“Fuck.” Emily Marshal whispered under her breath, and lowered her head as if defeated.
“Miss Marshal? Emily Marshal?” The freckled faced podgy woman behind reception spoke. “You can‘t leave, dear.”
“I have changed my mind.” Emily stated, still with her hand on the door, and her head bowed.
“Oh dear.” The receptionist frowned. There was no hint of empathy in her words, only mild annoyance at the effort of having to get up. She stood, and the chair legs dragged along the wooden floor, catching on what was left of the rubber leg ends.
For that moment, Emily could feel the eyes of the other two slicing her, like her skin was being peeled off, and from under her hair she could see the receptionists feet approaching her. Fat feet shoved into tiny shiny heels.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Emily didn’t let go of the handle. She closed her eyes and cursed in her head. Emily jerked involuntarily as the receptionists perfectly manicured hands pried her fingers from the door.
“Room 7, Emily Marshal. You have kept them waiting. They don’t like waiting.”