Page 9 of Christmas Spirit
One room?No. No, no,no. There was no way on earth he was going to share a room with his kitchen boy.
“We couldn’t possibly share. Is there somewhere else around, somewhere else close by?”
Roland winced as pain flared through his head, as tight and sharp as wire. The idea of getting back in the car, crawling through the snow in the dark, looking for somewhere else…
“Oh no, sir,” the old man said. “There’s no other hotel around here for miles and miles, and I really wouldn’t recommend driving in this weather. I would be delighted for you both to be our guests for the night, but it would have to be in the one room.”
Another sharp finger of pain seared through Roland’s head, making him squint as he met the old man’s eyes, still twinkling, still smiling, and fixed on him.
Nothing else for miles around… The old man was right about the weather… It was for one night only…
“Erm, how did you know my name?” Georgie tilted his head to the side. “I didn’t tell you what it was.”
Roland looked between Georgie and the old man. Georgie hadn’t said a word to the old man, it was true, and he was sure he hadn’t mentioned Georgie’s name. His gaze settled on the man, curious as to what he would say.
“Why, your name’s on your badge, sir. Forrester. Georgie Forrester.”
“I’m not wearing—”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Roland muttered. “Why are you wearing your staff name badge?”
Roland glowered at Georgie, who stared down at his still buttoned up coat, where his Pendleton Manor badge was pinned squarely to his chest. Blue and gold, it was hard to miss. Georgie must have been wearing it all the time, although goodness knows why, yet Roland couldn’t remember seeing it.
Without a word Georgie unpinned it and thrust it into his coat pocket.
“So, would you like me to make the booking, sir?” the old man asked, his twinkling eyes locking onto Roland’s.
I don’t have any other bloody choice.
“Yes, thank you.”
“If you’d care to sign — Ah, I seem to have mislaid my pen. One moment, please.”
The old man disappeared through a door behind the reception desk.
“How much is it?” Georgie whispered. “You didn’t ask, and as I’m going to be paying half of it, I need to know how much it is.”
“I don’t care how much is. It’s a room and that’s all that matters. And I’ll pay for it.”
“I don’t want you to pay my share. I told you,” Georgiehissed. “But I do need to know how much I’m going to end up owing.”
“Stop making such a fuss. I know you can’t afford it—”
“That’s not the point,” Georgie spat back, his face reddening.
Roland ground his teeth. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so blunt, but it was no more than the truth and he was in no mood to argue.
“I am not going to have this argument. I will pay for the room. End of discussion, so—”
“I’m sorry to have kept you. Here you are, sir.”
The man handed Roland a heavy, old-fashioned silver fountain pen, and turned the ledger around for him. The page on which Roland was to sign his and Georgie’s names was white, pristine and empty.
“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher Jones,” the man said, scrutinising the backwards sloping scrawl of Roland’s signature. “Your initial, sir. Would that be for Roland?”
“I’m sorry?”
Roland flinched. He’d signed the way he always did,R. Fletcher-Jones.Always his initial only, never his first name.
