All fifteen recruits signed the contract, and it was this cohort that Margot introduced to Alphonso and the potential investors of his hotel empire. On the night of this private gathering, she paraded the girls like virgins through Babylon, having them walk out in veils and long cloaks with nothing underneath. Margot turned to Alphonso and his guests. “Gentlemen, I present to you our queens of the night.” One by one the girls dropped their cloaks and lifted their veils. The men were visibly pleased. Privately, Margot admired them, content. She told them what Alphonso told her: “Mek me proud.”
And just like that Margot became a boss lady. A boss lady can be counted on. Does the dirty work. The men dig into their wallets for pleasures pure and deep. Margot’s girls can’t be rivaled. Their customers exit the hotel with long, conquering strides, whistling softly through the lobby. Days later they might return for another round, another hour with an island girl who has them biting their pillows, curling their toes, and swallowing moans that rise from their throats. They’re baffled by their own helplessness when Margot tells them that a particular girl they requested isn’t available. No one has ever made them feel so dependent—not barmaids, not servants, not assistants or secretaries, not tailors of fine suits, not expensive bottles of scotch, not their wives’ silences, not even God.
But even with all the money coming in, Margot isn’t satisfied. Something about her new role feels fake. Though she has been selling herself since high school, there is something dirty about selling other broken women, especially girls as young as her sister. She hardens her heart again. If she can succeed with this—between the money it brings and the secrets she’ll know—Alphonso will have to give her the manager job at last. She’s lived with regret before. Delores once made her break a chicken’s neck so that she could cook it for dinner. She will never forget the screaming bird, the drops of blood on dirt, the dangling tendon. Yet, they were all satisfied that night.
Margot watches Miss Novia Scott-Henry, the new general manager, closely: The way she floats around the property, barging into people’s conversations and telling them to work: “Leave idle chatter for later . . . we have a hotel to run, people to attend to. Chop, chop!” Even the way she unpacks her salads at lunch (who eats only salad as a meal?), wielding a silver fork and chewing contemplatively, her eyes trained on a document before her. Once in a while a piece of leaf or a bit of salad dressing would fall on the way to her mouth and she would pick it up with a napkin or brush it away. She’s not a clean eater, this woman. Sometimes she hands Margot documents with coffee stains on them.
Miss Scott-Henry leaves her office door open at all times. Margot knows the woman takes frequent bathroom breaks because of all the water she drinks. She also sucks her teeth when in deep concentration and likes to take the bottom of a pen to her mouth and chew. Margot even listens in on the woman’s phone calls; hears her friendly chatter to a business associate or someone from the Jamaica Gleaner or Observer calling to interview her as the former Miss Jamaica Universe winner, “the new face of the tourism industry.” Margot rolls her eyes at this, because she believes Alphonso hired the woman for that very reason, to bring publicity to his hotel. Just put a high-profile beauty queen in charge—one who shaved her head of beautiful locks to donate all her hair to cancer patients and who left the modeling industry to pursue a business degree—and people will flock to the property, though Margot believes foreigners couldn’t care less about that.
There are other surprising things about Miss Novia Scott-Henry. In the two weeks since she started, she has learned everyone’s names. “How yuh doing, Brenda? Take care, Faye. Don’t work too hard, Rudy. Let me see dat hose, Floyd. Nice hairstyle, Patsy.” She converses with the lower staff as though they are all the same rank as her—another trait Margot regards with mild suspicion. Margot became skeptical the minute the woman arrived on the scene with her turquoise blue cowrie-shell glasses, her closely cropped hair (all that’s left of the long hair that once cascaded in waves down her back, which was seen on all the 1980s calendars), and her sharply tailored pantsuits. Her beauty is indisputable, and she’s as sweet as she is tall. So sweet that she leaves a bitter taste on Margot’s tongue. Something sinister lurks behind her bright beauty-queen shine, the “Good mornings” and “Good evenings” she gives so freely, and the openness of her face. It’s the custard-pudding face of someone who will never have to work hard for anything; someone who enters a room and knows all the men’s eyes will be on her, yet plays it off by complimenting other women, no matter how frumpy. It’s the face of a snake who will accept a plate of food or a glass of water at your house and, when you turn your back, throw it all away. Margot wants to know what she’s hiding and what’s behind her power over Alphonso.
“How long yuh think she’ll last?” Margot asks Kensington.