Free Love on the Rocks by Veronica Henry Page B

English implied something generous and satisfying, Bruno knew it consisted of a shrivelled piece of bacon, a slender sausage, a tinned tomato and a spoonful of watery scrambled egg. He sighed and walked back through the foyer to the receptionist.
    There was no doubt about it, things had slipped badly. He hadn’t kept on top of the hotel at all. Looking around it now, he couldn’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would want to stay there – apart from the staggering view, of course. It was tired, old-fashioned, dreary. Until recently, he’d been able to get away with it. But people expected more these days. Facilities. Luxury. Design. Skin peels and seaweed wraps, fresh mango for breakfast and Wi-Fi in every bedroom. Not eighties chintz curtains and a portable telly.
    The bookings spoke for themselves. According to the Mariscombe tourist board, they were inundated with requests for accommodation and made hundreds of bookings on behalf of people eager to indulge in the currently fashionable British bucket-and-spade holiday. But analysis showed it was young families heading for self-catering apartments, or overworked couples keen to de-stress by indulging in the myriad physical activities the coastline offered: surfing, kite-flying, walking, kayaking, paragliding – the opportunities were endless. For what it offered, the Mariscombe Hotel was expensive, and didn’t pass muster. It was a dinosaur, redolent of a bygone era. Its very atmosphere sapped your energy. It just didn’t appeal to the new breed of visitors. They didn’t want three-course dinners in a stuffy, formal dining room. They wanted casual suppers where they could sit down with a beer or a glass of wine, unwind and enjoy the view.
    Bruno ran an expert eye around the foyer. The furnishings and the fixtures were all heavy and old-fashioned; the air was stale. The occasional guest crawled through en route to morning coffee on the terrace. Two or three others sat behind the Telegraph by the fireplace. Outside, a wintry sun shone, valiantly attempting to lure the inhabitants of the hotel into its rays.
    Bruno knew he only had himself to blame. He’d deliberately stayed away from Mariscombe over the past two years, apart from the occasional duty visit to his parents, when he’d slipped in and out of the village unannounced. But he couldn’t bury his head in the sand any longer. If he carried on neglecting the hotel it would start to fall down around his ears. And it should be the jewel in his crown. It was a prime piece of real estate, the best position in the village. He owed it to himself, and to Mariscombe, to restore it to its rightful place before it became a laughing stock. Before he lost so much money that he wasn’t in a position to do anything positive, and the decision-making process was taken out of his hands.
    He walked behind the reception desk and settled himself down at the computer. There were no staff in evidence, but Bruno was familiar with the system. He clicked rapidly on the mouse, moving the cursor over the bookings for the next three months, muttering softly under his breath as he did some rapid mental arithmetic, his brows drawing further and further together. The advance bookings were even more dire than he had imagined. He knew that people’s holiday habits had changed, and that they were leaving it later and later to book in order to assess the weather or take advantage of late deals, but even taking that into consideration, surely by now there should be a healthy sprinkling of rooms taken up?
    Bruno picked up a nearby pencil with ‘The Mariscombe Hotel’ stamped in gold along its length, and started doing sums on the back of a brochure. If there was one thing Bruno was good at, it was thinking on his feet. Working as a bond trader in his twenties had given him the power of his convictions; the ability to put his head on the chopping block and stand by his decisions. He’d missed that thrill recently. Now he was an