The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted Read Online Free PDF

huts, my mother smiling and my father laughing as we had tea in the snug as the rain thrummed on the rooftop. A little pitch-and-putt golf course, as I hacked in the heather with cut-down clubs. And, bizarrely, I remember a vast ski jump that had been pitched beside the swimming pool – built not for the guests but for the proprietor’s daughter so that she could follow her ski-jumping dreams. I wondered if she ever made it to the Olympics.
    It was odd that I hadn’t thought about the Knoll House before. Looking back, it might have been one of the happiest holidays of my life.
    On a whim, and because all my friends were at work that morning, I called up directory enquiries, found the hotel’s number, and in under a minute was being put through to Anthony, the hotel’s manager.
    He sounded jolly; we hit it off immediately. It was March. By coincidence, the hotel was just about to open for the Easter break. It had been closed for three or four months during the winter and Anthony had just returned from his UK recruitment tour. Over the phone I must have somehow conveyed that precise mix of friendliness, punctiliousness and subservience that are required of a good waiter. Anthony hired me on the spot. Could I come down the next day?
I could have kissed him I was so happy. In one bound, Kim was free!
    Sure, up until five minutes earlier, I had never once considered a career in the catering industry. But in a matter of moments, I was already smitten – I’d be out of London; I’d be away from my parents. Life on a hotel campus with waiters and waitresses and a regular routine. I might be marking time, marching but not moving forward, but at least I would be on the move.

    â€˜You’re going where ?’ Edie was horrified.
    My father seemed rather pleased. ‘The Knoll House,’ he meditated the next day. ‘I haven’t been there in years.’
    He wanted to drive me down that morning and if I had been more perceptive I would have let him. Young men may like to fly solo, but they forget that there is a special pleasure for parents to put themselves out for their children. Instead he gave me a lift to Waterloo Station. He was on his way to the Stock Exchange. He never much talked about his work – or perhaps I just never asked him about it. He was wearing a suit with a dark tie, his jacket slung on the back seat.
    We took his personal Mini, rather than the family Mercedes, which meant that he could smoke. He loved that brown Mini. We had gone down a little cul-de-sac near to where we lived in Chelsea. It was a quiet street and the road was sealed off with a number of bollards. He drove straight at the bollards at about thirty miles per hour. Just when it seemed that a crash was inevitable, he flicked the steering wheel. With two wheels on the pavement and two wheels in the gutter, we flew through the bollards. The Mini bounced back onto the road. He was laughing so hard he started to choke.
    He nudged me in the ribs. ‘Thought the old man had lost his marbles?’
    â€˜You’d have had a fit if I drove like that!’
    â€˜Once – probably.’ He puffed at his cigarette before flicking the stub out of the window. ‘I discovered that road a month ago. I’m not even sure it’s a shortcut. It’s probably a long cut. You should have seen the expression on Edie’s face when I first took her there. “We’re going to crash!”’ he cried, in a high-pitch squeal, laughing. ‘She was as white as a ghost.’
    He laughed again, lighting up another cigarette with one-hand as he double D-clutched down to second.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I think it might have been better if I hadn’t gone straight into the army. Should have seen some of the world. Lot of stuffed shirts in the army.’
    It was a part of my father that, for a long time, I had never known existed. For so long he had been this humourless