Last Guests of the Season by Sue Gee Read Free Book Online

coming out of the sitting-room, nodding towards the ridge opposite the terrace, across the mountain road. ‘There’re only two or three houses up there.’ He dropped a folder on the table and pulled back a chair. ‘You might like to have a look at this,’ he went on, indicating the folder. ‘Notes about the area and stuff. Some of it’s written by the owners, but it seems to have been added to by guests from time to time.’ He leaned forward, and picked up the wine bottle, holding it questioningly above Oliver’s glass.
    Oliver nodded, moving the glass towards him. ‘Thanks. Who are the owners?’
    â€˜He’s an architect, I think. We’ve never met them, we just answered an ad in the Independent. They sound nice enough in their letters.’ He put down the bottle. ‘You must help yourself – it comes with the house. The cellar’s packed; I should’ve taken you down there this morning. Still, plenty of time.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
    â€˜Cheers.’ Oliver reached for the folder and flipped it open. A couple of postcards fell out, and landed on the tiles; he bent to retrieve them, cathedral interiors.
    â€˜That’s an hour or so’s drive from here,’ said Robert, ‘but it’s rather good, worth a visit. We might do a trip one day, if you and Frances feel like it.’
    â€˜I’m sure we will.’ Oliver slipped back the cards. He turned the pages, some typed, some handwritten, others with more postcards pasted on, and began to read.
    Robert sipped his red wine, and watched him: a man with whom he was about to spend a fortnight, a man he barely knew – who, indeed, he had never even met until one Saturday evening a couple of months ago, when he and Claire had driven from leafy Crouch End to leafier Muswell Hill, invited for supper by Claire’s old friend from Bristol.
    They drew up outside a tall Victorian house in a quiet road off the hill. Early summer evening sunshine streamed through the trees; someone a few doors along was singing near an open window. They locked the car, feeling it almost unnecessary, and walked up to Frances, and Oliver’s front door, painted a velvety green, with polished brass.
    â€˜All very nice,’ said Robert, holding the Beaujolais, looking about him. ‘A little too nice, perhaps?’
    â€˜Stop it.’ Claire was ringing the upper bell. They waited, ready to smile.
    Footsteps came running down the stairs, and the door was opened by Frances, in black linen trousers and cream silk sleeveless shirt. Claire kissed her, sensing that tense and edgy manner once again, and introduced Robert; they followed her up the stairs. Inside the flat, in a large, sash-windowed sitting-room, a tall man was standing at bookshelves with his back to them.
    â€˜Oliver?’ said Frances.
    He turned as they all came into the room, but not immediately. There was, for a perceptible moment or two, a silence which threatened a difficult evening, a silence in which Robert unhesitatingly transferred himself and Claire out into the car again and home, to a startled babysitter, supper in the garden and an early night for once. Or they could take advantage of the babysitter and go out for a meal, just the two of them. God, that would be a relief.
    Frances was making introductions: he brought himself back in a hurry. Oliver was greeting them, shaking hands, offering drinks, taking the Beaujolais with thanks. He was almost as dark as Claire, with thick curly hair, and wore glasses, heavily rimmed. He towered over all of them, and as he poured drinks and handed them round he became, unequivocally, the perfect host, as if that perceptible silence had never been.
    They sat down on comfortable sofas, their feet on lovely rugs; they admired the room, with its watercolours, its one or two oils, the windows with the trees beyond catching the evening sun, the shelves of art books, novels,