‘No shit,’ says Lottie.
They stand in the middle of the road considering the tall, established trees, the ancient rhododendrons, the air of exclusivity that surrounds the place. It seems to whisper: ‘Keep Out’, ‘Private Property’, ‘Not for the Likes of You’.
But then a couple can be seen walking down the driveway, emerging from the grounds. Something about them seems so incongruous, Lottie can’t help but linger and watch. They are talking, exchanging brief, stunted words in a foreign tongue that she doesn’t immediately recognise. The hard, blunt vowels of an Eastern European language, perhaps?
The man is dressed in trousers and a shirt but it is not the usual florid tourist garb. His clothes are dark, crumpled, too warm for this weather. And likewise, the woman, whose hair is scraped back into a severe ponytail that only accentuates her sharp cheekbones, the paleness of her skin, is dressed in leggings and a T-shirt. They have a bottle of water which they share between them. The man raises his voice at the end of each of his sentences as if he is asking questions in a quick, urgent way and the woman nods in assent or shakes her head in answer, muttering the words ‘taip’ or ‘ne’ in a monotone voice.
Stopping at the roadside, the couple look towards them and Lottie holds their gaze for a moment and smiles. It is sobering, she realises, to see two people so unbefitting to their surroundings, so clearly out of place. The woman looks tired, scrawny and there is a desperate set to the man’s unshaven face, the premature lines around his eyes. Lottie thinks about the way she had joked to Tim earlier about how they didn’t belong here but these two really don’t and it brings her up short.
The couple nod at Lottie and Tim and then begin to traipse back towards the town centre. They can’t be tourists, she assumes. And yet they’re clearly not locals, are they? Lottie is used to a melting pot of multicultural voices and faces. It is commonplace, what she has grown used to and in fact loves about living in London. Yet for the first time in a long while she is forced to contemplate what it really must feel like to be a complete outsider.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ coaxes Tim as he gently pulls at her arm. She turns her face back towards the coastal path, the sea beckoning her with the siren call of its whispering waves.
5
Olivia walks into the suite and smiles approvingly. It’s so nice to be back in the delicately perfumed, air-conditioned atmosphere of the hotel after all that dust and noise and argy-bargy. The run-in with that woman from next door has left her nerves jangling and she clutches the rose quartz pendant around her neck for a moment and stares at the sea view.
‘So that’s the architect, Marcus, then?’ says her daughter as she strolls into the room. Bella kicks off her flip-flops and throws herself down onto the cream chaise longue, legs aloft. ‘He’s a bit easy on the eye.’
Olivia turns, feeling herself bristle. Her daughter is so adept at knowing exactly how to say the one thing that will rankle.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Belle. He’s far too old for you. Probably married with kids himself.’
‘I didn’t see a gold band. Just a hella nice ass and a car to match. Did you say he’s based in London?’
Olivia tuts.
‘You behave like such a little tramp these days. And speak properly, for goodness’ sake.’
‘Oh my God, Mum,’ Bella says, laughing. ‘You’re starting to sound just like Granny.’
It’s true, she concedes. She can hear her own mother’s words echoing around her head, and even on her lips, more often than she cares to admit. Is it just another reminder of how she’s getting older, out of touch, past it?
‘Besides, it’s not like I’m a virgin, you know,’ continues her daughter. ‘That ship sailed a while ago,’ she adds with a snort.
‘Stop it,’ Olivia snaps and Bella flinches before she rolls her eyes in an exaggerated fashion and drags herself off the sofa. ‘Chill out, Mother.’
‘And don’t call me that either,’ she says. ‘You know how I hate it.’
Her daughter huffs. ‘I’m going for a shower.’
‘You only just had one a couple of hours ago.’
‘So what? The water’s not on a bloody meter y’know. Might take an extra-long one and think about that Marcus,’ Bella says with a smirk.
Olivia watches as her daughter stalks out of the room; her long, lissom legs stepping with purpose on the plush carpet. When did her little girl get so big, so grown-up? So overtly sexual? She can only imagine how all the men on that building site must have reacted when they saw Bella today in her tiny denim cut-off shorts and crop top. So much flesh on display. So ripe for the picking. Her daughter is a woman now, with curves in all the right places. She has outgrown her grasp, Olivia thinks. Physically and mentally. It’s another reminder of her own age. Bella is blooming and it makes her feel like she is slowly wilting in comparison.
She walks over to the window again and drinks in the view. The water is incredible: calm and restful, with just the smallest white peaks. A scene so beautiful it is hard to imagine anything bad could happen here. Pale wisps of cloud stretch themselves along the sky, which looks to almost shimmer in a heat haze. It is too bright though, the vista almost painful, and she must avert her eyes after a while, as though she is a child too scared to look any longer.
Above all, she wishes it was September or October already, when all the crowds will have thinned, the narrow streets will be quieter. The sun will be lower, the colours softer, the light less harsh. The renovation might be nearly finished by then and she can come here on her own and just be. Without Tobias. Without the kids.
Taking out her phone, she types out a hasty message.
How are things at the house? Just want it to be finished. Please can we do everything to make that happen asap?
A response comes soon afterwards, vibrating in her hand.
Don’t worry. I’m on it.
