Nude Untitled by Beatrice Colin

A red sun was resting on the ocean as the Citroen crowned the brow of a small hill. In the sky, a seagull glided in the strong wind. The North coast stretched in each direction, beaded with the distant sparkle of Deauville, Trouville and Honfleur.
The girl beside her fizzed like a firework. Even being near her Clara felt as if she was absorbing something unhealthy. And she smelt dreadful. She sniffed loudly and wrinkled her nose.
"What is your perfume?" she asked.
Immediately the girl seemed to brighten up.
"It's not perfume," the journalist replied. "It's my own combination of essential oils."
"Oils," Clara said. "How vile."
"No, it's not that kind of oil," said the girl before launching into a speech about something called aromatherapy. Clara only half-listened to a list of dozens of different flowers, herbs and things with strange-sounding names which the journalist reeled off like a shopping list. She became quite animated and nodded her head at the end of her tirade as if she had just delivered a profound sermon.
"You see the oil is the life force of a plant," the girl said. "It's similar to the human spirit."
"I'm sorry," said Clara. "But that is complete and utter nonsense."
And then Clara reached forward and turned a knob on the dashboard. Music burst from speakers at the back of the car, thumping dance music, distorted with crackle. She frowned and twiddled another knob and flicked through the stations until she reached a man singing, maybe Barry Manilow or Demis Roussos. The radio was thankfully loud enough to drown out any further attempts at conversation. The journalist looked at her in alarm. Then she reached forward and turned it down.
"Don't do that!" said Clara. "I like this one and it is my radio, my car."
The girl gritted her teeth and seemed to be counting the kilometres one by one. Even above the music, Clara heard the words seven, six, five, four, three, two.
And then up ahead she finally saw it, The Grand Hotel, Clara exhaled very slowly...

Clara paused to touch the glass of the revolving door. Then she gave it a little push and it swept her gently round as it had done hundreds of times before. Inside, every armchair was draped in white sheets but it was all the same, exactly the same as she remembered. The reception hall was almost completely dark, apart from a little light spilling from the dining room. The warm sounds of people eating dinner, the flitter of faint laughter, the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of waiters drifted out. She wondered if they were made by ghosts. At the other end a door opened on to the beach. In the silver moonlight, the sea glittered darkly. Clara started to walk very slowly towards it using her stick for support.
And then she noticed a light behind the reception desk. The outline of a woman's figure rose. Clara stopped and then smiled graciously.
"Good evening," she said. "I am Princess Kuznetzova. I would like my usual room and one adjoining for my English niece."
"No," said a woman's voice. "We are closed. I am sorry."
Someone switched on the main lights and the hallway was suddenly filled with harsh yellow glare. The spell was broken. Paint peeled from the ceiling and the crystal chandelier was hazy and grey with dust.
But the noise from the dining room remained. Clara had not been haunted.
The woman at the reception desk stood with folded arms. She was in her forties and had the forlorn face of someone who believed in rules. Clara looked in the direction of the dining room and then back at the woman.
"If you tell the manager I am here, I am sure he will arrange it."
"I am the acting manageress," said the woman. "And I am very sorry but, as I told you, we are not open."
"Well," said Clara, "why do you still have some guests?"
Someone in the dining room erupted into a cascade of little giggles. The woman looked in the direction of the door with uncontained disgust.
"They are long-term residents," she said. "They remain while we do the renovations."
Just then the journalist struggled through the door carrying Clara's huge suitcase. She stopped at the threshold, dumped the case on the floor and squinted at the interior in obvious dismay. Clara took a deep breath and spoke very quietly.
"I have been a client at this establishment since 1928," she said. "I would like two rooms." "No," said the manageress loudly. "As I told you, we are not open."
"Well that's that," said the girl. "Let's go."
As she picked up the suitcase, Clara took a few steps back and whisked the corner of a white sheet from a velvet sofa.
"You see that stain. It was a bottle of Bordeaux 1933 which an unfortunate waiter spilled. It ruined my dress. I still have the dry-cleaning bill here."
The manageress stared at the faint but undeniable shadow on the velvet. Clara opened her handbag, rifled through the pockets and pulled out an old receipt. The manageress glanced at it and smiled, almost sarcastically.
"I am sorry," she said stiffly. "We do not pay outstanding bills of more than one year."
When it was quite clear in Clara's mind that the woman had no manners and furthermore was an oaf, she sighed and swooned back onto the sofa. Her coat fell open, revealing her bare legs. They were still shapely but, as she realised too late, suggested that she was nude underneath. Which she was, in fact. It was then that she realised that she'd underestimated the journalist. In seconds Kate was at her side, feeling her pulse.
"For Christ's sake," said the girl. "Can't you see this woman is very, very old? And she has a weak heart. You must have a couple of rooms spare."
Clara wasn't sure if she liked the description of herself but she had to admit it worked. The manageress hurried over with a glass of water.
"We've come all the way from Paris. I am Kate Haldane from Flare magazine... I mean, what kind of a place is this? We're not moving. We'll sleep here if we have to. And I'll write an exposé." There was a short silence cut with the crash of crockery from the kitchen.
"For one night," said the manageress. "And normal rates still apply."
Clara opened her eyes and sat up.
"Of course, I insist on a room with a sea view," she said. "At the off-season rate. And my niece and I would like dinner. In our rooms, please."
The sign on the lift said it was out of order. Clara waited for the journalist at the top of the stairs, after watching her lug the suitcase up two flights.
"You see it worked," Clara said. "The lift, I mean."
The girl couldn't look her in the eye. Either she was very rude, thought Clara, or mentally disturbed.
"I must make a few calls," said the journalist. "I'll meet you at 8 a.m. And then we get the diary and leave."
"Very well," she said.
Clara watched as the girl jammed her key into the door of room number 310 and turned it backwards and forwards. The door wouldn't open. First she pushed, then she shouldered all her weight against it and then she started to thump it. When it was clear she was about to break something, Clara stepped forward, gave the door handle a small twist and it opened.
"It is the same with sleep," said Clara. "As with our perception of the external world. It needs only a modification in our habits to make it poetic."
"What?" said the journalist.
"Proust," said Clara, doubting that the girl knew who he was. "Sleep well, my dear."
The journalist's door slammed and Clara stood alone in the corridor, the key in her hand.