Chapter 38
Tobias is sitting in the gardens, slumped in one of the hotel’s easy chairs.
He is vaguely aware of a crick in his neck, the itch of an insect bite, and pain.
Pain in his head, which throbs in the particularly insistent way only champagne can induce.
Typical, he thinks. Always the way when he overdoes it on the fizz.
Like nectar going in, poison coming out.
And he is so parched, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth like a dried slug.
He does not want to open his eyes yet, does not want to commit to the idea of having to rouse himself, to take himself off to bed.
The garden is quiet. There are few, if any, people about as far as his senses can tell.
The staff has discreetly left him to pass out and sleep off the evening’s excesses.
And obviously his dear wife and children have abandoned him.
He remembers Bella and Drew drifting off to meet friends in the town and Olivia saying something about a threatening migraine that she was going to swerve by heading up to the room to lie down.
‘And please don’t bowl in stinking of alcohol and wake me when you come up.
You can sleep on the sofa,’ she had warned him.
The rest of the night’s festivities are a bit of a blur.
The fireworks had been a highlight, albeit viewed through glassy eyes so that they were more of a hazy shimmer, as though he were somehow insulated from the bangs and fizzes.
He had spent a good deal of time chatting to a few other guests while also trying to find that architect of his for a tête-à-tête.
There was something bothering him and he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Something to do with what Marcus had said earlier, about his youth.
A bell that had rung in his head but had soon been silenced by a fug of alcohol.
He slowly peels his eyelids open and looks at the empty garden. The staff must have quietly worked, cleaning up around him, while he slept. All the litter, the stained tablecloths, the discarded napkins, the torn paper lanterns have been tidied away and the austere elegance of the grounds restored.
Tobias struggles to pinpoint what time it is.
The sky is still dark but he feels like he has been out of it for an age.
Or is it just an hour or so? Impossible to tell.
He finds a bottle of water – perhaps left strategically beside his chair by a thoughtful member of staff – and drinks deeply, trying to ignore the tide of nausea that washes over him.
Patting down his clothes, he locates his phone.
It has fallen out of his pocket at some point and lies on the grass.
Good job there are no ne’er-do-wells about, he thinks.
It would surely have gone for a burton, if so.
He stares at the phone screen, willing his blurred vision to focus long enough for him to tell the time.
Just after half past one, he reads. Not so very late after all then.
He attempts to heave himself up out of the chair. He will try not to disturb the others as he sheds his clothes and dosses down on the sofa in the lounge but he is going to have the mother of all hangovers tomorrow. Today, he corrects himself. It is now Sunday after all.
They are supposed to be returning to London soon.
Perhaps he should wait a few more days, see about extending his booking.
Or sending Livvy and the kids back without him while he stays on a bit longer to oversee things at the house.
The renovation is still at a delicate stage and so much tied up in it. He can’t let things slide now.
He girds his loins and stands, his knees registering a creaking sound, his head protesting further at the movement.
He steadies himself with a hand on a nearby table and then staggers across the lawn and into the hotel side entrance, which is thankfully still unlocked.
Nodding at the night manager sitting at reception, he hauls himself upstairs, hoping against hope that he can find his key card in his wallet.
After a moment of tussling with the lock, he lets himself in.
All is quiet in the cool, dark atmosphere of the suite. He listens out for the sounds of life, quiet snoring or sleepy mumbling from his family. But there is nothing. He fumbles with his clothes, struggles for a minute to remove his shoes and falls gratefully on to the chaise longue.
Trying to get comfortable, he tosses and turns.
Thoughts crowd into his pounding head; Drew’s ear piercings, Olivia’s decision to start a business, Belle’s cigarette butts at the building site, whether he has stretched himself too far with this renovation, if the insurance is as comprehensive as it needs to be.
He grunts. Is his cholesterol really an issue, as Livvy says it is? Does she still love him, want him? Do his children respect and admire him? Should he get another glass of water, try to find a paracetamol? And then a name that advances and recedes in his mind, evading capture: Susie Freeman.
Tobias is finally dozing off, his limbs loosening, the spinning of the room slowing and his thoughts subsiding, when he hears it.
A loud bang, like a gunshot echoing against the cliffs.
It rebounds around the bay, reaching his ears even in this secluded hotel and grounds.
It makes him jump, despite his addled state.
Whatever could it be? But then he puts it down to a distant car backfiring.
Some of these kids round here drive motorbikes and suchlike with ridiculously noisy engines and ostentatious exhausts.
He turns over, tries for sleep again. But then he hears the persistent ringing of an alarm.
Who on earth would set an alarm for Sunday morning?
It must be a mistake. He grapples with a hand to find the source, to silence it before it can disturb the others.
But then the peeling, Doppler-like sound pierces his consciousness as he identifies it is a siren.
Has someone set off the hotel fire alarm?
He sits up. No, it would be going off here in the room, out in the corridor.
Or is it an especially loud car alarm that has been triggered in the night somehow?
He listens. But no, this is different; distant but recognisable.
Emergency services. The police or ambulance or fire, who knows, but there are several sirens now, coalescing, becoming louder as they scream their way through the hushed streets of the resort.
He gets up, walks to the window and pulls back the drapes.
Of course, they have one of the best views from their suite.
They have paid for it after all, and it affords a wide sweep of the bay, day and night.
Tobias looks and looks. He didn’t know sirens were allowed after hours.
Something serious must have happened to require this disturbance.
Maybe there are still some revellers afoot in the town, up to no good.
Then he sees it. An orange glow mushrooming in the black sky.
A fire. A significant one, too. He hopes it will be contained, brought under control. It could be nasty.
Briefly, he wonders if he shouldn’t pull his clothes back on and go down, investigate, see if he can help out.
But it looks like the local fire brigade is on it and the townspeople will no doubt be pulling together.
They’re quite a close-knit, community-minded lot round here, as he well knows.
And this is nothing really to do with him, he decides.
A thought occurs to him then. That he doesn’t really care at all about this place, these people.
As long as he and his are all okay, it doesn’t really matter.
At this, he walks into the main bedroom to check on Olivia.
But the bed is empty. It hasn’t even been slept in.
His mind stalls, trying to assimilate this.
He is so tired and so hungover but a spike of fear shoots through him, sobering and invigorating.
Why would Olivia still be out at this time?
He glances at his watch again. It’s only just gone 2a.m. Where could she possibly be when the celebrations are over, the town centre closed and all asleep?
And then he strides into the other rooms. Both Bella’s and Drew’s beds are dark and abandoned too.
He sits down on the edge of one of the beds, his legs suddenly weak.
He is being a fool, no doubt. His sloshed brain working overtime and jumping to the worst conclusion.
The kids said they would be joining their friends, after all.
It’s not that late. There will be a party going on somewhere, perhaps down on the beach, beside the glowing embers of the remnant bonfire.
Perhaps Olivia woke refreshed, her headache gone, and decided to join them.
She always was a bit of a free spirit back in the day and he can half imagine her dancing on the sand now, smoking a roll-up, hair flying, her eyes bright in the reflected flames.
And then he thinks about another fire, the recent sirens, the fact that the whole of his family is currently unaccounted for.
He lurches back to the sofa, tugs on his clothes, finds his phone.
He tries to call them each, in turn. Olivia, Bella, Drew.
But they do not pick up, the calls either going straight through to answer machine or spooling out ignored, as though he is pointlessly shouting into a void.