Summer at the Lakeside Cabin. Catherine Ferguson

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       CHAPTER EIGHT

      We haven’t booked and the restaurant is full.

      All the waiter can suggest is that we have a drink in the bar and there will be a table for us at nine o’clock. Toby’s face falls and I decide not to point out that Clemmy offered to book us a table but he said he would sort it. Work, of course, got in the way …

      Toby looks at his watch. ‘That’s nearly a two-hour wait. Is there anywhere else around here we can eat?’

      I shake my head. ‘The nearest village, Appley Green, is ten miles away and I didn’t see a restaurant when we drove through earlier.’

      ‘Bloody countryside,’ mutters Toby, glaring down at his shoe, as if a rural cowpat was to blame, not wet cement. ‘At least in the city, everything’s just a phone call away.’

      He sighs, looking thoroughly exhausted, and I take his hand and say softly, ‘Why don’t we just go back and microwave the moussaka I brought?’

      He grimaces. ‘Don’t fancy it.’

      ‘Okay, well, we could get some basic stuff from Clemmy’s store cupboard, like she suggested?’

      He frowns. ‘Beans on toast?’

      I nod. ‘Beans, anyway. I’m not sure there’s a toaster.’

      He flicks his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Great.’

      Toby likes to sit down to a proper dinner – at least two courses – every night. So I can understand why a tin of beans isn’t exactly floating his boat. Especially when this is supposed to be his birthday week surprise!

      He sees my face and shakes his head. ‘It’s not your fault. I’ve just had a piss-awful day, that’s all. And I was looking forward to a nice meal.’ He shrugs. ‘But hey, that’s life.’

      He goes off to find the men’s toilets and I sink down onto a stylish burnt-orange sofa by the hotel’s reception desk.

       What a nightmare!

      It’s obvious Toby isn’t a huge fan of glamping or the countryside in general. We’ve spent all our time since we got together in the city. How was I to know Toby would be so ill at ease in the country?

      Now that I think about it, the warnings were there for me to see. On the odd occasion I’ve suggested going for a hike and a meal in a country pub, Toby has always thought of an alternative. The showing of a foreign film he’s wanted to see for a while. Or a visit to a museum. Actually, most of the time, our evenings are spent with him catching up on work while I cook dinner. Two courses at least. Obviously.

      Apparently, I’ve failed utterly with the glamping …

      Tears spring up from nowhere. I feel so defeated.

      A woman bustles into reception from somewhere within the hotel. She’s wearing a smart black suit that skims her generous curves and her blonde hair is scraped back in a severe bun. She glances at me over her dark-framed spectacles and I quickly blink to despatch the tears.

      ‘Can I help you, Madam?’ she asks.

      I struggle up from my slouched position and force a smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

      She gives me a thin smile, then approaches the girl behind the reception desk and they have a murmured conversation about a hotel guest needing special pillows. I notice she’s wearing a badge with ‘Manager’ on it.

      On her way past me, she stops and murmurs, ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you need?’

      I heave a sigh. ‘A table in the restaurant? So my boyfriend can have the birthday he deserves?’ I shrug and smile, as if to say: It’s no big deal.

      ‘Are we full?’

      I nod. ‘But really, it’s fine. It’s our fault for not booking a table.’ I must look really downhearted because her face relaxes into a sympathetic smile, her head tipped to one side.

      ‘Is it a special birthday?’

      I tell her it’s his thirtieth and she thinks for a second.

      ‘Let me see what I can do.’ She bustles off, her patent leather court shoes squeaking slightly on the plush carpet.

      She returns less than a minute later. ‘Table for two at eight suit you?’

      My heart lifts. ‘Yes, that’s brilliant. Thank you so much. Toby will be delighted.’

      She nods and smiles. ‘Good. Well, enjoy!’ And then she’s gone.

      Anxious to deliver the good news to Toby – no baked beans for us tonight! – I wander over to the men’s toilets and lurk outside for a minute. What’s he doing in there?

      After another minute, I’m getting impatient. Perhaps I could just go in.

      These are obviously posh loos so there’ll just be cubicles in there. No urinal thingy.

      Slowly, I push open the door a crack. Hesitantly, I call out Toby’s name.

      I hear a grunt so I push the door wider. Sure enough, cubicles only. And very posh, with hand cream and everything. Just one cubicle is engaged.

      I walk in and call out, ‘You’ll never guess? I’ve managed to get us a table for eight o’clock. Isn’t that great? And …’ I move close to the door and murmur, ‘I’ve packed the wellies and the apron. If you’re a very good boy, I’ll put them on later …’