‘Hi George,’ Nose ring girl grinned at him. She had an enormous gap between her two front teeth. ‘Did you dress before you took your shower this morning?’ she asked, casting a critical eye up and down him.
‘Something like that,’ he mumbled.
‘Don’t tease him, Martha.’ Millie warned, slapping the girl on the arm as she edged her way past the breakfast bar to get to the coffee machine.
‘You’re still going to Brighton then?’ the girl in spectacles asked.
‘Seems so.’ George shrugged and looked hopefully at Millie.
‘You must be mad,’ Martha muttered and clamped her large teeth around a chunky slice of toast, reminding George of a donkey he had once got too close to on the sands at Weston-Super-Mare. He remembered those teeth only too well, as they closed on the not too fleshy part of his upper arm. The bruise had been impressive.
‘Want some breakfast, George?’ Millie asked.
‘No, thanks. Had some at home.’
‘You still live with your parents?’ Martha asked, though he thought by her tone she already knew the answer and didn’t approve.
George fixed her with a,you trying to make something of it,stare and said, ‘Only for the summer. I’m down from university for the holiday.’
‘George is reading medieval history,’ Millie said proudly and passed him a mug of coffee.
‘Thanks.’ He took a sip and felt the caffeine rush instantly. Real coffee. Strong and bitter. He wanted to ask for some sugar to sweeten it but thought better of it. Somehow, he felt that would seem weak–not very manly.
‘I won’t be long. Just got to finish packing.’ Millie squeezed his arm and brushed past him, leaving him alone with the flatmates.
George shuffled uncomfortably under their open scrutiny and took shelter behind the mug of coffee.
‘Are you going to take Millie somewhere nice?’ Martha asked after she swallowed the toast she had been chewing thoughtfully.
‘Like the Metropole?’ the other girl suggested. George realised he didn’t know the name of the girl with glasses.
‘The Grand is better,’ Martha argued.
‘No, it’s not,’ glasses argued.
George felt outnumbered as he answered, but he told himself to be brave, think how Owen might handle this situation.
‘Neither actually,’ he said, then added with assumed sophistication totally out of sync with his appearance. ‘I don’t like those large impersonal hotels. I much prefer the style and refinement of a smaller boutique establishment.’
‘Ooh!’ the girls cried in unison and gaped at him. Thankfully, before his facade could slip, or they could ask him the name of his classy accommodation, Millie returned with her bag.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Certainly am.’ He placed his half-finished coffee down on the counter and headed eagerly for the door. ‘I’ll carry that,’ he said, grabbing Millie’s bag and, feeling like he was on cloud nine, he gave her flatmates a parting wave.
