The Australian couple who were staying in Room 6 had complained the hot water pressure wasn’t great and they’d found a hair belonging to neither of them in the bath. Not only that but the pillows were lumpy and the bed was too hard and hadn’t been vacuumed under. She sighed all the way down to the tips of her patent leather, Dior stilettos. Bloody Ita! She’d be having words about her standard of cleaning. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to rake her over the coals for her slapdash efforts and she knew from past experience their director of housekeeping was a sulker. They’d all be in for days of hoover banging on the skirtings as a result. Still, she needed to be told. As for the hot water pressure, there was nothing wrong with it. Did they want a water blaster to take the fecking skin off them? None of their other guests had ever moaned about lumpy pillows or hard beds either.
Aisling knew the couple’s type. They were people for whom there would always be too much salt in the stew or not enough pepper on their steak. The kind who felt short-changed by life in general. Born complainers, and born complainers had to be handled with kid gloves to ensure they didn’t make a loud noise in front of their other, perfectly happy guests. There was a saying when it came to offering a service such as their guesthouse, ‘the customer was always right.’ As such, it was time to don her fecky brown noser hat; Quinn would have to wait.
The door opened as Aisling screwed up the paper and tossed it in the bin and Nina, her face peeping out from the furry hood of her parker, called out an apology for being late. Bronagh, huffing, made her escape out the door and Aisling seeing Nina’s face fall, explained. ‘You’re only a few minutes late, it’s not you. Don’t worry about Bronagh, she’s had a day of it with the couple in Room 6. Full of moans about the place so they are.’
Nina’s worried face softened. She hated upsetting people. She was a pleaser and as such she would not ask Aisling why her face was covered in red lumps. She went to hang her coat up in the small kitchen area as Aisling sat down in the seat still warm from Bronagh and placed a call to Room 6 to see if they’d like to have a chat, in the guests’ lounge, about how she could improve their stay at a time that suited them.
The sniffy accented twang of Mrs Trope agreed to come down and meet with her in fifteen minutes. Aisling hung up the phone and vacated the seat for Nina before scanning their bookings and seeing, as she’d hoped, Room 8 with its California king was free for the next few nights. An upgrade would hopefully appease them.
AN HOUR LATER, HAVING politely listened to a lengthy rehashing of Mr and Mrs Trope’s earlier complaints, Aisling stood in her stocking feet in her bedroom, the skirt with its merciless waistband in a heap next to her feet. She was opening and closing drawers in search of her favourite pyjama bottoms. The headache that had been lurking all day had worsened to an almost migraine-like status and she needed to lie prone on the couch and let the paracetamol she’d popped work their magic. She also needed to indulge in a few snowballs which always had the exact opposite effect on her headaches, chocolate was supposed to have. Her favourite coconutty, chocolicious treat and an hour spent staring gormlessly at the television should sort her out. Then, she’d go to Quinn’s.
Moira blessedly was out so the apartment was silent and she could put whatever tripe she fancied on the box and vegetate. Bliss. She deserved it after the grovelling she’d had to do where the Tropes were concerned. It had gone against the grain to place such an ungrateful pair of heathens in a larger suite, especially as she’d gotten a vibe from them upgrades were something they were well-practised at getting. She had them marked down as the kind of couple who creates a scene by saying there was a cockroach in their dinner in order to get out of paying the bill. In the long run though, it was easier to move and appease them than have the duo upset the equilibrium amongst their other guests. They were checking out the day after tomorrow. It was a small price to pay.
She’d positioned herself so she was spread the length of the sofa like an aging film star except instead of grapes she had a bowl of the snowballs within hands reach. She’d hidden them for emergency situations like this, behind the baked beans in the cupboard where Moira would not find them (she hated baked beans). A ridiculous game show was flickering on the screen in front of her with a paunchy, balding man who fancied himself a comedian hosting it. It was his blonde sidekick in the scanty evening wear who had her mesmerised though. Her facial expressions should see her in line for an Oscar. One minute she was feigning excitement akin to an orgasmic experience when a contestant won an iron and ironing board, the next great sorrow on a par with having found herself orphaned when they lost out on the toaster. The pinging of her phone distracted her. It lay abandoned on the kitchen worktop and she twisted her head to see if she could telepathically get it to float over to where she lay. She squinted her eyes and focussed but it didn’t budge and she wondered whether she was strong enough to ignore it. All she wanted was another forty-five minutes or so to lie here and wallow in snowballs and gameshows.
She’d almost convinced herself it had never made a sound when a few minutes later it announced the
