‘Well, it’s a view,’ Kirsten said, sighing.
‘Of the incinerator,’ Jessica said, unable to resist a wry smile. The staff quarters, rather predictably, were at the building’s rear, on a basement level, with a window that looked out onto a subterranean rubbish storage space. A large machine against the far wall looked capable of burning disgruntled guests, although when Jessica wiped a hand through the window’s condensation to get a better look, she realised it was a giant industrial washing machine.
‘At least we won’t have to go far to wash our clothes,’ Kirsten said.
Jessica sighed and pulled the curtains closed, covering the grim space outside with a pretty repeated scene of Father Christmas’s North Pole grotto.
‘Much better,’ she said.
Other than the location, their shared suite was
