‘This is a happy place.’ Lisa put down her cup defiantly. ‘People come here because they want to be here. You can feel it.’ She looked at George. ‘Why can’t we have a bit of that?’
George smiled wryly.
‘You’re being idealistic. You’re romanticizing.’
Lisa thumped the table.
‘No, I’m not!’ she insisted. ‘It would be bloody hard work. Probably harder than what I’m doing now. But a lot more rewarding. And imagine waking up to that view every morning.’
George pulled a tenner out of his pocket to pay for their coffee.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and have a proper look round.’
On the way back they passed a house that advertised fresh fish and seafood for sale, on a chalked-up board. George went and bought two lobsters. From the local mini market they bought a loaf of granary bread, some West Country butter, a brace of lemons and a bag of salad, and a bottle of Chablis. For lunch, they picnicked in Mrs Websdale’s dining room, and she happily brought them plates and cutlery.
As they ate, Lisa’s eyes darted around, taking in the detail.
‘Can you imagine this room with the carpet pulled up and all that wallpaper ripped off? It wouldn’t take much . . .’
George nodded thoughtfully.
‘You could have folding glass doors the whole length of the room, so you could push them right back in the summer.’
Lisa gave a gasp.
‘Perfect! You see, you’re a genius. This is your
raison d’être
!’
George smiled.
‘Some simple decking, with uplighters,’ he continued. ‘Imagine sitting out there with a glass of wine, looking at that view as the sun goes down . . .’
Lisa smiled in triumph.
‘There you go, you see. You’re wasted at that bloody company.’ She sucked lasciviously at a lobster claw, then waved it about to emphasize her point. ‘Just think of all those people out there like us, who want to escape for the weekend and recharge their batteries. Be pampered for twenty-four hours. Or forty-eight.’ There was butter running down her chin. She wiped it away with a piece of paper towel Webby had thoughtfully provided. ‘Come on, George. Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t. Because I can think of hundreds why we should.’
George tipped back in his chair and took a satisfying slug of Chablis. Its steely aroma made him shiver with delight. Lisa was right. He couldn’t think of one good reason why not.
‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s do the maths.’
O
n Sunday evening, once back in Bath and away from the euphoric glow provided by too much Chablis and hotel-room sex, George felt a huge sense of anticlimax. Tomorrow he’d have to pick up the pieces, defend his hasty departure of Friday afternoon, find out how Colin was, discover the extent of their liability . . . It was amazing how he’d been able to forget his troubles in Mariscombe. But then, it was easy to daydream away from the confines of reality.
Suddenly, he didn’t want Lisa to go.
‘Why don’t you stay tonight?’
‘There’s no reason why not. I haven’t got to get up for work in the morning.’ She stretched her arms over her head luxuriously. ‘I can cancel my nail appointment. I don’t have to shave my legs. Or pluck my eyebrows.’
George looked faintly disgusted, and she laughed.
‘It’s all right. I’m not going to turn into a total slob overnight. But it will be a luxury, not having to be perfect all the time in case you get called upon.’ She put her head to one side and surveyed George, who was rummaging about in his enormous fridge for something to eat. ‘Have you decided what to do?’
‘Scrambled eggs? Or I’ve got a carton of vichyssoise.’
‘I don’t mean about supper and you know it.’
George sighed.
‘I can’t just quit without having something to go to.’
‘You’re getting cold feet about our idea, then?’
George decided on the soup. It needed eating. He pulled a saucepan from the
batterie de cuisine
hanging overhead, opened the carton and poured in the pale green liquid.
‘I can’t help feeling it’s a monumental risk. We’d both have to sell our houses. We don’t know if we can work together. And what do either of us know about running a hotel?’
‘It can’t be any harder than running a chip shop. And lots of people who buy hotels don’t have a clue. They have to learn the hard way.’
George gave the soup a swirl with a wooden spoon. It was the one thing he hated about himself. Being cautious was so unsexy. He looked at Lisa, eager to throw caution to the wind, her eyes sparkling.
‘Don’t you think it was meant to be? Don’t you think fate led us there? Both of us walk out of our jobs on a Friday afternoon and end up in a seaside hotel that’s crying out for a makeover? It’s . . . what’s the word?’
‘Serendipitous.’
‘That’s it. Serendipitous.’
She pulled the details out of her handbag. They were looking rather worn already, they’d been pored over so many times.
‘It’s so beautiful.’
‘It’s a dump.’
‘Hang on a minute. You’re the one who was having orgasms over the tiles under the carpet in the hall.’
She looked so indignant George had to laugh.
‘I know. It’s just that I know how much hard work it’s going to be.’
‘Well, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty . . .’ Lisa tossed the details back on the counter top.
‘It’s not that.’
‘What’s the problem then?’
There was a small pause as George took the soup off the heat.
‘I’m scared,’ he admitted.
‘In that case I should potter back into work tomorrow morning, apologize to everybody and carry on paying into your nice, safe, sensible pension fund. Because you’ll be stuck there for the rest of your life. But at least you won’t be scared.’
This last word was dripping with vitriol. George blinked in surprise. He hadn’t known Lisa could be so scathing.
‘OK,’ he rallied. ‘Let’s do the maths again, shall we?’
Lisa smiled and picked up the details again. George threw her a pencil from the leather pencil pot by his phone.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I can get three and a bit for my place tomorrow. And just under two for the flat.’
Lisa had a small town house on an estate just outside Stratford, and had astutely bought a flat on the same development three years ago, which she rented to a student.
‘You’ll have capital gains to pay on that,’ George pointed out.
‘So let’s say that by the time I’ve paid off my mortgage I’ll clear four hundred.’
‘If I can get five and a half for this, then I’ll have about the same.’
‘And the guide price for The Rocks is seven.’
‘Which only leaves us a hundred grand to do it up.’
‘Only?’ Lisa squeaked.
‘Come on. Be realistic. I know we’re only talking about a cosmetic refurb, but we’ve got to rip up all those carpets and pull off all the wallpaper. And preferably redo the bathrooms. Then we have to furnish the place. A hundred grand won’t go far.’
‘Then we borrow some more. That’s what people do, George.’
George pulled the ciabatta out of the oven, just as the doorbell rang.
‘Who the hell could this be on a Sunday night?’
He stood stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, clutching the loaf in his oven gloves. Lisa slid off her stool.
‘I’ll go.’
‘No!’
George dropped the bread on to the work surface and rushed out of the room. Lisa watched after him, frowning slightly. George seemed tense all of a sudden. She supposed he didn’t like being cornered. In a way she was calling his bluff. To her, the plan seemed logical. What was the worst that could happen? That they tried and failed? She picked up the details once again, wondering what she could do to persuade him that this was the perfect project for them, when George came back into the room with a tall, gaunt figure in tow.
‘It’s Justin. He’s just got back from skiing.’
‘Six weeks in Morzine. It was absolute hell.’ Justin loped across the room and gave Lisa a kiss on both cheeks. Lisa could never decide if Justin was attractive or not. He looked like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Little Prince – thin, slightly startled, with a cap of wispy silver-blond hair and wide blue eyes that seemed to look right into you and lift every bit of information he needed from the depths of your soul. He was usually incredibly pale, but his spell in the Alps had turned his complexion golden brown. ‘Are you about to eat? Fantastic. I’m starving.’ He sat down at the island. ‘I haven’t had a square meal for weeks. Man cannot live on fondue alone.’
‘I don’t know how you put up with it,’ said George, tongue in cheek, sawing up the bread and serving out soup for everyone.
‘It was exhausting,’ Justin protested. To sustain his skiing habit, he’d taken on the management of a young cover band, who performed nightly at various different hotels in the French Alps. And a nice profit he’d made from it too. ‘I was networking like fury all day. Lining up gigs for the band for next season. Then I had to make sure they turned up every night. And get them back on the bus afterwards when they were totally bladdered. I had to play nursemaid seven nights a week. I need a holiday!’
‘Well, you’re in luck. We might have the perfect destination for you.’
George tossed the details of The Rocks over to him, holding his breath for his reaction, for Justin’s was the only opinion he really cared about. George was fairly certain that he was Justin’s only real friend, and he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t feel interesting enough to be granted the privilege. They’d met at university, where Justin had been the star of the English faculty, supplementing his grant by writing brilliant essays for wealthy students who couldn’t be arsed to work. One day, somebody grassed him up. Someone who had no doubt caught the rough end of his acerbic tongue, or someone who was envious of the fact that every female was madly in love with him, even though he wore the same pair of jeans and the same dark green V-necked lambswool jumper every day, a Paisley scarf wrapped round his neck on cold days, a red spotted bandana when it was warmer, accessorized with an ancient wind-up Timex and white lace-up plimsolls. Justin hadn’t been fazed by his subsequent sending down. Now, his lifestyle was legendary. He blew whichever way the wind took him, usually some international hot spot, and he always seemed to find a way of subsidizing his trip. Essentially, Justin was everything that George wasn’t. Capricious, devil-may-care, a risk-taker. A maverick. Impossible to categorize or pigeon-hole. And infuriatingly successful. So Justin’s opinion was of paramount importance to George.
‘We’ve been to the seaside,’ explained Lisa. ‘Daydreaming about buying a hotel.’
Justin perused the contents thoughtfully.
‘It’s a complete nightmare at the moment,’ said George. ‘Formica and melamine hell. Swirly carpets, Artex, coving.’
‘Perfect,’ said Justin. ‘So what would be the plan?’
‘A sort of boutique hotel by the sea.
Swallows and Amazons
with a bit of Soho House thrown in. Think Famous Five go to Nantucket.’
Justin nodded.
‘I think I’m getting the picture.’
Lisa decided it was time to put her oar in.
‘George is making it sound complicated. It’s pretty simple, really. You don’t need to do much because the setting does it all for you. Light and airy bedrooms. Yummy breakfasts with proper fresh coffee—’
George shuddered.
‘Not that awful muck she tried to serve us.’
Justin tossed the details back on to the work surface and picked up his wine.
‘So what’s stopping you?’
George gave a wry smile.
‘Simple question of money. No matter which way we do it, we can’t raise enough to do it properly.’
Lisa topped up everyone’s glass.
‘My bank manager’s pretty friendly,’ she said.
‘Quarter of a million friendly?’
Lisa shrugged.
‘I always get a Christmas card.’
George shook his head.
‘There isn’t enough time to get investors on board. It’s best and final offers at the end of the month.’
Justin ran his crust around the rim of his bowl and chewed thoughtfully.
‘I’ll bung in a couple of hundred if it will help. I could do with losing a bit of capital.’
Lisa and George looked at each other, not quite able to believe what they were hearing.
‘A couple of hundred . . . ?’
‘Thousand, obviously.’ Justin clarified his position casually.
‘Are you serious?’ George knew that Justin wasn’t the type to make jokes, but he had to be sure.
‘Deadly. But I want a third share of the business in return. As a sleeping partner.’
George did some rapid mental calculations. That was a big share, considering he and Lisa would be putting in four hundred each, not to mention their time. But he knew that if Justin was interested, then he would make it happen. And it would certainly save them time, not having to go through tedious meetings with bank managers. Plus, George knew full well that there was more where it came from. If Justin had a vested interest, and they needed more capital, he would be forthcoming, George was certain. He decided to push his friend a bit further. He didn’t feel guilty. You couldn’t pull a fast one on Justin. It wasn’t possible.
‘Call it two hundred and fifty.’
Lisa looked at him in surprise. George hadn’t struck her as a tough negotiator.
Justin grinned.
‘I admire your cheek,’ he said. ‘It gives me faith in you. Two fifty it is.’
George looked down at his piece of paper, calculations scrawled all over it. He added on the two hundred and fifty, and underlined the total with three thick black lines.
‘Almost starts making it look like a possibility.’
‘Don’t think about it too much,’ said Justin. ‘Or you’ll never do it.’
Lisa felt a little swirl of excitement in her tummy.
‘Come on, George. What have we got to lose?’
‘Um – a few hundred grand each? And our livelihoods?’ George tried to make his tone light.
‘I’ve lost that already,’ said Lisa.
‘I think it’s about time you took a risk, George.’ Justin was playing devil’s advocate. ‘Or else you are in grave danger of becoming the most boring man in the universe.’