Free A Shock to the System by Simon Brett Page A

decision, it did not seem forced. Graham, for whom constant comparison with his rival was becoming a habit, felt himself by contrast tense and unnatural.
    The communal day began round ten with a large breakfast. The time Tara spent in America showed in the frizzled bacon, pancakes and scalding black coffee.
    Then came the brief tour of the estate, including the identification of the paddock as a potential helipad. Work was not mentioned, though Robert had to take a couple of calls which obviously concerned the affairs of Crasoco. One of the calls involved his checking some facts stored on the office computer and Graham tried to keep his mouth from gaping as Robert produced a small briefcase, dialled through on the telephone, set the receiver on two rubber pads and had the information printed out. ‘Bit of a lash-up,’ the younger man apologised when the transaction was complete. ‘I’m going to get a proper terminal rigged up when I have a moment.’
    Graham gave what he hoped was a knowing nod. Then there was a call from Tara’s London agent.
    After that, Robert switched on the Ansaphone and drove them down to the local pub. ‘Feel lost if I don’t get my Saturday lunchtime drinking,’ he announced as they set off. It seemed out of character, an unexpected heartiness; maybe, Graham hoped maliciously, an overconscious attempt at being a man of the people.
    But no. At the pub Robert was obviously well-known, more than a weekender imposing himself on a rural community. He seemed to have a social mix of friends, with whom three rounds of drinks were consumed. Graham, having missed earlier cues, offered to buy the fourth round, insisting that he felt like another. Few of the group wanted more, but having made his statement, he felt obliged to buy himself a fourth pint, along with the couple of halves that were all the others demanded.
    Four pints were more than he was accustomed to and more than he wanted, but he had committed himself. Half-way through the fourth he had to go and pee, which felt like another admission of failure.
    When they left the pub, Robert, who seemed unaffected by the alcohol, said they’d drop Tara off at the cottage. ‘She’d better start cooking. Doing her Chinese number for us tonight.’
    They, meanwhile, would go down to Bosham and have a look at ‘the boat’.
    When Tara was dropped, Graham felt obliged to go into the cottage for another pee, and had to ask his driver to stop twice more on the way down to the boat’s mooring so that he could relieve himself by the roadside. Robert made no comment, but Graham had a feeling of points lost.
    There was no nouveau riche hesitancy about Robert’s dealings with the boat. He clearly knew about sailing and the knowledge was not a recent acquisition.
    First they went to the quay and got into a rubber dinghy, which Robert rowed expertly round to the mooring. The slapping of water gave Graham an unpleasant queasiness in the stomach.
    Robert kept up a flow of sailing information to which his guest only half listened. He knew nothing about boats and had never had much interest in them.
    â€˜Hope to get a deep water mooring in time,’ the expert confided. ‘Have to watch the tides here, she’s grounded when it’s low.’
    Graham nodded.
    â€˜Tide’s ebbing now, so we can’t take her out. Have to wait too long to get back on the mooring. We’d miss Tara’s Chinese magic. Sorry.’
    Graham, in whom the queasiness was shifting over to nausea, said he didn’t mind.
    â€˜Tomorrow morning, though, with a bit of luck. If we make an early start. I just wanted to come down today and check everything’s shipshape. Boatyard had her out for an overhaul.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    â€˜Not that these fibreglass hulls need much maintenance. Just needed a bit of refitting.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜There she is.’
    He pointed ahead. The boat was called