‘Bloody hell!’
‘Leonard is a lecherous old fruit with an overactive imagination and not enough to do. You don’t want to believe a word he says.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And I don’t suppose he told you he was after The Rocks as well as you?’
‘No!’ Lisa’s eyes crackled and snapped with indignation.
Bruno couldn’t help laughing. ‘He tried desperately to do a cash deal with the woman who owned it. But she wasn’t having any of it.’
‘Mrs Websdale?’ Lisa mulled over this new development. ‘According to Leonard, they were . . . well . . .’
She didn’t like to elaborate on Leonard’s claim, as even now the idea seemed preposterous. Bruno said it for her, with yet another mischievous twitch of his eyebrow.
‘Lovers? In his dreams, maybe. Like I said, Leonard sometimes finds it hard to separate fantasy from reality.’
He leaned across the table to fill up her glass. His forearm was muscular; the watch on his wrist slender, Swiss and far from the chunky gold timepiece she had anticipated. Lisa pushed a few tendrils of hair back from her forehead. The heat, the wine and the realization that she had been more than hasty in her actions were making her feel flustered.
‘I feel such a fool.’
‘It’s a hotbed, Mariscombe, I’m telling you. It might look like paradise, but scratch the surface . . .’ He made a throat-cutting motion with a tanned forefinger. ‘We don’t have to be at each other’s throats, though. Personally I’m delighted by what you’re doing. A boutique hotel is just what Mariscombe needs to boost its image. And we all get the benefit from any good publicity. It’s not in my interests to wish you any harm. Why don’t we bury the hatchet and be done with it?’
Lisa nodded her head eagerly.
‘I think I’m guilty of listening to too much gossip.’
‘There’s certainly plenty of that round here.’ His expression was wry. ‘There’s nothing the locals like better than winding up newcomers. It’s practically a spectator sport. It’s infuriating, but you get used to it.’
‘It’s not quite what I expected, I must admit.’
‘When I was eighteen I couldn’t wait to get out of here. I couldn’t stand the village mentality – everybody knowing everything about you from your inside leg measurement to who you had your first snog with. But something drew me back. It does have a certain charm.’
Lisa indicated the view. The early afternoon sun had turned the sea into a verdigris millpond with only the faintest trace of movement at its very edge. The sand burned almost white in the heat.
‘There’s that for a start.’
‘Yeah.’ Bruno looked across the water thoughtfully. ‘I guess there’s a period in your life when you need the bright lights and a bit of a buzz. But then it all begins to pall.’
‘You’re glad you came back, then?’
There was a small pause.
‘It was . . . time.’
Lisa, remembering the other bits of village gossip she had absorbed, sensed she had strayed on to sensitive territory. Bruno turned to her with a smile that was rather fixed.
‘Anyway, tell me about The Rocks. Have you got rid of those awful quilted headboards?’
Lisa laughed.
‘Don’t worry. They were virtually the first thing to go. We’ve filled about seventeen skips. Dear Mrs Websdale – she was so proud of what she’d done. She’d be horrified if she knew we’d gutted the place.’
She went on to describe the changes they were making. And as she spoke, she couldn’t help mobbing herself up, pointing up the difference between herself and George.
‘You probably know this,’ she leaned forward, her eyes shining with mischief, ‘but there’s more than one type of white paint. At least twenty-seven, apparently. And it matters which one you choose.’
Bruno laughed. Lisa saw his teeth were very white. Porcelain white, she decided.
‘Paint snobs,’ he agreed. ‘They’re like champagne snobs. Go to pieces in a blind tasting. Can’t tell the difference between vintage Krug and a ten-quid bottle from the supermarket. Same with colour – most people couldn’t tell trade gloss from Farrow and Ball eggshell in a line-up.’
Lisa felt comforted by his words. Assuming he was being genuine, of course. She was fairly sure the paint on his walls wasn’t DIY-store emulsion. She felt a tiny bit guilty that she’d looked to Bruno for reassurance, but sometimes over the past week or so she’d felt alienated, a bit of a bumpkin, and it was nice to be told she wasn’t necessarily wrong.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘assuming we don’t have any more cock-ups, we open in just under three weeks.’
‘It sounds wonderful. I’m very envious. It’s exactly what I’d like to be doing.’
For one awful moment, Lisa wondered if she’d said too much. Had she given away all their secrets? Was Bruno going to pinch all their ideas, run off and do exactly the same thing at the Mariscombe Hotel? She shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine – alcohol always made her tongue loose. Then she told herself not to be silly. Bruno had a mind of his own. He didn’t need to copy anyone else, that was evident.
‘I’ll send Charlie back over to you tomorrow,’ he was saying. ‘My job can wait. Mine’s more of a long-term project.’
‘You’re very kind. Thank you. And I better get back. Everyone will be wondering where I am.’
Lisa stood up and put out her hand for him to shake.
‘That’s rather formal,’ he said, leaning forward and brushing his cheek against hers. ‘It was nice to meet you, Miss Jones.’
Lisa swallowed as she felt his stubble graze her skin. ‘Lisa, please,’ she said weakly.
‘Lisa.’
He was so close she felt his voice inside her as he spoke her name. She took in a shaky breath. ‘It was nice to meet you too.’
‘Bruno.’
‘Bruno.’ As if she didn’t know.
They exchanged a smile. His eyes were slate grey, thought Lisa. The colour of the sea when the sun went in.
‘Listen, we’ll be having a launch party. I’d love you to come. I’ll send you an invitation.’
‘Sounds fantastic. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done. And in the meantime if you have any more problems, give me a call. I can’t promise any miracles, but I might be able to help. I might as well try to live up to my reputation as a puller of strings.’
For a fleeting moment, Lisa wondered if this was a cover-up job, then told herself not to be ridiculous. The man she’d just met hadn’t got where he was by treading on other people’s toes. He didn’t need to sink to those levels. Bloody Leonard. She was going to kill him when she next saw him.
She ran lightly down the steps to the edge of the dunes below, then turned to wave before setting off down the beach. Bruno had told her it was far quicker to go that way than back along his drive and at least she could take her flip-flops off to walk along the sand. Her feet were killing her; she’d have to stop off in the village for some plasters.
As she walked back along the water’s edge to The Rocks, she considered her new acquaintance. Bruno had been a million miles from what she’d expected. The image she’d conjured up in her mind was of a flash, self-satisfied, self-made tycoon. She’d been certain she was going to loathe him on sight.
But the man she had just met was so laid-back he’d almost fallen over. And utterly charming to boot. In fact, Lisa was rather cross with herself. She’d been almost putty in his hands by the time they had finished lunch. She didn’t usually allow herself to be sweet-talked like that. Was the sea air making her soft? She’d asked Bruno Thorne to the launch party, for heaven’s sake! Their biggest rival – what was she thinking of? Never mind – she didn’t have to send him an invitation. And he was unlikely to turn up without one.
Satisfied that she would be able to harden her heart to Bruno’s charms in future, Lisa paddled in the frill of foam that lapped upon the sand as the sea inched its way inwards, wincing as the salty water soaked itself into the blisters between her toes.
From his vantage point on the veranda, Bruno watched Lisa’s figure becoming smaller and smaller as she made her way back along the beach, utterly intrigued. She was such a beguiling mixture of tough and naive. She’d gone in with all guns blazing, but by the end of the meal she was butter-soft and had opened up far more than she probably should have.
Bruno wondered exactly what the set-up was at The Rocks. She’d talked about partners, but whether they were business partners, or if one of them was something more, he couldn’t tell. There was one person who’d be able to give him the low-down. Bloody Leonard. The mouth of Mariscombe. But Bruno certainly wasn’t going to go and ask him. If he showed so much as a flicker of interest, Leonard would have them
in flagrante delicto
by the end of the week.
Besides, thought Bruno, he had plenty on his plate sorting out the hotel. The revamp at The Rocks was going to set a new standard and he didn’t want to be too far behind. At least now he knew what he was up against.
Mimi sat back in her seat gingerly. She’d already found a wad of chewing gum under one table and had to move. She’d got no idea a train could stink so much: of other people’s sweat and stale smoke and cheap perfume. She got out her magazine and began to flip through it idly, but although she was looking at the pictures she wasn’t really seeing them. Her mind was working overtime.
It was a very peculiar thing, being a teenager. Grown-ups spent so much time worrying about whether you were going to take drugs or sleep around that they never suspected you could be up to something really evil. It had been easy for her to slip into George’s office while no one was looking, check up on the appointments on the noticeboard then cancel a couple of key arrangements and alter a couple of orders in order to cause chaos.
And now she was embarking on the final part of her plan.
She’d got Yasmin to do some photos, with Leyla’s help. Yasmin had, after all, once been approached by a scout from a model agency, at Paddington Station. She’d laughed in the scout’s face, telling her modelling was for divs: she was going to do Law at Cambridge. Yasmin was fiercely bright as well as ravishingly beautiful, a fact which Mimi, being neither, thought was rather unfair. But she didn’t hold it against her friend, because Yasmin always came through for her. She’d taken on this latest task with huge enthusiasm, relishing the challenge, plundering her wardrobe for fishnet and feathers and leopard-skin and leather, dressing herself up and pouting provocatively for the camera wielded by Leyla. They’d emailed the results to Mimi’s Hotmail account. Mimi had picked them up from the Internet cafe in Mariscombe, then forwarded them on with a covering letter. It had only been three days before she got the reply she wanted.
And now here she was. She got off the train at Birmingham New Street, pushing her way through the throngs to the taxi rank outside, trying to accustom her nose to the stench of fumes and fast food that now seemed such an unpleasant contrast to the fresh air she had been breathing of late. Mimi had always assumed she would be a city girl for the rest of her life. Now she couldn’t wait to get out. Her hair already felt lank with the filth; her pores were clogging. She could scarcely breathe as she clambered into the back of a cab. She told herself that by late this evening she would have the sea breeze on her face and the taste of salt on her lips again. She was amazed how much she craved it.
She had adapted incredibly quickly to the beach life. It suited her: the casual, easy attitude, the way everyone just went with the flow. There was no competitiveness – they all seemed to be friends on an equal footing, with no pecking order based on looks or cash. And she loved helping Cassie out on her stall. Mimi did the braiding, winding brightly coloured beads into people’s hair so they could adopt a different identity during their week’s holiday, become someone else. All in all, Mimi felt relaxed for the first time in her life. Usually when she went out she had to brace herself for bitching, squabbling and histrionics. In Mariscombe, everyone was cool.
Especially Matt. Whenever she thought about him, she felt a warm glow in her tummy. He made her feel so . . . what? She wasn’t exactly sure. Safe, she finally decided. Safe and comfortable. All the other blokes she’d ever met that she fancied made her feel insecure and anxious, a sensation she hated so much that she positively avoided contact with them. But Matt . . . Being with him was a joy, because she could just be herself, and he didn’t judge her on anything. Not her quirky clothes sense, or her family set-up, or her off-the-wall taste in music that didn’t seem to coincide with anybody else’s. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like a misfit or a freak. She was just Mimi.
Not that she and Matt were an item. At least, she didn’t think so. They spent lots of time together, on the beach after work or in the Old Boathouse in the evening, listening to bands or playing pool. And he often held her hand while they walked somewhere, or draped an arm around her shoulder. But they hadn’t kissed. Not yet. And Mimi thought she was grateful for that, because she knew where kisses led, and she wasn’t quite ready. Not yet. Though she thought Matt might be the one . . .
By now the cab was gliding past bars and cafes and clubs, then turning into a little side road lined with mock Victorian lamp-posts bedecked with hanging baskets. It pulled up in front of a glass-fronted office. Mimi was surprised. It looked far less seedy than she’d thought. For a moment she wasn’t sure about what she was doing. This was a professional set-up that made serious money, not the scruffy office over a betting shop that she had expected. But she’d come this far. She wasn’t going to waste a train fare by not trying.
‘I’ve got an appointment with Tony,’ she informed the receptionist, trying not to feel awkward in the presence of her perfect white-blond hair and full red lips. She sat down to wait on a white leather sofa, flipping through a copy of
Vogue
, desperately trying to ignore the fact that her stomach was churning with nerves.
‘Miranda Snow?’ She looked up, to see a man wearing a black suit with a white T-shirt underneath. His silver hair was cropped short and when he smiled she saw he had a diamond in one of his front teeth. ‘Tony Lavazza.’
He held out his hand and she scrambled to her feet. As they shook hands, he ran an appraising gaze up and down her body, frowning.