anyway, of course, but Denis’s pictures were good. Much
better than good, actually. They often represented the
difference between a sale and a rejection. That bugged
Elsa, too, because any fool ought to realise that her words
were the really valuable commodity, not a few bloody
snaps.
‘I may stroll around this place with my cameras
later,’ Denis said. ‘It has a great atmosphere. I should get
some good shots.’
‘Don’t make them too enticing,’ Elsa told him.
‘This shit heap wasn’t on our itinerary, remember, and I’m
not sure I want to write anything about it. Even if I do, it
won’t be complimentary.’
She fished a packet of cigarettes from her handbag,
lit up and exhaled smoke over the table. At the same time
her eyes roved about the room. Oak panelling covered half
the walls, with cream plasterwork above. Low beams,
original brackets for oil lamps, a few stags’ heads and other
dead animals: the place looked typically tourist trashy. Elsa
resented historic places like this being turned into holiday
spots, especially for the
English.
Conrad reappeared with three menus and handed
them around.
‘I shall prepare your rooms as you eat,’ he said.
‘We don’t have any other visitors tonight so it’s especially
pleasant to welcome you. You most of all, madam.’
47