The Holiday Home Read online

  ‘Yee-ha!’ he cried, hoping someone was witnessing his brilliance. Then something threw his balance and he was dumped in a tumble of heavy water and sand. Winded and underwater, he felt the rough sand tear at his cheek and ear. Gasping his way into fresh air he found the strength to stand and, as nonchalantly as possible, retrieve his board. He stood in the shallows catching his breath.

  ‘All right, Dad?’ Abi swept up beside him, still upright on her board.

  He tried to regulate his heavy breathing. ‘Yeah, yeah. Fine. Did you see me? I was out in the impact zone, wanting a bit of aggro, and caught a really good tube.’

  ‘Dad, quit the dude talk. It’s not funny.’

  ‘Listen, babe, I’ve been a surfer for thirty years.’

  ‘Yeah. Which is why you’re a bit too old for it now. You know what the surfers call someone like you?’

  ‘Cool?’

  ‘Nope. A grey belly.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Abi put her wet arm round his crestfallen shoulders.

  ‘Looked as though you took a bit of a tumble.’

  ‘Nah, nah. All part of the fun. Go on. Get back in. I’ve got my camera in my bag. I’ll take some action shots of you and Jem.’

  ‘Great! I’ll tell him. We’ll come up the beach together, OK?’

  Greg waved his daughter off, envying her energy and fitness as she ran into the sea. He looked at his ‘grey belly’ and sucked his muscles in. Or at least, he tried to. It didn’t seem to make much difference. Letting them go again, he walked to their pile of belongings and found his camera.

  *

  By the time the surfers got back to the house, Connie and Prudence were opening a second bottle of wine on the terrace.

  ‘Hi,’ giggled Connie, clearly rather tiddly. ‘My sister and I deserved a little drinky. Want one?’

  ‘Definitely. Let me have a shower and I’ll be down.’

  Greg’s legs ached as he climbed the stairs. He got to their bathroom and turned the shower on, having a quick pee in the loo while waiting for the hot water to come through. He saw himself in the mirror. He admired what he saw. He’d had a fantastically erotic call with Janie that afternoon. She’d been home alone in her Battersea mansion flat, taking a bath. God, how he’d wanted to be there with her.

  With renewed vigour he jumped under the shower and almost had a heart attack. The water was icy cold. The kids must have taken the lot.

  *

  Supper was a quiet affair. Francis came down and managed a few spoonfuls of the spag bol. The kids went off with theirs on trays to watch a movie in the rumpus room. Connie was trying to sober up and Pru had got her laptop out and was doing some work.

  Greg helped load the dishwasher then took a gin and tonic into the drawing room and settled down to have a quiet read of the paper.

  The door banged open, shattering his peace, and Abi entered. ‘Daddeee?’ she wheedled, plonking herself down on the sofa next to her father.

  ‘Hmmm?’ He turned the page noisily and refused to look at her.

  ‘You know it’s my birthday in a couple of weeks?’

  ‘Is it? I really don’t remember.’

  Abi smacked his arm. ‘Yes you do! Don’t be so mean.’

  Greg rubbed his arm. ‘What do you want, you ungrateful child?’

  Abi brightened. ‘A party.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure your mother will organise the usual.’

  ‘That’s the problem.’ She pouted. ‘I don’t want the usual pizza and soft drinks on the lawn, everyone collected by nine thirty. I want a proper party. On the beach. No adults.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But, Dad …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m seventeen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m almost eighteen.’

  ‘That maths tutor is worth his weight in gold.’

  ‘I’ll ask Mummy. She’ll say yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’

  ‘When she was young, she had parties on the beach, with Auntie Pru. They shared a boyfriend. We met him on the beach today.’

  Greg looked at Abi. ‘What, that bloke on the beach with the long hair?’

  ‘Yep. Merlin.’

  ‘Oh good God! There’s nothing sadder than an old hippy on the pull.’

  ‘I thought he was rather hot … for an old man.’

  ‘Do I look like an old man?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, you are, like, over forty or something.’

  ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘Mummy and Auntie Pru went all mysterious about him.’

  ‘Did they? In what way?’

  ‘They went all secretive. I mean, he did look quite hot.’

  ‘Did Mummy say that?’

  ‘She didn’t have to.’ Abi smirked.

  Greg thought for a moment. ‘Don’t be so silly. And by the way, you’re not having a party on the beach.’

  *

  ‘Muuum.’

  ‘Yes, Abi? And don’t throw yourself on my bed. I’ve just tidied up.’

  ‘Can I have a party for my birthday?’

  ‘Of course. We always have a party for your birthday. I was thinking one of Dad’s barbecues …?’

  ‘I was thinking one on the beach, no oldies.’

  ‘Oh, darling, Granny and Poppa will have to come. They’d be terribly hurt if they weren’t invited.’

  ‘Why don’t you and Dad take them out for dinner instead?’

  It dawned on Connie that she, too, was now classed as an oldie. She absorbed the blow.

  ‘You mean, instead of me and Daddy coming to your party?’

  Abi nodded.

  ‘No way, young lady. The beach and boys and booze is absolutely out of bounds. I’m aware what goes on, you know. I’m not so old that I can’t remember these things.’

  Abi perched on the bed. ‘Go on then, you dark horse. Tell me what you got up to.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Connie grabbed a pair of Greg’s shorts and started to fold them.

  ‘Yes, you did! You and Auntie Pru had a big old rosy glow round you both when you saw old whatsisname today.’

  ‘His name is Merlin. An old friend.’

  ‘I think you had the hots for him, and I reckon he still fancies you.’

  Connie couldn’t stop the flush creeping up her throat. She sat at her dressing table and started to brush her hair. ‘Don’t be so silly.’

  ‘That’s what Dad said when I told him.’

  Connie spun on the dressing table stool. ‘You told your father that you think I fancy Merlin?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Well, guess what: you are sort of not having a party on the beach. OK?’

  *

  Next door in the master bedroom, Pru had had to forgo her bedtime bath due to the slow heating of the hot-water tank, but Francis, feeling much better now, was mixing some massage oil for his wife’s back.

  ‘What’s that smell, Francis?’

  ‘I’m burning lavender oil. For relaxation.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Pru went to the bathroom to undress, wash and then clean her teeth. She looked at herself in the mirrored wall over the bath. Breasts small and still high. A few stretch marks on the tummy, but her hips were as narrow as ever. She shut her eyes and remembered how Merlin used to kiss her. How he’d admired her flat chest when she was so self-conscious about it. She remembered his body – how good it felt.

  ‘Come on, Pru, darling. This is going to help you sleep,’ Francis called from the bedroom.

  Pru opened her eyes and saw her face as Merlin must have seen it today. A few lines, skin beginning to sag round the jaw. She stepped back into the bedroom and attempted a slow, undulating walk towards her husband. Maybe sex would do them both good. Francis looked at her.

  ‘Your back must be bad – it’s affecting your walk, love. Come on. Lie down and I’ll sort that out for you.’

  As Pru lay under the
kneading fingers and warm oil, she tried to keep all thoughts of Merlin out of her head.

  Francis was trying, but failing, to keep all thoughts of Belinda out of his. He pictured her generous cleavage, her fleshy hips made more curvaceous by her slender waist – what would it be like to drip warm oil over her skin? How he would love to run his hands over her dainty feet and scarlet-painted toes. She’d be here in a few days. Oh God.

  Pru, meanwhile, was indulging in something she hadn’t done for a long time – a fantasy. In her mind she was lying naked in the dunes with Merlin running his rough, sea-hardened hands over her shoulders, rubbing in sun cream. She was nineteen again and hopelessly, passionately in love with him.

  As quickly as the fantasy had grown in her memory, it was gone. A phantom. In its place stood reality. A different Pru. A different life. This was her life. Sensible, responsible, mature.

  She was grateful to Francis and all he had sacrificed to care for her and Jeremy. A good man. A man she could rely on. She called his name and he heard it, muffled as it was against the pillow.

  ‘Francis?’

  ‘Yes, Belinda?’

  He stopped his massaging instantly and watched Pru lift her head and slowly look over her shoulder at him.

  ‘Who’s Belinda?’

  *

  Greg woke up on the sofa. It was almost midnight. Connie must have forgotten about him and gone to bed. Shivering slightly, he stood up and winced as a cramp shot through his left shoulder. The surfing had really done him in. He resolved to start running again, from tomorrow. Or was that today?

  He bent to turn off the one table lamp someone had thought to leave on for him and felt his way to the kitchen to pour a small brandy. His laptop was still on the kitchen table where he’d left it. He sat down, hoping to find a message from Janie. Hope was rewarded.

  Hi Greggy,

  The office is very quiet without you. Old octopus arms is bound to spend all week feeling me up whenever I am in the kitchen on my coffee run. He drops teaspoons so that he can bend down and look up my skirt to see if I’m wearing stockings and suspenders. Don’t worry. Only wear stockings when you are here.

  How is it in the bosom of your family? Poor you. I can’t wait for Abigail to leave home, so you can leave too. Not long now! Then you can tell the old boot about us.

  I’m getting ready to go out. My brother’s old flatmate, Adrian – remember the one just back from Afghanistan? – is taking me out to dinner. Don’t want to go, but he’s a nice guy and I’m doing my bro a favour. One for the troops!

  Phone me tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it. Think of me when you go to sleep tonight.

  Love you, sexy boy,

  Janie xxxxxxxxxxx

  Who the hell was Adrian? She’d never mentioned him before. Some upper-class twit in charge of a tank regiment with a six-pack and an inheritance to look forward to? What would she wear for this … he hesitated to say the word date. Her lingerie collection was vast and very, very cute. Greg tapped out a brief reply.

  Hope you haven’t enjoyed your evening too much. Speak in the morning.

  G x

  He drained his brandy and went upstairs. In their bedroom he was deliberately noisy, which woke Connie up.

  ‘What time is it?’ she mumbled.

  ‘Sorry, love. Did I wake you?’ He slid into bed next to her and slipped his hand round her tummy and kissed her neck. Connie yawned.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ he told her.

  ‘It’s because you’ve been asleep on the sofa.’ Connie’s eyes were shut tight.

  ‘No, it’s because I fancy my wife like mad and need to make love to her.’

  ‘OK.’ Connie turned on to her back. ‘Pull my nightie down when you’ve finished.’

  8

  ‘Who’s Belinda?’ Pru demanded, her gimlet eye glinting under a perfectly arched eyebrow.

  ‘Did I say Belinda?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ Pru turned to face him, both gimlet eyes fixed on him now.

  ‘Oh. Ha ha.’ Francis tried to laugh it off. ‘She’s, er, she’s …’ His imagination kicked in: ‘She’s the ghastly woman on the PTA. Haven’t I mentioned her? Only been at the school a year and already making waves. She wants to overturn some ideas the committee have sanctioned. I had a message from Chairman Bob on my phone earlier and it’s been on my mind.’

  Pru turned back to her pillow, bored with anything to do with her son’s school and her husband’s dealings with it. ‘Oh. Poor you. Continue with the massage.’

  Francis closed his eyes in a prayer of silent thanks, and tried to get some control back into his shaking hands. He reached for the massage oil. It slipped from his grasp and fell on to the cream-and-beige patterned carpet, leaking a new pattern of its own.

  ‘Oh crikey, Dorothy’s carpet!’ He bent to pick it up, overstretched and slid off the bed himself, knocking the bottle over again.

  Pru peered at him. ‘What are you doing?’

  Francis was panicking. ‘The bottle. The oil. Dorothy’s carpet.’

  Pru was unperturbed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Forget about the carpet. It’s hideous anyway. Put it on the list of jobs that need doing.’

  He got to his knees with the oil bottle now safely in his hand. ‘Right.’ Standing, he found the lid and carefully screwed it on to the bottle. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it.

  Pru watched him as if he were mad. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to add this job to the list.’

  ‘Not now, you fool,’ she said, irritated. ‘It’ll wait till tomorrow. Carry on with the massage and then we can all get some sleep.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Right. Silly me. Massage it is.’

  He resumed his position and carefully added more oil to his palms.

  ‘Hmmm,’ murmured Pru. ‘You are very good to do this for me, Francis. I’m lucky to have you.’

  He continued in relieved silence until she started laughing, her body shaking under his hands.

  ‘Sorry, Pru. Is that tickling?’

  ‘No, no,’ she giggled. ‘For a moment there, I thought you might be having an affair.’

  *

  And now it was morning and he felt sick with guilt about the lie he’d told his wife, the first ever, and the affair he hadn’t even started yet. Would never start! What was he thinking? He got out of bed and observed the sleeping form of his wife. The woman who needed him. Trusted him. Relied on him. Eighteen years ago he had left his job and a good career for her. He was a well-qualified social worker. It was his true vocation. His calling. Francis had known he could make a difference to people’s lives. Then he met Pru.

  He had been in a case meeting at the local council offices when she had stalked in, slammed her briefcase on the table and demanded, ‘Which one of you is the head of planning?’

  She was tall, dark and handsome, and Francis had immediately fallen under her powerful spell.

  His colleague told her, ‘None of us are, madam. You’re in the wrong place.’

  ‘You won’t get rid of me that easily. This is the planning office.’

  ‘No, this is Social Services. The planning department is in the building next door.’

  ‘I was directed up here by the idiot girl on reception.’

  ‘You need to leave this building and go next door.’

  It took a while, but eventually she was persuaded that she had gatecrashed the wrong meeting. Picking up her briefcase, she had pointed at Francis: ‘You. Show me where the right bloody room is.’

  On their way to the building next door, she’d asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Meake – Francis Meake,’ he stammered.

  ‘Well, Francis, I’m indebted to you for helping me when I made a complete fool of myself. Let me take you for a drink by way of thanks. I hope you drink Scotch?’ She didn’t give him time to answer. ‘I’ll collect you from the car park at five thirty.’

  Within three weeks, to the astonishment of their respective friends and
family, she had proposed and he had accepted. He loved the fact that, under her confident exterior, lay a woman who needed him. In return she loved him for his loyalty and gentleness. Here was a man who would never hurt her already wounded heart.

  A month later, he had worked out his notice and set about finding a home for the pair of them. His final pay cheque was just enough to pay the deposit on the engagement ring Pru had chosen for herself. She paid the balance.

  Her work as a commercial property surveyor was arduous and sounded very complicated. She had a good business brain, like her father and grandfather before her, but had no desire to get into the toy market: ‘I had enough of board games when I was growing up,’ she once told him. ‘I prefer to work in the real world.’

  She was a partner in her firm and very well respected. She worked long hours all over the country, but her goal was to open a New York office and grab some of the big bucks. It had taken her only five years to achieve that dream. Five years after that, she opened a Hong Kong office.

  Their wedding was plain and simple. The bride wore trousers. Her parents were happy for her but concerned for Francis’s welfare.

  ‘She’ll eat him alive,’ whispered Dorothy in the registrar’s office.

  Henry patted her knee and whispered, ‘She’s got what every working woman dreams of: a wife! Besides, I think he will be good for her. Pru needs someone steady.’

  They married early on a Monday morning in order to be sure of catching the afternoon flight to New York. Pru had several meetings lined up and rather than rearrange them, she’d decided to combine business with pleasure. When they returned on Thursday morning, it was to their four-bedroom, faux Georgian townhouse in Greenwich. Well, Francis returned to it. Pru went straight to the office to report on the business she’d secured in America.

  Francis revelled in his new role.

  Every night he would cook something healthy and delicious for his wonderful, powerful wife. Sometimes she’d come home late, but always with flowers or a scented candle, and always he forgave her. Sexually, he was inexperienced, but Pru enjoyed taking the lead in bed. They were both thrilled when Jeremy was conceived.

  Pregnancy didn’t suit Pru. She worked till her waters broke and was back at her desk within five days of the birth. Francis adored being a father. He was a natural. Night feeds, nappies, projectile vomiting – all were constant sources of fascination for him.