Me and Mr Jones (44 page)

‘You’ve done an amazing job,’ Emma told Izzy one Sunday in July. She and David had been invited over for lunch, along with Alicia and Hugh’s mob, but it was such glorious weather that Charlie had stoked up the barbecue for al-fresco dining instead. Replete with steaks and salad, the three women were now lolling lazily in deckchairs on the patio, with tall glasses of Pimms, while the men organized a game of French cricket for them and the children. Even Lilian had been roped in to referee and was taking it all very seriously.

‘Thanks,’ Izzy said, twisting her hair up in a chignon. ‘I’m loving it, to be honest. Everyone’s been so nice to us – we’ve had so many people booking for next year already.’

‘And he hits a six!’ yelled Charlie excitedly, thwacking the ball into the orchard. The children all screamed and ran after it.

Alicia laughed. ‘I was just about to say how sensible your Charlie is these days,’ she said. ‘But he’s still about seven years old really, isn’t he?’

‘Young at heart,’ Izzy agreed. ‘The girls just love him. Do you know, Willow asked him if she could start calling him “Dad”.’

‘No! Really?’

‘It was the sweetest thing,’ Izzy said. ‘Not Daddy, she decided, because that was Gary. But he could be her dad – because that’s different, in her little world.’

‘Bless her,’ said Alicia. ‘She’s so gorgeous.’

‘And what a compliment to Charlie,’ said Emma. ‘He makes a good dad.’

‘HOWZAT!’ Hugh screamed triumphantly just then, punching the air as he bowled Charlie out.

The three women laughed. ‘Competitive, much?’ Alicia spluttered, rolling her eyes.

‘What are they like?’ Emma said, as all three brothers began arguing. Lilian marched over, hands on her hips, and they watched in amusement. You could imagine the exact same scene taking place thirty years earlier.

‘So, what’s next for Mulberry House?’ Alicia asked after a while.

‘Well, we’ve been finding out about the glamping market,’ Izzy replied. ‘Boutique camping, for people who don’t like roughing it. It’s the hip thing, apparently. We’ve definitely got room for some big posh tents – yurts, I think they call them – in the orchard.’

‘Ooh, that
is
a good idea,’ Emma said. ‘David and I are off to Cornwall next month with some friends, and we’re all staying in yurts. We can be your researchers.’

‘You and your trips,’ Alicia teased. ‘New York last month, Thailand in December . . . You two are becoming the best-travelled couple I’ve ever met.’

‘I know,’ Emma replied with a grin. ‘The last few months have been really fun. David’s used up half his annual leave already with all our adventures. And we’ve decided . . .’ She lowered her voice, even though the rest of the Joneses were still arguing heatedly a safe distance away. ‘We’ve decided we’re going to try IVF next year, which is why we’re doing all these things while we still can.’ She drained her Pimms with a rattle of ice cubes. ‘Any excuse, right?’

‘Too right,’ Izzy said. ‘And good luck with the IVF. How exciting.’

‘It all sounds a bit medical and undignified,’ Emma said ruefully. ‘I’m not looking forward to that side of things, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Fingers crossed anyway. We’ve had some tests, and the doctor said there’s nothing actually physically wrong with us, so it’s worth a go.’

‘It’s definitely worth a go,’ Alicia echoed. ‘Medical science is
amazing.
You’ve got every chance.’

‘Thanks,’ Emma said. ‘We’re both feeling hopeful. It’s going to happen, I’m sure of it.’

Alicia was glad for her. Hopeful was good. But, whatever the outcome, Emma and David seemed so much happier these days, full stop: settled in their new home, with David working again. She and the family had gone over to stay with them for the weekend, and they’d all had a great time together at the Science Museum and zoo.

She finished her drink and gazed over at the cricket match where Lucas appeared to have just whacked the cricket ball straight into his father’s nuts, to raucous cheers from David and Charlie. She burst out laughing as Hugh collapsed theatrically, demanding to be brought alcoholic sustenance immediately.

Yes, she thought to herself happily. Sports injuries aside, things had worked out pretty well for the Joneses.

Epilogue

Two months later Alicia was waving goodbye to Hugh and the children at St Pancras station and wheeling her case through to the Eurostar terminus. Hugh – unromantic, unimaginative house-brick Hugh – had surprised her the week before by presenting her with a return ticket to Paris. ‘I’ve booked you into a really nice hotel,’ he said, hardly able to contain his glee at her astonishment, ‘and here are some euros for you to spend. Oh, and Emma sent me the guidebook she and David used when they were there the other month. She’s marked up all the nicest bars and restaurants they found.’

Alicia could not believe it. Even now, sitting on the train as it began accelerating out of the station, she still could hardly believe it. Here she was, Alicia Jones, forty and five months, speeding through outer London with a packed itinerary ahead of her. Next stop: Paris!

The city was bustling with life when she alighted at the Gare du Nord, the station full of holidaymakers lugging along suitcases, tour groups consulting maps, and coffee stands that smelled heavenly. Clutching her bags close to her (pickpockets were rife here, according to Emma’s guidebook), Alicia followed signs for the taxi rank and waited her turn. It was so exciting, simply being in a queue surrounded by real French people. She had no idea what they were saying to each other, but it sounded beautiful. She was finally here. She was in Paris!

The hotel was in the third arrondissement, on a quiet road just a short walk from the Musée Carnavalet. Once she’d checked in, rather haltingly, and found her room, she sat for a few moments on the edge of her double bed and laughed to herself. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, on the verge of hysteria. ‘I actually made it.’ She flopped backwards, gazing up at the ceiling and grinning like a halfwit. ‘I’m here, in Paris, for the whole weekend. It’s happening!’

After texting Hugh that she’d arrived and all was well (she resisted the urge to phone and talk to him and all the children at great length), she washed her face, combed her hair and put on some lipstick. Right! So . . . what next? First, she’d like to take a stroll around the area to soak up the atmosphere. And maybe after that she’d sit and have a coffee, one of those short, strong Parisian coffees that blew your head off, according to Emma. Maybe even a cheeky glass of wine too. And why ever not?

Oh, she thought, smiling happily at herself in the mirror, this was going to be
fun
.

Over the next two and a half days Alicia must have walked miles. She saw the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, Notre-Dame and Sacré-Coeur. She ogled gorgeous shoes in Pring, sampled bonbons in Jacques Genin and ate buttery pastries in the grassy square at the Place des Vosges. The architecture was stunning, the food divine, the city brimmed with history and vitality, and the Parisians looked every bit as chic and sexy and cool as she’d hoped. She felt sated.

She
must
come back here with Hugh, she vowed, as she regretfully packed up her belongings on her last morning and said a sad goodbye to the hotel room. Wonderful and exciting as it was to explore the city alone, there had been moments when she’d wanted to share the beauty with somebody else, to point out an incredible view, to giggle over a haughty
madame
almost tripping over a runaway poodle, to clink wine glasses with at the end of the day.

Ah well.
Bof!
as the French said. They would just have to come back together another year. Izzy had already offered to look after the children any time, or maybe even Emma and David would want to practise their parenting skills and step into the breach.

She lingered in the doorway of her room for a moment, then pulled the door shut behind her and wheeled her suitcase slowly to the lift.
Goodbye, hotel, goodbye. Thank you for looking after me and being so utterly splendid. Thank you for one of the greatest weekends of my life. It’s been amazing.

Down she went, smiling as she thought of seeing everyone again later that evening and telling them all about her trip. But as she emerged from the lift to the ground floor, she stopped dead in shock. For there, signing in at the reception desk, was none other than Hugh. What the . . . ?

She blinked, wondering if it was a mirage at first, some kind of delusion. Maybe, because she’d just been thinking about him, she was projecting, turning complete strangers into husband-lookalikes. She rubbed her eyes and stared. No. It really was him – her husband, in Paris.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he said amiably, waving as she approached. ‘Thought I’d surprise you. You’re actually staying here for one more night – with me, this time. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Mind?’ she said faintly, her mind still registering his words. Then her mouth fell open and she laughed out loud – a rich, happy laugh of delight. He had actually done this, come all the way here to surprise her. She abandoned her luggage and ran across to him, throwing her arms around him with joy. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she cried happily. ‘I was just thinking how much you’d love it here. Oh, Hugh, I can’t believe this! So who’s looking after the children?’

‘Sandra,’ he said. He looked incredibly proud of himself. ‘We hatched a plot together. Thank you,’ he said, as the receptionist handed over a key. He held it up and winked. ‘Well, Mrs Jones,’ he said.
‘Ma chérie.
Shall we go and unpack?’

Lucy Diamond’s
Breakfast Recipes

For me, one of the best things about staying at a bed and breakfast is the actual breakfast. The thread count of the sheets? I’m not interested. The monsoon shower? Whatever. The thing that gets my seal of approval is a proper delicious breakfast to start the day. I’d be very happy to tuck into any of the recipes below, especially if served with a cup of tea, a newspaper and preferably an amazing sea view

Eggs Benedict

Here’s a confession: I am not very good at poaching eggs, despite repeated attempts. Mine always resemble misshapen white ghosts in the pan rather than perfect rounded beauties. Hopefully you are more competent than me though, and can impress your friends and family with this breakfast classic.

Purists have their Eggs Benedict with bacon or ham, but my favourite variation is with smoked salmon. For a vegetarian alternative (Eggs Florentine), you can use 250g of spinach wilted in a little olive oil over a high heat instead.

Serves 2

4 large eggs

3 tbsp white wine vinegar

2 toasting muffins

4 slices smoked salmon (or ham, or bacon)