*
George took it steady on the motorway. Rain began in earnest as they inched past Bristol in the rush-hour traffic. By the time they drove down the hill into Mariscombe two hours later, the wind was howling, the rain was lashing the windows and neither of them could see a thing.
‘We’ll try the Esplanade first,’ decided George. ‘There’s loads of hotels along there.’
They crawled past the houses that lined the seafront, peering to see if there was a vacancy, but there wasn’t a glimmer of welcome anywhere.
‘I suppose it is off-season.’ George upped the speed of the windscreen wipers but it had no effect; the rain was coming down faster than the blades could cope with. They were now heading up the steep, winding hill that led from the centre of the village to Higher Mariscombe. George knew from memory that there was a treacherous drop to their left-hand side, and strained his eyes to ensure they didn’t leave the road.
‘There!’
Lisa pointed excitedly to a white sign with ‘The Rocks’ badly painted on it, and underneath another notice proclaiming ‘Vacancies’. George drew to a halt and they peered out of the window in vain.
‘How do we know what it’s like?’
As they hesitated, the rain redoubled its efforts. Lisa shrugged.
‘I really don’t care. Let’s go for it. It’s either that or sleep in the car park.’
George pointed his car cautiously up the vertical drive.
‘Are you sure? It doesn’t exactly scream Rocco Forte.’
‘How bad can it be?’
George didn’t answer. The trio of gnomes peeping out from behind the gatepost said it all.
The car park of The Rocks was empty, apart from an ancient Peugeot presumably belonging to the owner. The hotel loomed in front of them, a large Victorian house, grey and forbidding, but a light gave them a glimmer of hope. They stood in the porch, unable to see through the frosted glass, and rang the old-fashioned brass bell.
‘It’s like a Hammer Horror movie,’ whispered Lisa, clinging to George’s hand. ‘And nobody knows we’re here. We might never be heard of again.’
‘Come on. Let’s drive back to Exeter. We’ll get the number of a decent hotel from directory enquiries. We can phone ahead and book a room –’
‘Too late. There’s someone coming.’
A shadow had indeed appeared through the glass and someone fumbled at the locks before flinging open the door triumphantly.
‘There we go. Sorry, ducks. Didn’t hear you. I had The Bill turned up that loud to drown out the sound of the rain. Come in, come in – you’ll catch your deaths.’
Lisa and George exchanged dubious glances. Their prospective hostess loomed in the doorway, nearly six foot tall and three feet wide, a rose-pink quilted dressing gown wrapped round her and held in place with a mismatched towelling belt. Her iron-grey hair was enveloped in a net which met an enormous pair of spectacles halfway down her forehead. Her grin was welcoming; her tombstone teeth leaned at alarming angles.
‘Are you… open?’ faltered Lisa, hoping fervently the answer would be ‘no’ and they could revert to plan B.
‘My dear, I’m always open. Nearly everyone else closes after the Christmas break till Easter, but not me. No skin off my nose. I’m here anyway, after all. No point in turning good custom away. What do you want, a double room for the night? Or two?’
‘Um, just the one.’
‘Come on in. I’m Mrs Websdale. But you can call me Webby. Everyone does.’
She ushered them inside. George and Lisa followed uncertainly in her wake. The entrance hall was cavernous, the floor covered in acres of brown and orange patterned carpet, the elaborate wallpaper barely visible behind items that represented a lifetime of collecting: stuffed fish in glass cases, a shelf full of reproduction Victorian dolls staring blankly into space, a display of silk fans, all illuminated by the stingy glow of some heavily tasselled wall lights. In one corner stood a large, ugly grandfather clock; in the other a suit of armour.
‘It’s the bloody Addams Family,’ whispered Lisa.
‘Freaky.’ George shuddered. He couldn’t cope with kitsch that wasn’t tongue in cheek.
‘I always keep the two main bedrooms made up, in case of passing trade,’ Mrs Websdale informed them cheerily as she climbed the stairs. ‘I’ll give you the one with the best view.’
She stopped outside a door with a white plastic number three stuck on and threw it open dramatically. The room was extremely large, but somehow made to feel small because of the overpowering decor. What really frightened George was that someone had given it considerable thought. The wallpaper was green and pink embossed stripes up to dado rail height, above which was a profusion of flowers which matched the curtains. The buttoned Dralon headboard was green and the eiderdown pink, trimmed with some of the material left over from making the curtains. The attempt to coordinate everything stopped at floor level, however, as the carpet matched the one in the hallway, clashing swirls of brown and orange. The furniture was large, heavy and ugly – salerooms all over the country were groaning with similar items that never got a bid.
‘The bathroom to this room isn’t technically en suite, which is why I can’t charge as much as some of these places that’ll give you a room no bigger than a shoebox.’ Mrs Websdale tutted. ‘The tourist board have got funny ideas. But, anyway, it won’t matter to you because there’s no one here tonight to share with, so you’ll have it all to yourself. Unless you want me to come and scrub your back.’
She winked at George and gurgled with laughter as she led them further down the corridor to a door. An enamel sign depicting a lady reclining in a mound of bubbles hinted that this was the bathroom. Firmly in line with the house colour scheme, the suite was pink, the carpet tiles on the floor green. At the bottom of the bath lurked a plastic mat, and clinging on to the surface with suction cups was a blow-up pillow. A curling bar of Wright’s coal tar lay in the soap dish. There was a shagpile bathmat in luminous shrimp.
‘There’s constant hot water so feel free to have a bath each, deep as you like. And help yourself to bubbles.’
Mrs Websdale proudly held up a supersize bottle of supermarket own brand bubble bath.
‘Lovely,’ said Lisa faintly.
She escorted them back to their room. Moments later the door was shut behind them, and George and Lisa looked at each other in disbelief.
‘Don’t say I don’t spoil you.’
Lisa grinned.
‘Listen, I’m so exhausted I could sleep on a clothes line.’
‘I’m sorry it’s so awful. We should have carried on looking. Or perhaps we should have just stayed at my place.’
Lisa put her bag on the bed and looked round the room.
‘Don’t be silly. I’ve stayed in worse places than this.’
George looked horrified.
‘Really?’
‘You should see some of the dumps they put us up in at exhibitions. At least this is clean.’
George looked at the white and gold melamine dressing table and shuddered. Lisa thumped him on the arm.
‘You are such a snob.’
There was a tap at the door and Mrs Websdale popped her head round.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve eaten, have you?’
‘We thought we might pop out. We wondered if you could recommend somewhere local. Perhaps a fish restaurant?’
George felt certain that, given Mariscombe’s meteoric rise, the equivalent of Rick Stein’s would be only five minutes’ drive away. Mrs Websdale pursed her lips thoughtfully, as if mentally perusing the suitability of several local Michelin-starred eateries, before delivering her verdict.
‘There’ll only be the Mariscombe Arms open. But they stop serving at half eight in winter, and to be honest from what I’ve heard the cooking’s not up to much at this time of year. The chef goes off to his villa in Spain come New Year. Or there’s the Jolly Roger but Friday night’s karaoke night and I don’t think that’
s quite what you’re after, somehow.’
‘No…’
‘I don’t mind. I love karaoke.’ Lisa was always one to look on the bright side, but George looked more than alarmed at the prospect. Mrs Websdale smiled at him kindly.
‘Don’t worry. I can do you a bit of supper if you like. I don’t usually do evening meals but I’ve got a couple of chops left over.’ She patted George on the arm reassuringly. ‘Come down to the dining room when you’ve freshened up. I’ll make sure you don’t go hungry.’
The door shut behind her before they could demur. George picked up his bag with determination.
‘Right. Let’s just get in the car and go.’
‘We can’t offend her. She’s been so sweet.’
‘We can pretend we’ve had an urgent phone call.’
‘It’s not going to kill you to stay here. Just for one night. We can find somewhere extra special tomorrow. I’m too tired to go and find somewhere else now. And I’m ravenous.’
‘You’re not seriously going to eat her chops?’
‘Yes, I bloody am. You can stay up here and starve if you want to.’
George relented, putting his bag back on the bed.
‘You’re a hard woman.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m a tired and hungry woman who doesn’t want to hurt an old lady’s feelings. So come on.’ Lisa poked him mischievously in the ribs. ‘Freshen up.’
The dining room was spectacularly dreary. And brown. Full-length brown velvet curtains fell to a brown carpet, and heavy brown furniture loomed in every ill-lit corner. More glass cases full of truculent fish were interspersed with amateurish seascapes and rather incongruous prints of African wildlife. The air hung thick with the smell of tinned soup, which duly arrived in mock earthenware tureens decorated with smiling root vegetables.
‘There.’ Mrs Websdale stood back proudly, then peeled the cling film off a plate of white sliced bread and butter. ‘Lovely minestrone. That should warm you through. Would you like a nice sherry to go with it?’
George bit back the urge to reply that yes, a crisp, dry Monzanilla would be perfect, as it was obvious that his and Webby’s idea of a nice sherry were two different things.
Lisa beamed at her, anxious to avert an incident.
‘Actually, Mrs Websdale, what I’d really love is a nice cuppa.’
‘Webby, remember.’
‘Webby.’
‘And I only do Typhoo. None of your herbal rubbish.’
‘Good thing too,’ Lisa assured her. ‘Just a splash of milk and two sugars, please.’
‘Strong and sweet, eh? Like your man?’
Webby waddled off, cackling. George raised his eyes to the ceiling, then wished he hadn’t. It was Artexed to within an inch of its life, with a monstrous false ceiling rose from which hung a heavy wooden chandelier with red tasselled lampshades.
‘Where are the taste police when you need them?’
Lisa kicked him under the table.
‘Get real, George. You’ve been in Bath too long. You can’t be surrounded by perfection all your life.’
‘I don’t see why not. You do realize there are proper encaustic tiles under this ghastly carpet?’
‘For heaven’s sake, just relax. We can find somewhere else tomorrow.’
George ploughed his way reluctantly through the lukewarm soup, then tackled the subsequent pork chops, boiled potatoes, frozen peas and puddles of Bisto as best he could. Lisa was beside herself with mirth. George, who was an inveterate foodie and had never touched a gravy granule in his life, tried not to mind that he was having the mickey taken out of him.
Webby cleared the plates away.
‘The best I can do for dessert is tinned fruit cocktail.’
‘My favourite,’ said Lisa, before George could decline.
Moments later two metal bowls brimming with squares of peach, pineapple and the odd cherry were deposited in front of them, along with an aerosol can. George looked askance as Lisa picked it up and squirted a whirl of cream on to her fruit with a flourish.
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t look so po-faced.’ She brandished the can playfully. ‘Do you think she’d notice if we took this to bed with us?’
She gave her best dirty chuckle and George managed a smile, despite himself. Although he didn’t show it, he was grateful for Lisa’s chirpy optimism. She’d managed to make him see the funny side of their situation, and he knew he deserved it when she teased him. She was right, after all. He did live in a perfect little world of his own making. He needed bringing down to earth from time to time, and she was just the girl to do it. He watched her spooning the fruit cocktail into her mouth, as if it was the finest selection of fresh tropical fruits prepared by a top chef. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, licking away the last of the cream, and George felt his heart beat a little faster.
He put his hand over hers.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and crash.’
She put down her spoon.
‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘I’m exhausted. It’s been a crazy day.’
Ten minutes later, he cuddled her to him. She was deliciously warm and snug. She smelt gorgeous, of the cocoa butter body cream she rubbed on religiously every night. He could feel her skin through his T-shirt. He ran his hand up her inner thigh, stroking her gently.
‘How exhausted are you, exactly?’ he whispered.
2
Lisa woke the next morning with a racing pulse and a burning sensation in her stomach that could have been the indigestible supper from the night before, but was more likely to be stress. She felt a sudden onset of panic as her actions of the day before replayed in her mind. What the hell had she been thinking of, walking off the job like that? In the cold light of dawn, her resolution melted away, her principles faded, her righteous indignation dissolved and she felt rather sick. She’d completely overreacted.
She shivered as she imagined the sort of revenge that Tony and Milo might cook up between them. They were both the sort of people you wanted on your side, people who didn’t take kindly to being crossed, and she’d heard tales about them that in the past she’d chosen to ignore. Only now the rumours became amplified in her imagination, and she pictured slashed tyres at best. Or a mysterious house fire. She tried to reassure herself – what had she done, after all? She hadn’t committed a crime. But her performance would have made a fool of Milo, and he in turn would have made Tony suffer for it. She could imagine the two of them talking, planning their revenge…
What should she do? She must have been mad. Not only had she made enemies, she had a mortgage to pay, not to mention the loan on the car she’d taken out. Lisa hadn’t overstretched herself, but she certainly couldn’t afford not to work. It was too early to call Tony and give him a grovelling apology. But even as she toyed with this possibility in her mind, Lisa knew that a situation like yesterday’s had been brewing. Her heart hadn’t been in her work for a long time. She couldn’t backtrack, or they would have won. Nevertheless, she felt slightly unsettled at the thought that she might have burned her bridges.
She slid out from between the sheets as quietly as she could and pulled on her jeans from yesterday. George was out for the count, and she didn’t want to worry him. She knew that this was the time when fears were imagined, and that it might all seem better in the light of day. She crept down the corridor, down the thick carpet of the main stairs. A cuckoo clock informed her that it was ten past seven. Not as early as she thought. What she needed was a cup of tea. She pushed open the door of the dining room and was surprised to find that the heavy brown curtains had already been pulled back. Fingers of early morning light were tentatively filtering through the windows as Lisa threaded her way through the tables to look outside.
What she saw made her gasp. The view was absolutely breathtaking. She hadn’t realized last night that The Rocks was perched on the edge of a cliff, only separated from a vertiginous drop by twenty yards of sloping lawn. Fifty feet below, giant waves hurl
ed themselves against the eponymous rocks, the force throwing up rivulets of spume like celebratory champagne shooting from a bottle. The sea was grey. No, green. No, surely blue? It moved through the spectrum with the ever-changing light, impossible to pin down. Clouds were scudding furiously across the sky, like a flock of sheep frightened by a wayward dog, and as she watched they parted to reveal a patch of brilliant blue sky. To the east, around a thick finger of land that obviously separated Higher Mariscombe from Lower, she could see the golden sands of the resort, the spectacular surf rushing in with an enthusiasm that belied the time of day, for anyone with any sense must surely still be sleeping. And to the west, a rocky cliff jutted far out into the sea, still shrouded in the last of an early morning mist that was gradually receding.
Lisa shivered as the cold air insinuated its way through the flimsy fabric of George’s T-shirt. She spotted an electric fan heater. Bending down as surreptitiously as she could, she flicked the switch to full.
‘That’s it. You make sure you’re warm enough. I’m used to this bracing sea air, but I expect you’re used to central heating on all night. Mine doesn’t kick in till half seven.’ Webby sailed past, still in her rose-pink dressing gown, bearing a metal teapot. ‘Lovely cup of tea for you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re up early.’
‘I’m terrible. Once I’m awake that’s it. And I wanted to start exploring.’ Lisa indicated the view. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’
‘You never tire of it, I tell you. You can stand here and see every sort of weather. It might be bright sunshine in one corner and thunderclouds in the other.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Fifteen years. Since my husband took early retirement from the electricity board. We bought this place with some money he had from when his old mum died.’ She made a face. ‘Wouldn’t be able to afford it now, mind. Prices have gone through the roof here in the past eighteen months. Everybody wants a bucket-and-spade holiday, what with all these terrorists and natural disasters. Not that I mind.’ She gave a mischievous grin. ‘I shall cash in all right.’
Love on the Rocks Page 3
