“What was that?” he exclaimed gruffly, smashing a cigarette into the ashtray.
She watched as tiny embers sprang up and slowly glowed themselves to death-grey. He didn’t seem pleased.
“An hour?” she replied, more in hope.
“Listen, love; you know the mantra. Get ‘em in, get ‘em done and get ‘em gone. That was eighty minutes. Rooms five and eight have done three in that time!”
“I’m sorry, Ray, we just got talking. He was a lover of the arts.”
Ray threw his hands into the air. “What the chuff has that got to do with anything?”
He was a neanderthal. He wouldn’t understand. “You know I am studying fine art,” she said. “You don’t get much chance to have a conversation like that, especially around here.”
She glanced around at the lurid décor and posters of flowers and Parisienne rail stations. Where could you even buy puce paint?
“Look,” Ray stood. His tone changed to conciliatory and fatherly. Inside she cringed. “You’re a good masseuse. You’re a great earner. You could even get your picture up there, one day!”
She turned and looked along the line of images. In the ashtray, the last of the embers died.