INT. COLLINS’S HOTEL ROOM -- DAY
It’s minuscule, decorated in best British ’70’s style: cheap wood paneling, ancient wall-mounted phone and pushbutton radio, tiny built-in desk and chair, the skinniest possible double bed: barely room to move. The bathroom is a tiny cubicle. As Harry and Joy ENTER (with difficulty), the room comes as a shock to both. Harry drops the suitcases, resigned, as Joy tosses her bag onto a chair.
Isn’t this... snug!
Hey, nostalgia. I haven’t slept in a closet since before my divorce.
Joy tries to get past Harry to the bathroom. It’s a struggle: they squeeze past each other with difficulty. Now that they’re in the room, Harry’s tiredness really catches up with him. He pushes the bags up against the wall and collapses on the bed, eyes closed, while Joy continues examining the room.
Well, like you say, I’m going to be out sightseeing most of the time. And it’s only for a couple weeks...
(sleepy but emphatic)
No, it’s not. As soon as we can, we’ll find someplace else. This is a dump.
Oh, isn’t that a little harsh, honey? The people downstairs seem nice. ...Honey?
She GLANCES at him. He’s already ASLEEP: he SNORES.
Joy lets out an affectionate breath, goes to him: quietly gets Harry’s shoes off, puts a pillow under his head. Briefly she sits down by him with a “What do I do now?” ~look.
Her eye falls on her bag: the guidebook she was reading in Immigration has fallen out of it, the picture of Big Ben noticeable on its cover.