The Girl from the Savoy by Hazel Gaynor

agree!” His accent is American. Brash and confident. As he speaks, his eyes travel from my shoes to my cap and everywhere in between. I feel uncomfortable under his gaze. “But your standards are most definitely going up,” he continues. “Much prettier staff than last year. A carefully planned business strategy of yours, I presume? Anything to drag the punters in!”
    My cheeks redden as they both laugh at the joke.
    â€œDon’t let us hold you up,” the older gentleman says. “Plenty of work to do. Tempus fugit .”
    I follow Sissy along the corridor. As we turn a corner, I glance over my shoulder. He is still staring.
    â€œWho was that?” I whisper.
    â€œThe governor. Reeves-Smith.”
    â€œNo. Not him. The younger man with him.”
    â€œThat’s Lawrence Snyder. Larry to his friends. Big Hollywood somebody or other. Comes over every season to spot the new talent.Entices them to America with the promise of starring roles in the movies. He’s the one Gladys has her sights on. Can’t blame her. He’s so handsome. And that accent!”
    â€œI thought he was vile. Did you see the way he looked us up and down?”
    â€œLooked you up and down, you mean. Serves you right for having those great big eyes and shapely ankles. Anyway, all the gentlemen look at the maids that way. The prettier ones, at least. You’d better get used to it, Miss Dorothy Lane.”
    My stomach lurches at her words. I instinctively place a hand to my cheek. Sometimes I can still feel the pain; the sickening thud of his fist.
    Reaching a white paneled door, Sissy knocks firmly and calls, “Housekeeping.” Hearing nothing in reply, she turns the key and steps inside. I hang the MAID AT WORK sign on the handle and close the door behind us.
    The suite is breathtaking, a dazzling display of crystal chandeliers and polished walnut. An ornate chaise sits by a low window and Hepplewhite chairs are arranged beside a mahogany coffee table. The famous Savoy bed is big enough for half a dozen people to sleep in. Even with its crumpled linen and creased pillow slips, it is quite something. Following Sissy’s lead, I check the blinds, switch the electric lights on and off to make sure they are all working, and turn the bathroom taps to make sure they’re not dripping.
    â€œIt’s funny to be among the things of someone I’ve never met, and probably never will,” I remark as we strip the bed. “I’m used to doing out the rooms of young ladies I’d see every day.”
    â€œI like the anonymity,” Sissy says, bundling the dirty sheets into a neat pile. “It suits me to come in and set things right while they’re out having lunch and cocktails. Never cared for all that gossip and familiarity in a private household. Part of the fun of working hereis imagining whose room you’re in. Look at those black opera gloves over that chair. What do you reckon? A tall redhead with a dirty laugh?”
    â€œOr maybe a short brunette with thick ankles?” I add.
    We giggle as we conjure up increasingly awful images of who Miss Howard from Pennsylvania might be and as I lift beautiful necklaces from the dressing table, I imagine the pale neck they will decorate with their emeralds and jade. I replace the cap on a lipstick and see perfect crimson lips and the mark they will leave on a champagne glass. I breathe in the scent of sandalwood and rose as I dust beneath perfume bottles and face creams. I admire a small traveling pillow, running my fingers over the outline of a butterfly expertly captured by silk thread. I feel the rich fabric of each elegant dress, the soft satin of each shoe, the smooth gloss of every Ciro pearl, and for a delicious moment I am not Dorothy Lane, daughter of a Lancashire farmer, I am the daughter of an American shipping magnate with exquisite things to make my life perfect.
    We work methodically following a careful