Grenville Manor was a country house hotel I’d always wanted to spend the night in. Imposing, regal and sophisticated it was an out of reach, wish-list dream for a guy like me.
Yet now… here I was. Finally. After years of wishing, wanting and hoping, a recent small win on a lottery scratch card had given me the funds to walk over the expensive threshold and seat myself in the wood-panelled bar and order a whisky, which now sat on the polished round table before me. Later I’d be sleeping in a four-poster bed, a view of the oak-tree dotted estate waiting to greet me in the morning along with a slap-up silver service breakfast.
A low hum of conversation surrounded me, as did the scent of expensive aftershave and perfume. I sipped my drink—it was an exceptional vintage—and let the peaty flavour spread on my tongue.
A couple sat to my right talking quietly and sharing a bottle of bubbles. Celebrating an anniversary perhaps. And to my left three men, suited and booted, had laptops open still appearing to be in the depths of a business meeting. The one with the beard looked up, saw me staring and gave a hint of a smile.
I looked away. I wasn’t interested in conversation with other men or women. Tonight was all about me, my pleasure, my indulgence, it was my treat—the treat of people watching. I was a voyeur. Lost to it. Beyond hope. Watching was my drug. I’d long since accepted that observing others was my addiction. It could be anything; a kiss on a park bench, a couple laying on a picnic blanket on a summer’s day, or, as had happened once, curtains left open during a seductive all-male kitchen scene that had me backing into the shadows and watching the...
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Read all about the wonderful author: Lily Harlem
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