The Finishing Touches by Hester Browne Page B

Several toxically clashing perfumes—Chanel No. 5, always a favorite; a new one that smelled like loo cleaner; some vanilla body oil. There was always one girl with a vanilla smell. But that potpourri—it wasn’t right. When Franny had been in charge, the entrance hall had smelled of garden flowers—roses, peonies, sweet peas. This smelled stale and slightly…pine fresh.
    I spotted a telltale air freshener half-hidden behind the urn of roses on the sideboard. They were fake . And not even good-quality fakes! And the air freshener wasn’t even hidden!
    Paulette had stopped a few feet away from the office door and dropped her voice conspiratorially.
    “Now, just so you know, Miss Thorne’s got a dental appointment this afternoon, so she might be in one of her moods. Abscesses, you know. From all the mints, I’d say. It’s like an addiction .”
    “Paulette,” I said, dropping my voice too. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but does Miss Thorne know you’re telling me about her abscesses? She always used to tell the students that the best secretaries have secrets in them—does she still say that?”
    “What? No. Are you sure you’re not an inspector?” Paulette gazed up at me like a puppy who’s done something unpleasant on a shoe you’ve just put on. “I didn’t mean to apply for the secretary’s job,” she confessed in a rush. “I thought this was a hotel. No one even checked my references! Oh, bloody hell. I shouldn’t have said that either, should I?”
    I gave her a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry; it’s fine.”
    But she hadn’t finished. “Please don’t tell her what I said about the traffic wardens. I’m not meant to be covering up for Anastasia, but she’s had them round here twice this month, and she won’t listen to me when I tell her she needs to sort it out, and her dad’s quite big in the Russian Mafia. She says.”
    “I won’t,” I promised. Oh, my God, I thought, my voice spiraling into a squawk in my head, what’s going on here?
    I reminded myself that at least it would make a good story to tell Liv. In the meantime, I had to start small.
    “Now. Can I give you my coat? Great! Do you have any wooden hangers?” I guided Paulette gently to the cloakroom.“They’re much better for the shape than metal ones…No? OK, don’t worry about it now; I’ll find you some later. Great! Now, if you could tell Miss Thorne? Give us both time to check our lipstick…”
    Paulette flashed me a quick, grateful smile, which made her seem about twelve, and rushed off.
    While she was busy in the principal’s office, I did the old Phillimore BLT check (Buttons, fastened; Lipstick, fresh; Teeth, clean), then pulled myself up to full height, filled my lungs, and tried to breathe out slowly. Miss Thorne had known me since I was little—what on earth did I have to get het up about? Besides, I now knew she had abscesses and a mint imperial addiction.
    And then Paulette was back, looking flushed. “I’ll get the coffee,” she said, ushering me through, and I knocked on the white door of the principal’s office.
    After a count of four, a voice trilled “Enter!” from within, and I entered.
     
    I didn’t have a strong memory of the principal’s office, since it had always been Miss Vanderbilt’s domain and I’d never had cause—good or bad—to be summoned to it.
    It had once been a drawing room and was painted in Wedgwood blue, with one wall taken up by a full-length bookshelf and another by a pair of French windows that led into the enclosed garden, where students were supposed to cultivate herbs and definitely not sunbathe.
    Dominating the far end of the room was a massive antique desk, behind which Miss Thorne was just visible in her sugar-pink cashmere ensemble. Her white hair was set like swirls of whipped cream around her doll-like face, with a triple string of pearls balanced beneath on a shelflike bust. There was no computer in sight, only a silver desk set, three Art Deco