I stood on the threshold and looked around. The place was deserted, the fruit machines flashing purely for their own amusement.
I walked in. Just me. Eleanor, alone. A barman was watching TV and absentmindedly polishing glasses.
“Homes Under the Hammer,” he said, turning toward me.
I remember thinking, surprised, that he was passably attractive, and then chastising myself for the thought.
My prejudice was that beautiful, glamorous people would not be at work in the Hawthorn House Hotel on a Friday lunchtime.
Granted, the receptionist had confirmed my initial thoughts, but really,
it was shameful of me to have these preconceptionswhere on earth did they come from?
(A little voice whispered the answer in my head: Mummy.)
The barman smiled, revealing a lovely set of teeth and clear blue eyes.
“It’s a load of old shite,” he said, in a voice that could strip paint from walls, after giving them a good sanding down first.
See—told you! Mummy whispered. “Is it?” I said. “Unfortunately I’m not generally at home during the day to see it.”
“Watch it here, if you like,” the man said, shrugging. “Could I?”
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