‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Just enjoying a moment’s peace before the chaos.’
George checked his watch.
‘Half an hour to go. I better go and check the kitchen—’
Victoria put out a hand to stop him.
‘No. Don’t. Everything’s under control. Stay here a moment. I need to talk to you.’
George came and stood by her. She looked up at him, her eyes large and serious. He saw that her knuckles were white on the edge of the chair, where she was clutching it tightly, as if for support.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
She nodded.
‘I finally spoke to a solicitor this afternoon. About our divorce.’
‘Divorce?’ George looked alarmed.
‘Don’t panic,’ she reassured him. ‘It’s going to be very straightforward. He promised me it could be whizzed through in a matter of weeks, if we’re both in agreement.’
George swallowed.
‘But we haven’t discussed a . . . settlement.’
‘There isn’t going to be a settlement. I don’t want anything from you, Georgie.’ She managed a wan smile. ‘And if you want anything from me you’re out of luck. Maths was never my strong point, but I know half of nothing is nothing.’
‘But . . .’ George’s mind was racing.
‘I just wanted you to know, you’re going to have a clean slate. I owe it to you. And Lisa. You’ve both been very good to me.’ She smiled up at him. ‘You’ll be a free man by the end of the summer.’
George looked down at his shoes. There seemed to be a lump in his throat. He tried to clear it.
‘Thank you.’ It came out as rather a pathetic croak. He coughed again. ‘I will always be here for you, if you need me.’
‘You’ve got enough on your plate with this place. It’s going to be a huge success, I can feel it in my bones. And Mimi and I will be fine. The only danger will be if I end up killing my mother. Which is quite likely, of course.’
Victoria slipped out of her chair. She put her arms around him and held him to her, holding him tightly as if her life depended on it.
Gardenias. She smelt of gardenias.
Then she let him go. She clapped her hands together briskly, as if to indicate that chapter was closed.
‘Right. I’m going to go and give one of my famous pep talks to the waiting staff. Make sure they know exactly how I like things done. And woe betide them if they don’t.’
A dazzling smile and she was gone.
George stood at the window looking out at the sea, his hands in his pockets. In the splendour of the drawing room, with the magnificent coastal view, he felt a bit like the Great Gatsby.
He turned and looked at the white sofas, wide and deep and low. The vintage travel posters, framed in black, immaculately lined up on the wall. A phalanx of glass vases stuffed with spiky pink and orange flowers. Towering lamps with feather-trimmed shades that threw pools of soft light. In four days’ time the first of their guests would be booking in, coming in here to curl up with a book or a magazine. Had he thought of every eventuality? There were magazine racks with the latest issues of all the glossies – no celebrity tat, if they wanted that they could buy it for themselves. There were playing cards and backgammon, a marble chess set. A supply of already stamped postcards with a photograph of the outlook. Mother of pearl binoculars on the windowsill for spotting birds or checking out the surf. The French windows gave out on to the decking, which was lined with bench seating. Huge square copper planters filled with palms were dotted around, and alternate cream and black parasols blocked out the fiercest sun. Hanging between two trees was a striped hammock. At the end of the garden was a summerhouse, painted in a dusty pink, for romantic encounters on the heap of cushions thoughtfully placed inside.
It was all as close to perfect as he could hope.
A waiter came in with a single glass on a tray, which he presented to George rather obsequiously.
‘Would you like to try the cocktail, sir?’
They were serving Sea Breezes as the guests arrived. George took a tentative sip, then nodded.
‘Perfect.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
George waited until he had left the room, then raised the glass to his lips and drained the rest in one swallow.
Lisa had dried her hair carefully and waxed it so that it fell in perfectly coiled, glossy ringlets, which she piled loosely on top of her head so some of the curls fell down. She swept a shimmering, metallic green powder over her eyelids, curled her lashes and carefully applied a concoction of lip liner and gloss to her mouth. Finally, she slipped on her dress, a white, Grecian-style tunic. The silken fabric was tied in a halter-neck which left her nut-brown back bare, then draped itself tightly over her breasts, falling away in pleats to just above the knee. She bent down to put on her shoes: strappy gold sandals, with laces that tied up her legs.
She stood in front of the mirror, examining herself anxiously. It was so long since she had pulled out the stops, she barely recognized herself. She wondered for a moment if the overall effect was too much, whether she should opt for some less ostentatious footwear to tone herself down. Then she thought no, this was her evening. She deserved to look glamorous.
She looked at her watch. Quarter to six. She slipped out of the room and walked along the corridor, getting used to the sensation of high heels again. She’d been in flip-flops and trainers for so long, it felt alien. It was hard to believe that she used to live in stilettos. She came down the stairs to the hallway. Victoria was standing at the reception desk, fiddling for the millionth time with the huge vase of birds of paradise. She looked so self-assured, as if she belonged here as mistress of the house, the arbiter of good taste in navy and white. For a moment, Lisa panicked. In contrast to Victoria she felt as if she was dressed for a hen party. She was about to rush back to her room and change, when Victoria looked up and spotted her. Her eyes widened in surprise.
‘Lisa. You look absolutely stunning!’
Lisa hesitated, her hand on the banister.
‘You don’t think it’s too much?’
‘God, no. You look completely gorgeous. Utterly edible. And, anyway, who cares? This is your night.’
Victoria rushed over to the bottom of the staircase as Lisa walked down the last few stairs self-consciously.
‘That dress is divine. You look like a goddess.’
‘You look lovely too.’ A little over-awed by the compliments, Lisa felt obliged to return them. But Victoria didn’t seem to need reassurance. She took Lisa by both hands as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘This place is going to be fantastic. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I hope so.’
‘You and George have got it absolutely right. It’s going to be a massive success. And I just want to say . . .’
For a moment, Victoria looked rather tearful.
‘I really appreciate how good you’ve been to me and Mimi. There aren’t many women who would have put up with the situation.’
The two women embraced. As she hugged Victoria, Lisa realized that she had become almost fond of her. That she might actually miss her. That she almost, but not quite, thought of her as a friend.
George came out of the office and into the hallway and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Lisa and Victoria in each other’s arms at the bottom of the stairs. His heart was in his mouth as he looked at the pair of them. Lisa, shimmering, radiant and voluptuous. Victoria, elegant, aloof and serene.
Justin loped in through the front door, wearing rolled-up jeans, a white Aertex and espadrilles. Lisa giggled.
‘Glad to see you’ve made an effort, Justin,’ she teased, knowing he wouldn’t be offended. He was known for underdressing.
‘Well,’ he said cheerfully. ‘This is it. The moment of truth. And by the way, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
A tall figure stepped into the hall behind him, with a breathtaking cloud of blond ringlets, golden skin and a cherubic mouth.
‘This is Joel. He’s been teaching me to surf,’ said Justin lightly, taking Joel’s arm.
‘Hi, guys,’ said Joel, revealing his Antipodean origins and a row of pearly white teeth.
‘Hi,’ the three of them chorused back, as Justin smiled proudly, giving the faintest of winks as he met Victoria’s astonished gaze.
At the Mariscombe Hotel, Molly was doing the late-afternoon shift. Tidying the rooms and turning down the beds; making them again if necessary because guests often had an afternoon nap. Emptying the bins, wiping the basins and loos, polishing the taps. She was just puffing up the pillows when her mobile phone vibrated in the pocket of her overall. Staff weren’t supposed to have their mobiles with them while they worked, but Molly kept hers on in case there was a problem with Alfie. She pulled it out, frowning. It was number withheld.
‘Hello?’ she said cautiously.
‘Molly?’ The voice was rough. ‘It’s Cal.’
Cal. Cal was one of her sister’s circle of friends. He was rough, but kind, a big, ugly brute of a man with dodgy connections and a heart of gold. He had a soft spot for Molly, and she knew that if she had ever wanted to succumb to his advances he would look after her and Alfie. But Cal wasn’t her type. Not that she had a type . . .
‘What do you want?’ She didn’t mean to sound brusque, but she prayed he wasn’t going to try and ask her out. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
‘I’ve had a tip-off. From a mate. The DS are going to raid your place.’
‘DS?’ For a moment Molly wasn’t with him.
‘The Drug Squad. They reckon Zen might be stashing his gear there.’
‘Gear?’ Molly realized she sounded stupid as soon as she said it. Of course Zen was a dealer. Not just a user. Why hadn’t she clocked it before? It would explain the cash Siobhan sometimes flashed around, why she never felt the need to get a proper job but somehow always had the latest skirt, the latest boots, the latest phone.
‘Get yourself and Alfie out of there, love.’ Cal’s tone was urgent. ‘If they find any stuff, it might mean they’ll take the baby off you.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Again, Molly knew she sounded sharp but she was frightened.
‘Contacts. And for Christ’s sake don’t tell anyone I told you, or I’ll be found in the bottom of the harbour. Bleeding fish food.’
‘Thanks, Cal.’
But the phone was already dead. Molly thrust it back into her pocket with trembling hands. She had to get home. She tore along the corridor and down the stairs, two at a time, no time to wait for the lift. Hannah was at the reception desk. She looked up, startled, as Molly pounded across the hall, wild-eyed.
‘Hannah – I’ve got to go. It’s an emergency. Can you get someone to do my rooms for me?’
‘Sure. Molly – what’s happened?’
‘Family crisis.’ Molly pulled off her overall and as good as threw it at a speechless Hannah. Then she flew out of the door, fumbling for her purse to see if she’d got enough for a taxi. By the time the bus got to Tawcombe the whole place could have been turned over. She had a fiver and some change. Probably just enough. She felt panic rise up in her chest. Stay calm, she told herself as she pulled open the door of the taxi at the front of the rank and hurled herself into the front seat.
‘Uffculme Road, Tawcombe, please. And can you be as quick as you can. My baby . . .’ She trailed off, not sure what to say. ‘My baby’s ill,’ she finished definitely, praying that it wasn’t tempting fate to lie like this. But it seemed to do the trick, as the driver fired up the engine and pulled away, scattering disgruntled tourists in his wake.
It was five to six. Everyone was quiet with nerves. A waiter passed through carrying a tray loaded with gleaming glasses, a waitress following in his wake with two jugs; the only sound was the clinking of the ice cubes. As they watched anxiously out of the window, a car pulled in, cautiously at first, then commandeered a parking space by the front door. A bearded man emerged, scanning the front of the hotel curiously before making his way in through the front door.
He held out his invitation.
‘Christopher Tate. From the Tourist Office?’
For a moment there was silence as everyone stared. Then George stepped forward, holding out a welcoming hand with a broad smile.
‘Welcome to The Rocks.’
A
s the taxi pulled up outside her house, Molly fought back tears, scrabbling for the fare.
‘Seven pounds eighty, love.’
Shit. She didn’t have enough. She thrust her fiver at him, choking back a sob as she shook out her change.
‘Hang on . . .’
‘It’s all right, love.’ The taxi driver could see she was distraught. ‘You go and find your little one.’
Molly didn’t have time to be grateful. She jumped out of the car, slammed the door and ran up the steps. She felt sure she was in time. If anything had happened, if there had been a raid, the pavements would be full of rubberneckers gawping at someone else’s misfortune. Raids and arrests were what counted as street entertainment in Tawcombe.
The drawing room, the dining room and the reception area of The Rocks were bursting at the seams. Waiters and waitresses glided amongst the guests, bearing oversized white platters stuffed with tantalizing nibbles inspired by the seaside – scallops wrapped in bacon, tiny Devon pasties filled with lamb and potato, coriander-flecked crab cakes, crispy goujons of sole served with big fat chips studded with sea salt for dipping into glistening pools of aioli, mini cups of chowder. Greedy hands reached out repeatedly and lips were licked as the delicious morsels were washed down with a never-ending supply of cocktails and champagne. The walls reverberated with chat and laughter, against a background of specially chosen music: ‘Here Comes the Summer’ by the Undertones, ‘Echo Beach’ by Martha and the Muffins, ‘Rock Lobster’ by the B52
S
– sounds redolent of summer, the seaside, holidays, sunshine.
‘Much as I hate to admit it,’ said Justin, lounging in the door of the French windows, ‘you know how to throw a good party.’
Victoria smiled.
‘I know. And by the way, congratulations.’
Justin looked momentarily sheepish.
‘I decided it was hypocritical of me to slag you off, when I wasn’t being honest with anyone either. You always were too observant for your own good.’