An Almost Perfect Holiday

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘I would totally book myself in for a spa,’ Em said before the silence could develop. ‘Just lie there for the day getting massaged and facialled, and emerge all sleek and pampered, having not lifted a bloody finger all day.’ She sighed noisily, accelerating too fast around a corner at the sheer wistful thrill of such an occasion. ‘Or – alternative plan – lounge indulgently by the pool, reading a massive fat blockbuster from start to finish. Only pausing to mix another cocktail.’ She grimaced, self-consciously. ‘Hmm, my day-off fantasies seem to involve a lot of lying down. How lazy. How about you? Are you going to shame me by doing loads of active, exciting things?’

  Maggie had been on the verge of laughing and admitting that she was not a very exciting sort of person, but something had stopped her at the last minute. Em’s positivity was surprisingly infectious. ‘I might go for a long hike,’ she said tentatively, the idea springing into her head at that moment. Yes! Why not? ‘Somewhere really remote, just me and the elements.’

  ‘Good one,’ Em enthused. ‘The great outdoors, with no teenagers whingeing about the poor phone reception or lack of Wi-Fi . . . yes, I would like that too. Oh – here we are,’ she added, swinging into the car park at the cottages with a rattle of gravel.

  It marked the end of the encounter – Em was, of course, desperate to see her daughter again, and after an appreciative thank-you, and a slightly rueful apology for having been a drama queen, they were saying goodbye and going their separate ways. By then, though, Maggie’s imagination had been set ticking. Maybe Em was right: a couple of days to herself could be a pleasant thing after all. Spas and manicure weren’t exactly her cup of tea, but there were loads of places she wanted to visit that Amelia had shown herself to be less keen on. This was her chance to really indulge in her hobbies, be completely selfish about what she fancied doing. Good!

  And so she had turned to the guidebooks that her colleague Paul had lent her, flipping through the pages until she found a piece on Zennor, whereupon she remembered the promise she’d made to her mum. Perfect! According to her phone, it would take just under an hour to get there, where she would visit the church with its mermaid chair and take some photos for her mum, before returning home, possibly via the chippy for a proper fish supper with lashings of vinegar. There – see? Who said Maggie Laine couldn’t enjoy herself on holiday?

  Heading off moments later, she felt purposeful and focused, glad that she had something to do. According to the guidebook, the mermaid chair was a carved medieval bench end, thought to have been made in the fifteenth century or thereabouts, and featured an image of a mermaid holding a comb and mirror. The most romantic legend of Cornwall, the guidebook proclaimed although, in truth, Maggie was less interested in the romance angle. (That was her all over, she supposed: destined to be alone and peering at ancient relics rather than misty-eyed and waltzing off into the sunset with anyone.)

  She had tried dating again, by the way. It wasn’t as if Will had scraped every last romantic thought from her soul when he’d left her, but all subsequent attempts had resulted in bruising disaster. The first time she’d tried relaunching herself on the singles market had been via a dating agency, joined in a very un-Maggie-like moment of New Year rashness. ‘Hold your nose and jump in,’ a friend had advised her, and she’d taken the plunge, filled in the forms and been allotted a date. Arrangements had been made, a babysitter booked and a new haircut and dress purchased for the occasion, but once at the restaurant, she’d had a panicked call from the babysitter to say that Amelia, aged five at the time, had come down with a stomach bug. Maggie had to leave the date, having barely finished her starter. Arriving home to find her daughter flushed in the face and clammy, retching over the washing-up bowl with glazed eyes, the guilt had been acute.

  ‘I wanted you, Mummy, but you weren’t here,’ Amelia had wheezed, words that had kept Maggie awake all night, bathed in reproach. The smell of Dettol had retained a particular whiff of blame ever since. (Oh, and the man in question? She couldn’t even remember his name, let alone his face. She had cancelled her account with the dating agency the very next day; lesson learned.)

  A few years later she had dipped a toe in the pool once again. Andrew, a supply teacher at school for most of the autumn term, had caught her eye. He was charming and attractive, ten years older than her and shamelessly flirty whenever they were paired together for playground duty. When he asked her for a drink, she’d almost choked on the staffroom coffee in her surprise and delight. ‘Seriously?’ she asked idiotically, feeling herself light up inside like a Christmas lantern. ‘Absolutely,’ he’d replied with a smile that sent her stomach into washing-machine spin cycle.

  Oh, Andrew. It had started so well, too. She went out with him three times – twice for drinks and once for dinner – and had felt her old resistance actually starting to crumble in his garrulous, attentive presence. Her heart felt pleasantly fluttery whenever she saw him across the staffroom. Her tummy felt deliciously swoopy as they kissed goodnight at the end of the date. She was even starting to think this might be serious, wondering when she should sleep with him, fantasizing about how it would be. When should she introduce him to Amelia? What might the future hold for the three of them? Horizons were expanding before her, with new possibilities and dreams. They could be a family! Maybe ‘second time lucky’ was really a thing!

  Not for her though, it wasn’t. Because shortly afterwards she’d heard him in conversation in the staffroom just before the end of term and everything had changed. The two of them hadn’t gone public about dating – that sort of thing was very much frowned upon by the head teacher – and she’d rather enjoyed the secrecy of their relationship, the subterfuge involved, all those knowing looks and smiles. But then she’d happened to hear Sandra Brewer, one of the French teachers, chatting with Andrew over by the coffee machine. ‘I met your wife the other day – turns out your kids and mine are in the same drama club,’ she’d said, and that was all it took for Maggie’s blood to run cold, for the walls of the staffroom to start pulsing nightmarishly in and out, for her hopes and dreams to crash down to the ground in a shower of brick dust and rubble.

  He had a wife and kids. He was a married man. Why hadn’t he told her? Why had he let her believe that anything might come of their relationship? How could people be so deceitful, so cruel? She had sat there, cheeks burning, as she heard him prattle on about the drama group and their Christmas show and blah-blah-blah, like a normal parent, a good old family man. He knew that she was a mum, she’d told him about Amelia – he’d had every chance to reply with details of his own kids in return. And yet he’d hidden them away from her sight, along with his wife, and let her think that he was hers for the taking.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had children,’ she had said furiously the next time they were alone together. It was the end of the school day and she’d gone to find Andrew in the history block, where he was sat with a pile of marking. She had burst in there with such rage that her fists had actually been clenched, she remembered.

  He had blinked at her, unperturbed. (Un-bloody-perturbed! She felt like perturbing him to death there and then for his irritatingly mild expression.) ‘You didn’t ask,’ he’d replied. ‘To be honest, I thought you knew. It’s not like I’ve kept it a secret.’

  ‘And a wife too,’ she’d gone on, her nails digging into her own palms. Later on, she would examine those livid crescent-shaped indentations and almost wish they had scarred her forever: a reminder never to fall for a smooth-talker again.

  ‘Would it have made any difference to you?’ he’d asked with that same bland demeanour.

  He’d genuinely said that. Would it have made any difference to her, like she was some kind of marriage-wrecker, like she wanted to go out with a man whose life had already been wrapped up in a neat parcel with another woman. Who had kids, a family life, drama-club appointments in the diary. ‘Of course it would,’ she had cried, scandalized. ‘God, Andrew. You clearly don’t know me at all, if you think ot
herwise!’

  He’d just shrugged, though, as if he didn’t care anyway. ‘It was only a couple of drinks, Maggie. Friendly drinks. You didn’t think there was anything more serious going on, did you?’

  The question was like a dagger plunged into her heart. Friendly drinks? But we kissed! she wanted to yell. You pressed your leg against mine under the table! You looked into my eyes and said nice things to me! And now he was dismissing it as nothing, as friendly bloody drinks? Was she the deluded one or was he?

  It had taken every bit of dignity she possessed to leave that room without crying. And from that moment on, she had walled up her heart like a tomb. No entry. Access denied. It was too dangerous, too hurtful even to try, she had decided. Forget it!

  She gripped the steering wheel now, driving west, thinking about the boundaries she’d erected around herself, mighty and impenetrable. Her own fortress, in which she had kept herself safe, protected from idiots like Andrew or Will. The strategy had worked, at least – nobody had been able to break in and hurt her again, but sometimes it had felt like a lonely hill on which to stake your principles. Even Paul . . .

  Well. She felt kind of bad about Paul, if she was honest with herself. A colleague of hers at the school, he had been a real rock over the years: not only with the advice and encouragement he’d given her as a novice teacher, but also with numerous helpful deeds, coming to her rescue when her car wouldn’t start one snowy afternoon after school, popping round with a toolbox and new lock the horrible day she’d been broken into, and generally being on the end of the phone if she needed a pal. He was lovely, in short. Handsome too. As their friendship had developed, she had occasionally felt a funny sensation inside, a giddy, floaty sort of feeling, as if she might be falling for him, but she had stamped on it hard. Very hard. She had made a pact with herself always to put Amelia first, and that meant never getting involved with a man and becoming vulnerable to hurt again. So that had to be the end of it.

  That said, there had been a couple of times when she had got the impression that Paul might be having similar feelings about her too, though, as if he would also like more to come of their friendship – an earnest look in his eye, a throat-clearing hesitancy as if he were building up to broach a tricky subject – but she had firmly pre-empted any such advances each time, making it clear that she only had room for Amelia in her life, before he could put her on the spot with an awkward question. Afterwards she had found herself cringing, feeling bad for the way his face had fallen, but she knew that refusing him was the right thing to do. Because how could she possibly get involved with anyone else?

  She frowned, still unsure now whether or not she had done the right thing, then spotted the sign to the village and tried to concentrate on where she was going. It was only self-preservation, she told herself. Nothing wrong with that, was there?

  Zennor was small and rather beautiful with its weathered stone buildings, narrow lanes and the backdrop of lush green fields. Maggie tucked her car in behind a Ford Focus with dog stickers all over the back window a short walk from St Senara’s Church where, according to her mum and Paul’s guidebook, the mermaid chair was located. Uggggh, she imagined Amelia complaining. This looks so-o-o boring. Do I have to come in? Can’t I stay in the car?

  ‘Oh God, tell me about it,’ Em had groaned earlier when Maggie had mentioned Amelia’s lack of enthusiasm for any of her suggestions. ‘All my two want to do is go to those extreme sport places: zip-slides and death-plunges and the like. Zorbing, Jack keeps suggesting. I don’t even know what that means, but I’m pretty sure my battered pelvic floor won’t enjoy the challenge, whatever it is.’

  Locking the car now, Maggie glanced back down the road, imagining her parents, young and athletic, cycling along there together. Her dad, the most competitive man alive, no doubt pedalling away in the lead, with her mum’s ponytail streaming behind her as she did her best to keep up. Alec and Jan, love’s young dream, pink in the cheeks after the fresh air and exercise. All of a sudden she had a lump in her throat. She was not too old and dried-up to remember how it felt to be young and caught up in a whirl of romantic love herself. When she and Will had first got together, it had been wonderful. She had felt so happy!

  She walked towards the church, picturing her twenty-something parents alongside her, hooking their legs over their bikes as they dismounted, smiling at one another. The warm, still air almost seemed to shimmer with their ghostly figures as she went up the lichen-splattered stone steps into the grassy churchyard. Did people you’d loved ever really leave? she thought, following the path to the church ahead. She had tried talking to her dad a few times after he died, but always felt self-conscious and melodramatic. Besides, at first she had felt so angry with him for dying from his own stupid recklessness that she’d only been able to say accusatory things in his direction anyway. Today, though, it felt as if he was here with her, however implausible that seemed, and she was glad for his presence.

  Inside, the church was calm and hushed, with colourful cushions in the pews and beautiful arched stonework. The mermaid chair was chunkily built from dark-brown wood with the carving still in incredibly good nick, Maggie marvelled, crouching to photograph it from the best angle for her mum. Had her parents held hands as they stood here, exchanging glances as they read about the legend? Had it really been this that prompted her dad to make his proposal outside? She wished he was still around to ask.

  A wistfulness stole over her as she gazed around and noticed other couples together, wandering about in their twosomes and pausing to read the mermaid’s love-story. How come everyone else seemed to manage their relationships so easily? she wondered. And what was wrong with her that she’d never been able to relinquish herself to love and romance again?

  I’m not scared of anything, she had told herself when Helena challenged her, but in truth she was scared, she realized now. She was so weak and frightened in fact that she had said no to every opportunity, every man who had come her way for years. It had taken her this long to recognize the reality: that she had hidden behind Amelia, that she had used her as an excuse. The strategy had seemed the best option at the time, but look at her now, all alone, while the rest of the world moved in their cosy little pairs around her. How would that ever change, unless she did?

  She felt numb with the unhappy self-realization, frozen to the church floor, no longer sure what to do with herself. A couple walked by just then, so wrapped up in themselves they didn’t notice her there and the woman bumped against her. ‘Sorry,’ said Maggie automatically, but it seemed as if neither the woman nor her partner saw her even then. She was invisible. A total nobody. And suddenly she was sick of it always being this way.

  ‘I am here, you know,’ she said after their retreating backs. Either they didn’t hear her or they didn’t care, because neither of them turned back to respond.

  Maggie was not a confrontational sort of person. Usually she would have absorbed the snub and moved on. But today something had got under her skin, because rather than scuttling away as she ordinarily would have done, she raised her voice and said the words again. ‘I am here, you know! I do exist!’

  Now she had other people’s attention, but not in a good way. Heads turned and she was met with wary glances. Uhoh. Crazy-lady alert, their expressions said. Quick, drop eye contact and let’s hope she goes away again. Nobody encourage her.

  Cheeks flaming, hands curling defensively into fists, Maggie walked quickly towards the door and out of the church. Her own words kept ringing through her head like the breaking of an enchantment, though. I am here! I do exist!

  Maybe, just maybe, it was time to smash down some of those self-built high walls and reintroduce herself to the rest of the world, she thought, as she got back into her car. Her blood was racing like a warrior’s. Her heart was thudding. Then she pulled down the sunshade and flipped open the little mirror there, staring at herself as if seeing herself for the first time. The question was: who did she want to be? And what was she g
oing to do about it?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Izzie flopped onto her bed, smarting as she heard George’s voice through the wall. He was talking to his ex-wife, Charlotte, she could tell, because Seren was clamouring to speak too, like the annoying little brat she was. George sounded a bit irritable, she thought, and then, leaning closer to the wall, Izzie heard him ushering the little girl out of there so that he could talk to his ex in private. Oh, great. No doubt they were giving her a good old slagging. Just what she needed!

  Okay, so she probably shouldn’t have spoken to the woman quite so rudely earlier, but when she’d answered George’s phone she’d been feeling so damn angry about everything that this sharp burst of nastiness had just spiked up through her. Your girlfriend’s daughter sounds a right charmer, she imagined Charlotte bitching to George. What the hell’s wrong with her?

  Good question, Charlotte. The question, in fact.

  Rolling over, Izzie put her face in the pillow, feeling confused and tired, wishing she could start the day all over again. But how did you spool backwards from a bust-up like that when your own feelings were balanced so precariously? George was probably waiting for her to say sorry, but why should she, when she hadn’t even done anything wrong? He should be the one apologizing to her, thank you very much – he and his crummy daughter. He had really pissed her off!

  She reached for her phone and clicked on the Summer of Yes group chat to see what her friends were up to. Maybe they would distract her. Lily was swooning about her boyfriend as usual, Ruby was wanging on about some party or other at the weekend – great, another thing Izzie was going to miss – and all of a sudden she was utterly fed up of being the only one with nothing interesting to say for herself. Being the boring one of the group totally sucked.

  ‘Fake it till you can make it,’ she remembered Olivia saying and then, in the next moment, her fingers began to fly unprompted over the keyboard. Forget your party, how many points do I get for some hot naked action with an older man then?? she typed. While my mum was in the next room!