Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [83]
James drove slowly down into the town, prepared to savour every moment. On the outskirts, he received his first shock. There was a large housing estate—a grubby, depressed-looking housing estate. With rising anxiety, he motored on into the town. He had booked them rooms at the Palace Hotel, which he remembered as an endearingly grand Edwardian building facing the sea and the pier. Oh, that wonderful theatre at the end of the pier where his parents had taken him with his sister to watch vaudeville shows.
As he headed for the sea front, he saw that all the little shops that used to sell things like ice cream and postcards had been replaced by chain stores. The main street that ran parallel to the sea front had been widened and was full of traffic. He longed now to reach the genteel relaxation of the Palace. He edged through a snarl of traffic. On the front, the black and grey sea heaved angrily, sending up plumes of spray. There was the pier, but the part where the theatre had been had fallen into the sea.
He parked in front of the Palace and waited for someone to rush out and take their suitcases. No one appeared. There was a flashing neon sign at the side that said, “ar ark,” two of the necessary letters having rusted away. He drove in. Agatha was ominously silent. He heaved their cases out of the boot and began to trundle them round to the front of the hotel.
Inside, James checked them in. In his youth, the staff had worn smart uniforms. But it was a languid, pallid girl with a nose stud who checked the reservations.
Separate rooms, thought Agatha. I might have known it. There was no porter, so James had to lug the suitcases into the lift. “You’re in room 20,” he said brightly. “Here’s your key.” No modem plastic cards at the Palace. The only relic of the old days lay in the large brass key he handed to Agatha.
She took it from him silently. He unlocked the door for her. “See you downstairs in about—what—an hour?”
“Sure,” said Agatha. She wheeled her case into the room and shut the door on him.
She sat down on the bed and looked around at the dilapidated room. Rain rattled against the window and the wind moaned like a banshee.
Agatha wondered what to do. Common sense told her to ring down for a taxi and get the hell out of Snoth-on-Sea. Fantasy told her that the weather might change and the sun might shine and James and she would get married again.
Fantasy won.
But the one bit of common sense left urged her to get some warm clothes. In the main street, she had noticed a shop which sold country wear. Glad that she had worn a coat for the journey, she went downstairs. At least they had some umbrellas for guests in a stand by the door. She took one and battled against the wind round the comer and into the main street. In the shop, she bought warm trousers and socks, a green Barbour coat and a rain hat. Then she went into a department store next door and bought several pairs of plain white knickers to replace the sexy flimsy things she had brought with her, and a cheap pair of serviceable walking shoes.
She carried her purchases back to the hotel and changed into a sweater and trousers, warm socks and the walking shoes, and went down to the bar.
James was sitting at a table in the comer of the bar, looking out at the heaving sea. Piped music was playing in the bar. Agatha sat down opposite him and said, “I would like a stiff gin and tonic.”
James signalled to a waitress, who took the order with a look on her pasty face as if he had just insulted her. When her drink arrived—no ice and a tired bit of lemon—Agatha took a fortifying swig and opened her mouth to blast him.
But he disarmed her by saying ruefully, “I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I’m sorry. It used to be a magical place for me. It was so quiet and peaceful. This hotel used to be so grand with an orchestra playing in the evenings. Look at it now! Because I came here as a child, I suppose I only remembered the sunny