The big Tipper and his Spare Pillow

Room 5 is a bedroom in the original part of the building which dates back to 1590. It is not the biggest, but is finished with a beautiful antique Duchess dressing table and an old solid walnut headboard.

Discretion in this trade is a given, although it’s often a chore when you have to go beyond the call of duty to hide the shenanigans of some guests. Day-lets are commonplace at most hotels that allow them, this is when the room is required ‘during the working day’, let’s say 11am until 3pm at which time the ‘couple’ check out having paid cash and back to the monotony of a less secret lives. When such clandestine goings on are afoot it is often easy to trace the culprits by reading the name on the empty box of ‘stay pecker hard pills’ in the waist bin next to condom wrappers. Cialis and Viagra induced playtime doesn’t come cheap but these folk need to maximise every minute together.

A regular guest before we took over and one who always frequented Room 5, visited with a different ‘wife’ each time. He always requested, during the booking process that we exercise the greatest discretion. He invariably asked for me before he booked, so that he’d be sure to get the message across: it would be awful if you said something like “Good to see you again, sir!” or “Goodness me, madam, you look younger every time I see you!” when you greeted them on arrival.

His lady friends always came in a few minutes after he did and seemed to know the direction to his room. I often wondered at first whether they knew him but I would later discover that they were paid help, or ‘spare pillows’ as they are known in London – ladies of the night who take up the space in a double bed for reward.
It is very hard when things are busy to be sure you convey the situation to all staff and hope to God that no one f**ks up. Regular guests like him whose tips are rolls of cash, are good for all the staff, I thought at first, but not for long.

It seemed as if we had played his game a dozen times before, but I was not expecting the frantic call from said gentleman. This time he was asking for my personal help, with the utmost urgency. He explained that his wife was about to enter the hotel through the front door and insisting she “Be stalled there” for as long as it took to get his ‘partner’ (the hurriedly dressed hooker) out of the room unnoticed.

I thought as quickly as I could before recommending the use of a fire escape close to his room. I ran upstairs and escorted the paid help down the fire escape stairs. This was made more difficult because she hadn’t finished becoming ‘decent’ but Basil had no time to gawp at her size H boobs. I reached the relative safety of the ground floor at just the time his wife was being brought up the ornate main staircase (as slowly as possible) by the duty receptionist.

It worked like clockwork as the receptionist pointed out objects of interest en route. The only person that seemed to suffer was me, heart racing, beads of sweat on my brow, but it would be worth it for the inevitably large tip that he’d leave to be shared by all the staff. I helped the now sultry sex worker out to the A351 amidst protests about the way she had been handled and the fact that she remained unpaid.

"Not my worry love!" I said somewhat unsympathetically.

“Sorry if I manhandled you but it was impossible to keep all your bits covered and get you out in a hurry!” All I had to do know was explain to Sybil how I now had a cheap aroma of au de prostitute on me.

At check-out the next morning, the bill was paid, and not much was said, none of the usual pleasantries. As it appeared his wife wasn’t able to pin anything on him, all was well. Unusually on this occasion he decided not to pay by cash or leave a tip. He either didn’t think the years he’d taken off me were worthy of a gratuitous tip, or wasn’t usually generous when he was with his wife.

I was not impressed, but as he left to pack the car, Barb came down with a lipstick that had been left in his room (but not the colour his wife was wearing); so I took it from my housekeeper and rushed out to the car, fuming to myself at the lack of reward for all my efforts and having decided, finally, to end the ‘love affairs’ the customer had here regularly. I thought of saying “The young lady who left yesterday afternoon left this in the room” but instead bottled it up and I settled for “Would you like a hand loading the car? And please come again!”

I did manage to discreetly palm him the lipstick when shaking hands along with a knowing glare and a comment that he never came back. This was not a disappointment, as I have not had to play his game again since. Hidden behind my obsequious smile, there often lie guests’ secrets, secrets that people give willingly without a second thought about how well I can be entrusted with them.

Ok if you don’t misbehave or find Basil having a bad one.