Hotel de Dream Read Online Free PDF Page A

reign here,” she said coldly.
    The Queen gave an uncharacteristic giggle. It crossed Miss Briggs’s mind that she, too, might have been affected by the wicked and anonymous night-artist.
    â€œLet the hard reign fall!” Serious again after her pun, the Queen rose and climbed the steps to kiss Miss Briggs on the cheek.
    â€œWho can say how long you will have, my dear Miss Briggs? Enjoy it while you can!” Her face grew indistinct, and the stateroom began to swim in front of Miss Briggs’s eyes.
    â€œWhy don’t we go in to tea now. What do you say?”
    â€œTea,” Miss Briggs repeated. Her voice sounded muffled and far off, as if a pillow had been placed over her mouth. She stepped down from the throne, her legs unsteady under her. The stripes of the nylon pillow-case made bars against the fading throne room.
    â€œYes Mrs Routledge,” she called hoarsely. “Thank you.”
    Next door she could hear Jeannette Scranton singing as she prepared for the morning ritual downstairs. It was a song she had never heard before, with a sad, almost Oriental lilt,and foreign-sounding words. Miss Briggs gritted her teeth with irritation. One of these days—no, today—she would tell Miss Scranton to pipe down with that awful sound.

Chapter 4
    â€œIt’s not what we’re used to,” Cecilia Houghton said, “But I suppose it will have to do for the time being.”
    She unzipped the case of the portable and placed the machine briskly on the table—too low, she could see that already, and the chair, with its curved back and wooden seat an agony for the writer—and laid the thick manuscript down beside it before going over to the bed to unpack her clothes. Mrs Routledge had placed the novelist in Room 24, next to Miss Briggs, and on opening the cupboard that stood up against the adjoining wall she heard the sound of water running and then a soft crash, as if someone had fallen to the floor and was failing to try to get up. Mrs Houghton paused, her eyebrows rising as she stood, cocktail dress in one hand and hanger in the other, the little silver sequins on the shoulder of the gown winking at her like knowing eyes. It was early, not nine yet, and the sound was surprising for the morning, for there was something drunken and abandoned about it, the last thing she had hoped to hear in the Westringham Hotel at this hour. She had checked in (if Mrs Routledge’s rough welcome could be described as checking in) as early as this in order to be able to do a full day’s work undisturbed. Mrs Routledge had just announced that tea was ready downstairs. She stood by the cupboard door, unsure as to whether it was her duty to go into Room 23 and see what the matter was. Then shrugged, and slotted a fox stole on top of the cocktail dress, pushed the laden hanger on to the rod within. The trilogy would hardly be able to get under way if she became too interested in the behaviour of the characters in the hotel.
    â€œI offer my resignation, your Majesty.”
    The words came clear through the wall and Mrs Houghton flinched. Exiled royalty—not her subject matter, but irresistible all the same. She pulled a couple of cashmere sweaters out of the suitcase and laid them gently on a shelf.
    â€œIt was your Majesty’s duty to continue until the end,” the voice went on. “I never expected that you, of all people, would pull out now. If you’ll forgive the language.”
    Now there were sounds—creaking knees, a heavy sigh—of a person rising from an uncomfortable position on a lino floor. A tap was turned off and parts of an anatomy scrubbed. Mrs Houghton waited for the Royal answer to these accusations. But there was silence. Ill at ease, for it was bad enough having been thrown out by her sister-in-law in Knightsbridge and finding herself in this dirty, eccentric boarding house, without scenes of this kind being enacted in the adjacent room, Cecilia