Love on the Rocks (39 page)

Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the silence that until now had been his solace.

George shot out of his office as soon as he spotted Lisa walking across the drive under her umbrella.

‘Thank God you’re back!’ he exclaimed as she came in through the front door. ‘I was worried you might have gone off and left me to it. And I wouldn’t blame you if you had. I behaved like a complete . . .’ He searched round for a word, but couldn’t find a better replacement for Victoria’s epithet. ‘Wanker,’ he finished.

Lisa managed a smile as she shook out her damp curls.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You did.’ She wasn’t going to give him an inch.

‘I was shocked,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t like to think of anyone having to do that for money. Especially you. But I took it out on the wrong person. It wasn’t your fault. You were exploited, by some greasy little oik who took advantage of your age and your vulnerability. I’ve a good mind to go straight up to Birmingham and find Tony bloody Lavazza—’

Lisa put up a hand to stop him.

‘It’s OK, George,’ she said briskly. ‘Let’s just put it behind us, shall we? We’ve got enough on our plate without worrying about spiteful, anonymous packages from people whose noses have been put out of joint.’

George looked hugely relieved.

‘By the way, you might be glad to know Victoria and Mimi are going tomorrow. It’s another added pressure we could do without, having them around.’

‘What?’ Lisa looked rather alarmed.

‘Victoria’s phoned her mother. Who’s doing the decent thing for the first time in her selfish life and is going to give them a roof over their heads.’

‘Hang on a minute!’ Lisa panicked. ‘Who’s going to organize the launch party?’

‘We can manage.’

‘No, we can’t! We’ll be lucky if we get everything done in time as it is.’

‘We’ll cancel it, then. We weren’t going to have a party in the first place.’

‘But the invitations have already gone out. It’ll look as if we’ve got something to hide if we cancel. We’ve got to go through with it. And it’s got to be spectacular.’

‘OK, OK!’

‘Victoria’s the only person holding it all together. Ask her if she’ll stay. At least until the party. If you won’t, then I will. I can’t take organizing that on board as well. I’ll have a nervous breakdown.’

Life, George decided, was weird. Two weeks ago his ex-wife and girlfriend had been at each other’s throats. Now it seemed they were best friends.

‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘But can you ask her? I don’t think she’s in the mood to do me any favours at the moment. But she thinks the world of you, all of a sudden.’

J
ust under two weeks later, Bruno sat in his kitchen drinking coffee and looking at the invitation pinned to the cork board.

The accompanying brochure was on matt cream paper, printed with turquoise and silver ink. ‘A chic maritime hotel where you can relax in style,’ it read.

Rediscover your childhood on the beach, paddling in the rock pools and building sandcastles, then trail sand up the stairs to your room, safe in the knowledge that someone else will sweep up after you. Wallow in one of our freestanding baths with their breathtaking views, then feast on seafood in our alfresco dining room. End the day by watching the sun set over the beach while you sip champagne, then collapse into the softness of your feather bed and fall asleep to the sound of the pounding surf.

Bruno felt a stab of envy. He would have to spend millions before the Mariscombe Hotel could offer that sort of ambience. Yet again he felt regret that he hadn’t persevered with his bid for The Rocks. He would have enjoyed putting a package like this together; it would have got his creative juices flowing. But then he would have got in the way of Lisa’s dream, and he wouldn’t have wanted to do that.

Since their conversation a fortnight ago, her words had rung in his head often, and he had determined to stop putting his life on hold. He decided he’d had enough of being a recluse. He’d invited some friends down from London for the weekend, two couples that he used to hang around with when he had dated Serena. They’d all had a great time: the blokes were fiercely competitive about their surfing, while the girls lounged on the beach reading
Heat
and
Hello!
and Marian Keyes. Then Bruno had barbecued whole sea bass on the veranda, whizzing up strawberries in the blender and topping it up with Prosecco for the girls, and chucking the blokes endless bottles of beer.

It had been a carefree weekend, and what cheered Bruno the most was that he had felt no compulsion to follow them back to the city on the Sunday night. He was living the life that was right for him, and if the Mariscombe Hotel was never going to have the chic allure of The Rocks, it was getting there. Frank had done a fantastic job in turning the restaurant around – they were about to embark on a speedy makeover of the dining room that would turn it from old-fashioned and gloomy into airy and modern, hopefully in time for the summer holidays. They’d gradually introduced Frank’s revamped menu and the lighter, fresher meals seemed much more popular even with the older guests. Gradually the dreariness of the place was lifting.

And so was Bruno’s mood. He was looking forward to the party that evening. He wasn’t sure what to wear. He stood in front of the mirror in his best jeans and a tan leather belt, holding up shirts. In the end he went for a sober blue and white stripe, but left it hanging out – it wouldn’t do to look too formal. As he did up his buttons, he realized this was the first time he had socialized in Mariscombe for nearly two years, and he wanted to look right. He knew he would be under scrutiny, even if people pretended he wasn’t. The invitations themselves had already caused consternation, those who had been summonsed lording it over those who hadn’t. So he knew the party would be dissected and discussed ad infinitum. He sighed – such was village life.

As he sloshed Marc Jacobs cologne on to his wrist, he realized he had butterflies. He gave himself a wry grin in the mirror – he really did need to get out more. Once upon a time he’d have been to a launch or a cocktail party or a dinner every night of the week. There was nothing to get excited about.

Lisa lay up to her neck in coconut-scented bubbles and decided that they had been absolutely right to sacrifice the two smaller bedrooms and convert them into bathrooms. This was heaven, lying in an enormous tub that stood in the centre of the room on a small raised platform, looking out at the sea. She had a glass of champagne in her hand and she sipped it slowly. It was the only drink she was going to allow herself until all the guests had gone. She would have gone without altogether but George had insisted on opening a bottle for all of them at four o’clock, so they could enjoy a toast together. The five of them – George, Lisa, Justin, Victoria and Mimi – had stood by the reception desk and clinked glasses, almost unable to believe their surroundings and hoping that this evening’s guests would be equally delighted.

The walls shone white as moonbeams. Down the centre of the stairs ran a coir runner held in place by pewter stairrods. The reception desk was built from an S-shaped concrete curve, the front emblazoned with silver and white mosaic tiles shot through with turquoise. From the centre of the ceiling hung a spectacular chandelier that sparkled and twinkled, offset by recessed lighting installed just above the skirting boards. Muslin embroidered with fine silver thread fluttered at the windows.

Behind the reception desk were chunky driftwood shelves lined with piles of thick turquoise and white striped beach towels and a row of tin buckets and spades. They gave a humorous edge, reminding the visitor that this was the British seaside, that there was much fun to be had, that the essence of the place was to kick off your shoes and rediscover your childhood. It was an inspired marriage of period and modern, cutting edge but unthreatening; a sense of luxurious calm pervading the atmosphere, but with the occasional witty twist.

There was no doubt it was stunning, but they were all too fraught with nerves to be complacent. The time for congratulation would be after the guests had gone. Lisa had taken her champagne upstairs to enjoy in the bath. She and George had decided to treat themselves to the master suite for the weekend, before the real guests arrived. So they could experience it for themselves, make sure that there was no tiny detail missing.

She had a whole two hours to get ready. Victoria had insisted that she was going to supervise all the party preparations; Lisa had nothing to worry about except herself. For the first time in weeks, she gave herself a top-to-toe pampering, putting on a face mask and a conditioning pack for her hair. When the water was cold, she climbed out of the bath and carefully painted her toenails bright red, reflecting that this routine had once been gone through two or three times a week. And although today it was luxury to take the time to pamper herself, she hadn’t missed the rigours of maintaining perfection one little bit.

Lisa was in her dressing gown, waiting for her nails to dry, when there was the faintest rap on the door. She walked gingerly over the carpet, trying not to smudge her varnish, and opened it. Mimi was standing there looking ashen.

‘Mimi! Whatever’s the matter? Has there been an accident?’

Mimi shook her head.

‘No.’ She was deathly white under the mass of freckles she’d acquired over the past few weeks. ‘I need to talk to you. Can I come in?’

‘Of course.’ Lisa was perplexed. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m having a major overhaul. I can’t believe that I haven’t shaved my legs for over two weeks. You should see the bottom of the bath. It’s disgusting.’

Mimi gave a ghost of a smile.

‘Sit down.’ Lisa pointed to the wicker chair by the window. ‘Do you want a drink or anything?’

‘No.’ Mimi sat obediently. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘I wanted to tell you before we left. Just in case you were still worried. That someone might be out to get you. Because they’re not. It was me.’

Lisa stared at her.

‘What was?’

‘All the cock-ups. And the photos. I sent the photos.’ Her little face crumpled. ‘I wanted you and George to split up. I wanted him to get back together with Mum.’ Tears were spilling down her cheeks and she rubbed her knuckles into her eyes. ‘I know it was wrong. I know he belongs with you. And I wanted to say I’m sorry . . .’

The next moment she had broken down completely. Lisa rushed over to her.

‘I know he’s not my real dad,’ Mimi sobbed. ‘But he looked after us. He was brilliant. And he’s the only person that really knows how to handle Mum. Except me. But she needs more than me. I can’t look after her for ever. I just thought . . . If George would have her back . . .’

Lisa scooped her up in a big hug.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ she crooned soothingly. ‘You don’t have to cry. It’s all right.’

‘It was a horrible thing to do to you. You didn’t deserve it.’

‘Look, you’d had a really hard time. You probably weren’t thinking straight. People do crazy things under stress.’ She rubbed Mimi’s back comfortingly. ‘It was very brave of you to come and tell me. I appreciate it.’

‘You won’t tell George, will you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘And . . . you’ll look after him for us when we’ve gone, won’t you?’ Mimi asked anxiously. ‘He’s ace.’

Lisa found tears prickling the back of her eyelids.

‘Of course I will,’ she said softly. ‘And you know, any time you want to come and stay, just call me.’

Mimi gave a sniff.

‘I better go and get ready,’ she declared. ‘I’m on canapé duty and if I don’t look immaculate Mum will kill me.’

Lisa stood up and realized that in the middle of the drama she’d smudged her toenails.

‘Bugger,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to do them again.’

‘I’ll do them for you,’ offered Mimi. ‘It’s impossible to do your own properly. And I always do Mum’s.’

‘Thanks.’

Five minutes later George walked in to find Mimi painstakingly applying varnish to Lisa’s toes.

‘Welcome to the beauty salon!’ said Lisa gaily.

Mimi waggled the brush at him.

‘Are you next, George?’ she asked impishly. ‘It’s the in thing for men to have their toes painted.’

‘No, thanks,’ George grinned. ‘Red’s not my colour. OK if I use the bathroom?’

‘Sure,’ said Lisa.

A moment later he came out of the bathroom, a look of utter disgust on his face.

‘What the hell is that in the bottom of the bath?’ he demanded. ‘There’s hair and stubble and toenail clippings and scum . . .’

‘Oops,’ said Lisa. ‘Sorry . . .’

She caught Mimi’s eye and the two of them burst into laughter.

Half an hour later, clad in a pale yellow Irish linen suit, George walked into the drawing room. Victoria was sitting in the retro rattan egg seat that hung from the ceiling, gazing out of the French windows. She was wearing a pair of wide-legged white linen trousers and a navy-and-white striped top with a square neckline; her only jewellery a long string of pearls. She looked very Chanel, very thirties. Almost like a heroine from an Agatha Christie novel, thought George, as he walked across the room towards her. The one who’s found strangled by her necklace in the library.