Room Service

Chapter One

Hi, guys! So I'm back with a new short story that I'm going to be working on over the summer. I wanted to do something less stressful while editing Vanilla and before I tackle my next novel, and the idea for this popped into my head. So, here we go.

I know this story is incredibly cliche, and I'll probably get a lot of criticism for that. But you know what? I don't care. This is a short story; it's nothing serious. It's a fun summer project purely for my entertainment (and yours). I hope you enjoy it!

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            “Look at this!”

            The barking demand was succeeded by two things: the first, the glossy magazine that fell with a resounding slap right into my lap; the second, my younger sister’s beaming expression, quivering at the seams with the effort of holding back the full extent of her glee.

            I should’ve known what was coming. I didn’t even really need to let my eyes trail downward, skimming over the features of the bold cover image, to know what Rosemarie was so excited about. But I found myself doing it anyway.

            “Leon McCarthy!” she squealed.

            That much had been evident, of course, the moment my eyes fell upon the swooping blonde hair and baby features of the boy in the photo, charm oozing from the very pixels of his printed smile. We didn’t need to be on first-name terms for me to know exactly who he was; anybody who’d set one foot inside Rosemarie’s bedroom in the past year would find themselves able to discern that this was the same boy who appeared on all thirteen of her posters, not to mention her impressive assortment of Leon-related merchandise. Wristbands, hoodies, printed post-its: you name it, Rosemarie owned it.

            In fact, my twelve-year-old sister was a super fan to the extent that I was certain I could now recognise any given song from his debut album within the first few beats of the intro, reel off personal details like his height and favourite food like some sort of mantra, all while humming the acoustic accompaniment to his most popular song, Hand On My Heart.

            She was in deep. And, consequently, so was I.

            “What is it this time?” Though I did my best to keep the bored tone from seeping into my voice, I found its essence trickling in anyway. I couldn’t help it. Since the foundations of my sister’s obsession had been laid into place, my brain had developed a tendency to switch off at the first mention of the L-word.

            Nevertheless, my lack of enthusiasm wasn’t about to deter Rosemarie. “Read it!” she insisted, pushing the magazine closer to me. Her fiery red ponytail, secured with her favourite sparkly hair band, bobbed fervently with the movement of her head. “Read what it says!”

            I could think of a number of situations in which I’d have been considerably more tolerant towards my sister’s incessant hyperactivity; it just so happened that here, right now, was not one of them. Stationed at the check-in desk on an afternoon that was set to mark the beginning of a spectacularly busy tourist season, baking in the sheer humidity of the confinement, I couldn’t find it in myself to muster up a display of false enthusiasm.

            Mum had paid attention when I reminded her to get somebody in to fix the broken air conditioning in the reception area of our family-owned hotel – The Beach House, the only hotel in Walden-on-Sea with a clifftop ocean view! – and the repairmen were due tomorrow morning. But saying this was forgetting the small matter that we lived in England, and putting even the tiniest slither of faith in that any freak heat waves would hold off until tomorrow was, really, just foolish. The weatherman had predicted highs of thirty-two, the air con kept up its stubborn refusal to function, and I was being roasted alive.