discovered, often contained odd collections of pebbles or driftwood, a touch that in other hotels might have signified stylistic pretensions, but here were more likely just the day’s finds, needing a home.
My room looked straight out across the bay with not even a road between the house and the beach. The previous night I had slept with the window open, the sound of the waves lulling me into my first decent night’s sleep for months, and I had been dimly aware, as dawn broke, of the whalers’ trucks, their tyres hissing on the wet sand, and the fishermen heading back and forth across the shingle to the jetty.
When I told Nessa about the setting, she had accused me of being a jammy bugger and said she’d given her father an earful for sending me away. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve got to organise,’ she’d said, her voice half accusing, as if my presence in London had been of any help.
‘You know, we could do this differently,’ I ventured, when she had run out of complaints. ‘We could fly off somewhere and get married on a beach.’
The ensuing silence was lengthy enough for me to wonder what it was costing.
‘After all this?’ Her voice was disbelieving. ‘After all the planning I’ve done you want to just fly off somewhere? Since when did you start having opinions?’
‘Forget I said anything.’
‘Do you know how hard this is? I’m trying to work and do all this and half the bloody guests haven’t even replied to their invitations. It’s so rude. I’m going to have to chase up everyone myself.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t ask to be here. I’m working on this deal as hard as I can and I’ll be back before you know it.’
She was mollified. Eventually. She seemed to cheer up when I reminded her it was winter over here. Besides, Nessa knows I’m not a holiday person. I have never yet managed to lie on a beach for anything resembling a week. Within days I’m scouting inland, looking at the local paper for business opportunities. ‘Love you,’ she said, before she rang off. ‘Work hard so you can come home soon.’
But it was hard to work in an environment that conspired to tell even me to do the opposite. The Internet connection, routed through the phone line, was slow and temperamental. The newspapers, with the city pages, didn’t arrive until nearly noon. Meanwhile the beach, with its elegant curve and white sand, demanded to be walked on. The wooden jetty called out to be sat on, bare legs dangling into the sea. The long bleached table where the whale crews relaxed on their return spoke of ice-cold beers and hot chips. Even putting on my work shirt that morning hadn’t motivated me.
I opened an email and began to type: ‘ Dennis. Hope you’re feeling OK. Went to the planning dept yesterday and met Mr Reilly, as you suggested. He seemed to like the look of the plans and said the only possible problems were— ’
I jumped at a knock then slammed my laptop shut.
‘Can I come in?’
I opened the door to find Hannah, Liza McCullen’s daughter. She was holding out a sandwich on a plate. ‘Auntie K thought you might be hungry. She wasn’t sure if you wanted to come down.’
I took it from her. How could it be lunchtime already? ‘That was kind. Tell her thank you.’
She peered round the door and caught sight of my computer. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sending a few emails.’
‘Is that connected to the Internet?’
‘Just about.’
‘I’m desperate for a computer. Loads of my friends at school have them.’ She hovered on one leg. ‘Did you know my aunt is on the Internet? I heard her telling my mum.’
‘I think lots of hotels are on the Internet,’ I said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘ She ’s on the Internet. Herself. She doesn’t like to talk about it now but she used to be famous round here for catching sharks.’
I tried to imagine the old lady wrestling with some Jaws -like creature. Oddly, it wasn’t as hard as I’d
My room looked straight out across the bay with not even a road between the house and the beach. The previous night I had slept with the window open, the sound of the waves lulling me into my first decent night’s sleep for months, and I had been dimly aware, as dawn broke, of the whalers’ trucks, their tyres hissing on the wet sand, and the fishermen heading back and forth across the shingle to the jetty.
When I told Nessa about the setting, she had accused me of being a jammy bugger and said she’d given her father an earful for sending me away. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve got to organise,’ she’d said, her voice half accusing, as if my presence in London had been of any help.
‘You know, we could do this differently,’ I ventured, when she had run out of complaints. ‘We could fly off somewhere and get married on a beach.’
The ensuing silence was lengthy enough for me to wonder what it was costing.
‘After all this?’ Her voice was disbelieving. ‘After all the planning I’ve done you want to just fly off somewhere? Since when did you start having opinions?’
‘Forget I said anything.’
‘Do you know how hard this is? I’m trying to work and do all this and half the bloody guests haven’t even replied to their invitations. It’s so rude. I’m going to have to chase up everyone myself.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t ask to be here. I’m working on this deal as hard as I can and I’ll be back before you know it.’
She was mollified. Eventually. She seemed to cheer up when I reminded her it was winter over here. Besides, Nessa knows I’m not a holiday person. I have never yet managed to lie on a beach for anything resembling a week. Within days I’m scouting inland, looking at the local paper for business opportunities. ‘Love you,’ she said, before she rang off. ‘Work hard so you can come home soon.’
But it was hard to work in an environment that conspired to tell even me to do the opposite. The Internet connection, routed through the phone line, was slow and temperamental. The newspapers, with the city pages, didn’t arrive until nearly noon. Meanwhile the beach, with its elegant curve and white sand, demanded to be walked on. The wooden jetty called out to be sat on, bare legs dangling into the sea. The long bleached table where the whale crews relaxed on their return spoke of ice-cold beers and hot chips. Even putting on my work shirt that morning hadn’t motivated me.
I opened an email and began to type: ‘ Dennis. Hope you’re feeling OK. Went to the planning dept yesterday and met Mr Reilly, as you suggested. He seemed to like the look of the plans and said the only possible problems were— ’
I jumped at a knock then slammed my laptop shut.
‘Can I come in?’
I opened the door to find Hannah, Liza McCullen’s daughter. She was holding out a sandwich on a plate. ‘Auntie K thought you might be hungry. She wasn’t sure if you wanted to come down.’
I took it from her. How could it be lunchtime already? ‘That was kind. Tell her thank you.’
She peered round the door and caught sight of my computer. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sending a few emails.’
‘Is that connected to the Internet?’
‘Just about.’
‘I’m desperate for a computer. Loads of my friends at school have them.’ She hovered on one leg. ‘Did you know my aunt is on the Internet? I heard her telling my mum.’
‘I think lots of hotels are on the Internet,’ I said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘ She ’s on the Internet. Herself. She doesn’t like to talk about it now but she used to be famous round here for catching sharks.’
I tried to imagine the old lady wrestling with some Jaws -like creature. Oddly, it wasn’t as hard as I’d
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