#.
We step out of the cab and thank the driver who grunts and nods before speeding away. Bastard.
So far, London hasn't been the best experience of my life. A pidgeon shit on Alice's Gucci handbag. Drama. It started raining as soon as we left the airport, therefore, drenching all three of us. Unhappy Rosalie. And I've fell over three times. On the same street. Happy days.
But finally, finally, we reach the hotel. The building is huge, very old-fashioned, and beautiful, with benches lining the exterior as well as flowerbeds and water fountains. The gold-plated sign above the door reads, "The Clumsy Lamb" and I snort.
The name rolls my whole life into three, easy words.
And as we enter the lobby, it seems that it caters for vertically challenged people like me with minimal staircases but one leading straight onto the main floor, the steps wide and a haven for clumsy idiots. Let's not forget the lifts. I love lifts.
They save my life.
Alice and Rosalie exchange a look, I notice, before taking off to see the receptionist.
I follow, trying to keep up with their bouncing, optimistic steps.
Bitches.
"Good morning! We're booked in Room 302. Under the name Brandon." Alice chirps happily, with her flirty face on, set on impressing the blonde, male receptionist who has curls splaying across his forehead. I smirk. I feel sorry for him, really. I tune out as she launches into her Sweet American Girl act.
Whore.
Me and Rosalie exchange a look and grin.