she said in disgust, for maybe the fourth time since her husband had brought their car onto the car park on the cliffs above. “It’s not exactly Lanzarote, is it?”Dave Welsh looked at her over the top of his newspaper. His nose and cheeks were liberally splattered with thick suntan lotion, only serving to accentuate the deepening redness of the sunburn on his balding pate.“What’s not to like?” he said softly. “It’s a beach, it’s the hottest summer in years, and the kids are loving it.”Maggie was too deeply entrenched in her annoyance to let logic get in her way.“There’s bugger all to do except sit here and fry,” she said. She was aware that, if they had gone to Lanzarote, they’d just be sitting on a different beach and frying.But that’s not the point!If they’d gone to Lanzarote she’d have been able to spend days telling the others in the Hair Salon about the trip—about the toned waiters and the tight butts in swimsuits, about the posh nights out in expensive lounges.
