‘Thanks a lot!’ George feigned hurt.
‘Fine.’ Justin shrugged. ‘Put on your grey suit in the morning and go back into the office. For the rest of your life.’
‘That’s exactly what I said!’ Lisa wasn’t sure it was fair to take sides, but George needed a push.
‘We can’t all be crazy risk-takers.’
‘I’m not crazy, actually. I’ve never taken a risk that wasn’t considered. And I wouldn’t be offering you my money now if I didn’t think you could make a success of it.’
‘You haven’t even seen the place.’
‘If there’s one thing you’ve got, George, it’s good taste in buildings. And you know your locations.’
‘True.’
‘It has got a lovely feel.’ Lisa felt the need to put in her contribution. ‘Even though it was hideous inside, the view is just amazing. And it’s virtually got its own private beach. It’s perfect for romantic getaways. Or girly weekends. You couldn’t not enjoy yourself.’
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ George intervened, putting his hand up. ‘What we need to do is a proper business plan.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Justin. ‘I’ve never done one in my life.’
‘You don’t want to protect your investment?’
‘A business plan isn’t protection. It’s no guarantee of anything. If you ask me, it’s restricting. I’m quite happy to write you a cheque here and now on the basis of what you’ve told me.’
‘Seriously?’
‘As long as I get my own room when I come and stay.’ Justin grinned. ‘I quite fancy surfing.’
George looked around his kitchen, thinking of the five years he had spent getting the house just as he wanted it. It had been an incredibly hard slog; he had put his heart and soul into the project. The very last tile had only been laid two months ago. Did he want to enjoy the fruits of his labours? Or did he want to profit from them and move on?
Fate, he thought, was a strange thing. If Colin hadn’t fallen off his ladder, he wouldn’t be debating this upheaval.
‘Let’s give it a go,’ said Lisa. ‘The least we can do is make an offer.’
‘A sealed bid is legally binding,’ George warned. ‘You can’t just pull out.’
‘For goodness sake, George. When will you stop being the harbinger of doom? Let’s just get on with it.’
Just over three weeks later, with the phone clamped to his ear, George held his breath and looked round at the others waiting in his kitchen.
Justin’s brow was furrowed under the wispy blond fringe that had fallen over his left eye ever since George had known him. His anxiety was tangible, which was rare. Nothing usually fazed Justin. His disquiet was unnerving, and George wondered what the reason was behind it. He wasn’t to know that Justin felt sure that this project was going to be the making of his friend.
Lisa was chewing on her plump bottom lip. Neither had discussed what they would do if the deal fell through and George felt a sudden twinge of responsibility. He didn’t need to, of course. Lisa had her head more than screwed on. He hadn’t talked her into it, by any means. It had been her decision to leave the agency, after all.
In the line of duty, George had been involved in sealed bids countless times – on behalf of clients. He had it down to a fine art, guesstimating rival offers, working out exactly how much was cost-effective to lose, when to be bullish and when to be cheeky. He’d learned never to get emotionally involved. Only this time, it was different. This time it was him. As he awaited the outcome, his heart was hammering, his mouth was dry, his stomach was flipping over and over like a pancake being tossed by an exuberant chef.
He listened to the estate agent’s verdict, and carefully put down the phone.
‘Right,’ he said flatly. He paused for a moment for dramatic effect, then as the others looked at him uncertainly his face broke into a broad grin. ‘You’d better go and pack your buckets and spades. We are officially the proud new owners of The Rocks.’
Seconds later, George found himself enveloped in Lisa’s flying embrace. Justin paraded the room, his arms held aloft as he stabbed the air in triumph.
As George bent to pick up his briefcase, he reflected that the estate agent had been rather cool in his congratulations on the telephone. But then maybe they didn’t take kindly in Mariscombe to out-of-towners trumping locals with their cash. They’d be grateful in the long run, thought George. Between them they were going to put Mariscombe back on the map. George felt a tingle of excitement and drew out the bottle of champagne he’d put into his fridge earlier.
‘How did you know?’ exclaimed Lisa.
‘I just did,’ smiled George, peeling away the foil and easing the cork out gently. It had all been worth it. Three weeks of adrenalin, sleepless nights and number juggling. The legwork, the surveys, the legal work, the lengthy debates with the council, the maths, the meetings with the bank for the hideous bridging loan in case the sales of their houses didn’t correspond with the completion of the purchase. And most important of all, the design: the breathtaking, radical renovation that was going to turn The Rocks from a gloomy, old-fashioned seaside hotel into a chic beachside retreat.
His boss, Richard, had been surprisingly sanguine when he had gone to tell him that he was going to hand in his notice. George had expected him to be peevish, but he’d seemed almost more excited by the project than George was.
‘Best of luck to you. I can’t pretend I’m not envious.’
‘We haven’t got it yet.’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll pull it off.’ Richard seemed confident. ‘And remember, any help you want. With surveying. Or contractors. Any of that bollocks. Just get in touch.’
For a moment, George felt guilty.
‘Shit. You’re making me feel bad now. I feel as if I’m dumping you in it.’
‘Listen, mate. You go for it. You’re living our dream for us. Go and show us it can be done. Then maybe we’ll all have the nerve to leave this bloody rat race.’
Richard’s encouragement had given George the stamina for the last push. Up until that moment, he’d always known he could bail out; it was almost as if he was playing a game, going through the motions safe in the knowledge that if it didn’t come off he could be back at his desk the following Monday. But at the last minute, with Lisa and Justin’s agreement, he’d upped their offer by ten thousand. He wasn’t going to lose out for the sake of a few extra quid. And the gamble had paid off.
‘To The Rocks,’ he now proclaimed, holding his glass high. His elation was only pricked for a moment, as his conscience whispered to him that actually all he was doing was running away. As he swallowed down the bubbles, George wondered if North Devon was far enough.
B
runo Thorne was sitting with his feet up on his desk, one arm curled around the back of his head, the other holding the phone to his ear. He didn’t like what he was hearing.
‘I don’t think I understand,’ he said slowly, his tone threatening, his black brows meeting in the middle.
‘The other side upped their offer by ten grand at the last minute.’
‘You should have got back to me.’
‘You told me categorically that was your best and final offer!’ The estate agent was indignantly defensive. ‘Anyway, it was sealed bids. I’m not supposed to know what’s in the envelope, remember?’
‘Come off it,’ Bruno laughed. ‘At the end of the day all you want is the best price for your client, surely?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Thorne. There’s nothing I can do about it now. It’s a done deal.’
Bruno sighed.
‘Any idea what their plans are?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Come on!’ Bruno couldn’t hide the impatience in his voice. ‘You must have shown them round. It’s off the record. I’m going to find out sooner or later.’
‘They’re no real threat to you. They’ve got eight beds max. And between you and me I don’t think they’ve got much of a clue.’
‘Then let me know when it comes back on the market,’ Bruno replied smoothly and put the phone down.
Bruno swept through the foyer of the Mariscombe Hotel, raking his hand through his black curls. He should have played it straight. If he’d just made a decent offer, The Rocks would have been his by now. He was pretty sure he could have second-guessed the top offer, then added on a few thousand that, let’s face it, he could afford to lose. But old habits die hard; Bruno was used to getting a bargain. He’d never paid over the odds for anything in Mariscombe. But it looked as if the tide was on the turn. People in search of a lifestyle were moving in with cash. The fiasco with The Rocks meant the goalposts were moving, and Bruno wasn’t quite so sure of the rules any more. He needed to take stock.
A cleaner dodged out of his way, dragging an ancient vacuum in her wake. He watched her with distaste – no one should be cleaning in the middle of the day, for heaven’s sake. She’d vanished through the double doors that led to the dining room, and something made him follow her. He stood in the doorway, surveying his surroundings as if for the first time. The carpet was a deep maroon, showing up the crumbs from breakfast that still hadn’t been cleared away even though it was nearly lunchtime. The white tablecloths still displayed coffee rings and splodges of ketchup from the full English breakfast enjoyed by the coachloads of pensioners who filled the hotel in the winter months. Although full English implied something generous and satisfying, Bruno knew it consisted of a shrivelled piece of bacon, a slender sausage, a tinned tomato and a spoonful of watery scrambled egg. He sighed and walked back through the foyer to the receptionist.
There was no doubt about it, things had slipped badly. He hadn’t kept on top of the hotel at all. Looking around it now, he couldn’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would want to stay there – apart from the staggering view, of course. It was tired, old-fashioned, dreary. Until recently, he’d been able to get away with it. But people expected more these days. Facilities. Luxury. Design. Skin peels and seaweed wraps, fresh mango for breakfast and Wi-Fi in every bedroom. Not eighties chintz curtains and a portable telly.
The bookings spoke for themselves. According to the Mariscombe tourist board, they were inundated with requests for accommodation and made hundreds of bookings on behalf of people eager to indulge in the currently fashionable British bucket-and-spade holiday. But analysis showed it was young families heading for self-catering apartments, or overworked couples keen to de-stress by indulging in the myriad physical activities the coastline offered: surfing, kite-flying, walking, kayaking, paragliding – the opportunities were endless. For what it offered, the Mariscombe Hotel was expensive, and didn’t pass muster. It was a dinosaur, redolent of a bygone era. Its very atmosphere sapped your energy. It just didn’t appeal to the new breed of visitors. They didn’t want three-course dinners in a stuffy, formal dining room. They wanted casual suppers where they could sit down with a beer or a glass of wine, unwind and enjoy the view.
Bruno ran an expert eye around the foyer. The furnishings and the fixtures were all heavy and old-fashioned; the air was stale. The occasional guest crawled through en route to morning coffee on the terrace. Two or three others sat behind the
Telegraph
by the fireplace. Outside, a wintry sun shone, valiantly attempting to lure the inhabitants of the hotel into its rays.
Bruno knew he only had himself to blame. He’d deliberately stayed away from Mariscombe over the past two years, apart from the occasional duty visit to his parents, when he’d slipped in and out of the village unannounced. But he couldn’t bury his head in the sand any longer. If he carried on neglecting the hotel it would start to fall down around his ears. And it should be the jewel in his crown. It was a prime piece of real estate, the best position in the village. He owed it to himself, and to Mariscombe, to restore it to its rightful place before it became a laughing stock. Before he lost so much money that he wasn’t in a position to do anything positive, and the decision-making process was taken out of his hands.
He walked behind the reception desk and settled himself down at the computer. There were no staff in evidence, but Bruno was familiar with the system. He clicked rapidly on the mouse, moving the cursor over the bookings for the next three months, muttering softly under his breath as he did some rapid mental arithmetic, his brows drawing further and further together. The advance bookings were even more dire than he had imagined. He knew that people’s holiday habits had changed, and that they were leaving it later and later to book in order to assess the weather or take advantage of late deals, but even taking that into consideration, surely by now there should be a healthy sprinkling of rooms taken up?
Bruno picked up a nearby pencil with ‘The Mariscombe Hotel’ stamped in gold along its length, and started doing sums on the back of a brochure. If there was one thing Bruno was good at, it was thinking on his feet. Working as a bond trader in his twenties had given him the power of his convictions; the ability to put his head on the chopping block and stand by his decisions. He’d missed that thrill recently. Now he was an independent financial adviser, working from the capacious basement of his house in Kew. Of course, there was always a risk involved in financial advice, but the stakes weren’t as high as they were on the floor, when millions could be lost in a split second, when a moment’s hesitation could cost one dearly. Nowadays his risks were calculated, spread, considered. The work was rewarding, but not necessarily exciting.
It was time for a change.
Now, in a split second, Bruno made a decision. If the Mariscombe Hotel wasn’t going to become a millstone round his neck, he had to do something positive. He could sell it, but it went against the grain to sell something which was clearly on its knees. Even if he went down that route in the long term, he had to fatten it up first. He wasn’t going to let somebody else have a bargain at his expense, no way. He put his pencil down decisively as the receptionist walked back into the foyer, clutching a mug of coffee. She started in surprise when she saw Bruno behind the desk.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were here.’
‘Lucky I wasn’t trying to book a room.’