Friday, 13 December 2013

A grand antique-looking chandelier hangs from the ceiling, lots of modern artwork on the walls (I’m sure I spy a Picasso or something, definitely original), tanned leather sofas, a massive flat-screen TV, a large pool table and at the far end I can see a huge window, which I’m guessing overlooks Colony Beach.
            I lean over the banister, one leg half off the ground to get a better look. This place is a far cry from the tiny Victorian flat I share with Sian, with its peeling wallpaper, hideous seventies patterned carpet and cheap furniture.  In fact it’s exactly the type of house I would have if I had the kind of money he obviously has. Michael clears his throat loudly. I peer up to find him standing at the top of the stairs looking at me in that way usually reserved for wayward children.
            I run up the remaining few steps. Not so bad for a high-heel novice!
            ‘Do you always take such a long time to walk up the stairs?’
            ‘I didn’t know it was a race.’
            He opens a door. ‘Your room.’
            ‘Thank you,’ I step inside and come to an abrupt stop. Two thoughts immediately spring to mind. This room is enormous; Christ, and it’s bigger than my entire flat, and it’s exquisitely decorated.
            ‘Nice,’ I say inadequately.

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