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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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