A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One) (3 page)

Many surely imagine all sorts of
sensational scenarios that explain how I came into my trade. Part of my story could be termed as idyllic, but, not really. My true self is dull and far from unique. Within the space of just a few years, I achieved success through word of mouth amongst a network of secretive, creative professionals looking for unusual entertainments. But the nature of the real me I am to divulge to you, well, she is… as you shall see.

My clients all knew
me as the Chambermaid but what they did not realise was that my adopted role was one I actually used to occupy, in the very modern sense of the word. I remember my last day on the job…

I was faced with a horrific scene. Truly, it was. My employment at that veritable chain hotel I will not dwell on, suffice it to say that I was underpaid, overworked and undervalued. This particular day, I was desperately trying to make up a room as quickly as possible. When I look back now, I do not know how I stomached such a job. I more often than not had a very small window to achieve all that I needed to. It was unfortunate that this was a particularly grubby
affair: scattered fag ends, used condoms hidden between gaps and crevices, bottles of wine both empty and still half-full dotted around, sheets and pillows strewn, the toilet backed up and bins full of takeaway cartons. The smells, the sights and the atmosphere left behind by the previous occupants would not be easily remedied. For someone like myself with a penchant for cleanliness and order, this was nightmarish, but I refused to let situations like this overturn my usually restrained manner. The high scent of fornication made me want to heave but I wouldn't let this bring me down. I'd tackle it.

I was so regimented that I rarely had a bad day. I perpetually arrived at work a full quarter of an hour before my shift. I always pressed my uniform the night before and hung it up. I had a shower before work, without fail. I was always ready for the start of a shift with a spring in my step and a routine perfected over many years that allowed me to get those rooms clean no matter what I came up against.

If I noticed a single fibre of my own clothing out of place or even a small amount of white matter, I would have to change. All my colleagues finished their shifts with scuffs and marks all over their trousers and tops, but I always ensured I left the building quite pristine. I turned up for work everyday relishing the challenge ahead: to escape those bacteria-ridden cesspits without a trace of me having tackled them.

It was my custom to imagine
that the grime and filth of those rooms bore anthropomorphic tendencies. It seemed to get me through. Perhaps semen splash on a headboard represented the perpetual crud around my boss Irene's stained coffee cup. She could rival a trucker for rude jokes, put-downs and expletives, and I often liked to associate the cleaning up of certain bodily fluids with thoughts of swilling her mouth out. Scrubbing stains pleased me then. I was rigorous in my pursuit sometimes, working up a sweat, always building on the muscles I already had in my arms and legs. I was a powerful cleaning machine. It pleased me sometimes to wear veterinary gloves or a rubber apron. Whatever kept me unpolluted. Only in the confines of my own workspace, however. If I was doubled up with another member of staff on busy weekends, I'd not don my bizarre uniform, but I'd have to work very carefully not to splatter my clothes with even a touch of the vile feculence people had left behind.

Chewing gum on the floor
. Oh my. A challenge. I loved the anticipation as I went to retrieve an ice pack before getting to work on severing that globule of hell from its unnatural, woolly fixture.

I sometimes wished it was appropriate to use bleach and cotton wool balls to cleanse every inch of an infected room but it wasn't
practical. I had to be more skilful and leave those “temporary habitations” fresh-smelling (not like laboratories cleared for the next experiment). The next set of guests would no doubt undo all my hard work all over again.

Red wine on the carpet. Typical. Amongst the weapons of my cleaning cart, I had a bottle of white wine and vi
negar that I regularly replenished and found use for. I needed to cordon off the area first with strips of cotton wool and masking tape, then soak the lot. A bit of bicarbonate later and we would be away. Oh, how I liked to grind my back into getting those stains out. I did. It gave me real pleasure and satisfaction. Scrubbing and inching away at blots and crust and grime. Sometimes I liked to use tweezers or cotton buds. My arsenal was varied. I even had a carpenter's file and a small hand-held vacuum I had supplied myself. My employment back then contained my madness, somehow, it did.

In actual fact, I was a
very sexually frustrated girl who took her anger out on the floors and surfaces of my working environment. I had gotten myself bogged down in a job that was both the one, reliable constant of my life and also the very thing I had always known was trapping me; suffocating my inner self, strangulating the possibility of living a full life outside of my closeted little world. Secretly, I knew, I was happy to work alongside simple people who rarely challenged either my intelligence or my integrity. This made it easier for me to hide. There were fewer confrontations then. However, I desperately needed a test. I yearned for it as much as I veered from it; frightened of what it might involve and of how much of myself I would need to give up. For me, routines and banality were safety nets I clung to daily and any introduction of a force outside of this might certainly spell trouble. An intervention would definitely have a detrimental effect on the fine threads that I had to work really hard at weaving to hold me together and make me purposeful.

When a very attractive test turned up in the form of a lusty up-and-coming
local footballer by the name of Cody James, I jumped at it, almost. I remember being sweaty and dizzy from having blitzed that room in record time. It hadn't defeated me and I was so proud of myself. I was just leaving it behind and preparing to go on to my next job. However, I had seen this guy entering a room down the corridor and he had noticed me too. I recognised him instantly. Our eyes met and the tension was palpable, like a bolt of lightning passing between us. He was divine, literally. I liked men. I did. I knew that from an early age. I liked the way they walked and talked, their swagger and their masculinity. I liked jeans and t-shirts on a man and no frills. I liked a nice crew-cut and a bit of stubble. This man embodied all that. Sometimes the possibility of meeting a gentleman who would take me away from everything I had grown to hate was all that kept me going. As much as I yearned for that, I was also afraid to risk myself and end up getting knocked back.

Cody was a temptation too great.
Guests like him were rare in that place. Instead of going direct to the next room just a few doors down the hall in the opposite direction, I decided to go the long way round the rectangular circuit so I would pass his junior suite. I was clattering about exaggeratedly, hoping he might come out to see what all the fuss was. I was edging my way toward his door when I realised he had left it open. Some childish part of me thought my ploy would work (and it did!).

“
Excuse me, have you got a minute? Got a problem here.”

I was admitted to the room and told that his TV wasn't working. Within no time, I got it up and running. He stared at me with brooding eyes and something in me buckled, while something else railed against the
moistness welling between my legs.

“Can I go now?”
I asked, with a hint of sarcasm. He brought it out in me. I scorned myself.

“No. Can I get your name?”

“Name tag, see?” I pointed, impatiently.

“
Charlotte. Nice name.”

He had chocolate
brown eyes that were matched perfectly by his hair colour. He bore angular features that were so arousing. I am loath to admit that my somewhat vain eye was appeased. He had a presence of youth and virility. I noticed his waist in his low-slung jeans and strong, athletic shoulders hugging the cotton of his t-shirt.

“
Why are you all sweaty? Like you've just been to the gym?”

I scowled. My retort came: “
Some selfish guests decided to leave a pig sty for me.”

“
I like a woman who enjoys getting physical.”

I was no doubt becoming red and sweaty with other urges, and he knew.
I could barely look him in the eye. I was a fanciful young woman whose dreams were becoming a reality. Having been shackled in my chains for so long, the fact that he was even talking to me was a miracle.

He went to shut the door of his room
, locking us in. He stood in front of me by the TV and stared. My wiser, more knowledgeable self looks back and winces at how easy I swooned. His frame was pulsating with lust, aiming itself square against my body. I knew only that I felt his mouth on mine next, plucking at my lips with his. His arms wrapped around my back and he moaned when he kissed me. I slumped against him and he took my response as a green light to kiss me deeper, pushing his tongue against mine. It was a moment I could never forget. It was my first French kiss with a man. Something in my stomach yelped and soared. He wrapped my long pony tail around his fingers and held his other palm to my cheek while he kissed my inexperienced mouth. I was so unsure of myself at first. His slow kisses encouraged me to kiss him back and I did, gradually allowing myself to hold him in return. I couldn't bear his touch, which made me feel giddy and ridiculous. I knew the transparency of my want would be clear. I hid my face in his neck and he embraced me, stroked my hair and kissed my cheek.

“
I've never done this before,” I said.

“
What? Hunted down a male guest.”

“
Exactly.”

He kissed me again and pushed me up against the wall.
There was a very discernable bulge in his jeans. I felt for his head and ran my fingers through the soft sheen of fur decorating his scalp. He was no doubt naturally curly-haired. We ravenously devoured one another and the kisses no longer had rhythm.

I heard my zip being pulled and his fingers stray into my knickers. I gasped at the sensation of his index finger gently running over my inner folds. I can only say he was truly delicious to kiss and expert when it c
ame to touching me. I was lost so immediately. While my eyelids flickered, he chewed my lips and stared at my taken expression. His digits worked further inside me and I juddered and yelped. The girl I was then decided it resembled pain and I emerged from it to find his wet lips caressing my neck.

He withdrew and looked down to see a fine trail of blood coating his fingers.

“Oh shit,” he said.

His expression was one of disgust and realisation. I was a virgin. I zipped up and he went to wash himself.

“Charlotte, wait.”

“
I have got to go, sorry,” I stumbled.

When I got out into the corridor, Irene was waiting
by the abandoned cleaning cart and I knew I was done for. Just my luck. My red face and the footballer inside that room would ensure my voluntary resignation. Irene had been gunning for me for some time.

We were in her office a few minutes later.

“
I was helping him fix his TV.”

“
Sounded like it.”

“
I was. Ask him.”

“
I don't think a man photographed yesterday with another in a long line of women is to be trusted. See page six of
The Sun
.”

I imagined Irene
would breathe fire over the entire world if she could.

My defence was this: “
How many times in five years have I gone above and beyond to get the job done well? How many others do you have who get one hundred per cent satisfaction in their audits?” Sarcasm emitted from my very pores. I could not help myself. It was a rotten defence mechanism…

“
I can't have this anymore Charlotte. You never accept promotion. You sometimes fall asleep on the job.”

“
Twice. Twice in five years!” I exclaimed. Though those two occasions were enough to earn me a reputation.

“
Well, you never try to get on with other members of staff. Now, you've been caught
entertaining
guests!”

I knew Irene hated me. I had known it for ages. She couldn't understand why I just wanted to turn up for work, do the job, and go home.

“This is unfair,” I pleaded. This was a rotten twist of fate, too.

“
I'll give you a reference. But, I don't know what else to do with you Charlotte. You should try to find something that suits you more.”

I felt nothing actually suited me mo
re than that job, though I'd never admit it.

“
Fine, Irene, fine. I hated this job anyway!” I claimed.

I l
eft under the pretence of being happy to finally escape that hellhole. Secretly my lip was trembling. It would turn out that losing the job that had kept me steady for so long was about to undo me. It was taken away from me just like that. I felt at once bereft and liberated. I was about to sink further into the depths of something I still hadn't come to terms with but which was my real, daily battle.