betrays me by coming out all shrill and nasal. I sound petulant, rather than nonchalant. I feel my face burning up, and curling my hand tightly round the handle of my suitcase, I dig my nails into my palm.
But Mr Asshole doesn’t react. Instead, he fixes me with his heavy-lidded eyes and adopts a bemused expression. ‘No,’ he replies casually, taking the matchstick out of his mouth. For a moment he studies it as he twirls it between finger and thumb, then flicks his gaze back to me. ‘But it appears that you have.’ The corners of his mouth turn up in smug amusement.
‘Really?’ I return the smile with as much sarcasm as I can muster. ‘And what might that be?’
Apart from you, you arrogant little shit.
We eyeball each other. Which is when I’m suddenly aware that it’s all gone very quiet. Everyone has stopped what they’re doing at the front desk and are now watching us like spectators at a boxing match.
Ding, ding. Round two.
‘This isn’t Macy’s, you know.’ He smirks.
‘Now you tell me,’ I reply dryly.
‘This building happens to be over four hundred and fifty years old.’
‘I know that.’
‘And you want to take the elevator?’
My cheeks are on fire. ‘Well, no, obviously. I wasn’t thinking. I’m a bit jet-lagged, that’s all—’
‘Perhaps you’d like me to ask if there’s an escalator instead,’ he interrupts, his faded blue eyes twinkling.
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ I say stiffly, and grabbing my suitcase, I head for the staircase and begin bumping up the stairs.
George rushes to help me. ‘Now then, miss, let me do that, I can easily—’
‘I’m fine, honestly, I can manage,’ I insist, grasping on to the handrail and tugging the suitcase up behind me, trying not to grunt. Jesus Christ, it weighs a ton. What the hell’s in here? That freaking black sweater you’re never gonna wear , I tell myself crossly. I curse the black sweater. Thump, bang, thump. Because it’s all that black sweater’s fault. Bang, thump, bang. If it wasn’t for that black sweater, I wouldn’t have even thought about taking an elevator.
Thump, bang, thump. Ouch!
Banging my legs on the corner of my suitcase, I wince with pain and bend down to rub my throbbing shin. Then catching Mr Asshole staring at me from the bottom of the staircase, I pretend I can’t feel a thing and continue climbing. Until, finally reaching the top, I hoist my suitcase on to the landing and flounce off down the corridor.
Lunch is being served in the Elizabethan dining room and so I quickly freshen up in my room. Dark and chintzy, it has a real four-poster bed, over which is hung a watercolour of a hunting scene (they seem to be very popular, they’re all over the hotel) and in the corner stands a big old wooden closet.
Having lived for as long as I can remember with birch-veneer flat-pack from IKEA, it’s a bit of a shock. Real furniture! And stuff that looks like it belongs in a museum, I think in amazement, running the flat of my hand across the door of the closet and feeling the centuries-old smoothness of the wood.
I’m interrupted by the jingly chime of my cell phone ringing. Grabbing my bag from my bedspread, I flounder around inside, trying to find it before it rings off. It can only be one person.
‘ Buenos dias. ’
‘Stella!’ I yell, grinning. Being independent, impulsive and all those strong adjectives is all very well, but there’s nothing better than getting a call from your best friend when you’re in strange surroundings. ‘It’s great to hear from you. What are you up to?’
‘Getting drunk,’ she laughs down the crackly line. ‘It’s the early hours of the morning here, and we’ve just arrived but I’m managing to keep awake with the help of tequila.’ She breaks off to take a loud slurp, and in the background I can hear the vibrant mix of music and laughter. ‘So, how is everything?’
‘Great,’ I reply enthusiastically, trying not to think
But Mr Asshole doesn’t react. Instead, he fixes me with his heavy-lidded eyes and adopts a bemused expression. ‘No,’ he replies casually, taking the matchstick out of his mouth. For a moment he studies it as he twirls it between finger and thumb, then flicks his gaze back to me. ‘But it appears that you have.’ The corners of his mouth turn up in smug amusement.
‘Really?’ I return the smile with as much sarcasm as I can muster. ‘And what might that be?’
Apart from you, you arrogant little shit.
We eyeball each other. Which is when I’m suddenly aware that it’s all gone very quiet. Everyone has stopped what they’re doing at the front desk and are now watching us like spectators at a boxing match.
Ding, ding. Round two.
‘This isn’t Macy’s, you know.’ He smirks.
‘Now you tell me,’ I reply dryly.
‘This building happens to be over four hundred and fifty years old.’
‘I know that.’
‘And you want to take the elevator?’
My cheeks are on fire. ‘Well, no, obviously. I wasn’t thinking. I’m a bit jet-lagged, that’s all—’
‘Perhaps you’d like me to ask if there’s an escalator instead,’ he interrupts, his faded blue eyes twinkling.
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ I say stiffly, and grabbing my suitcase, I head for the staircase and begin bumping up the stairs.
George rushes to help me. ‘Now then, miss, let me do that, I can easily—’
‘I’m fine, honestly, I can manage,’ I insist, grasping on to the handrail and tugging the suitcase up behind me, trying not to grunt. Jesus Christ, it weighs a ton. What the hell’s in here? That freaking black sweater you’re never gonna wear , I tell myself crossly. I curse the black sweater. Thump, bang, thump. Because it’s all that black sweater’s fault. Bang, thump, bang. If it wasn’t for that black sweater, I wouldn’t have even thought about taking an elevator.
Thump, bang, thump. Ouch!
Banging my legs on the corner of my suitcase, I wince with pain and bend down to rub my throbbing shin. Then catching Mr Asshole staring at me from the bottom of the staircase, I pretend I can’t feel a thing and continue climbing. Until, finally reaching the top, I hoist my suitcase on to the landing and flounce off down the corridor.
Lunch is being served in the Elizabethan dining room and so I quickly freshen up in my room. Dark and chintzy, it has a real four-poster bed, over which is hung a watercolour of a hunting scene (they seem to be very popular, they’re all over the hotel) and in the corner stands a big old wooden closet.
Having lived for as long as I can remember with birch-veneer flat-pack from IKEA, it’s a bit of a shock. Real furniture! And stuff that looks like it belongs in a museum, I think in amazement, running the flat of my hand across the door of the closet and feeling the centuries-old smoothness of the wood.
I’m interrupted by the jingly chime of my cell phone ringing. Grabbing my bag from my bedspread, I flounder around inside, trying to find it before it rings off. It can only be one person.
‘ Buenos dias. ’
‘Stella!’ I yell, grinning. Being independent, impulsive and all those strong adjectives is all very well, but there’s nothing better than getting a call from your best friend when you’re in strange surroundings. ‘It’s great to hear from you. What are you up to?’
‘Getting drunk,’ she laughs down the crackly line. ‘It’s the early hours of the morning here, and we’ve just arrived but I’m managing to keep awake with the help of tequila.’ She breaks off to take a loud slurp, and in the background I can hear the vibrant mix of music and laughter. ‘So, how is everything?’
‘Great,’ I reply enthusiastically, trying not to think
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