Love on the Rocks

by Henry, Veronica

  ‘Serendipitous.’

  ‘That’s it. Serendipitous.’

  She pulled the details out of her handbag. They were looking rather worn already, they’d been pored over so many times.

  ‘It’s so beautiful.’

  ‘It’s a dump.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. You’re the one who was having orgasms over the tiles under the carpet in the hall.’

  She looked so indignant George had to laugh.

  ‘I know. It’s just that I know how much hard work it’s going to be.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty…’ Lisa tossed the details back on the counter top.

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘What’s the problem then?’

  There was a small pause as George took the soup off the heat.

  ‘I’m scared,’ he admitted.

  ‘In that case I should potter back into work tomorrow morning, apologize to everybody and carry on paying into your nice, safe, sensible pension fund. Because you’ll be stuck there for the rest of your life. But at least you won’t be scared.’

  This last word was dripping with vitriol. George blinked in surprise. He hadn’t known Lisa could be so scathing.

  ‘OK,’ he rallied. ‘Let’s do the maths again, shall we?’

  Lisa smiled and picked up the details again. George threw her a pencil from the leather pencil pot by his phone.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I can get three and a bit for my place tomorrow. And just under two for the flat.’

  Lisa had a small town house on an estate just outside Stratford, and had astutely bought a flat on the same development three years ago, which she rented to a student.

  ‘You’ll have capital gains to pay on that,’ George pointed out.

  ‘So let’s say that by the time I’ve paid off my mortgage I’ll clear four hundred.’

  ‘If I can get five and a half for this, then I’ll have about the same.’

  ‘And the guide price for The Rocks is seven.’

  ‘Which only leaves us a hundred grand to do it up.’

  ‘Only?’ Lisa squeaked.

  ‘Come on. Be realistic. I know we’re only talking about a cosmetic refurb, but we’ve got to rip up all those carpets and pull off all the wallpaper. And preferably redo the bathrooms. Then we have to furnish the place. A hundred grand won’t go far.’

  ‘Then we borrow some more. That’s what people do, George.’

  George pulled the ciabatta out of the oven, just as the doorbell rang.

  ‘Who the hell could this be on a Sunday night?’

  He stood stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, clutching the loaf in his oven gloves. Lisa slid off her stool.

  ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘No!’

  George dropped the bread on to the work surface and rushed out of the room. Lisa watched after him, frowning slightly. George seemed tense all of a sudden. She supposed he didn’t like being cornered. In a way she was calling his bluff. To her, the plan seemed logical. What was the worst that could happen? That they tried and failed? She picked up the details once again, wondering what she could do to persuade him that this was the perfect project for them, when George came back into the room with a tall, gaunt figure in tow.

  ‘It’s Justin. He’s just got back from skiing, the bastard.’

  ‘Six weeks in Morzine. It was absolute hell.’ Justin loped across the room and gave Lisa a kiss on both cheeks. Lisa could never decide if Justin was attractive or not. He looked like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Little Prince – thin, slightly startled, with a cap of wispy silver-blond hair and wide blue eyes that seemed to look right into you and lift every bit of information he needed from the depths of your soul. He was usually incredibly pale, but his spell in the Alps had turned his complexion golden brown. ‘Are you about to eat? Fantastic. I’m starving.’ He sat down at the island. ‘I haven’t had a square meal for weeks. Man cannot live on fondue alone.’

  ‘I don’t know how you put up with it,’ said George, tongue in cheek, sawing up the bread and serving out soup for everyone.

  ‘It was exhausting,’ Justin protested. To sustain his skiing habit, he’d taken on the management of a young metal band, Archduke, who performed nightly at various different hotels in the French Alps. And a nice profit he’d made from it too. ‘I was networking like fury all day. Lining up gigs for the band for next season. Then I had to make sure they turned up every night. And get them back on the bus afterwards when they were totally bladdered. I had to play nursemaid seven nights a week. I need a holiday!’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck. We might have the perfect destination for you.’

  George tossed the details of The Rocks over to him, holding his breath for his reaction, for Justin’s was the only opinion he really cared about. George was fairly certain that he was Justin’s only real friend, and he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t feel interesting enough to be granted the privilege. They’d met at university, where Justin had been the star of the English faculty, supplementing his grant by writing brilliant essays for wealthy students who couldn’t be arsed to work. One day, somebody grassed him up. Someone who had no doubt caught the rough end of his acerbic tongue, or someone who was envious of the fact that every female was madly in love with him, even though he wore the same pair of jeans and the same dark green V-necked lambswool jumper every day, a Paisley scarf wrapped round his neck on cold days, a red spotted bandana when it was warmer, accessorized with an ancient wind-up Timex and white lace-up plimsolls. Justin hadn’t been fazed by his subsequent sending down. Now, his lifestyle was legendary. He blew whichever way the wind took him, usually some international hot spot, and he always seemed to find a way of subsidizing his trip. Essentially, Justin was everything that George wasn’t. Capricious, devil-may-care, a risk-taker. A maverick. Impossible to categorize or pigeon-hole. And infuriatingly successful. So Justin’s opinion was of paramount importance to George.

  ‘We’ve been to the seaside,’ explained Lisa. ‘Daydreaming about buying a hotel.’

  Justin perused the contents thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s a complete nightmare at the moment,’ said George. ‘Formica and melamine hell. Swirly carpets, Artex, coving.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Justin. ‘So what would be the plan?’

  ‘A sort of boutique hotel by the sea. Swallows and Amazons with a bit of Soho House thrown in. Think Famous Five go to Nantucket.’

  Justin nodded.

  ‘I think I’m getting the picture.’

  Lisa decided it was time to put her oar in.

  ‘George is making it sound complicated. It’s pretty simple, really. You don’t need to do much because the setting does it all for you. Light and airy bedrooms. Yummy breakfasts with proper fresh coffee –’

  George shuddered.

  ‘Not that awful muck she tried to serve us.’

  Justin tossed the details back on to the work surface and picked up his wine.

  ‘So what’s stopping you?’

  George gave a wry smile.

  ‘Simple question of money. No matter which way we do it, we can’t raise enough to do it properly.’

  Lisa topped up everyone’s glass.

  ‘My bank manager’s pretty friendly.’

  ‘Quarter of a million friendly?’

  Lisa shrugged.

  ‘I always get a Christmas card.’

  George shook his head.

  ‘There isn’t enough time to get investors on board. It’s best and final offers at the end of the month.’

  Justin ran his crust around the rim of his bowl and chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ll bung in a couple of hundred if it will help. I could do with losing a bit of capital.’

  Lisa and George looked at each other, not quite able to believe what they were hearing.

  ‘A couple of hundred…?’

  ‘Thousand, obviously.’ Justin clarified his position casually.

  ‘Are you serious?’ George knew that J
ustin wasn’t the type to make jokes, but he had to be sure.

  ‘Deadly. But I want a third share of the business in return. As a sleeping partner.’

  George did some rapid mental calculations. That was a big share, considering he and Lisa would be putting in four hundred each, not to mention their time. But he knew that if Justin was interested, then he would make it happen. And it would certainly save them time, not having to go through tedious meetings with bank managers. Plus, George knew full well that there was more where it came from. If Justin had a vested interest, and they needed more capital, he would be forthcoming, George was certain. He decided to push his friend a bit further. He didn’t feel guilty. You couldn’t pull a fast one on Justin. It wasn’t possible.

  ‘Call it two hundred and fifty.’

  Lisa looked at him in surprise. George hadn’t struck her as a tough negotiator.

  Justin grinned.

  ‘I admire your cheek,’ he said. ‘It gives me faith in you. Two fifty it is.’

  George looked down at his piece of paper, calculations scrawled all over it. He added on the two hundred and fifty, and underlined the total with three thick black lines.

  ‘Almost starts making it look like a possibility.’

  ‘Don’t think about it too much,’ said Justin. ‘Or you’ll never do it.’

  Lisa felt a little swirl of excitement in her tummy.

  ‘Come on, George. What have we got to lose?’

  ‘Um – a few hundred grand each? And our livelihoods?’ George tried to make his tone light.

  ‘I’ve lost that already,’ said Lisa.

  ‘I think it’s about time you took a risk, George.’ Justin was playing devil’s advocate. ‘Or else you are in grave danger of becoming the most boring man in the universe.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’ George feigned hurt. ‘Just because you deserve to be a fully paid-up member of Gamblers Anonymous.’

  ‘Gambling’s never done me any harm.’

  ‘Smug bastard.’

  ‘Fine.’ Justin shrugged. ‘Put on your grey suit in the morning and go back into the office. For the rest of your life.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I said!’ Lisa wasn’t sure it was fair to take sides, but George needed a push.

  ‘We can’t all be crazy risk-takers.’

  ‘I’m not crazy, actually. I’ve never taken a risk that wasn’t considered. And I wouldn’t be offering you my money now if I didn’t think you could make a success of it.’

  ‘You haven’t even seen the place.’

  ‘If there’s one thing you’ve got, George, it’s good taste in buildings. And you know your locations.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘It has got a lovely feel.’ Lisa felt the need to put in her contribution. ‘Even though it was hideous inside, the view is just amazing. And it’s virtually got its own private beach. It’s perfect for romantic getaways. Or girly weekends. You couldn’t not enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ George intervened, putting his hand up. ‘What we need to do is a proper business plan.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Justin. ‘I’ve never done one in my life.’

  ‘You don’t want to protect your investment?’

  ‘A business plan isn’t protection. It’s no guarantee of anything. If you ask me, it’s restricting. I’m quite happy to write you a cheque here and now on the basis of what you’ve told me.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘As long as I get my own room when I come and stay.’ Justin grinned. ‘I quite fancy surfing.’

  George looked around his kitchen, thinking of the five years he had spent getting the house just as he wanted it. It had been an incredibly hard slog; he had put his heart and soul into the project. The very last tile had only been laid two months ago. Did he want to enjoy the fruits of his labours? Or did he want to profit from them and move on?

  Fate, he thought, was a strange thing. If Colin hadn’t fallen off his ladder, he wouldn’t be debating this upheaval.

  ‘Let’s give it a go,’ said Lisa. ‘The least we can do is make an offer.’

  ‘A sealed bid is legally binding,’ George warned. ‘You can’t just pull out.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, George. When will you stop being the harbinger of doom? Let’s just get on with it.’

  Just over three weeks later, with the phone clamped to his ear, George held his breath and looked round at the others waiting in his kitchen.

  Justin’s brow was furrowed under the wispy blond fringe that had fallen over his left eye ever since George had known him. His anxiety was tangible, which was rare. Nothing usually fazed Justin. His disquiet was unnerving, and George wondered what the reason was behind it. He wasn’t to know that Justin felt sure that this project was going to be the making of his friend.

  Lisa was chewing on her plump bottom lip. Neither had discussed what they would do if the deal fell through and George felt a sudden twinge of responsibility. He didn’t need to, of course. Lisa had her head more than screwed on. He hadn’t talked her into it, by any means. It had been her decision to leave the agency, after all.

  In the line of duty, George had been involved in sealed bids countless times – on behalf of clients. He had it down to a fine art, guesstimating rival offers, working out exactly how much was cost-effective to lose, when to be bullish and when to be cheeky. He’d learned never to get emotionally involved. Only this time, it was different. This time it was him. As he awaited the outcome, his heart was hammering, his mouth was dry, his stomach was flipping over and over like a pancake being tossed by an exuberant chef.

  He listened to the estate agent’s verdict, and carefully put down the phone.

  ‘Right,’ he said flatly. He paused for a moment for dramatic effect, then as the others looked at him uncertainly his face broke into a broad grin. ‘You’d better go and pack your buckets and spades. We are officially the proud new owners of The Rocks.’

  Seconds later, George found himself enveloped in Lisa’s flying embrace. Justin paraded the room, his arms held aloft as he stabbed the air in triumph.

  ‘I wanna have sex on the beach,’ he sang rather tunelessly.

  As George bent to pick up his briefcase, he reflected that the estate agent had been rather cool in his congratulations on the telephone. But then maybe they didn’t take kindly in Mariscombe to out-of-towners trumping locals with their cash. They’d be grateful in the long run, thought George. Between them they were going to put Mariscombe back on the map. The property prices would soar. George felt a tingle of excitement and drew out the bottle of champagne he’d put into his fridge earlier.

  ‘How did you know?’ exclaimed Lisa.

  ‘I just did,’ smiled George, peeling away the foil and easing the cork out gently. It had all been worth it. Three weeks of adrenalin, sleepless nights and number juggling. The legwork, the surveys, the legal work, the lengthy debates with the council, the maths, the meetings with the bank for the hideous bridging loan in case the sales of their houses didn’t correspond with the completion of the purchase. And most important of all, the design: the breathtaking, radical renovation that was going to turn The Rocks from a gloomy, old-fashioned seaside hotel into a chic beachside retreat.

  His boss, Richard, had been surprisingly sanguine when he had gone to tell him that he was going to hand in his notice. George had expected him to be peevish, but he’d seemed almost more excited by the project than George was.

  ‘Best of luck to you. I can’t pretend I’m not envious.’

  ‘We haven’t got it yet.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll pull it off.’ Richard seemed confident. ‘And remember, any help you want. With surveying. Or contractors. Any of that bollocks. Just get in touch.’

  For a moment, George felt guilty.

  ‘Shit. You’re making me feel bad now. I feel as if I’m dumping you in it.’

  ‘Listen, mate. You go for it. You’re living our dream for us. Go and show us it can be done. Then maybe
we’ll all have the nerve to leave this bloody rat race.’

  Richard’s encouragement had given George the stamina for the last push. Up until that moment, he’d always known he could bail out; it was almost as if he was playing a game, going through the motions safe in the knowledge that if it didn’t come off he could be back at his desk the following Monday. But at the last minute, with Lisa and Justin’s agreement, he’d upped their offer by ten thousand. He wasn’t going to lose out for the sake of a few extra quid. And the gamble had paid off.

  ‘To The Rocks,’ he now proclaimed, holding his glass high. His elation was only pricked for a moment, as his conscience whispered to him that actually all he was doing was running away. As he swallowed down the bubbles, George wondered if North Devon was far enough.

  4

  Bruno Thorne was sitting with his feet up on his desk, one arm curled around the back of his head, the other holding the phone to his ear. He didn’t like what he was hearing.

  ‘I don’t think I understand,’ he said slowly, his tone threatening, his black brows meeting in the middle.

  ‘The other side upped their offer by ten grand at the last minute.’

  ‘You should have got back to me.’

  ‘You told me categorically that was your best and final offer!’ The estate agent was indignantly defensive. ‘Anyway, it was sealed bids. I’m not supposed to know what’s in the envelope, remember?’

  ‘Come off it,’ Bruno laughed. ‘At the end of the day all you want is the best price for your client, surely?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Thorne. There’s nothing I can do about it now. It’s a done deal.’

  Bruno sighed.

  ‘Any idea what their plans are?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Come on!’ Bruno couldn’t hide the impatience in his voice. ‘You must have shown them round, for God’s sake. It’s off the record. I’m going to find out sooner or later.’

  ‘They’re talking about a “boutique” hotel, whatever that is.’ His tone was disparaging. ‘No competition for you. They’ve got eight beds max. And between you and me I don’t think they’ve got much of a clue.’