of the girls’ basketball team. She’s always hanging around. Learnt it at that stupid girls’ school.’

  ‘Learnt what at the stupid girls’ school - hanging around or basketball?’

  ‘Very funny, Dad.’

  I noticed that ‘stupid’ was my son’s favourite condemnatory phrase at that time. ‘So,’ said Susan, carelessly, ‘ How well do you know her? Play on your basketball team as well, does she?’

  ‘Mum! She’s a girl.’

  ‘So I noticed. Pretty, isn’t she?’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Heavens, Jonathan - she’s not stalking you, is she?’

  ‘Mum!’

  Then we heard the accused stalker run down the stairs. Entering the kitchen, Rebecca was carrying her scarf and hat. She said:

  ‘Thanks awfully, Mrs Robinson.’

  ‘No problem, Rebecca. Would you like a cup of coffee and a cake? Take a seat.’

  ‘May I? They look scrumptious.’ She pulled the chair away and Hodge tumbled off. ‘ Gosh! What a fat moggie.’ She giggled.

  Hodge, offended, lumbered off. Rebecca finished the chocolate brownie very quickly, licked her fingers and traced the tips round the edge of the plate, then drank her coffee. Susan asked:

  ‘Would you like another, Rebecca?’

  For some reason, Rebecca blushed. ‘ May I? They’re really delish. But I always seem to be hungry these days.’ That vanished almost as quickly as the first. She said, ‘Mummy says that I shouldn’t gobble my food - medical advice really, I suppose.’

  Susan said: ‘What’s your surname, Rebecca?’

  ‘Fairfax. My parents are....’

  ‘Doctors? Your mother is a consultant at Guy’s and your father a GP?’

  Rebecca, eyes widening, said: ‘Oh, yes! Jonno told me you were the pharmacist at the medical centre.’ (Jonathan winced at the ‘Jonno’) She unwound her long legs and pushed her chair away, then spotted Hodge. She picked him up and plonked him on the empty chair. Rebecca smiled at us and said, ‘Thanks awfully; it was really nice.’ She looked at Jonathan. ‘Are you on your way to the gym?’

  ‘Well, I’m....’

  ‘Super! I’ll come with you.’

  Susan and I sneakingly watched them walk down the street through the front parlour window. Rebecca was holding on to Jonathan’s arm and seemed to be talking non stop to our son. He looked stunned. I said:

  ‘Do you think he’s got himself a girl friend?’

  Susan laughed. ‘I hope not!’

  I was surprised. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘She’ll eat him alive.’

  I’m not sure why I put the small incident about Rebecca in this introduction; something to do with forceful young women, I suppose. But back to Diana. It wasn’t until months later that I heard from Diana Gilbert ( as she now was). She sent me the first couple of chapters of her typescript. But I didn’t read it immediately; my new responsibilities took over. I never learned what the rest was like until months later when, to my surprise, she asked me to write this introduction. Why me? I hardly knew the woman. I said I would with the understanding that I wrote under a nom-de plume. The typescript was a straightforward account of a ‘girl made good in the wicked city’ variety - at least I thought so at first. The remainder of her story was a list of her conquests in the bedroom and the violence she dealt out to several men who attacked her - Miss Hunt was a martial arts expert and she didn’t take prisoners. All this assumes that she was telling the truth. And I have my doubts about that. I returned the typescript a year later, but didn’t hear any more from her.

  So, whether this introduction - and Diana’s book - was ever published, I don’t know. To be truthful, I am still curious: a slight vanity, I suppose. The final word is left to Susan: ‘Knowing her, I bet it was published - somewhere ( after she’d seduced the editor).’

  Prologue

  TEN YEARS PREVIOUSLY

  Cromer, North Norfolk

  THE FIRST PERSON I SAW DIE (but not by my hand on this occasion) was on my tenth birthday. My father had taken his family - me ( Diana), my mother, and brother Peter - to Cromer for the day. We had eaten our picnic lunch, and so my father had said he and I would have a stroll in the spring sunshine along the shingle beach. My brother had stayed with my mother on the edge of the promenade; probably more interested in two boys playing football nearby than going for walks with us. The fishermen had landed their catch and had now put up placards against their black wooden huts, announcing, FRESH CROMER CRABS (where else would their crabs come from?).

  My father held my hand as we walked, and I could smell the tobacco pouch he kept in his jacket pocket. I used to love that smell - rich, mysterious, secret somehow. Sometimes he let me help with the ritual of pipe-filling (when my mother wasn’t looking). He would take two flakes from the rubber-lined po
uch, place a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table and I would rub the tobacco between my hands until it made a pile like breadcrumbs. He would then slowly fill the bowl, strike a match and draw the flame slowly over the contents.

  I would watch fascinated as the tobacco turned a deep red. It also made me cough; my father would laugh, tell me to wash my hands at the kitchen sink, then give me a toffee. I think that was the only secret he kept from my mother. I’m sure that he had no others. I was shortly to learn differently.

  We had now walked about a quarter of a mile, so we halted and stood and looked out to sea; the water was calm, grey, flat; there were few people on the beach: early spring on the North Norfolk coast can be very cold. Then we noticed a young woman walk to the water’s edge. She seemed to stand there for an age; for some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Then, very slowly, she started to remove her clothes. She pulled her her dress over her head, folded it neatly and placed it at her feet. Nobody seemed to notice this except my father and me. I suppose I thought she was wearing a two-piece bathing costume, and she would start to paddle from the water’s edge. But she removed her bra and slipped off her pants, placing them carefully on her dress. She walked slowly into the water, and it moved higher and higher up her body, until she seemed to just float away - then she vanished. All this had now attracted attention from people further down the beach; I saw two men run towards the spot where she had left her clothes.

  My father grasped my hand and pulled me away, walking quickly from the shingle. ‘But, Dad; that lady...’ ‘Come on, lovey; nothing to do with us. Your mother’ll wonder where we’ve got to’. I remember being dismayed with my father: why didn’t he do something? ‘And don’t say anything to Mum, all right?’ I was too stunned to reply, and on the way home I never spoke and I was ashamed at my my mother and father exchanging banalities on the journey. At that moment - I realize now - I lost something, whether it was respect, awe of my parents, I don’t know. Because I have never forgotten that day, my tenth birthday. In some odd kind of way it has prompted me to write this memoir, so read on.