My Last Twenty Nights at The Royal

A maid arrives with two bottles of Scotch crushed against her
breasts. I take them but she lingers in the doorway, considering my
face.

'I haven't got any money for you, my dear,' I say before she can reach
a conclusion.

'How about some of that?' Her foot strays over the threshold.

I shrug and motion her inside the room. I dash half an inch in a
crystal tumbler and hand it to her. She grins.

'I don't usually do the big suites.'

I pour myself a treble. 'Neither do I. Not anymore.'

She swigs and wiggles over to the balcony window to watch gulls looping
beyond the glass.

'Silvia on reception wanted to know, how can an old wino could afford
twenty nights at The Royal? She wanted to call the police. I talked her
out of it, said I'd do your room.'

'My money's not good enough for you people anymore, is that it? Well
that's all I have left. Twenty nights at The Royal, a few bottles of
liquor and that's the end of me.'

She turns, 'I didn't tell them who you are.'

'I'm nobody,' I say quickly but her eyes are gleaming.

'I remember your show. "The Amazing Mr Benjamin".' She bucks her teeth.
In a goofy voice, she squeaks, '"Isn't it magic kids!"' She bursts out
laughing. Then she straightens up, 'I'm sorry, you must get sick of
fans saying it.'

'Ha.' The last time I heard those words, my agent was reading from a
tabloid's warped headline. I couldn't say my own catchphrase without
choking after that. I could hardly speak at all. I seize the glass from
her hand. 'You should go now.'

At the door she says, 'I never believed what the papers said.'

What the papers said indeed, the things they wrote. How could people
think that of me? What could I say to bring the magic back?

Every afternoon the maid brings more Scotch. Each time she smiles, I
snatch the bottle from her and slam the door. She cannot see Mr
Benjamin smoking or drinking, or slumped in front of the TV with his
trousers round his ankles. I shall not disappoint my remaining
follower.

Late one afternoon, I wake to thundering at the door. I stagger to the
peephole. That maid is peering back.

'Go away.'

'Mr Benjamin, I have to clean the room.'

'Tomorrow.'

'Please Mr Benjamin, you've been saying tomorrow for two weeks. The
manager insists the room is cleaned or he'll throw you out.'

I unlatch the door and slide down the wall. She barges in.

'Oh Mr Benjamin! What's happened to you? What happened to your
room?'

'I've been enjoying myself my dear,' I giggle. 'Isn't it magic kids?
Isn't The Amazing Mr Benjamin allowed to have a little fun?'

'The manager will throw you out for sure if he sees this mess. You need
some fresh air.'

She hauls my body up, manhandles me out onto the balcony and props me
against the railings. A hot breeze licks at me. With a sudden gust, my
toupee leaps to freedom and flies over the heads that swell along the
promenade. It scurries down the beach, enchanting parents and
spellbinding toddlers, and tumbles into the froth that swills around
the legs of the pier. I point to the glistening theatre at the pier's
end.

'I was triumphant there. Do you hear young lady? I was
magnificent.'

A flick of her head sends curls cascading over her shoulders.

'Summer season '82, every show was a sell-out. I played matinees and
evenings six days a week, and a Friday night special for the grown-ups.
When they clapped, I though the place would fall into the ocean. My
agent upgraded me to The Royal for the last weeks of the season. A room
like this one with a view of the seafront.' I collapse into the balcony
chair, gaze into the sun. 'Those were the best twenty nights of my
life. No more pokey B&;Bs. They fixed my name in lights on a
billboard above the pier-head. Before the evening performance, I'd sit
up here and watch the bulbs bloom into colour as the stars came out. I
had a future back then girl.'

I shake my head, look to her. 'I was still playing here when the story
broke. I watched a mob screaming on the pier. They ripped that
billboard down. Then they marched on the hotel. I had to escape through
the kitchens. Been running ever since.'

The maid kneels beside me, squeezes my hand. 'I'll get things tidied
up. I won't let them throw you out.'

She goes inside. I hear furniture scraping then a vacuum cleaner.
Suddenly there is a squeal from the bedroom. She marches out of the
billowing curtains. I try to stand but she pushes me into the
chair.

'Why did you come here Mr Benjamin?' She dangles a polythene bag in
front of my nose, a syringe, needles and a lethal shot of morphine,
wavering in the sunlight.

'One must expect to find unpleasant things, if one goes
snooping.'

'You hate yourself this much?'

'As do most the nation.'

'Not everyone.'

I shoo her away. 'The ones that don't hate me have forgotten my name.
I've eked out twenty years in hiding holes, waiting for my time again.
Tell me dear, where's my comeback to come from?'

'But you never defended yourself. What were people meant to
think?'

'Like a broken glass, however you glue it together, it will never ring
true again. The magic has gone.'

'But this,' she drops the bag in my lap, 'signs your confession.'

She turns and walks back into the room.

I hear the door slam but I don't get up. I can hear children's voices
pealing above the rumble of the traffic. I cradle the bag, waiting for
the sun to fall and the lights on the pier to flicker into life.