The trilling of the phone suddenly broke the silence. George didn’t answer it in case it was Richard ordering him to come back to the office – he’d already switched his mobile off. He let the answerphone intervene, and was surprised to hear Lisa’s voice cut through the silence. Her accent was tinged with a Gloucestershire burr that she always protested she hated, but George thought was charming. It summoned up images of milkmaids dropping curtsies. Or
Cider with Rosie
, which had always been one of his favourite books. But she thought she sounded like a Wurzel.
It brought a smile to his face now, to hear her.
‘George! It’s me. I just phoned your work and your secretary told me you’d walked out. She seemed to think you were upset about something. What’s going on? Give me a ring as soon as you get this message—’
George crossed the room and picked up the handset.
‘Hi. It’s me.’
‘George! What happened? Did you really walk out?’
‘Yep.’ He quickly filled her in on what had happened.
‘What bastards!’ She was suitably outraged. ‘I don’t blame you for walking.’
‘No. And I’m tempted not to go back either.’
‘Well, you can join the club. It’s you and me both.’ Lisa sounded defiant. ‘I’ve just told Tony to stick it up his Prada jumper.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No. I’ve had enough. I’m not putting up with it a minute longer. I’ve had enough of dirty old men gawping at my chest and thinking I’m easy—’
George chuckled. He knew for a fact that wasn’t the case. He should know. He’d been dating Lisa for nearly six months before they’d finally ended up in bed.
‘Don’t laugh at me. I mean it!’ She sounded indignant. George could imagine her eyes sparking dangerously, her chin tilted in the air.
‘I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because I know you’ll have given them what they deserve,’ he reassured her swiftly. ‘And you’re quite right not to put up with it. What are you doing now?’
‘I’m still on the motorway. Heading back home. Stuck in the Friday-afternoon traffic.’
‘Why don’t you carry on and come straight here? We could go away for the weekend. Somewhere we can reflect on our rash behaviour. Sounds like we’ve both got some thinking to do.’
‘That sounds great. I think I’d go mad if I had to stop at home all weekend.’
‘Where do you fancy going?’
Lisa thought about it for a moment.
‘The seaside. I’d like to go to the seaside.’
‘Why not!’
‘But I’ll have to go home first. I haven’t got any clothes with me.’
‘Don’t bother. I can lend you some stuff. You can sleep in one of my T-shirts. We can buy you some clothes in the morning.’
Lisa giggled. He loved her giggle. It was an elixir. A tonic. If you could bottle it and sell it, it would lift your mood quicker than any prescription.
‘I’ll borrow a pair of your boxers. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
As soon as she finished speaking to George, Lisa put her foot down and swooped into the fast lane. She felt better already. It was as if she and George were partners in crime, the pair of them sneaking off, skiving. Instead of turning off for Stratford, where she lived, she stayed on the motorway, grateful that now she was away from the outskirts of Birmingham, the traffic was less heavy. She could be in Bath in less than two hours.
While he was waiting for Lisa, George changed into jeans and a thick olive-green ribbed sweater. He ran his hand through his hair, inspecting it in the mirror. Had he been staying in Bath for the weekend, he would have taken a trip to the barber the next day – he kept it cropped fairly short nowadays, even though it was still thick, because he knew from his friends that once you hit your thirties, hair had a habit of suddenly thinning without you noticing, and the longer it was the worse it looked. So to preclude that ghastly eventuality he went with the regular precision cut, experimenting with his sideboards to ring the changes – long, short, pointy, blunt. He had a special razor for keeping them in trim. This weekend, however, he toyed with forgoing a shave as well as a haircut, going for the unkempt look. Wow, thought George. He was really rebelling.
Casting his appearance to one side, he swiftly packed a leather holdall, sticking in a couple of extra Fruit of the Loom T-shirts for Lisa to sleep in, then got out his road map of Great Britain to look for inspiration. It would be five by the time Lisa got to him, so if they wanted seaside, they’d have to step on it. He traced his finger along the coastline, until it finally came to rest in North Devon.
Mariscombe. He remembered it from his childhood, and he immediately felt a flutter of fond nostalgia. He’d gone there one summer, when he was about eight or nine. Not with his parents, for his mother wouldn’t have been seen dead somewhere like Mariscombe. It was far too working class, full of caravans and string vests and chip shops. She wanted yachting types and delicatessens and tasteful pubs – Salcombe or Lymington were more her scene. It was his uncle and aunt and his noisy brood of cousins that had taken him there, in their clapped-out old camper van, the summer it became clear to George his parents really weren’t getting along. Up till then, holidays to him had meant gîtes in the Dordogne, thoroughly boring for a boy of eight who had to plough through plates of unspeakable innards mixed with bitter salad leaves while his parents burbled their appreciation.
So Mariscombe, with its miles of golden sand, the diet of chips and ice cream and the occasional crab sandwich, had been bliss. They’d pitched their three sagging, smelly tents on a gloriously unspoilt cliffside campsite. The farmer who owned it had gone round all the pitches on his bike each morning, bringing fresh eggs and foaming milk. George had put on weight that week, gorging himself on the cooked breakfasts rustled up on the calor gas stove, cream teas, packets of crisps and 99
S
. A real bucket-and-spade holiday, with sandcastles and rock pools and fishing nets. Even the downside – sunburn and jellyfish and torrential rain – hadn’t marred his memory.
Of course, his holidays now were more sophisticated – city breaks in Prague or Budapest, scuba-diving in Egypt, skiing in Canada. Resorts like Mariscombe held few charms for a sophisticated man about town. But seeing it now on the map jogged his memory about an article he had read in the
Sunday Times
only a few weeks ago. An article that was pinpointing property hot spots, predicting what was on the rise, and Mariscombe had been top of their list for holiday investment.
‘Surfers’ paradise and guaranteed family fun,’
the article had proclaimed. ‘
Mariscombe is rapidly shedding its kiss-me-quick image; the old Victorian guest houses are being transformed into chic apartment blocks, presumably by those developers who can’t afford Sandbanks or Rock. It’s hot, it’s hip. Get in now before it’s too late. Mariscombe is next on the map.’
In his head, George was an entrepreneurial property developer with interesting projects dotted all over the countryside. In reality all he had was the house in Bath – although to say ‘all’ was to diminish its worth, which was probably tipping three quarters of a million. Not a bad return on his money. Nevertheless, he liked to keep his eye on which areas of the countryside were flourishing, just in case he one day decided to throw caution to the wind and extend his mortgage.
The article about Mariscombe had intrigued him. And there was no doubt it was the perfect place for him and Lisa to blow the cobwebs away. He imagined long, bracing walks along the beach and the clifftops, scrumptious cream teas by a roaring log fire in some cosy tearoom, a gourmet supper somewhere followed by sweet dreams in a luxurious four-poster bed . . .
Suddenly the doorbell broke his reverie. Lisa was on the step – he could see her red Mazda MX5 double-parked outside.
George opened the door with a wide smile.
Lisa threw her arms round his neck.
‘It’s so good to see you. I want to get away. Shall we go in my car? I filled up with petrol.’
‘Sure. But you better let me drive. You must be exhausted.’
He picked up his bag, his Australian wax jacket with the nubuck collar and cuffs, punched the code into his security system and led the way out. Lisa followed him.
‘So where are we going?’
‘Mariscombe. I used to go there when I was a kid. I read an article in the
Sunday Times
about it the other day. They predicted it as the Next Big Thing. Property hot spot.’ He chucked the map at her. ‘It’s on the North Devon coast. It’ll only take us a couple of hours to get there, with the wind behind us.’
‘Do we need to book a hotel?’
‘No. Let’s just wing it. There’s bound to be places to stay. We’ll take pot luck when we get there.’
He turned the key in the ignition, suddenly excited. This felt like a real adventure, and the fact that they had both walked off their jobs that afternoon gave it an extra frisson. Next to him, Lisa pulled her seat belt across her chest.
‘Drive on!’ she commanded. ‘I’ll put on the Beach Boys.’
‘It’s not exactly California Dreamin’,’ warned George. ‘It’s the British seaside in February.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Lisa. ‘Anyway, that was the Mamas and Papas.’
George took it steady on the motorway. Rain began in earnest as they inched past Bristol in the rush-hour traffic. By the time they drove down the hill into Mariscombe two hours later, the wind was howling, the rain was lashing the windows and neither of them could see a thing.
‘We’ll try the Esplanade first,’ decided George. ‘There’s loads of hotels along there.’
They crawled past the houses that lined the seafront, peering to see if there was a vacancy, but there wasn’t a glimmer of welcome anywhere.
‘I suppose it is off season.’ George upped the speed of the windscreen wipers but it had no effect; the rain was coming down faster than the blades could cope with. They were now heading up the steep, winding hill that led from the centre of the village to Higher Mariscombe. George knew from memory that there was a treacherous drop to their left-hand side, and strained his eyes to ensure they didn’t leave the road.
‘There!’
Lisa pointed excitedly to a white sign with ‘The Rocks’ badly painted on it, and underneath another notice proclaiming ‘Vacancies’. George drew to a halt and they peered out of the window in vain.
‘How do we know what it’s like?’
As they hesitated, the rain redoubled its efforts. Lisa shrugged.
‘I really don’t care. Let’s go for it. It’s either that or sleep in the car park.’
George pointed his car cautiously up the vertical drive.
‘Are you sure? It doesn’t exactly scream Rocco Forte.’
‘How bad can it be?’
George didn’t answer. The trio of gnomes peeping out from behind the gatepost said it all.
The car park of The Rocks was empty, apart from an ancient Peugeot presumably belonging to the owner. The hotel loomed in front of them, a large Victorian house, grey and forbidding, but a light gave them a glimmer of hope. They stood in the porch, unable to see through the frosted glass, and rang the old-fashioned brass bell.
‘It’s like a Hammer Horror movie,’ whispered Lisa, clinging to George’s hand. ‘And nobody knows we’re here. We might never be heard of again.’
‘Come on. Let’s drive back to Exeter. We’ll get the number of a decent hotel. We can phone ahead and book a room—’
‘Too late. There’s someone coming.’
A shadow had indeed appeared through the glass and someone fumbled at the locks before flinging open the door triumphantly.
‘There we go. Sorry, ducks. Didn’t hear you. I had the telly turned up that loud to drown out the sound of the rain. Come in, come in – you’ll catch your deaths.’
Lisa and George exchanged dubious glances. Their prospective hostess loomed in the doorway, nearly six foot tall and three foot wide, a rose-pink quilted dressing gown wrapped round her and held in place with a mismatched towelling belt. Her iron-grey hair was enveloped in a net which met an enormous pair of spectacles halfway down her forehead. Her grin was welcoming; her tombstone teeth leaned at alarming angles.
‘Are you . . . open?’ faltered Lisa, hoping fervently the answer would be ‘no’ and they could revert to plan B.
‘My dear, I’m always open. Nearly everyone else closes after the Christmas break till Easter, but not me. No skin off my nose. I’m here anyway, after all. No point in turning good custom away. What do you want, a double room for the night? Or two?’
‘Um, just the one.’
‘Come on in. I’m Mrs Websdale. But you can call me Webby. Everyone does.’
She ushered them inside. George and Lisa followed uncertainly in her wake. The entrance hall was cavernous, the floor covered in acres of brown and orange patterned carpet, the elaborate wallpaper barely visible behind items that represented a lifetime of collecting: stuffed fish in glass cases, a shelf full of reproduction Victorian dolls staring blankly into space, a display of silk fans, all illuminated by the stingy glow of some heavily tasselled wall lights. In one corner stood a large, ugly grandfather clock; in the other a suit of armour.
‘It’s the Addams Family,’ whispered Lisa.
‘Freaky.’ George shuddered. He couldn’t cope with kitsch that wasn’t tongue in cheek.
‘I always keep the two main bedrooms made up, in case of passing trade,’ Mrs Websdale informed them cheerily as she climbed the stairs. ‘I’ll give you the one with the best view.’
She stopped outside a door with a white plastic number three stuck on and threw it open dramatically. The room was extremely large, but somehow made to feel small because of the overpowering decor. What really frightened George was that someone had given it considerable thought. The wallpaper was green and pink embossed stripes up to dado rail height, above which was a profusion of flowers which matched the curtains. The buttoned Dralon headboard was green and the eiderdown pink, trimmed with some of the material left over from making the curtains. The attempt to coordinate everything stopped at floor level, however, as the carpet matched the one in the hallway, clashing swirls of brown and orange. The furniture was large, heavy and ugly – salerooms all over the country were groaning with similar items that never got a bid.