Read Online Let's Call the Whole Thing Off by Jill Steeples - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jill Steeples
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invited you to share in their happiness as they walked along the front holding hands, eating ice creams and taking in the wonderful scenery. It was a reminder that there was happiness to be had outside the confines of my sad little life back in London. This was a different way of life, one I could definitely get used to, I thought later as I sat on a bench on the pier eating my own ice cream and feeling a snatch of something that wasn’t pure bloody misery. Something that filled me with a smidgeon of hope and for that I was entirely grateful.
I would need to find somewhere to stay, but that didn’t look to be a problem. I’d passed loads of guest houses and hotels on the ways with vacancies. And money wasn’t an issue not with 10k burning a hole in my pocket. I looked up and saw a poster on the wrought-iron railings.
Tonight – Live Music– at the Hollybush – The Breaknecks 8.00 p.m
. So that was the rest of my day sorted. I would find somewhere to stay and then tonight I’d go out on the town.
***
There were lots of lovely-looking small and reasonably priced places to stay in the back streets of Hollisea but in the end I plumped for the 5-star Grand View Hotel bang in the centre of the town. This wasn’t the time to be slumming it, not in my delicate state of my mind. No, what I needed was a bit of comfort and luxury. And the Grand View seemed to be the hotel best equipped to supply those in bucket loads. And they weren’t lying about the view either. It was magnificent. The floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows gave an endless vista of blue sea and blue sky. If the worse came to the worse and it poured with rain for the rest of the week, then I knew I’d be happy to be holed up in this room, watching the telly and partaking of the mini-bar.
‘Is there anything else you need, madam?’ asked the porter as he hovered by the door having expertly delivered my holdall to the suitcase rack. My scuffed and worn sports bag looked woefully out of place amongst the understated luxury of the hotel bedroom. I felt like explaining I had a matching set of posh luggage at home but it had been seconded for honeymoon duty, only I thought better of it.
‘Would it be possible to have a bottle of Prosecco?’ I said airily, as though this was a common enough request from me in such establishments.
‘Of course. I’ll get one sent up for you.’
‘Actually, make that a bottle of your finest champagne,’ I said, waving my hand in the air in a theatrical gesture. ‘I’m celebrating! I’m getting married this weekend.’
‘Really. Well, many congratulations, madam!’ he said with a genuine smile.
‘Yes, well, thank you,’ I said, grinning like an idiot, but feeling desperately sick to my stomach. I might be able to convince an unsuspecting porter that I was a blooming bride-to-be, but I was still no nearer to knowing if the wedding was actually going ahead.
As soon as he’d gone, I ran the bath, depositing the entire contents of all three bottles of bath gel into the water, before making myself a cup of tea – which I needed much more than I needed a glass of champagne at the moment – and helping myself to both packets of Viennese Whirl biscuits. I undressed, wrapped the big white fluffy robe around me and slipped my feet into the towelling slippers, then I flicked on the telly. I didn’t want to be disturbed in the bath so I lay down on the bed, waiting for room service to arrive, listening to the seagulls swooping outside, their calling gently soporific.
Ten minutes later when my champagne turned up resplendent in an ice bucket, I poured myself a glass of fizz – it would have been a shame to waste it – and took a very large sip. Then I refilled my glass and went and immersed myself in the bubbles. What a luxury. We didn’t have a bath at the flat, only a shower, so this was a rare and proper treat. I sighed, thinking about the flat that had been my home for most of my adult life. Whatever happened now,
I would need to find somewhere to stay, but that didn’t look to be a problem. I’d passed loads of guest houses and hotels on the ways with vacancies. And money wasn’t an issue not with 10k burning a hole in my pocket. I looked up and saw a poster on the wrought-iron railings.
Tonight – Live Music– at the Hollybush – The Breaknecks 8.00 p.m
. So that was the rest of my day sorted. I would find somewhere to stay and then tonight I’d go out on the town.
***
There were lots of lovely-looking small and reasonably priced places to stay in the back streets of Hollisea but in the end I plumped for the 5-star Grand View Hotel bang in the centre of the town. This wasn’t the time to be slumming it, not in my delicate state of my mind. No, what I needed was a bit of comfort and luxury. And the Grand View seemed to be the hotel best equipped to supply those in bucket loads. And they weren’t lying about the view either. It was magnificent. The floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows gave an endless vista of blue sea and blue sky. If the worse came to the worse and it poured with rain for the rest of the week, then I knew I’d be happy to be holed up in this room, watching the telly and partaking of the mini-bar.
‘Is there anything else you need, madam?’ asked the porter as he hovered by the door having expertly delivered my holdall to the suitcase rack. My scuffed and worn sports bag looked woefully out of place amongst the understated luxury of the hotel bedroom. I felt like explaining I had a matching set of posh luggage at home but it had been seconded for honeymoon duty, only I thought better of it.
‘Would it be possible to have a bottle of Prosecco?’ I said airily, as though this was a common enough request from me in such establishments.
‘Of course. I’ll get one sent up for you.’
‘Actually, make that a bottle of your finest champagne,’ I said, waving my hand in the air in a theatrical gesture. ‘I’m celebrating! I’m getting married this weekend.’
‘Really. Well, many congratulations, madam!’ he said with a genuine smile.
‘Yes, well, thank you,’ I said, grinning like an idiot, but feeling desperately sick to my stomach. I might be able to convince an unsuspecting porter that I was a blooming bride-to-be, but I was still no nearer to knowing if the wedding was actually going ahead.
As soon as he’d gone, I ran the bath, depositing the entire contents of all three bottles of bath gel into the water, before making myself a cup of tea – which I needed much more than I needed a glass of champagne at the moment – and helping myself to both packets of Viennese Whirl biscuits. I undressed, wrapped the big white fluffy robe around me and slipped my feet into the towelling slippers, then I flicked on the telly. I didn’t want to be disturbed in the bath so I lay down on the bed, waiting for room service to arrive, listening to the seagulls swooping outside, their calling gently soporific.
Ten minutes later when my champagne turned up resplendent in an ice bucket, I poured myself a glass of fizz – it would have been a shame to waste it – and took a very large sip. Then I refilled my glass and went and immersed myself in the bubbles. What a luxury. We didn’t have a bath at the flat, only a shower, so this was a rare and proper treat. I sighed, thinking about the flat that had been my home for most of my adult life. Whatever happened now,
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