third floor, pushing open the door to room 38. And, sure enough, it has that empty, vacated feel before I even step inside. Their bags are lined up in a neat row against the king-sized bed: one large, one medium, one small. I plug in the hoover and pull out the cord. I don’t switch it on, because the noise would mask anyone returning to the room. Instead, I bite my feather duster between my teeth. Now, if I’m caught in the act of stealing, I can pretend I’m in the act of cleaning. It’s happened before and it’s always worked.
I go for the rucksack next to the gilded mirror first, the sort of bag people keep with them while travelling, containing essentials such as passports, tickets, itineraries, and cash. Here’s the tricky part. If I move the bag into the bathroom, say, I get privacy to search it. But if anyone returns to the room and finds me, I have no defence, no story. I’m caught red-handed. But if I leave the bag where it is, then I’m in full view of the open door. And there’s no plausible excuse there. However, it’s quicker and I’ll be able to hear anyone approaching from the corridor.
So I search the rucksack in the room, heart thumping, eyes flitting to and from the bag to the open door. I find the cash, a clutch of fifties and twenties, quickly. Over £1,000. I hold it, taking a potentially fatal pause to soak in the fantasy, then pocket six fifty-pound notes. Guilt and relief entwine as I cross the room to the suitcases. As a rule, I limit myself to one note per person/room. But this time I couldn’t help it, since I now need only another forty-five quid by Friday.
Relief soon eclipses guilt—it’s funny how fast that fades, once the deed is done—as I reach the suitcases. Happily, these are away from the sightline of the door, though they’re harder to open, and if I’m caught rummaging through one of these, my fate will be the same. I set my feather duster down on the bed, seize the smallest suitcase, flip it onto the floor, and pull at the zip. I yank too hard and it sticks.
I force myself to slow down—listening for the ping of the lift, for footsteps on the carpeted corridor—easing the zip along its path, watching the plastic teeth release as the mouth of the suitcase opens and the suppressed contents spring free.
I start rummaging but can’t immediately see the damn jacket. I lift piles of clothes, fingers skirting toys. Then I hear the unmistakable ping. I have about thirty seconds, depending on the speed of the lift’s occupants, until I’m seen. I must close the suitcase. It’s too late. I’ve no time. I’ve failed.
But I’m so close. My fingers sweep the suitcase again. Nothing. Wait. My thumb snags on a strip of silk. I tug. The linen jacket unfurls in a bloom of fabric on the floor, bringing with it several pairs of socks.
I feel a shift in the air. I stuff the jacket and the socks into my apron, while kneeling on the suitcase, zipping it shut.
“Que faites-vous?”
I stand, flattening the bulge in my apron, righting the suitcase. I don’t know for certain what the French father is saying, but I can guess. I dip my head, assuming a deferential, innocent stance.
“I’m sorry, s-sir. Your s-suitcase fell while I was cleaning.” I pause, biting my tongue and the urge to continue. It takes guts to give short answers to tricky questions, but lengthy explanations are a definite giveaway of guilt. I reclaim my feather duster. “Sh-shall I leave the room while you pack?”
He hesitates, narrowed eyes flitting from me to his suitcase.
“Non,” he says, with a flick of his wrist. “Nous partons maintenant.”
I nod, resisting the sudden urge to curtsy. “V-very good, s-sir.” I walk to the mirror and begin dusting it with great vigour, until the French family has departed, taking (nearly) all their possessions with them, until room 38 is silent and empty again.
Then I sit down on the bed and exhale.
During my negligible lunch break, I hide the contraband in my staff locker, stuffing the three hundred quid into my bra. I’ll have to take extra efforts to avoid grubby Garrick today, or at least keep him away from my left breast.
7:58 a.m.—Scarlet
Since the scalp-maiming incident with “the dastardly Mr. Wolfe,” as Scarlet has come, unaffectionately, to know him, she finds herself distracted. Both