Love on the Rocks

by Henry, Veronica

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Richard, that’s totally callous,’ George protested. ‘He’s worked for us for over ten years, and we’re not supposed to show concern?’

  ‘You’ve got it in one.’

  ‘You mean the guy might die and I can’t even call his wife? Give her my condolences?’

  ‘George. You know the score. Lawsuit. Litigation. Liability. It’s the world we live in, I’m afraid. Anyway, you’re going to have enough to deal with. We’ll have the insurance guys swarming all over us before we know it. And Health and Safety. Questions will be asked and it’s your head on the chopping block.’

  ‘But he wasn’t wearing his safety harness.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The balcony gave way. Our fault. Or to be more specific, your fault. I’m sorry.’

  Richard hung up. George put his head on his desk in despair. He felt sick. What a perfectly hideous situation.

  It was George who was responsible for the maintenance of all the commercial buildings his company managed. Colin, currently lying in hospital with severe head injuries, held the contract to clean all their windows. Flouting all the safety guidelines and regulations, he had failed to wear a safety harness while cleaning the windows of a fourth-floor office. He had slipped, fallen and grabbed on to the balcony which, being merely ornamental, had given way. Colin had plunged four storeys on to the concrete below. And George, it seemed, was liable. He should, it turned out, have ensured that every ornamental balcony they owned could take the weight of a falling man.

  When he thought about Colin, he wanted to retch. He had three kiddies, George knew. The stupid prat. Why hadn’t he worn his harness? He’d be here now, instead of a bloody mound of broken bones and teeth waiting for a brain scan. Meanwhile, George couldn’t even go down and comfort Colin’s wife in the hospital corridor while she waited for the results, in case he inadvertently admitted liability. It was a mad world.

  George rubbed his hands wearily over his face. Then he picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, scooped up his car keys and walked out of the office. It was only half past two, and he had an important meeting scheduled for three, but he didn’t care.

  ‘Cancel my three o’clock,’ he said to his secretary, with an uncharacteristic lack of warmth. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Don’t you feel well?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I feel sick. Sick to bloody death of it all.’

  Traffic in Bath on a Friday afternoon was notoriously horrendous. Whether people were trying to get in or out of the city, George couldn’t be sure. He only needed to cross from one side to the other, but he had sat in a jam for fifteen minutes now, rather detracting from his dramatic exit as it gave him too much time to reflect on whether he had been wise to flee the office like that. He realized that it was the first time in his life that he had skived. Well, adult life. At university skiving had practically been part of the curriculum. Now, he wasn’t sure how he felt, knowing he’d left chaos in his wake. His absence at this afternoon’s meeting would be a major irritant. Richard would be livid.

  But did he care?

  On balance, he thought probably not. Over the past few months he had become increasingly overwhelmed by boredom. Disillusionment. Stagnation. After four years in the job, a pattern had set in. He was doing the same things over and over again, following the same old routine. The names and the places might change, but the motivation never differed. The only alteration was the rules and regulations, which became more and more complicated, petty and impossible to work to. Which was why a situation like today had evolved. To George, Colin’s accident and its repercussions summed up his frustration with where he was in life.

  The future had once been exciting; the world his oyster. At eighteen, he was brimming with promise, and getting into the school of architecture at Bristol University was widely regarded as a ticket to success. He’d be able to do whatever he wanted. Visions of glittering skylines peppered with the curves of his masterpieces filled his dreams. He imagined iconic museums, headquarters that were the jewels in the crowns of international conglomerates, developments that represented the status of the entrepreneurs whose businesses they housed. He foresaw awards and accolades; respect and awe; waiting lists…

  Reality was somewhat different. He graduated with an underwhelming second-class degree. The world he had moved into was tough, competitive, and he hadn’t lived up to his original promise. Too much partying, maybe. Together with a lack of ruthlessness. An inability to think laterally and provide the spark of originality needed to make him stand out from the rest.

  And so now here he was, not someone whose name was bandied about in hushed, reverent tones, but a salaried hack worrying about disabled access; wrangling with the local council over green-field and brown-field and change of use; bartering with them over low-cost housing and mixed development, which he knew meant pleasing no one. Colin’s accident epitomized how he had found himself repeatedly compromised and unable to follow his heart, penned in by policies and red tape and EEC directives. It was the last straw.

  George knew that, on closer analysis, he was being rather a spoilt brat. In most people’s eyes, he would be perceived as successful. His job allowed for quite a few nice lunches, and being dragged round a golf course occasionally. His salary was generous. He found the job easy, if tedious. What was there to moan about?

  As he finally made his way past the roadworks that had amplified the Friday traffic jam, and sped up Lans-down Hill, he came to the conclusion that what he wanted was freedom. Freedom to make his own decisions. Creative freedom that wasn’t held in check by the whims of bureaucracy. Where he was going to find that, God only knew. George knew he’d be tempting fate by jumping ship – especially when he didn’t have another ship to jump to. But today’s events high-lighted the fact that he owed it to himself to make a decision. Put up and shut up. Or take a risk. And one thing he did know. This was his last chance. He was soon going to be nearer to forty than thirty. Only just, but that made him no spring chicken. If he didn’t make a bid for freedom now, he would be trapped forever.

  By three thirty he had reached his house. Amazingly, there was a parking space not far down the road – one of the benefits of coming home earlier than usual. By the time he got back the spaces were usually taken up and he had often had to park two or three streets away. He reversed neatly into the space, knowing that it had probably been vacated by a mother on the school run who would spit tacks when she got back and found it gone.

  The house was in a terrace of Georgian houses that were typical of Bath. The street was by no means as grand as the gracious proportions of the Royal Crescent only a few hundred yards away – the most prestigious address in Bath and one George had long aspired to, but that was definitely out of reach. He consoled himself that the houses there were far too large for a single man, and he wouldn’t have wanted a mere flat. He’d bought the house in Northampton Street when he’d moved from Bristol five years ago, and it had been badly in need of some tender loving care. Over the years he had given it just that, restoring it to its former glory, obsessively replacing the period detail but at the same time incorporating mod cons. The project had taken up most of his spare time and a large proportion of his wallet, but now he was safe in the knowledge that he had an immaculately restored home that purchasers would be falling over themselves to buy.

  He opened the pale grey-green front door, deactivated the essential CCTV and burglar alarm that was sadly all too necessary, even in supposedly genteel Bath, and made his way through into the kitchen. Sparkling stainless-steel appliances were softened by the lustrous cherrywood of the units, built square and no-nonsense and chunky with outsize bun handles and topped with a high-gloss work surface. He pulled open the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Tiger beer and sat down on a chrome bar-stool at the island, swinging his legs casually as if to convince himself that he was relaxed and off duty. In fact, he was as tense as a piano wire.

  He wondered
about picking up the phone to Lisa, then remembered she was working at some motor show. It was a pity. He felt like taking off somewhere for the weekend, somewhere he might be able to forget the day’s dreadful events. If he stayed at home he would be waiting for the phone to ring with news. Or he might be tempted to call the hospital, or even sneak in there to see how Colin was. He’d have to be inhuman not to care about the outcome. And what on earth would his wife think? He couldn’t even call her to explain that he couldn’t call her.

  The trilling of the phone suddenly broke the silence. George didn’t answer it in case it was Richard ordering him to come back to the office – he’d already switched his mobile off. He let the answerphone intervene, and was surprised to hear Lisa’s voice cut through the silence. Her accent was tinged with a Gloucestershire burr that she always protested she hated, but George thought was charming. It summoned up images of milkmaids dropping curtsies. Or Cider with Rosie, which had always been one of his favourite books. But she thought she sounded like a Wurzel.

  It brought a smile to his face now, to hear her.

  ‘George! It’s me. I just phoned your work and your secretary told me you’d walked out. She seemed to think you were upset about something. What’s going on? Give me a ring as soon as you get this message –’

  George crossed the room and picked up the handset.

  ‘Hi. It’s me.’

  ‘George! What happened? Did you really walk out?’

  ‘Yep.’ He quickly filled her in on what had happened.

  ‘What bastards!’ She was suitably outraged. ‘I don’t blame you for walking.’

  ‘No. And I’m tempted not to go back either.’

  ‘Well, you can join the club. It’s you and me both.’ Lisa sounded defiant. ‘I’ve just told Tony to stick it up his Prada jumper.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No. I’ve had enough. I’m not putting up with it a minute longer. I’ve had enough of dirty old men gawping at my chest and thinking I’m an easy lay –’

  George chuckled. He knew for a fact that wasn’t the case. He should know. He’d taken Lisa out for nearly six months before they’d finally ended up in bed.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me. I mean it!’ She sounded indignant. George could imagine her eyes sparking dangerously, her chin tilted in the air.

  ‘I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because I know you’ll have given them what they deserve,’ he reassured her swiftly. ‘And you’re quite right not to put up with it. What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’m still on the motorway. Heading back home. Stuck in the Friday-night traffic.’

  ‘Why don’t you carry on and come straight here? We could go away for the weekend. Somewhere we can reflect on our rash behaviour. Sounds like we’ve both got some thinking to do.’

  ‘That sounds great. I think I’d go mad if I had to stop at home all weekend.’

  ‘Where do you fancy going?’

  Lisa thought about it for a moment.

  ‘The seaside. I’d like to go to the seaside.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘But I’ll have to go home first. I haven’t got any clothes with me.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I can lend you some stuff. You can sleep in one of my T-shirts. We can buy you some clothes in the morning.’

  Lisa giggled. He loved her giggle. It was an elixir. A tonic. If you could bottle it and sell it, it would lift your mood quicker than any prescription.

  ‘I’ll borrow a pair of your boxers. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  As soon as she finished speaking to George, Lisa put her foot down and swooped into the fast lane. She felt better already. It was as if she and George were partners in crime, the pair of them sneaking off, skiving. Instead of turning off for Stratford, where she lived, she stayed on the motorway, grateful that now she was away from the outskirts of Birmingham, the traffic was less heavy. She could be in Bath in less than two hours.

  While he was waiting for Lisa, George changed into jeans and a thick olive-green ribbed sweater. He ran his hand through his hair, inspecting it in the mirror. Had he been staying in Bath for the weekend, he would have taken a trip to the barber the next day – he kept it cropped fairly short nowadays, even though it was still thick, because he knew from his friends that once you hit your thirties, hair had a habit of suddenly thinning without you noticing, and the longer it was the worse it looked. So to preclude that ghastly eventuality he went with the regular precision cut, experimenting with his sideboards to ring the changes – long, short, pointy, blunt. He had a special razor for keeping them in trim. This weekend, however, he toyed with forgoing a shave as well as a haircut, going for the unkempt look. Wow, thought George. He was really rebelling.

  Casting his appearance to one side, he swiftly packed a leather holdall, sticking in a couple of extra Fruit of the Loom T-shirts for Lisa to sleep in, then got out his road map of Great Britain to look for inspiration. It would be five by the time Lisa got to him, so if they wanted seaside, they’d have to step on it. He traced his finger along the coastline, until it finally came to rest in North Devon.

  Mariscombe. He remembered it from his childhood, and he immediately felt a flutter of fond nostalgia. He’d gone there one summer, when he was about eight or nine. Not with his parents, for his mother wouldn’t have been seen dead somewhere like Mariscombe. It was far too working class, full of caravans and string vests and chip shops. She wanted yachting types and delicatessens and tasteful pubs – Salcombe or Lymington were more her scene. It was his uncle and aunt and his noisy brood of cousins that had taken him there, in their clapped-out old camper van, the summer it became clear to George his parents really weren’t getting along. Up till now, holidays to him had meant gîtes in the Dordogne, thoroughly boring for a boy of eight who had to plough through plates of unspeakable innards mixed with bitter salad leaves while his parents burbled their appreciation.

  So Mariscombe, with its miles of golden sand, the diet of chips and ice cream and the occasional crab sandwich, had been bliss. They’d pitched their three sagging, smelly tents on a gloriously unspoilt cliffside campsite. The farmer who owned it had gone round all the pitches on his bike each morning, bringing fresh eggs and foaming milk. George had put on weight that week, gorging himself on the cooked breakfast rustled up on the calor gas stove, cream teas, packets of crisps and 99s. A real bucket-and-spade holiday, with sandcastles and rock pools and fishing nets. Even the down-side – sunburn and jellyfish and torrential rain – hadn’t marred his memory.

  Of course, his holidays now were more sophisticated – city breaks in Prague or Budapest, scuba-diving in Egypt, skiing in Canada. Resorts like Mariscombe held few charms for a sophisticated man about town. But seeing it now on the map jogged his memory about an article he had read in the Sunday Times only a few weeks ago. An article that was pinpointing property hot spots, predicting what was on the rise, and Mariscombe had been top of their list for holiday investment.

  ‘Surfers’ paradise and guaranteed family fun,’ the article had proclaimed. ‘Mariscombe is rapidly shedding its kiss-me-quick image; the old Victorian guest houses are getting the laminate-floor-and-decking treatment and being transformed into chic apartment blocks, presumably by those developers who can’t afford Sandbanks or Rock. It’s hot, it’s hip. Get in now before it’s too late. Nearby Woolacombe has already had the treatment – Mariscombe is next on the map.’

  In his head, George was an entrepreneurial property developer with interesting projects dotted all over the countryside. In reality all he had was the house in Bath – although to say ‘all’ was to diminish its worth, which was probably tipping half a million. Not a bad return on his money. Nevertheless, he liked to keep his eye on which areas of the countryside were flourishing, just in case he one day decided to throw caution to the wind and extend his mortgage.

  The article about Mariscombe had intrigued him. And there was no doubt it was the perfect place for him and Lisa to blow the cobweb
s away. He imagined long, bracing walks along the beach and the clifftops, scrumptious cream teas by a roaring log fire in some cosy tearoom, a gourmet supper somewhere followed by sweet dreams in a luxurious four-poster bed –

  Suddenly the doorbell broke his reverie. Lisa was on the step – he could see her red Mazda MX5 double-parked outside.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ George opened the door with a wide smile. ‘I hope they didn’t clock you. You must have done ninety all the way.’

  ‘Over a hundred.’

  ‘Lisa!’

  ‘I don’t give a toss. I just wanted to get here.’

  She threw her arms round his neck.

  ‘It’s so good to see you. I want to get away. Shall we go in my car? I filled up with petrol.’

  ‘Sure. But you better let me drive. You must be exhausted.’

  He picked up his bag, his Australian wax jacket with the nubuck collar and cuffs, punched the code into his security system and led the way out. Lisa followed him.

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Mariscombe. I used to go there when I was a kid. I read an article in the Sunday Times about it the other day. They predicted it as the Next Big Thing. Property hot spot.’ He chucked the map at her. ‘It’s on the North Devon coast. It’ll only take us a couple of hours to get there, with the wind behind us.’

  ‘Do we need to book a hotel?’

  ‘No. Let’s just wing it. There’s bound to be places to stay. We’ll take pot luck when we get there.’

  He turned the key in the ignition, suddenly excited. This felt like a real adventure, and the fact that they had both walked off their jobs that afternoon gave it an extra frisson. Next to him, Lisa pulled her seat belt across her chest.

  ‘Drive on!’ she commanded. ‘I’ll find the Beach Boys on the CD changer.’

  ‘It’s not exactly California Dreamin’,’ warned George. ‘It’s the British seaside in February.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Lisa. ‘Anyway, that was the Mamas and Papas.’