The Extremes

n the morning, on her way down to breakfast, Teresa felt that something about the hotel had changed. As she passed the office she realized what it was: on most mornings the radio was playing in the office, and today it was not. This tiny alteration to her temporary routine made her uneasy.

In the dining room, the four young American programmers were sitting at their table in the furthest corner, and as usual did not acknowledge her arrival. One of the two young women was reading a copy of Investors Chronicle, and was rhythmically pumping an armmuscle exerciser with her free hand; the other was dressed in a track suit and elasticated sweatband, and had a towel draped around her neck. Ken Mitchell was speaking to someone on his mobile phone, and the other man was typing something on a palmtop computer. They all had in front of them their customary breakfast of highfibre, organically grown, non fertilized, nonantibioticly treated oriental pulses (which Amy had told her she had had to buy in expensively by mail order from Holland), but none of them was eating.

Teresa sat down at her own usual table. Whenever she saw Ken Mitchell she could not suppress her curiosity and irritation about him. He never seemed to notice her today, for instance, he was sitting with his back to her table and although she absolutely did not intend to have anything more to do with him, she wanted him to find out she was still there without, so to speak, her having to remind him.

She had picked up her newspaper from the table in the

corridor, and was glancing at it when someone came across to her table.

Assuming it would be Amy, Teresa looked up with a smile. lt was not Amy: a heavily built man with a closeshaved head was standing there, holding an order pad and a ballpoint.

'May 1 take your order for breakfast, please?' he said.

'Yes.' Surprised, Teresa reached automatically for the printed menu. In her three weeks in this place she had grown used to confirming to Amy simply that she wanted the same as she always had: fruit Juice, coffee, a lot of toast made with wheat bread. She placed her order. The man wrote it down, and walked off towards the kitchen.

Teresa had the feeling that she had seen him before, but couldn't think where. She assumed it must have been somewhere around the town, because she had no memory of seeing him in the hotel. She wished she had taken a better look at him.

While she was waiting for him to return, the four programmers left their table and walked out of the room. None of them appeared to notice her, and Ken Mitchell was pressing the keys of his mobile phone for another call.

She sat alone in the silent dining room, waiting.

After a short delay, the man with the shaved head returned and put down a silver pot of coffee and a large glass of orange juice.

'I didn't realize you would be wanting wheat bread,' he said. 'I've had to send out for some.

It'll only be a few minutes. The bakery's just round the corner from here.'

'It doesn't matter much. White bread would have been OK.' Teresa saw herself through this man's eyes: another damned American picky about obscure food. Although, hell, wheat bread was on the menu! 'Amy knows 1 usually like wheat bread, and gets it in for me.'

He had straightened and was standing across the table from her, holding the tray against his chest.

,Amy's not here any more,' he said.

Teresa reacted to the news with a little start of surprise, but the truth was that ever since she had come downstairs she had been expecting news of change.

'What's happened?' she said. 'Is she OK?'

'Yeah, she's fine. She just wanted a break.'

'So you've taken over from her?'

'I've taken over everything. I'm running the hotel now.'

'You're managing it?'

'Well, I'm managing it, yes. But I'm the new owner.'

'Has Nick Surtees gone too?'

'It all happened yesterday. I've wanted to run this place for a long time, and I heard Nick wanted to sell up, so we did a deal.'

'Just like that? They were here yesterday, and didn't say anything about it.'

'I think they've been planning it for a while.' Teresa was looking blankly at him. He said, 'My wife will have brought the bread by now. Excuse me.'

She stared after him, as the service door swung closed behind him. The news, trivial though it probably was, went round and round in her mind. She knew that managers of hotels didn't regularly consult their guests about business matters, but both Nick and Amy had seemed so open and willing to talk that she was surprised neither of them had said anything to her.

'Goodbye' would have been pleasant.

She poured her coffee and sipped the orange juice, while she waited for the toast. A few minutes later the man returned.

As he put down the toast racked in the British manner, to ensure more or less instant cooling she said, 'I've seen You somewhere before. Don't I know you?'

'Maybe you've seen me around the hotel. 1 used to come into the bar from time to time.' He rubbed his chin. 'I used to have a beard. I'm Amy's brotherinlaw. David Hartland.'

Then she remembered that day, in the market, this man talking to Amy. There had been something