‘Are you quite sure?’ Caragh looked at him coolly. ‘The weather can have a very strange effect on spending patterns down here –’
‘Don’t worry. That’s been taken into consideration. It’s a very sophisticated program I’ve used – it’s quite terrifyingly Big Brotherish.’
For a moment they stared each other out, each knowing what the other was thinking. Caragh caved in first.
‘It’s a bit like loft insulation, then, really,’ she said finally. ‘You spend a little bit of money to stop the pounds flying out.’
‘Exactly. And no one will be able to skim off the profits, even if I’m not around.’
They smiled at each other, both equally clear that the message had been received and understood.
Bruno leaned back and curled his arms round the back of his head, deliberately nonchalant, as if the answer to his question was of no matter.
‘So. Where do you see yourself in the near future, Caragh? Sunny Dubai? Or are you going to stick around in sunny Mariscombe?’
Caragh looked at her watch and stood up.
‘Work me out a package,’ she said briskly. ‘And we’ll talk.’
She held out her hand for Bruno to shake. He got to his feet slowly, took it, shook it, then didn’t let go, but looked her in the eye and spoke softly.
‘By the way… Caragh?’
He hesitated. She tilted her head to one side enquiringly.
‘Yes?’
He cleared his throat.
‘I prefer my senior staff to wear knickers. If you don’t mind.’
Bruno watched as Caragh stalked her way down the steps leading to the sands, her head held high, and marched back towards Mariscombe. He admired the straightness of her back, the square set of her shoulders and the way she didn’t stumble once, even though her shoes weren’t ideal for walking on the beach.
He was in two minds about her. In some ways, he would be mad to lose her. If she was channelled, she could be a great manageress. She had that Irish charm that always seemed to work wonders with guests, and she didn’t need to be liked by the staff, which meant she could whip them into shape. But there was no doubt she was corrupt. Bruno had done his research and was quite satisfied that she’d been on the fiddle, even if he couldn’t actually prove it. But then, he reasoned, anyone who’d been given the chance of running the Mariscombe Hotel as it was, and hadn’t taken advantage of the fact that it was a complete shambles to line their own pockets, probably wasn’t worth employing in the first place. He admired opportunism and initiative. And he didn’t like doing the expected.
Was it worth taking the risk on her? Bruno thought he would probably enjoy breaking her. She’d fight him every step of the way and spit in his eye, he knew she would. There was something slightly dangerous about her; something slightly unhinged. But there was nothing he liked better than a challenge.
Hannah thought she was in heaven. Sitting outside like this with Frank, the pair of them sipping their Beck’s, some chill-out music wafting out of the speakers Frank had propped up on his windowsill, chatting idly. She shivered slightly. Although it had been a warm day, the air was dropping rapidly in temperature. It was still too early in the year for the night to hold on to the day’s heat.
‘Are you cold?’ Frank jumped up, concerned. He picked up his sweatshirt, which was hooked over the back of his chair. ‘Here, put this on.’
Hannah obeyed. She didn’t need telling twice. As she pulled it on over her head, she breathed in the smell of him, then shivered as the soft lambiness of the fleece inside stroked her arms. To be this close was such sweet torture.
‘So you reckon my proposal’s all right?’ Frank was asking her anxiously, for the seventy-fifth time.
‘I think it’s brilliant,’ Hannah reassured him, for the seventy-fifth time. ‘And even if it’s not exactly what he wants, it shows you’ve thought about it. And you know what you’re talking about.’
‘Thanks for your advice.’ Frank leaned over and kissed her on the head. ‘You’re a complete star, you know that?’
Hannah sat stock-still, her heart thumping. Frank had kissed her! Hastily, she picked up her bottle and drank from it to hide her confusion.
It was ironic that, despite the fact that she was always there for the others, she would have no one to share this moment of triumph with, no one to pick over its significance. Hannah knew she was taken for granted by the others, and usually she didn’t mind. Day after day, night after night, she was always there for whoever had been injured in the ongoing battles for affection. Yet no one ever realized that inside her own heart was aching, that she was in turmoil, because she knew Frank would never look at her, with her super-size conk and her size eight feet. For a moment, she thought wistfully that it would be nice to have someone to chew over this development with. Sometimes she confided in Molly, one of the chambermaids, but Molly always shot off home and never came out for a drink. She’d told her about the nose job, but Molly thought she was mad. It was easy to say that when you had a cute little freckle-smothered button.
‘Another beer? There’s one left.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve had three already. And I haven’t quite finished this…’
‘Go on.’
As Hannah hesitated, a figure came striding towards them through the moonlight. Tall, elegant, businesslike – Hannah’s heart sank. Caragh. There would be no more kisses now. And it brought her crashing down to earth.
‘Fuckin’ patronizin’ twisted lowlife bastard!’ Caragh’s language was foul when she was riled. The nuns would have been horrified.
‘What have I done?’ Frank leaped to his feet, terrified that he’d stepped out of line.
‘Not you, you eejit.’ Caragh flopped into a chair. ‘Bruno arsin’ whatever his name is. He’s blown it with me, I can tell you.’
‘Drink?’ Frank proffered a bottle of Beck’s.
‘I need something a bit stronger than that.’ Caragh dismissed his offering with a wave of her hand. ‘A glass of Archers or something.’
‘I don’t actually have anything else,’ admitted Frank.
Caragh scowled.
‘Go on, I’ll have the beer then.’
Frank flipped open the last bottle, the bottle that Hannah had been about to drink.
‘So what’s he done?’
‘Who?’ Caragh glared at Hannah in the half-light. ‘You mean Bruno? Only as good as accused me of being on the fiddle.’
‘But you are,’ Frank pointed out reasonably.
‘We all are,’ Caragh replied sweetly. ‘Which means that if I go down, you all go down with me.’
‘Not all of us, actually.’ Three Beck’s had given Hannah an uncharacteristic bolshiness. ‘Some of us weren’t given the chance to join your little Christmas club. And, anyway, haven’t you heard of honour amongst thieves? You can’t bring everyone else down. It’s just not done.’
Frank shrank back into the shadows, cringing. No one had ever dared cross Caragh before. She shot Hannah a look of pure poison, then stood up.
‘Come on, Frank,’ she ordered. ‘I’ve had that ol’ pervert trying to look up my skirt for the past hour. I know what he wanted. He wanted me to sleep with him. I don’t know what he thinks I am, I’m sure.’ She stretched languorously and her blouse slipped up, showing her taut stomach. ‘I need a massage. I’m totally stressed. He didn’t seem to realize that I’m the one that’s been keeping this dump together.’
Hannah watched the pair of them slip away into the shadows, Frank casting an apologetic glance behind him. Her heart sank as she sipped the last of her beer. She imagined the two of them on Frank’s bed, his long, brown fingers caressing Caragh’s skin, exploring her perfect body – high, rounded breasts, slender hips, toned thighs…
Hannah sighed. What hope did she have? Maybe she shouldn’t bother. Maybe she should just give the money to starving children in Africa and be done with it. There wasn’t a plastic surgeon in the world that could work the miracle she need
ed.
8
Less than a week after their takeover, The Rocks looked as if a bomb had hit it.
George and Justin were overawed at Lisa’s drive. She’d refused to employ anybody to gut the place, arguing that the money would be much better spent on fixtures and fittings and that they were all perfectly able-bodied.
‘You can’t be expected to help. It’s bloody hard work.’ Justin, who was strangely old-fashioned when it came to what was expected of women, watched in horror as she kicked out a toilet cistern with a booted foot.
‘Listen, I’ve lived on my own all of my life. I’m a demon at DIY,’ argued Lisa. She’d proven this very fact by locating the stopcock earlier and turning off the water at the mains. ‘I got fed up being charged fifty quid an hour every time I needed something doing. I just bought a manual and got on with it.’
She wrenched the pipes out of the wall as George and Justin exchanged grimaces over the top of her head. From then on she set the pace. She had them out of bed at seven o’clock every morning, stripping wallpaper and pulling up carpets. The skip lorry could barely keep up with them. But she was a fair taskmaster.
She ran down the hill to the bakery at nine o’clock for croissants and pains au chocolat, then made them bacon sandwiches at midday. At six, they were finally allowed to stop, and they all went down to the beach for a swim, to wash away the dust and the filth. They floated on their backs in the water, gazing at the sky, allowing their aching muscles to relax.
By Friday the hotel was a shell, almost every vestige of the Websdales’ decor eradicated. The weather was glorious. From their vantage point they could see the village starting to fill up with visitors who’d taken advantage of the forecast and decided to make a long weekend of it. Justin had pleaded for a day off, but Lisa was adamant.
‘But I’ve booked a surfing lesson,’ he whined.
‘Look, the sooner we finish this place the sooner we start making money. Those are all potential customers down there…’ She waved her hand airily at the beach. ‘It’s only a few weeks until high season. If we miss that golden six weeks, we’re screwed.’
‘I’ve got to do some paperwork.’ George was determined to stand his ground. ‘I’ve got to work out a proper schedule and make sure everything we need’s been ordered. Trust me on this, Lisa. It’s what I do.’
‘OK,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘You can have the morning off, Justin. And you can spend the day in the office. I’ll strip the banisters.’
She stomped off. Justin and George exchanged glances.
‘She’s scary,’ said Justin.
‘Yeah, but she’s a great gaffer,’ grinned George in reply. ‘I’ve never seen a place demolished so quickly.’
‘She’s a slave-driver.’ Justin produced his brand new wetsuit from a carrier bag and surveyed it thoughtfully. ‘Are you supposed to pee in these or what?’
By midday, Lisa realized she was shattered. It was searingly hot and the smell of paint stripper was making her giddy. Maybe she’d have the afternoon off after all. What she really wanted was sleep. They’d stayed up till after midnight every night this week, and though there’d been a party atmosphere, with music blaring and plenty of bottles of beer, it had suddenly caught up with her.
She went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of cool water. Maybe a drink would revive her. Or perhaps she’d pop down into Mariscombe for an ice cream; just take half an hour’s break, then carry on. She went back into the hall to find her bag and stopped in her tracks.
There was a girl standing in the middle of the chaos, glancing round her with an air of dismay. She was slight, almost too frail for the bulging crocodile-skin handbag slung over her shoulder. She wore a jade-green Chinese kimono, faded designer jeans and three-inch stiletto boots. On top of her head, tucked into her mane of toffee-coloured hair, was an outsize pair of white Courrèges sunglasses.
As Lisa got closer, she realized that she wasn’t a girl at all: that she was well into her thirties, that despite her tiny frame and delicate features there were lines round her eyes and round the corners of her mouth that spelt years of hard living and late nights. Moreover, her clothes might scream limitless budget, but her nails were bitten to the quick, her skin was dull and lifeless, and she smelt of stale perfume and cigarettes. Whoever she was, she didn’t stand up to close scrutiny.
‘Can I help you?’ Lisa enquired politely.
The woman’s smile lit up what had been a lifeless face. It was obviously her tool, her weapon, the means by which she got what she wanted. She had very small, perfect white teeth.
‘I’m looking for George.’
Her voice was surprisingly deep, and she managed to eke three syllables out of George’s name, before dissolving into an epic coughing fit of alarming proportions. She curtailed it by bashing herself on the chest several times, and burrowing in her bag for a packet of cigarettes.
‘Nothing for it but more nicotine.’
Lisa made a face.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Victoria.’
‘And Mimi.’
Another figure stepped through the doorway, sporting a two-inch tweed kilt held together with outsize safety pins, a corduroy blazer smothered in heraldic badges and a backcombed bob, from the depths of which peered two faintly suspicious eyes ringed with metallic blue.
‘Victoria and Mimi,’ repeated Lisa faintly. She’d spotted a Hello Kitty suitcase and a huge carpet bag by the front door, which rather indicated that Victoria and Mimi hadn’t just popped in for coffee. ‘Do you… have an appointment?’
She was rewarded with another dazzling smile.
‘I don’t really think I need an appointment.’ Victoria drew on her freshly lit cigarette as if it held the elixir of life, then blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I’m his wife.’
Years of being on public display and dealing with obnoxious members of the public meant Lisa was adept at hiding her emotions. She didn’t baulk at these words, especially as something in the triumphant look the woman threw at her told Lisa she was expecting a reaction. She certainly wasn’t going to give her the benefit of seeing she was thrown. Despite the terrifying lurch she felt in her stomach, she smiled.
‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I’ll just go and see if he’s available.’
With her heart thumping, Lisa walked as graciously as she could out of the hall. As soon as she was safely out of sight, she leaned against the nearest wall. George’s wife? It couldn’t be true, could it? But why would this Victoria lie? About something that could be so easily disproved?
It was clear to Lisa that only one person had the answers, and that was George himself. She steeled herself for the confrontation. There was no point in dithering. Gathering herself together, she marched into the office, where George was going through the quote they’d had for the refurbishment with a fine-tooth comb.
‘George. There’s a woman for you in reception.’
George looked up from his paperwork, frowning at the interruption.
‘What is she? A rep? I’m not expecting anyone.’
‘No.’ Lisa crossed her arms. ‘She says she’s your wife.’
‘What?’ George jumped to his feet.
‘Thin. Beautiful. Smokes a lot? Oh, and there’s a young girl with her.’
‘Jesus.’ He ran his hand over his face, leaving his hand clamped over his mouth.
A horrible thought occurred to Lisa.
‘Tell me it’s not your daughter.’
‘No, no. Of course it’s not my daughter. It must be Mimi.’
‘Oh.’ Lisa narrowed her eyes and made a rapid deduction. ‘Your step-daughter, then?’ she asked brightly.
George didn’t answer for a moment. He bit his finger in concentration, looked longingly at the window for a moment as if leaping through it might provide either an answer or an escape, then sighed.
‘I’m sorry, Lisa. This wasn’t supposed to happen.’
‘No. I guessed as much
.’
‘I don’t know how they found me.’
‘It can’t have been that difficult. It’s not like you’re under the government protection scheme or anything.’ Her tone was dripping vitriol.
George ran his fingers through his hair, which he always did when he was stressed.
‘I’d better go and talk to her.’
‘So she is, then?’
‘What?’
‘Your wife. Not some crazy, deluded madwoman with an identity crisis?’
‘Tick both boxes,’ George replied drily, then came over and put his hands on Lisa’s upper arms, squeezing her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. ‘Look, I’ll go and see what’s going on. The sooner I can get rid of her, the better. Will you wait here for me? Then I’ll explain.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Lisa bitterly, then shook him away and strode off down the corridor. George shut his eyes, took a deep breath and followed. The last thing he wanted was a cat fight.
By the time he reached the reception hall, Lisa had disappeared and Victoria was smoking languidly. She pointed towards the front door with her cigarette as George walked in.
‘She’s gone. I asked her to stay, but she ignored me completely. Have I put the cat amongst the pigeons?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s absolutely gorgeous, isn’t it? I’ve sent Mimi down to the beach so we could have a chat.’ Victoria held out her cheek expectantly. ‘I got the feeling your girlfriend knew nothing about me. She seemed awfully surprised when I told her who I was. No kiss?’
She pouted, feigning hurt. George gritted his teeth.
‘Get to the point, Victoria. I can’t imagine you turning up here is just a happy coincidence.’
Victoria flicked her ash on to the floor.
‘I must say, she’s very pretty, but she has eaten all the pies.’
‘Lisa is not fat,’ George snapped.
‘I think you’ve put on a bit of weight yourself,’ Victoria taunted him. ‘Georgy Porgy pudding and pie?’
Why was it Victoria always managed to find his Achilles heel? They were living off fish and chips and cream teas at the moment. He knew he’d put on a couple of pounds. Trust her to notice. Trust her to point it out.
Love on the Rocks Page 15