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I took the whisky. She cracked hers open, poured both into the hotel tumblers and handed me one. Our fingers touched. She didn’t move hers away.
“To booking errors,” she said.
“To booking errors.”
We sat on the end of the bed, a respectable foot apart, and talked. About my day, which made her wince. About hers, which had involved a spa, a bottle of prosecco and Rosie flirting with a lifeguard. She worked in architecture, she said, drew car parks for a living and dreamed about libraries. She laughed easily. She kept forgetting to hold the towel.
The second little bottle came out of the minibar. Then a third. The foot between us became six inches, then nothing. Her bare shoulder rested against my arm. She smelled of hotel shampoo and something warmer underneath.
“Can I tell you something?” she said quietly. “I’ve been wondering for about ten minutes whether you’re going to kiss me.”
So I did. Slow at first. Her mouth tasted of whisky. Her hand came up and curled into my shirt, and the towel slid loose and fell into her lap, and she didn’t pick it up.
Then a knock. Not on the corridor door. On the connecting door to 716.
“Pree?” A woman’s voice, giggly and loud. “Are you up? I’ve brought crisps. And gossip. Let me in.”
Priya pressed her forehead to mine and groaned. “Rosie,” she whispered. “Your call.”