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Geoge Whiteman, the first boy I’d ever kissed, is here. . . on the Gold Coast. . . in my hotel. What the hell is he doing here?
I always dreaded a chance encounter with old classmates, and this was my first.
Lowering my head, I drove my fingers through my bangs bringing them forward and hoping they would give me sufficient cover.
I thought moving more than one thousand miles away from my hometown of Mildura would ensure I’d never be found. I should have gone farther. Abroad, maybe, to some tiny little haven in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Or maybe Iceland, where I could disappear beneath my fur-lined bonnet like a turtle hiding in its shell.
“I’m so sorry about this, Miss . . .” George had grown from the pudgy boy I knew in grade five into a man with a strong, chiseled jaw, trimmed with a three-day growth that made him look. . . manly and hot. His islander heritage upgraded his look to exotic.
“She won’t get me food.” Lobster sounded like a naughty child about to get a walloping. Maybe he sensed me gearing up to karate chop his ass out of here.
“Come on, Bomber, it’s four o’clock in the morning. The kitchen will be closed.” George’s voice was deep, smooth and hypnotic.
“She said that too.”
“Because it’s true.” As George pulled Lobster away, he looked over his shoulder at me “Sorry to bother you.”
The two of them staggered toward the front doors, and the glass slid back, allowing the cool sea breeze to sweep away the lingering odors Lobster left behind. When the doors closed, silence, my friend, crept back into its rightful place.
After thoroughly cleaning the front counter and giving the area a heavy spray with Glen 20 Country Scent, I slipped in behind the computer and searched the hotel guest list until I found George Whiteman.
Holy shit! I’m right. It is him. He checked in yesterday, all by himself.
I pulled his records and scanned his driver’s license. I couldn’t believe George still lived in the same Mildura home he’d grown up in.
Station Road was four blocks away from my childhood home. We’d shared many hours on the school bus together. Though he rarely spoke to me. I wasn’t the girl boys wanted to hang around. The extra weight I’d carried ensured I was left alone.
Exactly how I liked it.
The clock above the filing cabinet confirmed I had at least two more hours until I could crawl into bed. New Year’s Eve was long over. Not my shift, though.
The minutes dragged on as I attempted to busy myself with next week’s roster for the housekeeping staff. I always struggled with this roster. . . I knew only too well what the staff had to deal with on a daily basis.
The 1980s-built Hot Horizon Hotel was situated in the middle of Queensland’s sunny Gold Coast strip. Surfers Paradise was a haven for travelers from all over the world, and sadly, not all of them had decent hygiene manners.
A gust of breeze signaled the front doors opening, and George returned, battling against gravity to keep Lobster upright. I managed to dive into the back room in time, and peering over the top of the filing cabinet, I watched them stumble to the elevator and disappear behind the silver doors.
George seemed like a decent guy. He’d have to take Lobster up to his room on the eighth floor before he returned down to his own room.
At least I wasn’t the only one waking up to the New Year alone.
The sun hinted at the horizon, and as I did nearly every day, I grabbed the cordless phone, strolled out to the daybed at the front of the hotel foyer and sat with my cup of green tea to watch a new summer’s day unfold.
As the sky morphed from deep indigo to blood orange, I watched several seagulls fight over their morning breakfast. Rainbow Lorikeets added to the noise as they flitted from one Pandanus palm to another in a colorful aerial display.
I’d heard that Rainbow Lorikeets were monogamous. Once they met their partner, they were paired for life. Pity some humans didn’t adhere to the same instincts.
I slapped that shitty thought to the back of my brain, determined not to ruin the fabulous display nature had put on for me.
People went about their morning routine, which on the beautiful Gold Coast usually involved some form of exercise. Young men, with slick surfer’s bodies and wetsuits rolled down to their hips, swaggered down the path with longboards tucked under their elbows.
Gorgeous young women in minuscule jogging outfits trotted past with earbuds wiring them to the phones strapped to their biceps.
Elderly couples strolled hand-in-hand as if they had all the time in the world, and at this stage in their life, they probably did.
As the sun glided up from the ocean, I breathed in a new minute, a new hour, a new day, and on this morning, I also breathed a new year into my lungs.
As usual, the daytime manager crawled into work forty minutes late, and ten minutes later, I opened the door to room number thirteen. Unlucky for some, but lucky for me, it had been the least accommodated room in the hotel, so as part of my management package, this one-bed apartment became mine.
