Page 65 of Things We Never Said
‘Really?’
‘Oh, I know it’s pretty and cultural and everything. But we got ripped off everywhere we turned. We ate horrible overpriced food, got woken up at eight by a building site and managed to queue for a whole morning to get into a museum where we couldn’t even see the walls for Chinese tourists.’
‘The Uffizi?’
‘That’s the one. I’m sure we were just unlucky. But ... anyway, Siena, as I say, was gorgeous.’
Sean glances regretfully at a double scull whizzing along the river. ‘We could rent a rowing boat or a punt, I suppose,’ he says. ‘If they’re open. What time do you have to be back?’
Maggie shrugs. ‘We could,’ she says. ‘I haven’t been on a punt for years.’
They continue towards the town centre, past Midsummer Common, then diagonally across Jesus Green, and by the time they get to Scudamore’s, the employee is just opening up shop.
‘You first,’ Maggie says, clambering on board once the formalities have been done. ‘I need to get my sea legs working.’ And so, barefooted, trouser legs rolled, Sean pushes off.
His ankles go into a kind of spasm, making the boat shudder from side to side and inducing a fit of giggles on Maggie’s part.
‘I think it’s always like this to start with,’ he says, frowning with concentration. ‘It’ll get better. You’ll see.’
‘Hey,’ Maggie says, ‘if you’re still dry, you’re doing OK in my book.’
Soon enough, Sean has settled into the rhythm of it and the punt is gliding upriver. ‘See, I knew I’d remember,’ he says.
‘God, this is the life,’ Maggie says as the same boat they saw before whizzes past in the other direction. ‘Much better than being slave-driven in a rowing boat. This is exactly my kind of exercise.’
‘Don’t get too smug,’ Sean tells her. ‘You’re punting back.’
He pauses to remove his jacket, which he throws to Maggie, who puts it over her shoulders. ‘... a bit chilly,’ she says. ‘But then it’s only just past nine.’
‘Toasty-warm up this end,’ Sean comments, wiping sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve.
‘Such a whinger,’ Maggie jokes. She points towards a block of staggered apartments on the riverbank ahead and says, ‘That’s one of yours, isn’t it?’
Sean follows her gaze and nods. ‘Probably the nicest thing I ever designed,’ he says. ‘Do you remember the sliding-out kitchen business?’
‘I can’t say I do,’ Maggie admits. ‘Was it good?’
‘About the only time anyone’s ever let me do any interior design,’ Sean says. ‘It was brilliant. We should have patented it.’
‘You should think yourself lucky,’ Maggie says. ‘I do miss the old days at Nicholson-Wallace, you know. At Wainbridge’s we never seem to do anything more exciting than bloody verandas these days.’
‘Yeah, I noticed that. They’re not exactly picky, are they?’
‘No,’ Maggie says. ‘Not picky at all. Still, a job’s a job, eh?’ She raises her hand and points. ‘That one’s got a “For Sale” sign – look! You should buy it and cook curries in your patented kitchen.’
Sean laughs.
‘Why are you laughing? I’m serious.’
‘Well, I’ve designed at least thirty buildings like that, but I still couldn’t afford a one-bed flat in there.’
‘I’ll bet you could,’ Maggie says. ‘Your place must be worth a bomb by now. Those town-centre places have rocketed.’
‘I’ll bet you I couldn’t. You’re talking at least half a million for one of those.’ Sean stops punting and bends over, visibly out of breath. ‘Not as fit as I was,’ he says. ‘D’you want a go?’
‘I thought I was doing the easy bit, on the way home,’ Maggie says. ‘It’s a boy’s job punting upriver. You know it is.’
‘Oh, come on, Mags. I’m knackered.’
