He’d greeted them at the reception desk, signed
them in, served drinks at the bar and now apparently
intended to take their orders for food.
‘How many chefs d’you have standing by to cook
for us?’ Elsa demanded.
‘Only myself, madam,’ Conrad answered.
‘Hmm, you surprise me. Don’t exactly bankrupt
yourself with high staffing overheads, do you?’
He smiled. ‘There’s little demand for staff in
winter, but during the summer months things are much
busier.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s when all the screwballs come
out,’ Elsa muttered as he withdrew, presumably to fetch
some menus.
She and her two companions settled at a round,
white-clothed table. Both men were her junior by a few
years, and the trio operated on a purely professional level.
Denis Proctor the photographer illustrated Elsa’s acerbic
travel articles, and Roland Sadler flew them when
necessary to and from remote spots such as this. Elsa had
already decided to give Sadler the push and hire another
pilot. Anybody who refused to fly in a bit of fog didn’t
deserve her continued patronage. Not that his
spinelessness surprised her, what with him being English.
She’d choose a Scot next time. Just as she’d choose a Scot
if ever she and Denis parted company. She wouldn’t
normally have gone into partnership with an Englishman
46