The Holiday Home (8 page)

Francis stopped writing and blinked at her, not sure he’d heard her correctly. ‘Sorry, Connie. What did you say?’

‘How long have you been married to Pru now?’

He put his pen down and tore the list from the pad.

‘Eighteen years this November.’ Connie and he were close and enjoyed each other’s company, but he was feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the turn this conversation was taking. ‘Anything you need from the village? I must get this shopping done.’ He was standing now and looking around for his mobile phone and car keys.

Connie knew when to pull back. She’d have to continue this conversation slowly over the coming weeks.

‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll probably have a little expedition down there myself this afternoon to pick up supplies – Greg loves the chilli jam they do at the deli. But thanks anyway.’

‘OK, see you later.’ He found the keys and his phone on the side. As he picked them up, his phone buzzed with another text. He glanced at the name of the sender. Belinda again. He put the phone in his pocket without opening the message.

Curious, Connie decided to tease him further: ‘Aren’t you going to see who that is? Or is it your secret lover?’

Francis was fumbling with his linen jacket. ‘School PTA round robin, I expect. Bound to be something that can wait. I don’t want to miss the fresh granary loaves at the baker’s. Tell Pru I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

*

He could feel the phone burning in his pocket. His heart was thumping in his chest and his breathing got faster. He hopped in the car and set off down the drive and out on to the sandy beach lane, relieved to have escaped before Connie asked any more awkward questions. Why did he feel so furtive and guilty? It wasn’t as if there was anything between them … Or was there? No, he’d done nothing to encourage her.

A small child in jelly shoes, bucket and spade in hand, suddenly stepped out in front of him. Francis executed a perfect emergency stop and smiled at the child’s harassed mother, who shouted an obscenity at him and yanked her daughter back on to the verge.

He had to put all thoughts of Belinda aside and concentrate. Belinda … Attractive, full-hipped and full of life. He had met her when her fourteen-year-old daughter, Emily, had joined Jeremy’s school last September. Belinda was a merry and willing new recruit to the PTA. A divorcée in her early forties, she’d made a beeline for him from the start. It wasn’t Francis’s style to strike up relationships with people; he was happiest with his family around him and the few friends Pru liked to socialise with, but there was something about Belinda that was hard to resist. She was constantly inviting him over to her place for lunch. He hadn’t taken up the invitation … yet.

He carefully reversed into a tight space in the Higher Barton village car park and turned the engine off. Unable to resist any longer, he reached for his phone and looked at the screen. Belinda’s name was top of the list of incoming messages:

Hi Frankie. Amazing coincidence – am coming to Cornwall Wednesday. Staying in Treviscum Bay. Anywhere near you? Emily and I would love to see you. xxxxx

‘Oh, shit shit shit!’ Francis said out loud. It was Sunday today. She’d be here in three days. What was he going to do? How did she know where he was? Had he told her he was coming to Treviscum Bay? Was she stalking him? How would he explain this to Pru? ‘Shit shit shit,’ he said again.

*

Normally, Francis liked nothing better than a trip to the shops in Higher Barton. He enjoyed renewing old acquaintances with the shopkeepers and chatting to the baker about his latest lines. Today, however, he had found it impossible to concentrate on the lengthy explanation the baker had given him about his new range of gluten-free products.

‘Would you like to try a loaf? It’s hard to tell the difference.’

Francis had ended up buying four more loaves than he’d intended. He’d wondered, with more anxiety than was necessary, whether there was any room in the freezer, admonishing himself for not checking before he’d come out. He’d fretted all the way home, trying to focus on the loaves instead of contemplating what would happen when Belinda arrived.

‘Francis, there you are.’ Pru was lying on a comfortable lounger outside the sliding kitchen doors, on the sunny terrace.

‘Hello, Pru,’ Francis called over-brightly, setting down the six or seven plastic carrier bags that were cutting into his fingers. ‘Let me empty the car and I’ll make us a cup of coffee.’

‘Did you get my paper?’

‘Yes, dear!’ He gave her a beaming smile, hoping that it would cover any remnants of guilty thoughts about Belinda.

Pru gazed at him steadily. Frowning slightly. Oh God, did she suspect? He looked back at her, unable to move.

She spoke. ‘Well, go on then. I’m waiting.’

‘What for?’ He felt a squirt of fear in his stomach.

‘Get. My. Paper.’

Weak with relief, he rummaged in the carrier bags: ‘Yes. Yes. Of course, darling.’

*

‘What’s for lunch, Dad?’ Jeremy and Abi walked in through the sliding doors bringing sandy feet with them. Francis visibly jumped again.

‘Don’t creep up on me! How many times have I told you! You’ll give me a heart attack!’

‘OK. Chill, Dad. What’s making you so nervy today?’

‘Nervy?’ Francis snapped. ‘I am never nervy!’ He looked at the two pairs of sandy feet. ‘Get outside and clean those bloody feet. Both of you. This is my holiday, too, you know.’

‘Blimey, Dad, no need to shout.’

‘I am not shouting,’ shouted Francis.

‘Sorry, Uncle Francis. Come on, Jem.’ Abi steered her cousin outside and threw over her shoulder, ‘I’ll be back to help you lay the table in a minute, Uncle Francis.’

Francis slowly resumed unpacking and storing the groceries, then made a start on washing the lettuce for his organic poached salmon salad. His thoughts were a mess. Should he tell Pru about Belinda? How would he introduce Belinda? How long was she planning to visit? Oh God, oh God.

‘Francis?’ Pru’s querulous voice made him jump yet again. He clutched his chest with a damp lettuce hand. He turned to face her. ‘Yes, darling?’

She studied him intently, until he felt as if his mind was being read. Eventually she said, ‘Are you all right? You look very pink and glazed.’

‘I’m fine. Just, erm, thinking about some jobs I need to do.’

‘Oh, good. Would you put the dripping tap in our en-suite basin on the list? Get Greg to help. He does bugger-all when he’s here. When’s lunch?’

‘About ten minutes.’

‘Bring it up to me, would you? I’m expecting a conference call any minute.’

‘Yes, Pru.’ But she’d already left the room.

Abi and Jem reappeared with clean feet and found Francis looking worse than ever.

‘Dad, you don’t look at all well. Sit down and I’ll make you a drink.’

Francis did as he was told.

Abi started to lay the table. ‘I’ll fix lunch, Uncle Francis, and Jem and I will wash up. You need a rest.’

6

F
rancis looked so poorly that even Pru noticed. Mildly concerned, she graciously vacated the big bedroom saying that she would take her conference call in the rumpus room, while Jeremy drew the curtains and settled his father down for a nap.

‘I’m absolutely fine, Jem.’

‘You’re not, Dad. You don’t look yourself. What time did you get up this morning?’

‘Not too early. Five-ish.’

Jeremy raised his eyebrows as his father lay down on the bed. ‘Did you run?’

‘Only a little jog.’

‘Well, there you are. You’re just a bit knackered. Get some kip and we’ll see you later.’ Jeremy pulled a soft rug over his father’s legs and left him to it.

Lying alone in the semi-darkness, Francis could hear the quiet roar of the ocean through an open window. His mind was in shreds. What should he do? Belinda was coming. Belinda was coming. Belinda was coming.
Come on, man – pull yourself together – have a sleep and the answer will come to you. Belinda is coming, Belinda is coming.
The rhythm of these words took him into a restless slumber.

*

Downstairs, the rest of the family sat down to the tasty salmon salad Francis had prepared. There was an odd silence as they ate, missing Francis’s attentions. Everyone finished quickly. Thanks to a bit of teamwork, they tidied up the kitchen in no time and cleared off to do their own thing.

‘Come along, Henry.’ Dorothy was standing impatiently by the back door. ‘It’s at least forty minutes to Lostwithiel.’

‘Lostwithiel? Why are you going there?’ asked Connie.

‘There are some staddle stones for sale. Supposed to have come from Daphne du Maurier’s house in Ready Money Cove. They’d look rather good on our drive.’

‘What are staddle stones, Granny?’ asked Abi.

Henry answered, ‘Those stone mushroom things. I’m not prepared to pay over the odds for them, Dorothy.’

Dorothy waved a hand airily. ‘Your Poppa has short arms and long pockets. Now come along, Henry.’

Abi looked at Jem. ‘Fancy a bike ride?’

‘Sure,’ he said, draining his glass of squash.

Abi dropped a kiss on her father’s head. ‘Bye, Dad. See you later.’

Greg was desperate to find a quiet place where he could talk to Janie on his mobile. Connie and Pru were still in the house. He walked to the stairs and called up: ‘Connie? I’m going to the garage – fill up with fuel while I can. See you in a bit.’

Connie appeared at the top of the stairs in shorts and T-shirt with a towel and a book under her arm. ‘OK, darling. I’m going down to the beach for a snooze and a read.’

Greg felt a sense of liberation flood through him. He had the whole afternoon undisturbed with his phone and Janie.

*

Connie, too, was feeling liberated as she sauntered along the path to the beach. An afternoon with no responsibilities. Bliss! No need to talk, listen or do anything but lie down and read or sleep.

‘Connie, wait for me.’ A familiar voice broke into her bubble. Connie kept walking.

‘Connie!’ Irritation in the call now. ‘I said wait!’

Connie breathed deeply, stopped and turned. Pru was at the top of the path, closing the garden gate. She looked cross and hot as she drew level with Connie.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were off to the beach? You knew I’d have said I’d come.’

‘Yes, I did know, but actually I was hoping for a bit of peace and quiet.’

‘Oh, me too. Don’t you find Mummy’s endless chatter and sparring with Daddy awfully wearing?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the kids! They’re good kids, I know, but the noise, the mess – it’s exhausting.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now Francis has decided to take to his bed. I just had to get out of the house.’

‘Yes.’

They found themselves a sheltered spot of dry sand in the sunshine and rolled out their towels, smoothing them to remove any wrinkles and sitting down gently so as not to get any sand on them.

Connie slipped out of her shorts and top to reveal a well-cut bikini and curvy thighs. She picked up her book and began to read.

‘What are you reading?’

‘Something from my book club.’

‘You’re lucky to have the time.’

‘To read or join a book club?’

‘Both.’

Pru unpopped the fastenings on her stripy beach robe and rolled it up carefully to use as a pillow. She was wearing a one piece in navy and white.

‘I don’t like bikinis,’ she said pointedly. ‘Not at our age.’

‘I am not your age.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Pru reached into her bag for sun cream, factor 50, and made a huge amount of slapping noise as she put it on.

‘Would you put some on my back?’

‘OK.’ Wearily, Connie put her book down, sat up and creamed her sister’s white and bony back.

‘Thank you,’ Pru said. ‘Would you like me to do you?’

‘No thanks,’ said Connie, settling down again. ‘I want to go brown.’

‘The sun is so ageing to one’s skin. You should look after yours.’

‘I’m wearing factor 15.’

‘Not high enough.’

‘It’s Cornwall, not Africa.’

‘I’m only saying.’

‘Sorry. Look, I want to read my book, OK?’

‘I’m not stopping you.’ Pru plonked a ridiculous orange floral floppy hat on her head and lay down.

Connie waited in case her sister had anything else to say, but she stayed silent. Breathing a sigh of relief, Connie started reading again. Pru began to snore. Heaving a sigh, Connie dropped her book and closed her eyes. Within minutes she was snoring too.

When they woke up, the sun was a little lower and the tide was on its way in. They moved their towels further up the beach. As they settled, a light breeze picked up and Pru shivered. She put her robe back on.

‘Are you worried about Francis?’ Connie asked Pru. ‘He certainly isn’t looking very well.’

Pru looked at her as if she were mad.

‘No. Why should I be? He’s fine.’

‘He seemed a bit tired and distracted.’

‘What has he got to distract him?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I am telling you: nothing. He’s fine. Probably wants a bit of attention.’

‘Maybe he wants
your
attention.’

‘Poor Francis, not getting any sex? Is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘Yes. No. Well, yes.’

‘Francis is as little inclined as I am. It’s something that we used to do and don’t need to do any more. We’ve grown up.’

‘So, grown-ups aren’t allowed to have sex?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But Greg and I have sex.’

‘Yes. And look at Greg. He’s not exactly a grown-up, is he?’

Connie propped herself up on her elbows and looked at her sister. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Pru squinted, shading her eyes. ‘Well, he’s still a little boy. The way he dresses, his gadgets, the car he drives, the swagger as he walks.’

‘I’d rather have a man who knows how to have fun – and, yes, sex – than a downtrodden servant.’

Pru sat very still for a moment. Then, in a dangerously neutral voice, she replied, ‘You think Francis is a downtrodden servant?’ She started to wag her forefinger in front of Connie’s face. ‘That downtrodden servant lives in a beautiful house, with a joint account he can access at any time, and a son who is happy and doing well at school, and a wife who works her backside off and brings home a considerable side of bacon. Does that sound like a downtrodden servant to you?’ She paused spitefully and added, ‘Or does it take one to know one?’