Beryl Bainbridge opened our Hay relay story yesterday with chapter one.
Chapter Two:
"Did you see that?" said Maria, as she and George stepped out into the hotel garden. "The fat guy was wearing a designer suit. Kenzo, I'd guess. But he was using the sleeve like a handkerchief. To wipe away what? Lipstick?"
"God knows," said George. "Who cares, anyway? I wish you'd leave people's lives alone."
Maria and George walked along a decking pathway to the beach. They did this every night: they went and stared at the sea, before returning to their room. It was a moment which George savoured; it seemed to be the only time in their day when Maria stopped pointing things out to him, when she wasn't staring and commenting and criticising.
He looked at her now, in the near darkness, standing very still, with her arms folded across her breasts, wisps of her dark hair lifted by the onshore breeze. She was still beautiful. Or almost-beautiful. She was what people called a 'fine-looking woman'. But George knew how completely indifferent to her he had become. The truth was, she wearied him. Though he should have been happy to be here, in this expensive, exclusive place, he was not. He would have preferred to be in his office in London - with Maria miles away from him, on the other side of the city, writing her ridiculous books in her garish, untidy room.
