The Two Week Wait by Sarah Rayner Read Free Book Online Page B

senses. Down here she feels a thousand miles from the seaside resort of dirty postcards and Day-Glo
rock, drag queens and dubious assignations. And yet she loves this Brighton as much as, if not more than, its alter ego. The elements are what give the place its gravitas ; they remind the
inhabitants they mustn’t go too wild, get too big for their boots, for they are, after all, only humans perched on the edge of the ocean, and the sea is bigger and more powerful than any of
them.
    She digs her hands deep into the pebbles, feels the cool round hardness against her fingers; recalls the earth, soft and malleable by contrast, of her father’s grave. And she thinks yet
again of Anna’s question: does she want children, really ? She can’t stop mulling it over. If her father’s death, then witnessing that of Karen’s husband Simon, has
made Lou understand something of the fragility of life, this recent operation has forced her to confront her own mortality, and alongside it the nature of her being, her womanhood. Sitting here on
the beach brings home to her why she wants to be a mother; she wants to be part of the earth, the cycle of things, to help give meaning to her place on the planet.
    *  *  *
    Rich opens the door of the hotel suite. Cath steps inside, he follows.
    ‘Bit posher than home,’ he says.
    ‘That’s an understatement.’ She paces the carpet, a lioness exploring new territory. She runs her fingertips over the cool glass of the coffee table, strokes the velvet of the
sofa and the heavy silk brocade of the curtains.
    ‘My colleague George puts so many clients up here, he got us a special deal, just for tonight.’
    She circles the suite again – it must be twice the size of their bedroom in Leeds – then returns to the window, slides open the double doors and steps out onto the balcony. The night
is notably warmer than it has been in Yorkshire; the tightly packed buildings trap the heat, and the air-con units on neighbouring rooftops doubtless contribute, too. It’s a strange vista: a
mixture of chimney pots and TV aerials, fire escapes and the backs of theatres; not exactly Covent Garden at its most beautiful. It reminds Cath of an article she saw in a magazine, where two
photographs were placed side by side. One showed the front of a model: tall, slim, elegant, hair immaculately styled, clothes fitting like a dream. Alongside was the same model in the same outfit,
but this time from the rear, revealing the back of the dress pinned by a dozen bulldog clips to make it fit her, hair a ghastly tangle, shoes too big and clearly uncomfortable. Here she can see the
machinery behind the myth-making, what it takes for the capital to put on its show for the people at street level.
    Rich interrupts her thoughts. ‘Have you seen this?’
    She steps back inside but she can’t see her husband anywhere. Maybe he’s hiding behind the drapes of the four-poster.
    ‘I’m in here.’
    She follows his voice to the bathroom.
    ‘Wow.’ The walls are floor-to-ceiling caramel marble; there’s more beneath her feet. The lights, the mirrors, the taps, the toothbrush holder – every fixture oozes
luxury. The shower-head is the size of a dinner plate.
    ‘Quite something, eh?’
    ‘You’re telling me.’
    ‘George did say he sends all his prima donna stars here.’
    ‘The size of that tub!’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘And don’t you just love the way hotels do this with towels?’ She fingers the soft downy row. ‘Why can’t we ever get ours lined up like that?’
    ‘Love, if you ever did anything so pathological, I’d have to leave you.’
    ‘Says the man who never picks his up off the floor.’
    ‘Anyway. Fancy a bath, madam?’ He bows with a manservant flourish.
    ‘Madam might be persuaded.’ She lifts her nose, mock prim.
    ‘Together?’ He raises an eyebrow, teasing.
    ‘Be rude not to.’
    While Rich sets the water running and gauges the temperature, Cath locates a bottle of bath oil and