Mr Lynch’s Holiday Read Online Free PDF Page A

emigrated to Spain, both having bought property in the same modern, purpose-built development, could have anything in common. Ian and Becca had been ‘bitten by the property bug’ in the 1990s, a phrase Becca actually used, leading Laura to later comment that it was a shame the property bug wasn’t of the venomous Japanese Giant Hornet variety. They had been picked up and carried along in a giddy wave of property renovation and speculation at the very zenith of the laminate era. Eamonn would sometimes imagine them back then, sitting glassy-eyed and open-mouthed in front of a vast wall-mounted flat-screened television, watching any one of the seemingly identical programmes featuring spivvy presenters and an endless procession of minutely differentiated couples buying, decorating and then selling houses, over and over again.
    Assuming a curiosity that was not there, Ian would often give Eamonn his earnest advice and insights into the vagaries of the property market. It was apparently a tricky game, hard to second guess. Logic might dictate that a cheap area adjacent to a more sought-after neighbourhood would inevitably improve and increase in value, but some stubbornly refused to do so, retaining their high crime levels, their underperforming schools and, worst of all, their native populations. You had to have
enough of the right kind of people moving in and enough of the wrong sort of people moving out.
    Ian and Becca thought that the only people who lived in poor housing in deprived areas were people who had failed to watch enough Channel 4 programmes. Eamonn had watched Laura’s doomed attempts to find any trace of awareness or responsibility in Ian and Becca with some amusement.
    ‘So do you think you’re helping to improve those run-down areas?’
    ‘Definitely. We buy a house, do it up, nice people move in, you get better shops, better schools – it all starts to happen.’
    ‘But haven’t you just shifted the problem somewhere else?’
    Becca would nod enthusiastically. ‘Exactly.’
    Ian and Becca were hurt and bewildered by their fall from grace. Like the innocent victims of a fairy tale they had simply followed the trail of breadcrumbs, never suspecting that it might lead to disaster. They had seen great opportunities in Spain. Who hadn’t? Many Britons were at an arrested stage of development, locked for ever in adolescent crushes on another country. They watched TV shows about it, bought magazines about it and dreamed for fifty weeks of the year of escaping their loveless marriages with Maidenhead, Sutton Coldfield and Altrincham for fresh starts with Mojácar, La Manga and Nerja. Ian and Becca bought the house in Lomaverde as a home and base for their new business; from there they would scout out and buy new investment opportunities in the ever-expanding Spanish property market to sell on to other Brits. They were stuck now, with three half-built apartments on the Costa del Sol and their home in Lomaverde, unable to sell up and leave and having to live off their dwindling remaining capital. They had been the last to move into Lomaverde, which made them, in Eamonn’s eyes, reprehensibly dumb. He thought that they of all people should have
seen that the cruise liner they were boarding was already beginning to list.
    ‘Hello, Becca.’
    She took a step back from the door.
    ‘Eamonn! We’ve not seen you for ages.’
    ‘Yeah, I’ve been tied up with work, that kind of stuff. This is my dad. He’s popped over for a visit, so I’m just showing him around.’
    ‘Ahhhhhhhhh,’ said Becca, putting her head on one side and looking at Dermot as if he were a kitten. She glanced back at Eamonn. ‘Funny. Never imagined you having a dad.’
    Dermot cleared his throat and put out his hand. ‘Hello there, Dermot Lynch.’
    ‘Ooh. You have an accent! Wait till the others meet you.’
    Eamonn started to retreat, realizing his mistake. ‘Oh, look, if you’ve got company, we’ll come back another