George hesitated. He wanted to look round the house properly, start taking detailed notes about what needed doing. But outside the sea beckoned. He could feel its pull as strong as a rip tide.
‘Come on, then.’
They sat on a rock, dangling their feet in a pool. The water was shockingly cold at first, but they found they got used to it. At the water’s edge, a young couple held their toddler’s hands as he took his first steps in the sea, squealing as the waves rushed in and broke over his toes.
‘Our beach,’ said George with a huge smile on his face, as Lisa stuffed their sandwich wrappers and empty bottles back in her rucksack.
‘Race you,’ said Lisa, leaping off the rock and on to the damp sand.
The tide had gone out quite a way in the time they had taken to eat their lunch, and they were both out of breath by the time they reached the water. They ran along the surf, whooping and hollering with excitement, breath taken away by the cold. Lisa bent down and splashed George, scooping up armfuls of water, drenching herself in the process. He retaliated by grabbing her, lifting her off her feet.
‘No!’ she protested as he held her over the water, then dropped her in. At the last moment she grabbed him and pulled him down with her. Gasping with the shock of the icy water, they wrestled like puppies. George rolled on top of her, smiling. They lay there for a moment in the shallows, the waves lapping over them.
‘Is this really going to be our life?’ she asked him. ‘Can we do this any time we like?’
‘Freeze our bollocks off, you mean?’ he grinned.
‘It’s just brilliant. I feel so happy. When’s the last time we did something mad like this?’
‘There’s going to be some hard work,’ he warned. ‘You won’t always be able to frolic in the surf at the drop of a hat. In fact, we ought to get back. I’ve got a mountain of things to organize.’
He went to get up, but she pulled him back down on top of her.
‘I’ve never made love in the sea,’ she breathed.
George had a flashback to a Caribbean beach, white sand and a black velvet sky.
‘Nor me,’ he lied, effortlessly.
‘Come on, then.’ She smiled up at him.
‘You’ve got to be joking. Those cliffs up there are crawling with birdwatchers. There’s probably hundreds of people with their binoculars trained on us.’
‘So what?’
George looked at Lisa askance. She put her hands up, amused by his apparent prudery.
‘It’s OK. I’m only joking.’
She scrambled to her feet, still laughing, and they walked back up the beach hand in hand, soaking wet, their clothes squelching, as a gentle sun beamed down. They looked up at The Rocks, towering benevolently over them.
‘Good move,’ said George. Any doubts he’d had earlier in the day had melted away. Even a house in Royal Crescent wouldn’t come close.
At six o’clock that evening, Justin burst in through the front door with a fistful of character helium balloons.
‘Our first guests,’ he announced proudly, tying them to the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Scooby-Doo, Tweety Pie and Homer Simpson bobbed around happily, looking quite at home.
‘I’ve come to help,’ he went on. ‘And I want you to meet Enid.’
George’s heart sank. Justin had a habit of scooping up flaky, zany girls who were usually deeply spiritual but hopelessly impractical – trust-fund chicks with elaborate names, like Biba and Ariadne. They were usually great at writing poetry or rolling joints, but unlikely to be handy with a paintbrush. One of Justin’s hangers-on was the last thing they needed now, thought George.
‘Enid?’ he questioned, warily.
Justin pointed outside, grinning. In the drive, next to Lisa’s car, was parked a pristine orange VW camper van. George was relieved, but rolled his eyes in fond exasperation nevertheless. It was typical Justin. Whenever he got involved in something, he had to go the whole hog. Whatever he took up – which over the years had included polo, skiing, sailing and shooting – he bought all the accessories and accoutrements. George imagined the attic at Justin’s ancestral home in Bedfordshire, stuffed with guns and polo sticks and life jackets, all jettisoned when he had moved on to his next craze. Now here he was buying into the surfer lifestyle when as far as George knew he hadn’t so much as stuck his toe in the water. He’d paid one fleeting visit to Mariscombe before he had signed on the dotted line with George and Lisa, and pronounced it paradise. Which from Justin was high praise indeed, as he moved from one international hot spot to the next in his quest for a new scam, a fresh buzz, the latest thrill. Now here he was, decked out in a pair of Hawaiian shorts, his floppy blond hair pushed back by a pair of titanium sunglasses. George grinned to himself. There was no doubt about it. Justin was barking.
‘We’ll make the most of it while he’s interested,’ George whispered to Lisa. ‘I know Justin. He’ll get bored after five minutes.’
That evening, the three of them wandered up the hill to the Mariscombe Arms, a long, low, thatched building painted a jaunty, nautical blue with a labyrinth of interconnecting whitewashed rooms crammed with wobbly oak tables. In the height of summer there was no elbow room, but on a mild evening in early May there were just a few locals.
The landlord was a rather theatrical man with a leonine mane of grey hair. He surveyed the three of them with interest, as George and Justin decided to plump for a pint of cider each and Lisa ordered a Pimm’s.
‘Early holiday?’ he enquired politely, in rich, plummy tones.
‘Far from it,’ joked George. ‘In fact, I think we’ve just started a life sentence. We took over The Rocks today.’
‘Ah.’ Their host digested this news as he pulled the cloudy cider, then faffed about ceremoniously making a Pimm’s for Lisa.
‘You’ve put the cat amongst the pigeons, you know,’ he announced, carefully slicing up an orange.
‘Have we?’
‘Bruno Thorne was after it. The word is he wasn’t best pleased when he lost out to you lot.’
‘Who’s Bruno Thorne when he’s at home?’ asked Justin rudely.
‘Local lad. He works up in London most of the time. Swans in and out of Mariscombe like he owns the place.’ He smiled. ‘Which, technically, he does.’
‘Well, it won’t hurt him to have some healthy competition then.’ Undaunted, Justin took a slug of cider.
‘Rather you than me. Last person that crossed him ended up over the cliff down there.’
He nodded his huge, shaggy head out of the window, towards the spit of land that separated Higher Mariscombe from the village below. It was lined with craggy, unforgiving rocks. Lisa shuddered.
‘That’s awful.’
‘It was his younger brother. So you see, he doesn’t take any prisoners.’
He put Lisa’s glass on the bar top proudly. It was bursting with fruit and topped with a paper parasol.
‘Well, neither do we,’ Justin assured him.
There was a grave shake of the head.
‘He’s a tricky customer. Not averse to the odd backhander. And he’s got a lot of people on his side.’
George looked annoyed.
‘Why are you telling us all this?’
‘Webby said I was to look after you.’
‘Mrs Websdale?’
The landlord nodded, then leaned forward confidentially.
‘Between you and me, I don’t think yours was the highest offer. But she wanted you to have it.’ He nodded his head to Lisa. ‘She said you reminded her of her at your age.’
The look of horror on Lisa’s face made him convulse with laughter.
‘I know you find it hard to believe, but she was a looker once. I’ve seen the photos.’ He gave a lascivious wink. ‘She was the Face of Whitby in 1952. Miss Scarborough three years on the trot. It was only after her hysterectomy that it all went pear-shaped.’
George grimaced.
‘Too much information.’
‘She was a magnificent woman.’ There was a wistful look in his eyes. Then he held his hand out. ‘Anyway, I’d better introduce myself, as I’m sure you’ll probably avail yourself of my hospitality now and again. Leonard Carrington.’
The three of them shook hands with him politely.
‘How long have you been here?’ asked Lisa.
‘Twenty-five years,’ answered Leonard. ‘And I’m still regarded as a newcomer.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Welcome to Mariscombe.’
They sat on a bench in a big bay window and ate huge oval platters of scampi and chips.
‘Perfect,’ said Lisa, squeezing out tartare sauce from a sachet.
George wasn’t so impressed. He prodded his garnish dubiously – cress and a tomato quarter.
‘I don’t think I’ll be poaching this chef.’
‘Pub grub. It’s what people want by the seaside.’
‘Not our guests,’ contradicted George. ‘At least I hope not. I’m after a more discerning clientele.’
‘Don’t be so snotty, George.’ Justin poked him with his fork. ‘You’re a food snob.’
‘Yes. I am. And this isn’t scampi. It’s never been anywhere near Dublin Bay.’
‘Shut up and eat it,’ ordered Justin, squirting ketchup liberally over his chips.
George managed a smile. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was feeling rather daunted by everything that had to be done.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess I’m just a bit paranoid about the whole thing. What if I am wrong and people do want padded headboards and Neil Diamond piped through the dining room?’
‘Listen, mate. We can’t go wrong. So long as we market it right. There’s always going to be people who want style and quality. And we’ve got the most stunning location. It’s a winner.’
George tried to feel reassured. Justin was always confident. That’s why he was so successful, with even the most madcap of schemes.
‘I’m more worried about this bloke who wanted to buy The Rocks.’ Lisa blew on a hot chip before eating it. ‘Do you think he could cause trouble for us?’
George shook his head.
‘The landlord’s just stirring it up.’
‘You’ll always get someone who thinks he’s top dog,’ added Justin. ‘You just have to show them who’s boss.’
‘Great,’ said Lisa, not convinced. ‘Turf wars already. It’s exactly what I was trying to get away from.’
‘This is Mariscombe. Not Chicago. I think we can handle whatever they throw at us,’ said Justin, with the bravado of one who had once done three months inside, though nobody was quite sure what for. Rumours ranged from non-payment of council tax to driving while disqualified.
Lisa looked over at Leonard and giggled.
‘Do you think he was having an affair with Webby?’
George nearly choked on a chip.
‘What a horrible thought.’
‘Hey!’ Lisa nudged him with her elbow. ‘If what Leonard says is true, and I am the spit of her when she was younger, chances are I’ll look like she does now when I’m older.’
‘Can’t wait. Remind me to buy you a quilted dressing gown for your next birthday.’
The mood lightened, the three of them had another drink, then wandered back down the hill. By now it was dark and all they could see were the twinkling lights of the village lining the shore below as they made their way down the inky-black road. Justin insinuated himself between George and Lisa and put an arm round each of them.
‘This is going to be great for all of us. You know that?’
‘Are you hanging around, then?’ said George, surprised. ‘I thought you’d be off to Rio or Fiji or Istanbul.’
‘Bollocks to all of that,’ said Justin. ‘I need a rest.’
‘You’ve come to the wrong place then, I’m afraid.’ George shook his head. ‘You got off lightly today. Tomorrow the hard work starts in earnest.’
‘Work,’ said Justin, a certain wonder in his voice. ‘I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid it. I wonder if I’ll like it.’
Across the bay, Bruno stepped out on to his veranda, breathing in the cool night air, his hand curled round a heavy tumbler of Irish whiskey. He scanned the shoreline, picking out the familiar landmarks, recognizing each building by its own particular configuration of lights. He started with the Mariscombe Arms at the top of the hill, ablaze with multi-coloured fairy lights, past Atlantic Heights, the flash new apartment block whose car park was filled at weekends with identical black SUVs, then the youth hostel, then the shadowy outline of the church. Four buildings on, his eyes narrowed. There was a fresh set of lights. He counted down and calculated that it must be The Rocks. For weeks it had been shrouded in darkness, but tonight its sudden illumination reminded him that the new owners must have arrived. He felt a fleeting regret at the missed opportunity. Then thanked his lucky stars that his bid hadn’t been successful. There was no way he could have fitted that into his schedule. Or his budget, come to that.
He took a gulp of Paddy’s, appreciating its warmth, the way it seemed to permeate his muscles straightaway, allowing his shoulders to drop. They seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time up by his ears these days. He drained his glass and whistled to Hector, who shot eagerly out of the sliding door, ready for his bedtime stroll. The two of them made their way down the wooden steps that led from the house straight across the dunes and on to the beach. The long grass whipped at Bruno’s legs; his feet disappeared into the soft sand. Ahead of him he could hear Hector snuffling, no doubt hot on the scent of the hundreds of rabbits who built their warrens in the dunes.
Bruno had been biding his time at the Mariscombe Hotel for the past couple of months, and was troubled by what he had found. Things had got so slack that, after the initial shock of his arrival, it hadn’t even occurred to any of the staff to sharpen up their act now he was around. He had made sure to melt into the background, giving them a false sense of security so he could observe who the real slackers were. And he was disgusted by what he found. The service was atrocious, the housekeeping diabolical, the food was worse than he’d been given on the one occasion he’d found himself staying overnight in a NHS hospital. The staff clearly looked upon the place as a holiday camp, as they were noticeable more for their absence than anything, especially when the weather was fine. Its absolutely only saving grace was that it was a stone’s throw from the beach.
Bruno chided himself for letting things slide. But then he’d only ever bought the place as an investment, bricks and mortar, a more interesting resting place for his cash than the pieces of paper he traded in. Yet despite the hotel’s shambolic aura, Bruno felt certain that it was salvageable. The bare bones were there; it just needed re-dressing, shaking up, bringing to life. He spent time wandering round the hotel, absorbing its atmosphere – or lack thereof – and weighing up its strong points. Now, far from being disillusioned, he felt filled with optimism.