Page 9 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“So have Ben and Robyn. Santa’s going to need an extra-large sleigh if they get half of what they’re asking for. Still, I expect we were the same — Tracy Island, My Little Pony . . .”
“Ah, those were the days! Anyway, I managed to get a couple of things I wanted. A new coat for Noah for school — that boy’s just shooting up! And a cute little winter onesie for Kyra. It’s yellow teddy-bear fur, with teddy-bear ears and a teddy-bear face on the tummy!”
“I’ll turf out those school trousers for Noah if you like. Ben hardly wore them — he grew out of them so quickly. Ah, thanks, my luvver,” Julia added as Luke brought their drinks over and sat down beside her.
Jess thanked Luke and sipped her drink, letting herself absorb the atmosphere of the pub. It was very different to the pub she and Glenn had usually drunk in — that was at least three times the size of this place. The wood had all been an ugly yellowish veneer, and the floor was covered in a lurid red-and-green carpet that was sticky when you walked on it.
It had always been busy, noisy, with a young crowd and music that was too loud to hear yourself think. And she had usually been with Glenn and his mates from the motorbike club, talking about the relative merits of mechanical slide or CV carburettors, struggles with changing out oil filters and great runs to Pendine Sands.
It felt . . . odd not to be with Glenn. He had always been the loudest, the centre of the group, sometimes a little overpowering. Good-looking too. She had always been aware that other women were attracted to him, were envious of her for being with him.
But . . . she had often felt uncomfortable. Especially after having twice found out about him messaging women online,quite possibly meeting up with them. Quite possibly for sex. Quite possibly with any of the women in the pub.
Here . . . She had a feeling she could be much happier.
* * *
Paul Channing parked his car on the gravel hard standing in front of his house at the top of Cliff Road. He leaned back in the comfortable leather seat, closing his eyes to relax for a moment. It had been a long drive from Manchester, though the Aston Martin ate up the miles as if it was riding on silk.
But it had been a productive trip. The start of each football season brought in a new crop of eager young players earning more than they could ever have dreamed of, with no idea what to do with it. Having been there himself he knew what that was like, and they trusted him.
When he’d signed his first professional contract, at seventeen, he’d felt invincible, as if his career would go on for ever. But wiser heads had warned him that the bubble could burst at any time, and he’d been sensible enough to listen. And he’d found that he had as much flair for picking good investments as he had for scoring goals.
By the time he’d retired from the game, fourteen years later, forced out by an aggravating knee injury, he’d had a very successful portfolio and a growing group of fellow players asking for his advice. So he’d gained legal authorisation and set himself up as an investment consultant.
Now he had a client list of several dozen footballers, plus a few tennis players and athletes. All of them had come to him through recommendations from his old teammates.
And his second string — commentating on matches, writing a newspaper column or occasionally sitting as a pundit on the regional match-day sports programme — was going pretty well too.
Yes, life was good.
He climbed out of the car, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his cashmere overcoat, and strolled across the road to the rough stone wall to stand gazing out across the bay.
Some of his mates in the game had thought he was slightly mad to tuck himself away down here, in a mid-Victorian townhouse overlooking a pretty seaside village in South Devon, instead of buying a swanky apartment in Chelsea Harbour or a mansion in Hertfordshire.
Well, this was much of the reason — the sea. Summer was ending — it would be winter soon. The wind was blowing in cold from the North Atlantic, whipping up the waves into a fury.
He loved it when it was in this mood — wild and powerful, the waves really meaning business as they thumped against the cliffs below, sending up showers of spray.
Actually, he loved the sea in all its moods. Having been brought up right beside it, he got a weird kind of claustrophobia if he was away from it for too long. He wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
Drawing in a long, deep breath of the refreshing, salt-tanged air he turned and sauntered down the hill to the Esplanade.
* * *
Jess sipped her spritzer, listening to the conversation around the table.
“Liam got called out to look at one of the ponies up on the moor. Some bloody idiots wild camping up there had left one of those disposable barbeque trays behind, and the poor thing tried to lick it.”
“Oh no! Was it badly hurt?”
“Fortunately it wasn’t too bad, but it could have been very nasty.”
“I thought they were going to ban those things. They could start fires too.”
“They are banned, if the Rangers can catch them.”
“Shame they didn’t wander onto the firing range,” Luke remarked fiercely. “Or fall into one of the bogs.”
