Page 37 of Birds of a Feather

She turned around to face me, blinking her bleary, bloodshot eyes as she tried to find focus.

‘Here?’ she asked, confused. ‘Where?’

‘We’ve arrived at our hotel.’

‘Oh, God,’ she exclaimed urgently. ‘Is Gerry here?’

‘No,’ I laughed. ‘She’ll be here later tonight.’

‘Thank goodness,’ she said, rubbing her eyes vigorously. ‘Can you imagine? The first time I’ve seen her in six decades, and I’ve got sleep in my eyes and my hair is a mess. No amount of that lovely airline hibiscus face mist could stop me looking like something a cat has coughed up.’

I decided not to tell her about the drool that glistened like a snail’s track between her mouth and chin.

Nick removed our luggage from the car, an operation made infinitely more precarious by the giant kangaroo balloon, which had spent the journey looping itself around the back headrest. After he’d disentangled the kangaroo, he wheeled our luggage across the narrow footpath and into the hotel lobby.

The lobby area was decorated with blood-red carpet, heavy velvet curtains and wallpaper in dark maroon, and glistening timber panelling around, on and behind the reception desk. It reminded me of a museum exhibition I’d been to as a kid, where you stepped into a giant womb to experience what it was like in utero. A brown leather chesterfield armchair sat in the corner, and a stuffy-looking aristocrat stared down pompously from a large, gilded frame mounted on the wall.

We checked in with the assistance of a helpful receptionist who used a map to point out to us where we would find the best coffee and some must-see landmarks nearby.

‘Here, Nick,’ Gran said, fishing around in her handbag before victoriously producing her wallet. ‘Let me give you some money for petrol or tolls or whatever.’

‘Absolutely not,’ he responded with a laugh and a dismissive, but not unkind, wave of his hand. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. It was my pleasure.’

‘Are you sure?’ Gran asked. She must have been weary from the flight or she wouldn’t have taken no for an answer; she was staunchly independent when it came to paying her way. ‘Well, thank you, Nick. We really appreciated it.’

‘I’ll see you later tonight,’ he said, giving me a wink as he made his way to the door. I sensed Gran’s gaze on me as if searching for a reaction.

Ordinarily, I despised winkers. I tarred them with the same brush I reserved for people who assigned unnecessary nicknames, or punctuated their statements with a double finger-gun action. Mr Raven – my high school PE teacher – had embraced the trifecta with gusto. Each lesson, he’d wink and give double finger-guns while calling people ‘partner’, ‘big guy’ or ‘champion’. This had done nothing to improve my enthusiasm for running and team sports, but it did provide some inspiration during boxing and archery.

But there was something a bit endearing about Nick’s winks. They seemed genuinely jovial, rather than pretentious. And they were subtle: unless they were directed at you, you wouldn’t even spot them. However, since he’d done it twice in the short time I’d known him, I couldn’t rule out that he had an ocular disorder or involuntary tic.

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We made our way along the narrow corridor to the tiny lift and then through another passage to our room. Gran opened the door to a tastefully decorated suite with cream-coloured carpet, heavy chocolate-coloured drapes and two double beds covered in crisp white linen, separated by a bedside table. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, and ornate sconces were mounted above each bed. I stuck my head into the bathroom, which was adorned with marble and contained a bath, shower, sink and toilet. The room was large by normal standards; by London standards, it was palatial.

The last time I was in London, I stayed in a hotel room with a bathroom that was so tiny you could shower, go to the toilet and brush your teeth in the sink all at the same time. The bedroom had been about 30 centimetres wider than the bed on each side, which left almost no space to walk around the room, let alone stow any luggage. I had to sleep with my suitcase at the foot of the bed.

But that tiny room was a vast improvement on the accommodation I’d endured on my first visit to the UK. A repulsive, overpriced backpackers’ lodge with a shared unisex bathroom had proved to me that despite his poor aim and lack of consideration for bathroom etiquette, Elijah was far from being the grossest male in the world.

‘Not bad at all,’ Gran said, the corners of her mouth lifting to a smirk.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said, walking over to the compendium of hotel information neatly arranged on a small table. I liked to familiarise myself with the hotel’s facilities and amenities, and the necessary emergency procedures, as soon as I arrived anywhere.

For the next few hours, we dozed and read. After an intense few weeks, it was nice to feel like I was on a holiday.

At lunchtime, we wandered down the street in search of something to eat and settled on an outside table at a cafe that had Union Jack bunting in its window.

‘So,’ I began after the waiter delivered two bowls of steaming pumpkin soup and thick crusty bread to our table. ‘How are you feeling about tonight?’

‘What’s happening tonight?’ she joked, adjusting the paper serviette that was flapping in her lap from the breeze created by a red double-decker bus that whooshed past.

I rolled my eyes in jest.

‘Oh, love,’ she said laughing. ‘I think I’m feeling every emotion on the spectrum. I’m excited and nervous and happy and grateful.’

‘But, to be honest,’ she paused to dunk her bread in the soup, ‘I’m a bit pissed off too.’

‘Why?’ I asked, taken aback by her suddenly sharp tone.

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