temperatures.
‘This is a happy place.’ Lisa put down her cup defiantly. ‘People come here because they want to be here. You can feel it.’ She looked at George. ‘Why can’t we have a bit of that?’
George smiled wryly.
‘You’re being idealistic. You’re romanticizing.’
Lisa thumped the table.
‘No, I’m not!’ she insisted. ‘It would be bloody hard work. Probably harder than what I’m doing now. But a lot more rewarding. And imagine waking up to that view every morning.’
George pulled a tenner out of his pocket to pay for their coffee.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and have a proper look round.’
On the way back they passed a house that advertised fresh fish and seafood for sale, on a chalked-up board. George went and bought two lobsters. From the local mini market they bought a loaf of granary bread, some West Country butter, a brace of lemons and a bag of salad, and a bottle of Chablis. For lunch, they picnicked in Mrs Websdale’s dining room, and she happily brought them plates and cutlery.
As they ate, Lisa’s eyes darted around, taking in the detail.
‘Can you imagine this room with the carpet pulled up and all that wallpaper ripped off? It wouldn’t take much . . .’
George nodded thoughtfully.
‘You could have folding glass doors the whole length of the room, so you could push them right back in the summer.’
Lisa gave a gasp.
‘Perfect! You see, you’re a genius. This is your raison d’être !’
George smiled.
‘Some simple decking, with uplighters,’ he continued. ‘Imagine sitting out there with a glass of wine, looking at that view as the sun goes down . . .’
Lisa smiled in triumph.
‘There you go, you see. You’re wasted at that bloody company.’ She sucked lasciviously at a lobster claw, then waved it about to emphasize her point. ‘Just think of all those people out there like us, who want to escape for the weekend and recharge their batteries. Be pampered for twenty-four hours. Or forty-eight.’ There was butter running down her chin. She wiped it away with a piece of paper towel Webby had thoughtfully provided. ‘Come on, George. Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t. Because I can think of hundreds why we should.’
George tipped back in his chair and took a satisfying slug of Chablis. Its steely aroma made him shiver with delight. Lisa was right. He couldn’t think of one good reason why not.
‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s do the maths.’
Three
O n Sunday evening, once back in Bath and away from the euphoric glow provided by too much Chablis and hotel-room sex, George felt a huge sense of anticlimax. Tomorrow he’d have to pick up the pieces, defend his hasty departure of Friday afternoon, find out how Colin was, discover the extent of their liability . . . It was amazing how he’d been able to forget his troubles in Mariscombe. But then, it was easy to daydream away from the confines of reality.
Suddenly, he didn’t want Lisa to go.
‘Why don’t you stay tonight?’
‘There’s no reason why not. I haven’t got to get up for work in the morning.’ She stretched her arms over her head luxuriously. ‘I can cancel my nail appointment. I don’t have to shave my legs. Or pluck my eyebrows.’
George looked faintly disgusted, and she laughed.
‘It’s all right. I’m not going to turn into a total slob overnight. But it will be a luxury, not having to be perfect all the time in case you get called upon.’ She put her head to one side and surveyed George, who was rummaging about in his enormous fridge for something to eat. ‘Have you decided what to do?’
‘Scrambled eggs? Or I’ve got a carton of vichyssoise.’
‘I don’t mean about supper and you know it.’
George sighed.
‘I can’t just quit without having something to go to.’
‘You’re getting cold feet about our idea, then?’
George decided on the soup. It needed eating. He pulled a saucepan from the batterie de cuisine hanging
‘This is a happy place.’ Lisa put down her cup defiantly. ‘People come here because they want to be here. You can feel it.’ She looked at George. ‘Why can’t we have a bit of that?’
George smiled wryly.
‘You’re being idealistic. You’re romanticizing.’
Lisa thumped the table.
‘No, I’m not!’ she insisted. ‘It would be bloody hard work. Probably harder than what I’m doing now. But a lot more rewarding. And imagine waking up to that view every morning.’
George pulled a tenner out of his pocket to pay for their coffee.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and have a proper look round.’
On the way back they passed a house that advertised fresh fish and seafood for sale, on a chalked-up board. George went and bought two lobsters. From the local mini market they bought a loaf of granary bread, some West Country butter, a brace of lemons and a bag of salad, and a bottle of Chablis. For lunch, they picnicked in Mrs Websdale’s dining room, and she happily brought them plates and cutlery.
As they ate, Lisa’s eyes darted around, taking in the detail.
‘Can you imagine this room with the carpet pulled up and all that wallpaper ripped off? It wouldn’t take much . . .’
George nodded thoughtfully.
‘You could have folding glass doors the whole length of the room, so you could push them right back in the summer.’
Lisa gave a gasp.
‘Perfect! You see, you’re a genius. This is your raison d’être !’
George smiled.
‘Some simple decking, with uplighters,’ he continued. ‘Imagine sitting out there with a glass of wine, looking at that view as the sun goes down . . .’
Lisa smiled in triumph.
‘There you go, you see. You’re wasted at that bloody company.’ She sucked lasciviously at a lobster claw, then waved it about to emphasize her point. ‘Just think of all those people out there like us, who want to escape for the weekend and recharge their batteries. Be pampered for twenty-four hours. Or forty-eight.’ There was butter running down her chin. She wiped it away with a piece of paper towel Webby had thoughtfully provided. ‘Come on, George. Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t. Because I can think of hundreds why we should.’
George tipped back in his chair and took a satisfying slug of Chablis. Its steely aroma made him shiver with delight. Lisa was right. He couldn’t think of one good reason why not.
‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s do the maths.’
Three
O n Sunday evening, once back in Bath and away from the euphoric glow provided by too much Chablis and hotel-room sex, George felt a huge sense of anticlimax. Tomorrow he’d have to pick up the pieces, defend his hasty departure of Friday afternoon, find out how Colin was, discover the extent of their liability . . . It was amazing how he’d been able to forget his troubles in Mariscombe. But then, it was easy to daydream away from the confines of reality.
Suddenly, he didn’t want Lisa to go.
‘Why don’t you stay tonight?’
‘There’s no reason why not. I haven’t got to get up for work in the morning.’ She stretched her arms over her head luxuriously. ‘I can cancel my nail appointment. I don’t have to shave my legs. Or pluck my eyebrows.’
George looked faintly disgusted, and she laughed.
‘It’s all right. I’m not going to turn into a total slob overnight. But it will be a luxury, not having to be perfect all the time in case you get called upon.’ She put her head to one side and surveyed George, who was rummaging about in his enormous fridge for something to eat. ‘Have you decided what to do?’
‘Scrambled eggs? Or I’ve got a carton of vichyssoise.’
‘I don’t mean about supper and you know it.’
George sighed.
‘I can’t just quit without having something to go to.’
‘You’re getting cold feet about our idea, then?’
George decided on the soup. It needed eating. He pulled a saucepan from the batterie de cuisine hanging
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