Page 50 of A Lot to Unpack
Oof. I am so very clearly displeasing the boss – so that makes both of them – but wow. She must realise what an impossible job she’s tasked me with. I would love to see anyone do a better job, because: how? How is a person supposed to do this? Short of stealing a housekeeping uniform, and a keycard, and then waiting until he’s out to slip in and make the swap – obviously I’m not going to do anything illegal for a job. Is Paige really expecting me to?
‘Here we are, ma’am,’ the barman says as he sets my drink down in front of me.
‘Thanks so much,’ I reply.
‘I can tell you’re not a New Yorker,’ a man says as he takes the seat next to me.
I glance sideways. A man with way-too-white teeth, a blazer that’s just slightly too tight on the biceps, and hair that says ‘I woke up like this’ but definitely involved a diffuser and three separate products.
‘I’m from the UK,’ I say politely.
‘I knew it. I knew you were British,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got a good ear for accents. I love an English accent. Where are you from? Are you Scottish?’
‘The north of England,’ I tell him.
‘That’s Scotland, right?’
It’s really not.
‘No, below Scotland, in Yorkshire – in England,’ I correct him.
Perhaps I should have just said yes.
‘You sound kinda funny,’ he says – rather rudely, in my opinion.
‘Oh, yeah?’ I reply, not at all interested, but what’s a girl supposed to say in response to that?
‘Yeah… sorta… I don’t know.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘I love England. I loveThe Crown,Downton Abbey, Kate Middleton, Posh Spice. Your accent doesn’t sound the same…’
Hilariously he sounds almost suspicious.
‘Ahh, well, I’m not from where Posh Spice is from,’ I tell him. ‘I’m actually from where Scary Spice is from.’
‘I see,’ is all he says. ‘I like the posh accent. Like, Emma Watson posh. Have you seen theHarry Pottermovies?’
‘Erm, no,’ I say, not giving him anything to work with. Turns out he doesn’t need it.
‘I just love all things British,’ he continues. ‘I’ve just always had a thing for Brits, you know? It’s the accent. Not yours, the proper one.’
‘Right.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, you still sound British,’ he reassures me as he waves over the barman. ‘Can I get a beer?’
‘Sure,’ the barman replies.
‘Would I be drinking lager, if I was in the UK?’ he asks me.
‘Do you like lager?’ I reply.
‘I like British things,’ he says. ‘I have tried Carlsberg.’
I don’t have the heart to tell him that’s from Denmark. Actually, I do, but I really want this conversation to end.
‘So.’ He leans forward. ‘Do you live in London?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Near the Queen?’
