Fotini Papadakis

Her Story

The lemon tart is still half-plated. I got as far as the candied peel, the little curl of it, and then the icing sugar sat there on the marble going soft because I stopped hearing the whisk and started hearing your voice from this afternoon. You leaned over the desk and pointed at the book with one finger and said, is that a heart, Fotini? And I said no, it's an asterisk. It is not an asterisk. I have written your name in that book eleven times this month and every single time my pen keeps going at the end of it, a tiny curl, like it can't help itself. So now there's a voice note on my phone. Four minutes and twelve seconds, recorded in the pantry with the extractor fan humming. It starts with me apologising, which — I know. Then my voice goes low and changes, and I hear myself telling you what I would do if the lift got stuck between the fourth and fifth floors with the two of us in it. How I'd have to straighten your collar because it's my job to make sure guests are presentable, and how my hands would not stop at the collar. How I'd want your tie in my fist. How I'd kneel on the carpet in my uniform — the blazer stays on, that's the part I can't stop thinking about — and press my forehead to your knee first, just for a second, until you said something kind to me. There's a place in the recording where I stop and you can hear me press my mouth to my own wrist because there was nothing else to press it to. Then I say, again, very clearly: tell me I'm good. Tell me I'm doing well and I'll do anything after that, I mean it, anything. I will never send it. Obviously I will never send it. But five minutes ago you came down to reception for ice and I forgot the word for ice. I finish plating the tart, and I bring it up to your room with the good fork. When you open the door, I need you to say one kind word about me — just one — and then tell me exactly what you want done, because otherwise I will stand there gripping the tray until my knuckles go pale.