Love on the Rocks by Veronica Henry Page A

that, but no – there hadn’t been a moment when Lisa had been out of his sight. Why did he feel as if he was being stitched up?
    ‘It’s a little goldmine, but personally, I shan’t be sorry to see the back of it,’ Webby went on. ‘I’ve been very happy here, but I’m too old now. I’ll bugger off somewhere hot on the proceeds.’
    Lisa had a sudden vision of Mrs Websdale stretched out on a sunlounger in Benidorm and wanted to giggle.
    ‘Any chance of more toast?’ she managed to gasp.
    ‘Course.’ Mrs Websdale picked up the metal toast rack and made her way to the kitchen. Then she turned. ‘Will you be wanting the room again tonight? Only I’ll need to get some more bacon and eggs in if you are.’
    Lisa looked at George meaningfully. It would give them a chance to have a good mooch round. Get a feel for the place.
    ‘Yes,’ sighed George. ‘We’ll stay another night.’
    After breakfast, they walked down the winding hill that hugged the shoreline and went to explore the village. A sweeping row of Victorian houses painted in ice-cream colours led to a cluster of shops and cafes, most of which defiantly stated that they were closed until Easter. There was a post office, with an optimistic display of beach balls, kites and buckets and spades. A juice bar, a bakery and a chippie. Several boutiques sporting surfing gear. An art gallery, the window crammed with seascapes and paintings of upturned boats. At the far end perched the Mariscombe Hotel. Originally a Gothic folly commissioned by a Victorian entrepreneur for his beloved invalid wife, it was built to resemble a castle, with four castellated towers, one at each corner. Between the hotel and the sea was an expanse of lawn fringed with monkey-puzzle trees, beyond which were the dunes.
    In front of the public car park was a relatively new shopping mall, built in a New England style and painted a weathered cream, with pointy gables and a big clock. Here was an ice-cream parlour. And, to George’s huge relief, a cappuccino bar. It was warm enough to sit outside, for the balcony was sheltered from the prevailing wind and the clouds had parted to reveal a shining sun. Sitting there, it was hard to believe it was February.
    The reflection of the sun off the sea was almost blinding; the foam of the surf as bright white as polar ice. The surface of the water shone like glass, reminding George of the Fired Earth mosaic tiles he’d installed in his bathroom – shimmering turquoise, cobalt and silver. The sand stretched out in front of them in a crescent of gold. From a distance it looked as if you could run from end to end without getting out of breath, but in reality it was probably a good half hour’s walk, longer if the wind was against you.
    ‘Busy?’ George asked the waitress politely.
    ‘For the time of year.’ The girl put down their mugs of steaming latte. ‘You wait. Come Easter you won’t be able to get a table in here for love or money. And to be honest, it’s getting busier all year round. We always used to close after autumn half-term, but there’s enough surfers and walkers to keep us going off season.’
    Lisa had insisted on calling in at the estate agents to get the details of The Rocks. George perused them with an architect’s precision, working out the square footage.
    ‘The thing is,’ said Lisa, ‘Webby and her hubby have done all the hard work. The place is sound. It just needs all their horrible stuff ripping out.’
    ‘What gets me,’ replied George, quailing at the memory, ‘is that bloody awful carpet costs a fortune.’
    ‘No expense spared,’ Lisa reminded him impishly. ‘Top of the range.’
    They had several refills as they watched the beach gradually fill up, with dog-walkers and joggers, young families with three-wheeled off-road buggies, fathers and sons with disobedient kites. And surfers decked out in neoprene from head to foot, leaping into the waves with eager abandon despite the sub-zero