"Oh, bugger."
The harsh sunlight streamed in through the dusty hotel window, landing directly in the face of the room's formerly-sleeping tenant. Ordinarily, Harry was an early riser and the sun serving as an alarm clock wouldn't have phased him. But on a Saturday, he had only hoped of sleeping in a bit longer. Mother Nature, however, would seem to have other plans.
Yawning, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. It was his third week staying in the hotel, a temporary break between his semesters studying business at the Sorbonne. Personally, as it was summer, Harry had hoped to relax. Maybe he would have traveled a bit, seen the parts of France that he'd only read about in books. Perhaps he could have scraped together enough cash to take a trip over to the Americas and see his second-favorite band, the Ramones perform in New York City. Most of all, he would have liked to finally and try to put together a band to show off his skills on the guitar. He had once dreamed of joining his favorite band, the Sex Pistols, but they had broken up the previous year.
Harry hadn't thought through any of these plans in detail. He hadn't been given that chance. His father wouldn't allow such silly ideas.
"Don't forget why I'm paying for your education, Harry," he had said in their last phone call. "You're to come back here as soon as you have your master in economics and work at the bank. You have talent, but you want to waste your time acting like a punk."
Harry had begged, "Sir, my classes ended weeks ago. I don't have any reason to stay here! I can still study if I go to New York, and my flat rental doesn't start until Sept-"
"It won't do, Harry, it won't do," his father had interrupted. "I'm expecting you to run part of this company one day, and I won't have my bank falling into disarray once I'm gone because my son is a disgrace. It's a good thing your mother isn't alive to see what a disappointment you've become."
Harry had wanted to hang up the phone there and then. He could have slammed down the payphone and walked away, but he knew that the next morning, his father would have arranged for his express trip back to London for an early enlistment in the banking industry, with or without his damned master's degree.
"Yes, sir."
Harry's father had nagged him on for a few minutes before finally hanging up. David Bright had never been the loving or caring type, as far as his son was concerned. While it had been seemingly generous to pay for his son to live in Paris while he completed his degree, Harry knew his ulterior motive was just to get a better bank employee. Had there been an advantage to opening a branch in Botswana, Harry certainly would have found himself shipped off to live amongst the hyenas and giraffes. He wasn't a beloved member of the family, he was another asset that David Bright had to manage.
Harry continued preparing for the day, pulling off his pyjamas and pulling underwear out of his top drawer. Leaning over the sink, Harry splashed some cool water on his face. Glancing at the mirror, he was only reminded of the conversation with his father. It was a shame that he had to resemble his father: plain dark brown hair, trimmed neatly; the dull brown eyes; the strong jaw of an Englishman. His genetics had been coded to match his future- a boring old prick that worked in a bank.
Perhaps I was cursed from the start, he thought. His mother's boisterous spirit, meant for someone that matched her blonde-haired, blue-eyed exterior, was trapped inside someone that looked like the dull and lackluster David Bright.
He shook his head to try and focus on what kept him going. Remember why you rebel. I hate the world, I hate my father, and I hate myself.
His growling stomach interrupted his negative thoughts, and Harry was reminded of one of the few positive things he had to look forward to that morning. Breakfast.
Walking towards his hotel room door, Harry picked up a robe to throw on. He was fairly certain he was the only person staying in his hall at the moment, but the fear of getting stuck outside his room in his underwear was too significant to ignore. Pulling back the heavy wooden door, Harry took a step into the hall looking for the breakfast tray.
It was placed a few feet further down the hall than it usually was, so Harry propped open the door with a shoe he had carelessly left near the entrance. Bending down to pick up the silver tray, Harry took in the scent of the chocolate croissant that had been left for him. It was definitely fresh- the melted chocolate was dripping out of the sides and mixing with the powdered sugar that had been placed as an accent. Accompanying the main treat was a cup of fruit and some warm coffee, which was enough to tide Harry over until he went to get lunch later in the day.
Harry was too tempted to wait an extra thirty seconds, and immediately dug in once he lifted the plate from the ground. He took a sip of the coffee, allowing the caffeine to run through his veins. Sighing in relief, Harry picked up the croissant and prepared to take his first bite as he turned around to return to his room.
Only, when he did so, he saw the door edging the shoe out of its position, preparing to slam shut. He shouted in panic, nearly dropping his breakfast, but he was too late. The resulting thud of the door closing echoed through the empty hallway. Balancing his tray in one arm, Harry pulled at the door's handle to no avail.
"Damn it!" Harry shouted, fruitlessly kicking the door and stubbing his toe. Wincing in pain, he resigned to sitting down and finishing his breakfast. This was an issue that needed to be solved, but it didn't need to be solved on an empty stomach.
At least I'm not stuck out here in my boxers, he thought to himself. That's the only way this day could be worse.
The hotel's robe covered him well enough to maintain modesty. Sure, he had to keep his legs crossed while wearing it- clearly meant for a woman to wear, it stopped well before his knees. But for once, Harry was grateful he didn't have a woman in his life to share it with.
The rest of the chocolate croissant, the fruit cup, and his cup of coffee went quicker than he would have liked. Harry was certainly not looking forward to finding a member of the hotel staff this early on a Saturday morning, all while wearing a skimpy women's bathrobe. He gently laid the tray back on the ground and began to walk towards the narrow staircase that would lead him to the front desk.
With one hand holding together the front of his robe, and the other gripping the creaking railing, Harry hopped down the stairs, hoping to grab the attention of the middle-aged Frenchman that generally stood guard at the front desk.
"Pardon moi, monsieur...je….je need," Harry stammered out as he rounded the final few steps. The man he was expecting was not at the front desk. Instead, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen stood in his place.
Oh fuck, she's gorgeous, Harry thought, and she's seeing me in a fucking bathrobe.
Self-consciously, Harry clenched the robe tightly, wishing he was fully dressed.
"Je regrette mademoiselle, ma porte est fermée et je...need to…entrer ma chambre. S'il vous plaît." Harry attempted to ask for a key to his room in French, but the woman said nothing in return.
I knew my French was bad, but I didn't think it was that bad, Harry thought to himself, beginning to panic.
Taking the last few steps down, Harry approached the desk. The woman was starting to giggle, and he couldn't blame her. He must look ridiculous.
"Mademoiselle, ma porte est fermée….when I...je...picked up the tray….pour déjeuner. I need a key pour entre ma chambre. S'il vous plaît." Harry smiled, and looked at the woman expectantly.
The woman brushed back her long, golden blonde hair and leant forward on the cash register.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," she replied.
Harry nodded apologetically and resumed speaking, "Okay, ma chambre est ferm- wait, hold on you-"
Harry stopped, finally letting the fact she had replied in English filter in. He looked at her with an expression of slight shock, and opened his mouth to speak again.
She interrupted him, whispering, "I don't work here," followed by a laugh. Harry took in the scene. An English-speaking woman...an American, he thought, a beautiful American woman...was standing behind his hotel's cash register and didn't work there.
"I suppose I should….call the police, then," Harry replied, very confused at the turn of events. He reached for the phone, but she placed her hand on top of his.
"I'd prefer you didn't," she said, stepping out from behind the cash register.
Harry took a step back, giving her space to exit.
"I suppose they wouldn't understand my French anyways," he chuckled.
The pair stood in silence for a moment before she spoke up again.
"I'm Donna. Donna Sheridan."
Harry stood in silence for a moment, not sure how to continue. He wasn't in the habit of speaking to pretty girls, especially not ones that he met potentially robbing his hotel.
"And you are….?"
The woman was waiting. She broke out into a grin, her brilliant white smile only increasing Harry's anxiety. He brushed his left hand through his hair, unconsciously trying to neaten it. He thrust his right hand towards her, prepared for a handshake.
"Bright. Harry Bright."
Instead of offering a hand to shake, Donna covered her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. Harry followed her eyes down, trying to figure out what she found so funny. With both his hands preoccupied, his bathrobe had fallen open, revealing his white briefs. Here he was, with a pretty girl, and all she knew so far is that he couldn't speak French, and he wore tighty-whities.
Fuck me, Harry thought.