An Almost Perfect Holiday

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘Five months,’ Em corrected her, stung by this palpable lack of excitement. ‘And I wouldn’t say it’s brave,’ she felt compelled to go on. ‘More like, when you know, you know. And I just know.’ Did that sound smug and annoying, when Jenny and her husband were constantly sniping at one another and lived in a permanent state of acrimony? Em didn’t care, she discovered. In fact she hoped it did sound smug and annoying, seeing as Jenny was being so damn unenthusiastic about the whole holiday business, when if she’d been any kind of supportive sister, she’d have been cheering her on with pom-poms. ‘Besides – it’s a fortnight in a very nice barn conversion in Cornwall, with a pool,’ she’d added scathingly. ‘It’s not as if we’re trekking across the Sahara together. What could go wrong?’

  ‘Er . . . you decide you hate him? The kids hate him? He hates you?’ Jenny suggested with naked unhelpfulness.

  ‘Thanks for your support. Ever thought about volunteering for the Samaritans?’ Em had replied, before hanging up and making a loud growling noise, as she often seemed to do following their sisterly conversations.

  She rolled her eyes now, remembering Jenny’s pessimism, and stuffed her hiking boots into a plastic bag. Damn it, but it had almost been the perfect getaway, as well! Two weeks with her wonderful new man, two weeks of waking up together every morning, blissful days in each other’s company, not to mention the even more blissful nights she’d been imagining. George was the reason she had ceremoniously ditched her sensible, years-old one-piece swimming costume with the baggy elastic for some flattering new bikinis (she could just about get away with them if she didn’t breathe out). And you bet she was packing all her frothy new undies, with their lace, ribbons and hand-washing instructions too. Into the case also went some sensual massage oil and bubble bath, followed by a rather slinky satin dressing gown she’d bought recently, which, when it wasn’t screaming ‘Fire hazard’, was most definitely pouting, ‘Come and get me.’

  Granted, this was still a holiday in the UK and she wasn’t a complete fantasist, so there was a hoody and a jumper amidst the pile of clothes too, as well as five pairs of hiking socks and some comfortable bras, but hey. This already felt like a huge departure from her usual frigid single-mum holidays, where she avoided all the perfect nuclear two-parent families on the beaches, where she felt under torturous, stifling pressure to give her children a great time. Or, at the very least, a better time than they’d have with Dom and sodding Michelle.

  Until the phone call two days ago. There’s been a slight hitch, George had said. Yeah, you’re telling me, mate. The slight hitch being that Charlotte had been asked to go abroad at the last minute, to speak at a conference in Berlin, and, because she was currently ‘between nannies’, George had been lumped with Seren instead.

  Not ‘lumped with’, Em corrected herself in the next moment. Because George had actually sounded quite excited about the prospect of getting their children together like this, as if they were one of those modern blended families who moved in and out of each other’s spheres with ease. ‘I know it might seem a bit sudden, but I’m sure the kids would get on okay,’ he had said.

  ‘Mmm,’ Em had replied, unable to sound very convincing.

  ‘And didn’t you say it was a big place you’d rented? So there’d be room for another little one, right?’

  ‘Ye-e-e-es,’ she’d said, reconfiguring bedroom allocations in her head.

  ‘Otherwise I guess I would have to miss the first week and just catch up with you guys for the second half of the holiday,’ George suggested regretfully, when Em didn’t offer any further encouragement. ‘What do you think?’

  What did she think? Her instinct was that George plus Seren would almost certainly be better than no George at all. Even if it did mean the slight risk that she would wake up in the night to find Seren leaning over her with a bread knife, of course. Or that she would receive a hard, unexpected shove down the stairs by the girl and end up paralysed for life, even dead. Perhaps Seren would spy on Em and send video evidence of her dreadfulness to perfect Charlotte. Oh God, the possibilities were endless and alarming. The holiday could easily turn into a nightmare!

  ‘Em?’ George prompted, before unwittingly going on to crank her doubts right up to What-the-Hell? level. ‘Charlotte’s really sorry,’ he’d said. ‘And don’t worry, I asked her to come and pick up Seren when she’s back, so that I don’t have to go shuttling back and forth again, and she said that was fine. Which is something.’

  Em had gasped for breath like a goldfish plucked from its bowl. ‘Right,’ she somehow managed to say weakly. Yeah, George, that was something. The ex-wife turning up on holiday, passing judgement on Em, her kids, her choice of accommodation, her step-parenting skills? George cheerfully telling her, ‘Don’t worry’ as if it wasn’t a big deal, like she wasn’t going to be tying herself in knots over the encounter from now until then? That really was something. Could a holiday get any more stressful?

  Em was not the sort of person who went hating on other women – she’d never done that competitive-girlfriend thing, not even with Michelle, Dom’s new wife. (Well, okay, she’d done it a bit with Michelle, she supposed, but then she had been severely provoked, in fairness. Many times.) But she really tried not to be judgey and sneering about other women for the sake of it; she’d always seen herself as better than that.

  Turned out she wasn’t all that much better. Turned out, in fact, that as soon as she heard that Charlotte was going to be joining them, however briefly, on holiday, Em had dissolved into a puddle of self-loathing, instantly putting herself on a crash diet, booking in an emergency haircut and doing brutal sets of sit-ups whenever she remembered. What was she going to wear? How long would Charlotte want to spend with them? Should she organize food? A sit-down meal? Should she bring some recipe books or nice accessories from home? Perhaps some summer lanterns, which she could string up along the front of the cottage so that it looked like a holiday straight from the pages of a catalogue; or . . .

  Standing now in her bedroom, supposedly packing for their imminent departure, Em found herself clutching the flattering fitted evening dress she’d just taken from the wardrobe as if it was another person. She had to remind herself to breathe before her head exploded. Come on, Em, get a grip. It was one measly encounter with one other human being that would probably last less than an hour. She could do it. Of course she could do it! Charlotte would probably be just as terrified as she was. Okay, perhaps not terrified, but at least slightly trepidatious. At the very least curious, anyway. Interested. Wouldn’t she?

  She stared glumly at herself in the mirror, worried that her new haircut – meant to be breezy, choppy and young – actually looked a bit wonky and amateurish. Did her neck look strange now? Would Charlotte think she was odd-looking? ‘God, George has lowered his standards big-time since me,’ Charlotte might laugh unkindly to her new partner. ‘Such a weird haircut. And—’

  Stop it, Em. Seriously. STOP. IT!

  Folding the dress, she rolled her eyes and tried to channel Kathy, the most chilled person she knew. A devoted fan of self-help books, Kathy had once told Em that you should stand in front of a mirror every day, look yourself in the eye and say affirming things. It was worth a go, she supposed.

  ‘It’s going to be a great holiday and everyone will get on brilliantly, and Charlotte won’t judge me,’ she mumbled to her reflection.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa, is that seriously the best you can do? Rubbish! Try again, this time with a bit of oomph, Kathy chided her. She was quite bossy at times, for someone so laidback.

  ‘It’s going to be a great holiday and everyone will get on brilliantly, and Charlotte better not bloody well judge me,’ Em repeated to herself. Not so much with oomph as savagery, but never mind. It would have to do.

  ‘First sign of madness, you know, Mum,’ Jack said, passing the open bedroom door just then and making her jump.

  She pulled a face at her reflection, hoping he hadn’t heard the details of her cr
ingey mirror affirmation. ‘Only the first?’ she called back. ‘I’m doing better than I thought.’

  Deep breath, she told herself, chucking the last few things into her case and heaving the zip along. Seren coming with them was not a disaster, just a slight change of plan. Charlotte turning up as well was not an experience to be dreaded, but a chance for Em to show her best self. Yeah! She would not let either of them ruin her perfect, romantic holiday, that was for sure. Em was a born optimist, after all. These two weeks away were going to be absolutely wonderful. The best.

  ‘Kids? Are you ready?’ she yelled as she lugged the suitcase downstairs. ‘Going in ten minutes. Repeat: ten minutes. Let’s do this!’

  It was going to be a great holiday and everyone was going to get on brilliantly, she said once more under her breath as she put her shoes on. Just see if they didn’t!

  Chapter Two

  A skylark soared high above the old stone cottages that nestled in the dip of a wooded hillside, its sweet cheerful melody ringing through the air. The swimming pool was a perfect azure rectangle at the centre of the buildings, glinting and still as the sun rose steadily in the sky. A lone pink inflatable flamingo bobbed on the surface of the water, sent on a leisurely meandering circuit by the breeze. Nearby, amidst the clumps of fragrant lavender, a bee was bumping between the flower heads, humming busily to itself.

  The cottages stood still and empty, their old brick walls enjoying the silence after all the frantic activity that had taken place there earlier that morning: cases packed, damp swimming things rolled up in plastic bags, fridges emptied, beds checked underneath for small essential toys and misplaced socks. Even, in one particular bedroom, for the underwear that had been thrown off the night before in a heady moment of passion.

  Then the cars had been loaded up, and away the families had driven, each with their new holiday memories and souvenirs, with sand still speckling the inside of the cars, with freckles and tanned skin; the nagging feeling of having forgotten something gradually replaced by thoughts of arriving home again, with every mile that accumulated between here and there.

  It was Friday, changeover day, when holidays began and ended, when the cycle reset itself all over again. In a matter of hours there would come a whole new set of arrivals, hoping for fun, adventures and relaxation; looking forward to a slice of time that was removed from all the demands of their real worlds. Shrieks of laughter would ring out around the pool, along with noisy splashes. The barbecue would be lit once more, the table football would click and clack with competitive games, the beds would sigh beneath the weight of their new sleepers’ dreams and desires. Wine would be popped, kisses would linger, arguments might flare.

  But all of that was yet to come. For now, the cottages stood quietly, waiting for their next temporary residents and all of the dramas that would unfold within their walls. In the meantime, the skylark flew on through the blue, its song spiralling down to earth.

  Lorna was hauling sheets off the bed when her phone rang downstairs in the kitchen. ‘Just coming,’ she called down to it, knowing that, had her husband Roy been there, he would have made an affectionate comment about her talking to technology again. She couldn’t help herself. Those annoying self-service checkout tills at the supermarket were the worst. Unexpected item in bagging area. Please check and try again. Have you swiped your loyalty card? ‘Yes, all right!’ she would end up saying crossly every time.

  She dumped the pile of bedding into the basket, then hurried down the narrow stairs. Mawnan Cottage was the smallest of their three holiday lets, with one good-sized bedroom and a smaller single room, but it had the nicest sea views of all the cottages: perfectly framed rectangles of the countryside sweeping down to the sea. On a summer’s day like today you could see the boats on the water; could practically hear the halyards slapping against the masts as the wind blew. But on a Friday – changeover day – she was always far too busy to stand and gawp out of a window, however wonderful the view. Besides, that phone was ringing and if she didn’t get a shift-on, she’d miss the call altogether.

  ‘Hello? Lorna Brearley speaking?’ she said, snatching it up. Sometimes, even now, she still half-expected to hear Aidan’s voice whenever she answered a phone. Is that you? It’s me, he’d always said; that easy shorthand you only got between people who loved one another. Back in the real world, however, the kitchen smelled of bleach and cleaning spray from when she’d done the rounds earlier, but there was a crumb on the table, she noticed in annoyance, dabbing it up with her finger and flicking it into the sink. She was only sixty-three and not planning to retire for at least a decade, but sometimes she worried that her eyesight was going. That she was losing her attention to detail.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Jonathan Woodward, I’m booked in to stay at Mawnan Cottage from today,’ a deep male voice said into her ear. There was something agitated about his tone, and Lorna braced herself for trouble. Here we go. He and his wife were going to be late, she guessed. They had deleted the email with her set of directions and didn’t know how to get there. They had changed their minds, wanted to rearrange or – worst of all – cancel.

  ‘Yes?’ she said guardedly. Well, it was too late for any cancelling or rearranging, she reminded herself. Not if they expected to receive any money back, anyway. Roy had made it very clear on the website that a month’s notice was required in order to cancel a booking, and that rearrangements would only be made at the discretion of the owners. ‘And no going soft on them either, mind,’ he’d warned her, raising his silvery eyebrows. ‘We’re meant to be a business here, not a charity, remember.’

  ‘There’s been a change of plan, I’m afraid,’ said the deep-voiced Jonathan Woodward now, as these thoughts spun in Lorna’s head like clean laundry in the tumble-drier. ‘Clara – my wife – went into labour six weeks early last night. And so—’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ gulped Lorna. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fine. Actually . . .’ His voice cracked on the words. ‘She’s more than fine. We’ve had a little boy.’

  ‘Oh!’ She clapped a hand to her chest, the soppy old fool that she was. You could hear the emotion in his voice, how choked up he was to be saying the words out loud. Their first baby, it must be, seeing as the cottage had only been booked for two. That precious first child. ‘Congratulations! Are they both all right?’

  ‘They’re doing really well. Obviously he’s very small still, being so premature, and it’s all a bit of a shock, becoming parents when we weren’t quite ready for it.’ He seemed to check himself, as if remembering that he was speaking to a stranger. He had probably been telling all his relatives the same thing the whole morning.

  ‘I can imagine,’ she said kindly. ‘So what time will we be expecting you then?’

  There was a horrified silence for a moment, then an awkward-sounding ‘Ahh . . .’

  ‘I’m kidding,’ she laughed, before remembering that he was probably stunned from the unexpected arrival and perhaps not up to recognizing a joke. ‘I understand. You’re ringing to cancel your holiday.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, because obviously Clara will be in hospital for a while and—’

  ‘Of course she will,’ Lorna soothed. ‘Absolutely. Well, my very best wishes to you both. To the three of you, I should say.’ Please don’t ask for a refund, she thought, her fingers tightening on the phone. Please don’t do that. You sound so nice, you and your wife and child, and it’s not as if you planned this to happen, but I really can’t let you off all that money, when we need it. Roy will kill me if I do.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘And we’re sorry to mess you around. We were both really looking forward to the holiday. In terms of the payments we’ve made . . .’

  She knew it. Didn’t she know it? She felt her face twist in a grimace, anticipating the unpleasant moment when he asked and she had to say no, even though every instinct in her body wanted to acquiesce. How could she refuse him when he was so happy and emotional, when he ha
d just become a father?

  ‘Obviously I know it’s too late to get any kind of a refund, and that’s fine,’ he went on, to her surprise. ‘But hopefully we can come down some other time as a family; maybe in the spring.’ He laughed, sounding tired. ‘Although I get the impression that holidays aren’t really the same when you’ve got a small person in tow.’

  Her shoulders sagged in relief at how decent he was being, and how grateful she was in return, that he wasn’t going to argue or start trying to haggle her down. You’d be astonished at how many people did, and it never ended well. Left a nasty taste in your mouth every time. ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Tell you what,’ she heard herself adding, because she was soft, too soft, just like Roy always said, ‘if you do decide to come back in the spring, remind me of this phone call and you can have the cottage for half-price. Our little gift to you all.’

  ‘Oh!’ That had surprised him. ‘That’s so kind. Thank you very much, Lorna.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me know your news. And all the best. Welcome to parenthood.’

  She had tears in her eyes as she hung up. Don’t you dare, Lorna Brearley, she told herself fiercely. Don’t you dare start feeling sorry for yourself. Not now, when you’ve still got two cottages to clean and all that laundry to do. Stop right there, this minute!

  It was particularly hard this summer, that was all. Particularly thorny. If she could just get past Monday without losing her head, if she could keep it together for another few days and somehow make it through the weekend, then she knew her grief would subside once more. The tide would drop. She might even stop feeling as if she was full right to the brim with emotion the whole time.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she clenched both fists and counted her breathing. In and out. In and out. In. Out. She focused on the smell of bleach from the sink. The soft ticking of the clock on the wall. The warmth on her skin from the sun as it shone through the small square windowpane. She was all right. She was here, she was breathing, she was absolutely fine. It was still going to be a good day.