Love on the Rocks Read Free Page A

the crowns of international conglomerates, developments that represented the status of the entrepreneurs whose businesses they housed. He foresaw awards and accolades; respect and awe; waiting lists . . .
    Reality was somewhat different. He graduated with an underwhelming second-class degree. The world he had moved into was tough, competitive, and he hadn’t lived up to his original promise. Too much partying, maybe. Together with a lack of ruthlessness. An inability to think laterally and provide the spark of originality needed to make him stand out from the rest.
    And so now here he was, not someone whose name was bandied about in hushed, reverent tones, but a salaried hack worrying about disabled access; wrangling with the local council over green-field and brown-field and change of use; bartering with them over low-cost housing and mixed development, which he knew meant pleasing no one. Colin’s accident epitomized how he had found himself repeatedly compromised and unable to follow his heart, penned in by policies and red tape and EEC directives. It was the last straw.
    George knew that, on closer analysis, he was being rather a spoilt brat. In most people’s eyes, he would be perceived as successful. His job allowed for quite a few nice lunches, and being dragged round a golf course occasionally. His salary was generous. He found the job easy, if tedious. What was there to moan about?
    As he finally made his way past the roadworks that had amplified the Friday traffic jam, and sped up Lansdown Hill, he came to the conclusion that what he wanted was freedom. Freedom to make his own decisions. Creative freedom that wasn’t held in check by the whims of bureaucracy. Where he was going to find that, God only knew. George knew he’d be tempting fate by jumping ship – especially when he didn’t have another ship to jump to. But today’s events highlighted the fact that he owed it to himself to make a decision. Put up and shut up. Or take a risk. And one thing he did know. This was his last chance. He was soon going to be nearer to forty than thirty. Only just, but that made him no spring chicken. If he didn’t make a bid for freedom now, he would be trapped for ever.
    By three thirty he had reached his house. Amazingly, there was a parking space not far down the road – one of the benefits of coming home earlier than usual. By the time he got back the spaces were usually taken up and he often had to park two or three streets away. He reversed neatly into the space, knowing that it had probably been vacated by a mother on the school run who would spit tacks when she got back and found it gone.
    The house was in a terrace of Georgian houses that were typical of Bath. The street was by no means as grand as the gracious proportions of the Royal Crescent only a few hundred yards away – the most prestigious address in Bath and one George had long aspired to, but that was definitely out of reach. He consoled himself that the houses there were far too large for a single man, and he wouldn’t have wanted a mere flat. He’d bought the house in Northampton Street when he’d moved from Bristol five years ago, and it had been badly in need of some tender loving care. Over the years he had given it just that, restoring it to its former glory, obsessively replacing the period detail but at the same time incorporating mod cons. The project had taken up most of his spare time and a large proportion of his wallet, but now he was safe in the knowledge that he had an immaculately restored home that purchasers would be falling over themselves to buy.
    He opened the pale grey-green front door, deactivated the essential CCTV and burglar alarm that was sadly all too necessary, even in supposedly genteel Bath, and made his way through into the kitchen. Sparkling stainless-steel appliances were softened by the lustrous cherrywood of the units, built square and no-nonsense and chunky with outsize bun handles and topped with a high-gloss