‘Why is it you’re leaving, again?’ Marianne asks when I Skype her that night.
I sniff. ‘Lots of reasons. It’s always been my dream to be an interior designer. It was even on the list.’
‘It was your dream when you were fifteen. Dreams can change. If they didn’t I’d still aspire to be Geri Halliwell.’
‘But if you knew what a nightmare this place is at the moment . . .’
‘Fair enough. If your boss is having a breakdown then I can understand why you wouldn’t want to be part of the fallout.’
‘It’s not quite
that
bad.’
‘You’ll miss the work, though, won’t you?’
‘Undoubtedly.’ I suddenly want to change the subject. ‘Oh, I’ve booked my birthday party. Leaf was available – they phoned today.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘So, I’ve now completed five items on the list and am working on the others. Some, at least. You don’t fancy a trip to Norway, do you?’
‘Sorry – we’re saving up for somewhere long haul next year. Won’t Rob go with you?’
I squirm. ‘It’s not his idea of fun – he isn’t at all outdoorsy.’
‘No?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade him to come camping with me so I can fulfil the “sleep under the stars” bit but he’s having none of it. He’s
only been once before – when he was a boy scout. It scarred him for life.’
‘It’s nothing like that these days – I’ve got tons of good equipment over at Dad’s house. You’re welcome to use it. Why don’t you organise to camp near
somewhere really luxurious, so you can have a lovely dinner together first?’
‘Hmm, I don’t know. His views seem firmly entrenched. Besides, I think I may have missed the boat – it’s nearly October.’
‘The weather is meant to be gorgeous this weekend,’ she argues. ‘Oh Emma – dinner in a nice gastropub, a bit of wine and the prospect of a cuddle on a blow-up mattress .
. . I’m sure he’d be persuaded.’
I bite my lip. ‘I can only put it to him, I suppose.’
‘I know somewhere lovely in the Lake District, if you’re interested. This weekend will be your last chance, I reckon. And you could always surprise him.’
‘Come on – where are we going? I can’t bear the tension,’ Rob beams as we hurtle along the motorway in my Fiat.
‘
Please
don’t get too excited, Rob,’ I tell him. ‘You might not like it.’
‘Well,
you’re
clearly excited. And how could I not enjoy going away for a night? It’ll be a treat.’
I grip my steering wheel and wonder when might be a good time to confess that every available inch of my boot is crammed with camping paraphernalia, none of which I’m entirely certain how
to use.
‘Is it Scotland?’ he blurts out gleefully, as if this joyous thought has been pinging round his brain for the last twenty minutes and only just escaped. ‘If it’s the
Turnberry Resort . . . wow, Emma, I don’t know what to say,’ he continues breathlessly. ‘I’ve constantly talked about wanting to go there but I never expected you
to—’
‘What’s the Turnberry Resort?’
‘A golf hotel and spa.’ He pauses and scrutinises my expression, deflating like a punctured whoopee cushion. ‘Oh. It’s not.’
I suddenly wish I could gold-plate my response, or conjure up some tenuous similarity between the pump-up PVC mattress he’ll be sleeping on and the five-star Hungarian goose down he was
obviously hoping for.
‘No,’ I reply eventually. ‘Seriously, Rob – this is not going to be luxurious. But I’m hoping it will be
lots
of fun!’ I grin.
I glance over and note that his bottom lip is protruding slightly. ‘I’m sure once you get your head around the idea, you’ll
love
it,’ I add energetically.
‘This could be the start of something – we could go every weekend next summer if you like it.’
‘Emma . . . where are you taking me?’
I adjust my sunglasses and pull into the services, knowing it’s the last on the M6 before we turn off. ‘Just stopping for a wee!’
When I return to the car, he’s on the phone to someone from work and he finishes the call in such a state of agitation that his troubles dominate the conversation for the next hour. During
that time, I manage to get us so comprehensively lost I almost double the journey time and inadvertently divert us into a field of leeks.
Consequently, we arrive at Crosthwaite with only twenty minutes to spare before our early dinner – which is nothing like the cautious hour and a half I’d planned for putting up the
tent.
‘Here we are,’ I say, failing to break this news to him as I pull into the car park of the Punch Bowl Inn.
Marianne was right about this place: it’s a chocolate-box pub in a spectacular location – all rolling hills and rambling hedgerows – made all the more spectacular by a glorious
sunset.
He turns to look at me. ‘Emma, it’s
lovely
.’ Then he leans over the gear stick, grabs me by the back of the neck and kisses me theatrically on the lips, before
releasing me like a disengaged sink plunger.
‘Um . . . I’d hoped to get here earlier so we could . . .’ I’m about to tell him about the tent, honestly I am.
‘What?’ he asks, wide-eyed. ‘Test-drive the bed in our room?’
‘Hmm,’ I mumble, looking at my watch. ‘Something like that, but I think we’d better go straight in or we might lose the table.’
He smiles the broadest smile I’ve ever seen. ‘This is perfect, Emma. A perfect night with my perfect girl.’
‘Rob, I—’
But before I can finish my sentence, he flips open the car door, bounces out and is striding to the inn, breathing in fresh air.
He pushes open the door and turns to me. ‘Have we got time for a drink before dinner?’
‘Of course.’
He gazes round as he approaches the bar. ‘This place is
gor
geous
.’
He’s right. The interior is everything you could wish for from a country inn, and it’s been beautifully refurbished to blend old and new to perfection. There are log fires, luxurious
rugs, quirky pictures on the walls and a wine list to die for. He orders the drinks and picks up an accommodation leaflet from a display next to the bar.
‘This is
such
a brilliant choice, Emma,’ he gushes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited. ‘Oh listen to this: “Each of our bedrooms is
individually furnished with hand-picked throws, a flat-screen TV, a spacious bathroom with Bath House toiletries . . .” This room’s got two baths! Two. Baths. Oh God, I hope we get that
one – I can just see you and me in his ’n’ her baths.’ He shakes his head and gazes into my eyes. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘Er . . . thanks, but—’
He thrusts a wine glass in my hand. ‘I’d like to make a toast.’
‘Oh . . . would you?’ I croak.
‘To you, Emma. The best girlfriend any man could want.’
It’s this that tips me over the edge – and forces me to make a decision there and then. I don’t care that the room rates start at £160 – which is £160 I
haven’t got. I
cannot
tell Rob that my plan involved spending the night in a sleeping bag in the adjacent field when he’s expecting a room with two sodding baths.
Once I’ve made the decision I feel a lot better for it, a million times more relaxed. All I need to do is wait for him to go to the loo so that I can go and speak to one of the staff and
covertly book us in.
There’s only one problem. A problem that becomes apparent about an hour in to the dinner. Rob’s waterworks appear to be capable of holding an amount of liquid comparable to that
required to extinguish a factory fire.
‘How about some more wine, eh?’ I smile, topping up his glass. ‘And water. Make sure you drink
plenty
of water, won’t you?’
He frowns. ‘Why?’
‘Well . . . we want you tipsy but not too tipsy later, don’t we, eh?’ I wink suggestively.
He dutifully takes a mouthful of water. I top up his glass again and offer it to him. He ignores me.
‘The loos in here are
amazing
,’ I enthuse. ‘Honestly . . . they’re absolutely gorgeous. If I had my own place, that’s what I’d do with my loo.
You’ve never seen anything like them. Have you tried out the boys’ yet?’
‘Not yet,’ he replies, picking at his dessert.
‘You should. Don’t miss out on those, whatever you do. You’d be missing a real treat.’
He scrunches up his nose. ‘They’re that good?’
‘World class,’ I reply, adding a small air punch to illustrate my point. ‘Nothing less.’
And I should know. I’ve been three times since we got here, but unfortunately, given that they’re in direct view of where we’re sitting, this hasn’t offered the
opportunity for me to secretly speak to the staff yet. I decide to take matters into my own hands.
‘I’m going to check on the room,’ I say, pushing out my chair.
‘Oh . . . wait until I’m finished and we can go up together.’
I hesitate and pull the chair in again, failing to come up with an alternative idea.
‘Well . . .’ I mumble, my mind whirring. ‘I just need something from the car.’
‘Don’t worry – I’ll get the bags once we’re finished.’
I think of the tent in the boot. ‘
No!
’ I blurt out.
He looks taken aback. ‘Emma . . . is something the matter?’
I compose myself and dab either side of my mouth with my napkin. ‘Not at all. I’m having a lovely time. Are you?’
‘Fantastic. I can’t wait to get into that room,’ he adds, sliding his hand across the table and running it up my arm. ‘I might just go to the loo here first.’
‘
Excellent!
’ I squeal.
Unnerved, he pushes back his chair and heads to the toilet. I know I’ve got seconds. Minutes at the most. I leap up and virtually rugby tackle a passing waiter who is taking soup to two
elderly ladies at a table by the window.
‘I need a room,’ I say urgently.
He looks at me, so shocked I’m half-convinced I inadvertently announced I needed to empty my bowels.
‘Now,’ I add. ‘
Right
now.’
He places the soup on the table and the two ladies glare at me, clearly imagining I’m running a by-the-hour type of service similar to the one that Julia Roberts ran in
Pretty
Woman
.
‘Er . . . I’ll be right with you,’ he replies. ‘Or, if you’re in a rush, I think someone’s at reception now.’
I nod like a maniac. ‘Thanks. Thank you. You’re a truly great man.’
I head to the front desk and am greeted by a smiley grey-haired receptionist. ‘Hello,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I’d like a room for tonight, please.’
‘I’m sorry, we’re fully booked this evening,’ he replies. ‘I might have something available mid-week, if that’s any good?’
My jaw plummets to the desk. ‘Are you
serious
?’
He pauses nervously, trying to decide if this is a trick question. ‘I’m afraid so.’
Panic races through me as I lean across the desk. ‘I’ll pay you anything,’ I hiss. ‘Anything you like.’
He frowns, backing away. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. There are only seven rooms and they’re all taken.’
I’m assaulted by a blitzkrieg of hysteria. ‘Can’t you tell someone there’s been a mix-up? I’ll pay double!’
‘I’m sorry, there’s really nothing I can do,’ he says apologetically.
‘
Please!
’ I whine. I’m preparing to fall to my knees and beg for mercy, when I realise someone is behind me. I spin round and come face to face with Rob. I gulp, turn
back to the gentleman at the counter and muster up the most severe expression I’m capable of – part Lady Macbeth, part Incredible Hulk. ‘Well, honestly!’ I huff furiously.
‘I won’t be coming here again, that’s for sure!’
The poor gentleman looks bewildered.
‘Rob – we’re leaving!’ I announce, spinning on my heels and grabbing him by the elbow as I drag him to the door.
‘Why?’ he asks, perplexed.
I shove him out of the front door, close it behind us and make sure we’re out of earshot.
‘You won’t believe it but they haven’t got a room for us!’ I say, waving my arms about as if I’m conducting
La Traviata
.
‘You’re kidding? And you made a reservation?’
‘Of
course
I made a reservation!’ I laugh, marching to the car.
‘Shouldn’t we pay for the dinner?’ he asks, scuttling behind.
‘Oh God!’ I reply, freezing in my tracks. I spin round again and march back to the pub. ‘Wait here. Don’t move. Please.’
I skulk back in, apologising profusely to the gent on reception, and then I have to endure the torture of waiting at the desk for the card machine to work, in the knowledge that half the
restaurant is hoping somebody will call the police to evict me.
‘Thanks!’ I wave on my way out. ‘Bye! Sorry! I’ll make sure I recommend you to all my friends!’
For some reason he doesn’t look overly thrilled at the prospect.
Rob is distraught, burning up with a sense of injustice. ‘This is definitely one for TripAdvisor.’
‘Hmm,’ I nod earnestly.
‘What are we going to do now? I know – I’ll look on my phone to see if there are other hotels nearby.’
He twiddles with the phone until he realises that he can’t get a signal. ‘Let’s drive to the nearest town . . . there’s bound to be something there.’
I hesitate, spotting an opportunity. ‘I’ve had too much to drink.’
His mouth opens as the full implications of this become apparent.
‘Oh no! We’ll have to wait in the pub drinking Diet Coke until one of us is sober enough to drive home.’
‘There
is
an alternative,’ I offer cautiously.
‘What?’
‘Well,’ I begin, aware that my tone here is everything. ‘Marianne . . .
had
asked me . . . if I would take some . . . camping gear . . . to her friend’s
house.’
Clearly, I’m fabricating this statement as I go along – hence the need for more pausing than you get with a faulty DVD player as I work out what not to say.
‘
What
friend?’
I hadn’t counted on questions. ‘Erm . . . Beyoncé,’ I blurt out.
‘
Beyonc
é
?
’ he says, scrunching up his nose. ‘The singer?’