Free From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually by Ali McNamara

from the heat of the pavement (no, make that sidewalk!) it’s a calm and relaxing haven to welcome the busy, fraught traveller. As we approach the reception desk, I’m aware the doorman is still hovering. I look at Oscar and incline my head back in his direction.
    ‘Darling, he wants tipping,’ Oscar whispers as the receptionist comes over and Oscar begins dealing with her in his best Notting Hill manner.
    ‘Ah, OK … erm.’ I delve into my bag and find some dollars. I don’t know how much you tip a doorman, and I hope this will be sufficient. ‘Thanks very much,’ I say, thrusting them into his hand.
    The doorman glances quickly at the notes, his eyes open wide. ‘No problem, miss. You just let me know if there’s anything you need while you’re here. Anything at all …’
    ‘How much did you give him?’ Oscar asks as I join him at the desk. ‘He looked mighty happy.’
    ‘I don’t know, I just grabbed some notes from my purse.’
    ‘Scarlett,’ Oscar shakes hishead. The receptionist has turned away for a moment to fetch our keys. ‘It’s supposed to be a dollar a bag!’
    ‘Oh, I think I only had tens and twenties.’
    Oscar rolls his eyes. ‘This trip will cost you a fortune, darling, if you carry on like that. You’d better get used to tipping – everyone does it here. And get used to how much, as well!’
    The receptionist hands us our keys and, deciding we can handle our bags ourselves, we make our way up to our rooms. There had been some debate before we left as to whether we should share a room, but Oscar said he was prone to snoring and didn’t want to keep me awake at night. I had a feeling it was more likely that Oscar didn’t want me cramping his style if he managed to score with a good-looking New Yorker, and now we knew about Fleet Week and all the sailors being in town I was doubly glad we weren’t sharing. I imagine I’d have been constantly fed dollars to ‘go to the cinema’, like an awkward younger brother or sister you wanted out of the way for a few hours.
    My room, like the rest of the hotel, is beautifully decorated; burgundy is the main colour scheme, with hints of silver, black and grey. I’ve got a double bed, a huge wardrobe and chest of drawers to store the many clothes I’ve brought with me, plus an elegant dressing table-come-desk. There’s also a small high-backed armchair in the cornerof the room with a tall lamp standing next to it, and a minibar. It’s much bigger than I’d expected it to be: I’d been led to believe from reviews I’d read on the internet that New York hotel rooms were quite tiny, but this isn’t at all, it’s very roomy indeed. Oscar and I really seem to have fallen on our feet with this hotel; it’s lovely.
    I’ve just finished unpacking when there’s banging on my door. I take a quick look through the peephole and see Oscar outside, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other.
    ‘Ready yet, darling?’ he asks as I open the door.
    ‘Not quite, come in for a moment.’
    I’m not surprised to find that Oscar has changed outfits as he bounds energetically into my room. He’s now wearing black designer jeans with zebra-print patch pockets and a white t-shirt with a black bolt of lightning emblazoned across the chest.
    ‘Hurry up, sweetie. We’re in New York now, we’ve just got time to go and explore this evening! What are you going to wear?’
    ‘Er …’ I glance down at the jeans and Gap t-shirt I’ve travelled from London in. I suppose I should change, really.
    ‘Let me look in your wardrobe.’ Oscar leaps over to my newly hung wardrobe. ‘These robes are simply to die for!’ he says, pulling out one of the leopard-print bathrobes that the hotel has suppliedfor us. ‘The ones in my room are zebra print!’
    ‘They’re OK, I suppose. Different to your usual white towelling numbers.’
    ‘Different is good, Scarlett. When are you going to start believing that? Why be the same as everyone else when you can be