Lisa didn’t have the energy to remonstrate with her father. To try and open his eyes to what was happening. She knew she had to get away from Gloucester, make a new life for herself somewhere else, before she was eaten up with resentment. She was getting harder by the day. And she wanted to be like her mum. Happy, optimistic, warm, generous to the last. Not like grasping, cold, hard-hearted Andrea. The final blow came when the news filtered through to her that The Happy Plaice had been sold. Bob and Andrea had bought a bar in Spain. Courtesy of the insurance pay-out. Courtesy of her mum’s cancer, actually, when you looked at it closely. Now Lisa knew she could never forgive her father. For not allowing her mother to fulfil her dream. And giving it instead to Andrea.
From that day on, Lisa was determined never to rely on anyone else for her happiness. Or to give too much of herself away. That way she could never be compromised. No one could ever do to her what her father had done to her mother. Bob had loved Julie with all his heart, yet he had still found it within himself to betray her. If that was true love, thought Lisa, then who needed it?
On the surface, she was everything her mother had been. Warm, voluptuous, affectionate, vivacious. You had to dig deep to get to the hard core, but it was there, steely and immovable, like the stone of an avocado buried at the centre of its soft, inviting flesh. And as long as you just wanted the outside, that was fine.
That was why Lisa’s relationship with George was so perfect. They’d met nine months ago, when she’d been employed to work on a riverside development he’d been overseeing just outside Stratford. The company had decided to hire specialist promotions girls to do the sales for the first few weeks, as the apartments were targeted at wealthy bachelors. Lisa had mistaken George for a prospective client and had proceeded to escort him around the show apartment, giving him such a beguiling spiel that he’d almost started believing in the complete flummery he’d written himself. He had to come clean, because he was enchanted: by her incredible enthusiasm, her complete conviction in what she was doing, her effervescent charm. And, of course, the amazing body that was evident underneath the low-cut cream trouser suit she wore.
And now, they were both entirely happy with the status quo. They didn’t live in each other’s pockets. They were two people with their own lives who enjoyed each other’s company. Who made each other laugh. Who had fabulous sex. But if one of them wanted a weekend alone, the other didn’t fall into a sulk or a frenzy of insecurity. It was easy. And Lisa was happy. With George, she could be the person she wanted to be. He didn’t push her. He didn’t ask for too much. And she didn’t think he would. George seemed just as happy with the way things were as she did…
The path down to the beach was incredibly steep. As they scrambled the last few yards and dropped on to the shingle, George saw what Webby had meant: you could walk around the finger of rocks to the main beach, but it wouldn’t be long before you were cut off again, so getting back to The Rocks would entail walking all the way back up the main road, adding a good extra mile to the journey.
The two of them crunched their way over the shingle that soon gave way to sand. The wind took their breath away, whipping Lisa’s curls into a mad tangle and making George’s eyes water. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He was surprised that, when he woke up, he hadn’t felt a sense of doom at his behaviour the day before. If anything, he felt more resolute. They sat on a rock at the water’s edge, the two of them contemplating the scene in silence. In front of them the sea stretched interminably. The rise and fall of the waves was almost hypnotic.
‘This was a really good idea,’ said George. ‘It’s so exhilarating here. It’s as if the real world doesn’t exist. Yesterday seems like a lifetime ago.’
‘I have to confess, I panicked a bit when I woke up,’ admitted Lisa. ‘But now I just think bollocks to them. There’s got to be more to life than standing round in your stilettos handing out leaflets.’
‘My sentiments entirely,’ agreed George. ‘Not that I stand round in stilettos, obviously. But I think if I have to do another phone call to Bath City Council…’
‘So are you going to go back to work on Monday?’
‘I don’t know.’ George shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can’t just walk out without a plan, can I?’
‘Why not?’ demanded Lisa. ‘You’ve got no responsibilities.’
‘I’m not programmed like that. I’m not a risk-taker.’
‘Nor me. Not really. But you know what they say. Life’s not a rehearsal, is it? And wouldn’t you be annoyed with yourself if you died, and realized you’d spent your whole life compromising? That you’d never fulfilled your dreams?’
‘I wouldn’t be annoyed because I’d be dead,’ replied George, ever the pragmatist. ‘But I get your drift.’
He looked at Lisa, who was gazing out to sea, her eyes fixed on the spot on the horizon where the water joins the sky. He was startled to see her eyes suddenly fill up with tears.
‘Lisa?’
She turned to look at him.
‘I can’t think of anything worse.’ Her tone was vociferous and George recoiled slightly, alarmed by this uncharacteristic venom. ‘It happened to my mum, and I’m not going to let it happen to me.’
George pulled her to him and she snuggled into his chest for a moment, taking comfort.
‘Hey.’ He stroked her curls. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Sorry.’ She pulled away, embarrassed by her display of emotion, but he pulled her back, tucking her under his arm, and she relaxed. ‘It’s just… it’s so stunning here. So clean and pure. It makes you realize what it can be like. That maybe you’ve been wasting your life.’
‘You haven’t.’
‘I have. I’ve spent too long doing something I don’t really want to do. And so have you.’
‘Not everybody has a choice, Lisa.’
‘Who’s to say we don’t?’
Lisa turned and looked up the cliff towards the hotel. A mischievous smile spread over her face.
‘Why don’t we buy The Rocks?’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Seriously. It’s for sale. Webby’s selling up.’
‘Is she?’
George looked up at the building with interest. Lisa nudged him.
‘What do you think?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Why not? It would be great. You could do all the design stuff. You love all of that. And I can be front of house. I’m great at being nice to people.’
‘I thought you wanted to get away from that.’
‘It would be different if they were my customers. I’d be selling something I believed in.’
George allowed his eyes to wander up the cliff again, then shook his head.
‘Everyone comes to the seaside for the weekend and dreams about running a hotel. It’s such a cliché.’
‘Doesn’t mean we can’t do it,’ retorted Lisa.
‘You’re mad.’ George grinned.
Lisa made a mad face, crossing her eyes. George looked at his watch.
‘We better hurry back,’ he said, ‘or Webby will have burned the bacon.’
Breakfast was a pleasant surprise – not too greasy, with endless rounds of warm toast. George decided to stick with tea, as Webby’s idea of coffee was putting a teaspoon of brown dust in a cup and adding hot water. As she proudly brought out yet another pot for them, George smiled his thanks.
‘By the way,’ he said casually, ‘Lisa tells me you’re thinking of selling this place.’
‘Not thinking. I am. It’s on the market already.’
‘Have you had a lot of interest?’
‘From property developers. Yes. But they all want it on the cheap. They think I’m dumb. They come round here with bottles of sherry and try and make me cash offers. Try to cut out the agent.’
‘That’s pretty normal behaviour these days,’ said George with feeling.
‘They all want to turn this place into apartments. It seems to be the way things are going round here. Runn
ing a hotel or a guest house is too much like hard work. And people want to make a quick profit. Most of the big houses have already been converted. And most of them are second homes, not holiday lets.’ She pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘What these developers don’t realize is how damaging it is to the local economy. These second-homers come down for the weekend bringing their own food. They don’t use the shops. It’s bloody selfish.’
‘So you want to sell to someone who wants to run it as a hotel?’
There was a gleam behind her spectacles. She wasn’t as dim as she looked. Or as principled as she pretended.
‘I don’t care who I sell it to or what they do with it. But I’m not doing anyone any favours. Whoever makes the best offer gets it, at the end of the day.’
‘It would be a shame to see it spoilt, though. It’s a lovely house.’
‘It is. And Bill and I spent a fortune having it done up. We gutted the place. It’s all been done top of the range, you know. New roof, new heating, rewired, new windows. No expense spared. But nobody wants my style of B and B any more. They expect muesli and croissants and fresh coffee.’
Too right, thought George, stirring his tea.
‘What this place needs is somebody young. Like you two. Someone with a bit of energy.’
Lisa kicked George gently under the table. He deliberately didn’t look up. He wondered if Webby had been briefed to say that, but no – there hadn’t been a moment when Lisa had been out of his sight. Why did he feel as if he was being stitched up?
‘It’s a little goldmine, but personally, I shan’t be sorry to see the back of it,’ Webby went on. ‘I’ve been very happy here, but I’m too old now. I’ll bugger off somewhere hot on the proceeds.’
Lisa had a sudden vision of Mrs Websdale stretched out on a sunlounger in Benidorm and wanted to giggle.
‘Any chance of more toast?’ she managed to gasp.
‘Course.’ Mrs Websdale picked up the metal toast rack and made her way to the kitchen. Then she turned. ‘Will you be wanting the room again tonight? Only I’ll need to get some more bacon and eggs in if you are.’
Lisa looked at George meaningfully. It would give them a chance to have a good mooch round. Get a feel for the place.
‘Yes,’ sighed George. ‘We’ll stay another night.’
After breakfast, they walked down the winding hill that hugged the shoreline and went to explore the village. A sweeping row of Victorian houses painted in ice-cream colours led to a cluster of shops and cafes, most of which defiantly stated that they were closed until Easter. There was a post office, with an optimistic display of beach balls, kites and buckets and spades. A juice bar, a bakery and a chippie. Several boutiques sporting surfing gear. An art gallery, the window crammed with seascapes and paintings of upturned boats. At the far end perched the Mariscombe Hotel. Originally a Gothic folly commissioned by a Victorian entrepreneur for his beloved invalid wife, it was built to resemble a castle, with four castellated towers, one at each corner. Between the hotel and the sea was an expanse of lawn fringed with monkey-puzzle trees, beyond which were the dunes.
In front of the public car park was a relatively new shopping mall, built in a New England style and painted a weathered cream, with pointy gables and a big clock. Here was an ice-cream parlour. And, to George’s huge relief, a cappuccino bar. It was warm enough to sit outside, for the balcony was sheltered from the prevailing wind and the clouds had parted to reveal a shining sun. Sitting there, it was hard to believe it was February.
The reflection of the sun off the sea was almost blinding; the foam of the surf as bright white as polar ice. The surface of the water shone like glass, reminding George of the Fired Earth mosaic tiles he’d installed in his bathroom – shimmering turquoise, cobalt and silver. The sand stretched out in front of them in a crescent of gold. From a distance it looked as if you could run from end to end without getting out of breath, but in reality it was probably a good half hour’s walk, longer if the wind was against you.
‘Busy?’ George asked the waitress politely.
‘For the time of year.’ The girl put down their mugs of steaming latte. ‘You wait. Come Easter you won’t be able to get a table in here for love or money. And to be honest, it’s getting busier all year round. We always used to close after autumn half-term, but there’s enough surfers and walkers to keep us going off-season.’
Lisa had insisted on calling in at the estate agents to get the details of The Rocks. George perused them with an architect’s precision, working out the square footage.
‘Why don’t they do floor plans?’ he complained. ‘Everyone does floor plans these days.’
‘This is Devon,’ replied Lisa. ‘Anyway, we can have a poke round when we go back tonight. The thing is,’ she continued, ‘Webby and her hubby have done all the hard work. The place is sound. It just needs all their horrible stuff ripping out.’
‘What gets me,’ replied George, quailing at the memory, ‘is that bloody awful carpet costs a fortune.’
‘No expense spared,’ Lisa reminded him impishly. ‘Top of the range.’
They had several refills as they watched the beach gradually fill up, with dog-walkers and joggers, young families with three-wheeled off-road buggies, fathers and sons with disobedient kites. And surfers decked out in neoprene from head to foot, leaping into the waves with eager abandon despite the sub-zero temperatures.
‘This is a happy place.’ Lisa put down her cup defiantly. ‘People come here because they want to be here. You can feel it.’ She looked at George. ‘Why can’t we have a bit of that?’
George smiled wryly.
‘You’re being idealistic. You’re romanticizing.’
Lisa thumped the table.
‘No, I’m not!’ she insisted. ‘It would be bloody hard work. Probably harder than what I’m doing now. But a lot more rewarding. And imagine waking up to that view every morning.’
George pulled a tenner out of his pocket to pay for their coffee.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and have a proper look round.’
On the way back they passed a house that advertised fresh fish and seafood, on a chalked-up board. George went and bought two lobsters. From the local mini market they bought a loaf of granary bread, some West Country butter, a brace of lemons and a bag of salad, and from the off-licence, two bottles of Chablis. For lunch, they picnicked in Mrs Websdale’s dining room, and she happily brought them plates and cutlery.
As they ate, Lisa’s eyes darted around, taking in the detail.
‘Can you imagine this room with the carpet pulled up and all that wallpaper ripped off? It wouldn’t take much…’
George nodded thoughtfully.
‘You could have folding glass doors the whole length of the room, so you could push them right back in the summer.’
Lisa gave a gasp.
‘Perfect! You see, you’re a genius. This is your raison d’être!’
George smiled.
‘Some simple decking, with uplighters,’ he continued. ‘Imagine sitting out there with a glass of wine, looking at that view as the sun goes down…’
Lisa smiled in triumph.
‘There you go, you see. You’re wasted at that bloody company.’ She sucked lasciviously at a lobster claw, then waved it about to emphasize her point. ‘Just think of all those people out there like us, who want to escape for the weekend and recharge their batteries. Be pampered for twenty-four hours. Or forty-eight.’ There was butter running down her chin. She wiped it away with a piece of paper towel Webby had thoughtfully provided. ‘Come on, George. Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t. Because I can think of hundreds why we should.’
George tipped back in his chair and took a satisfying slug of Chablis. Its steely aroma made him shiver with delight. Lisa was right. He couldn’t think of one good reason why not.
‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s do the maths.’
3
On Sunday evening, once back in Bath and
away from the euphoric glow provided by too much Chablis and hotel-room sex, George felt a huge sense of anticlimax. Tomorrow he’d have to pick up the pieces, defend his hasty departure of Friday afternoon, find out how Colin was, discover the extent of their liability… It was amazing how he’d been able to forget his troubles in Mariscombe. But then, it was easy to daydream away from the confines of reality.
Suddenly, he didn’t want Lisa to go.
‘Why don’t you stay tonight?’
‘There’s no reason why not. I haven’t got to get up for work in the morning.’ She stretched her arms over her head luxuriously. ‘I can cancel my nail appointment. I don’t have to shave my legs. Or pluck my eyebrows.’
George looked faintly disgusted, and she laughed.
‘It’s all right. I’m not going to turn into a total slob overnight. But it will be a luxury, not having to be perfect all the time in case you get called upon.’ She put her head to one side and surveyed George, who was rummaging about in his enormous fridge for something to eat. ‘Have you decided what to do?’
‘Scrambled eggs? Or I’ve got a carton of vichyssoise.’
‘I don’t mean about supper and you know it.’
George sighed.
‘I can’t just quit without having something to go to.’
‘You’re getting cold feet about our idea, then?’
George decided on the soup. It needed eating. He pulled a saucepan from the batterie de cuisine hanging overhead, opened the carton and poured in the pale green liquid.
‘I can’t help feeling it’s a monumental risk. We’d both have to sell our houses. We don’t know if we can work together. And what do either of us know about running a hotel?’
‘It can’t be any harder than running a chip shop. And lots of people who buy hotels don’t have a clue. They have to learn the hard way.’
George gave the soup a swirl with a wooden spoon. It was the one thing he hated about himself. Being cautious was so unsexy. He looked at Lisa, eager to throw caution to the winds, her eyes sparkling.
‘Don’t you think it was meant to be? Don’t you think fate led us there? Both of us walk out of our jobs on a Friday afternoon and end up in a seaside hotel that’s crying out for a make-over? It’s… what’s the word?’
Love on the Rocks Page 5