LONDON CALLING
Chapter One
PLEASE WAIT HERE is written on a sign dangling down from the high roof of the King Edward hotel, London. I am standing in the lobby impatiently tapping my foot on the red carpeted floor. I am looking less than my best this morning— due to a long flight from JFK—but I'm still looking very good and better than the people around me. Sweat is gathering on my forehead and, I think, it is shining which only accentuates my perfect tan. Due to the fact that I have finally purchased a tanning bed I can work on my color at home, whenever I like. The line in front of me is, at my guess, a fifteen minute wait to get the reception desk even though there are three windows for customers to visit and check in or out at. This pisses me off as I'm extraordinarily tired from my flight and, despite the fact this is a five star hotel, there is no coffee machine in my room. What a fucking joke, no coffee machine! I'll put it in the suggestion box when I leave.
There are only three people in front of me now in the queue but they are a family consisting of an out-of-shape father in his forties wearing a… oh my god… a non-designer grey woollen sweater and brown corduroy pants from god knows where. His shoes are black leather and don't have a recognisable brand look about them. Idiot, I am thinking as he turns and smiles at me. I smile back, showing him a flash of my perfectly white and straight teeth. My look says Hey, how's it going, but at the same time conveys the message of, You fucking wish you were me. He turns away and shuffles to one of the three receptionists. His wife (I'm guessing wife) is overweight and ugly as sin. Their little girl (who I guess is nine) is too thin and is wearing shit clothes, just like her parents. It makes me feel sick; no one in England seems to know about fashion. I'm irritated as I then hear them talking in what I think is a Canadian accent.
Finally, I am at the reception and trying to tell the blonde British hardbody that I'm "Mr. Bateman, Pat Bateman, booked in for room 1994."
"I'm sorry," she says in a whining and nasal voice. "I can't find you on this computer." The computer looks new, it is a clean white colour and I am reminded that I should look into buying one for myself. The one in my office in New York is far too outdated. It's 1991 for god sakes! The dumb bitch then flicks through a large leather-bound book full of bookings. I check my Rolex and then stare at her with my bored yet gorgeous eyes. Get a fucking move on, woman!
"Oh," she says in a high-pitched squeal, her grin blaring at me. "Here we are, sir. I'm sorry about the delay; will there be anything else I can help you with?" She's clearly already in love with me, as everyone seems to be. English chicks love a handsome and wealthy American, such as myself.
As I stand in the elevator—sorry, lift—all I can think about is getting a coffee or an espresso when I get to my room. Then I think of cocaine. It has just dawned on me that I don't know any dealers in London. I hope I am not here too long. My hands are beginning to shake though that might be from anger as I've just remembered that Canadian prick and his non-designer family.