“Longer than Dwight, fah sure,” Kensington says while stapling some receipts together. “An’ definitely longer than dis drought! Is like we ah roas’ in hell.”
Margot looks in Miss Novia Scott-Henry’s direction. She’s outside, talking to Beryl, the voluptuous female security guard who never smiles. Their heads are lowered in conversation, sneaking furtive glances around the property as though whoever they speak of might ambush them. Margot wonders if they’re talking about the girls who’ve been coming around as of late. Beryl prevented one of them from entering the premises last week because she didn’t have proper ID. This infuriated Margot, because the girl couldn’t get to her client on time. Beryl has complained to Boris, the head of hotel security, about the young girls, but Boris already knows about Alphonso’s scheme. He promptly removed Beryl from front gate duty and put her in charge of the parking lot. Since then, Beryl has been more miserable than ever. Margot worries she’s a threat to their business. She watches Beryl and Miss Novia Scott-Henry huddled together. They are laughing about something, both throwing their hands up as though in surrender to the joke rippling through them. Margot is surprised to see flashes of Beryl’s teeth.
“Something is fishy ’bout her, that’s all,” Margot says.
“Fishy?” Kensington asks, lowering the stapler. “Is dat why yuh haven’t been doing work all week? ’Caw yuh jus’ waan watch fi see if she slip? She’s really nice. Bettah than that crow we had for ah boss. Alphonso did good by firing Dwight an’ hiring her. An’ besides, ah still have her old calendar. I want her to sign it. She did mek Jamaica proud di year she won Miss Universe.”
A ball of fire rises in Margot’s belly. She turns to Kensington. “Yuh is a good Christian woman, right?”
Kensington nods so hard that Margot fears her neck might snap. Margot often rolls her eyes whenever the girl comes to work in the morning with her stomach growling, explaining to Margot that she’s fasting yet again for her sins and therefore would not eat for the rest of the day.
“So can I ask you a question?” Margot says, scooting closer.
“What?”
“How is it dat yuh tolerate her?”
Kensington shakes her head. “I’m not following.”
“When Alphonso introduced us the first time, she held my hand an’ stroke it.”
Kensington jumps out her chair. “Yuh lie!”
“Yuh calling me a liar? Look at her. The way she dresses, the way she wears her hair—what self-respecting woman wear har hair cut so close to har head without di decency to put on a wig? An’ yuh really t’ink any woman wid nice hair would shave it off like dat?”
“Is fah the cancer patients.”
“Cancer patients, my rear end. Something else is behind it. Yuh notice that we’ve never seen her in a dress? Look how mannish she is. A far ways from her days as a beauty queen.” As she says this with authority and a conviction that she never knew existed within her, a shock of excitement runs through Margot’s veins, taking hold of her tongue. “Plenty people know about di rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“That she’s a undah-cover.”
Kensington is silent. A moment passes before she speaks.
“But she was a beauty queen. Those girls too pretty fah dat. And dey ’ave morals.”
“That was jus’ fah show. If yuh don’t believe me, jus’ ask around. Better yet, watch her.”
Kensington studies Miss Novia Scott-Henry in this new light—the way she talks with her hands, touching Beryl often on the elbow. A dark soot fills Kensington’s eyes, obscuring the whiteness. Perspiration beads form above her mouth from the humidity.
“How yuh know fah sure that she’s funny?”
“Jus’ look at her,” Margot says. “She flaunts it.”
Kensington makes a sign of the cross. And just like that, Margot knows she has planted a seed, perhaps the only one that has the potential to thrive in this drought.
The next few days are more bearable in the office for Margot—not because the hotel has installed new air-conditioning to ward off the unbearable heat, but because of Kensington. Kensington’s budding suspicion of Miss Novia Scott-Henry keeps her so occupied that she’s not able to focus on anything else—like the reservations being made to certain rooms on the sixteenth floor under fake names, the local businessmen who check in, then check out hours later, the girls who prance solo in a diagonal line across the marbled lobby straight to the elevator.
When Miss Novia Scott-Henry comes to the front desk to request the receipts and vouchers, Margot pretends to be busy with reservations, so she directs her question to Kensington. “I’m not sure what is going on here. Can you please explain what these ‘special services’ are on some of the bills? And why there are astronomical charges to rooms that were only reserved for two hours?”
Kensington has a genuine look of confusion on her face. She’s mouthing words that aren’t coming out.