An Almost Perfect Holiday

by Lucy Diamond

  Olivia sighed, watching the woman steer the pushchair through the doorway and follow them in. A wave of self-doubt washed over her. Women like that made Olivia feel completely inadequate. Women like that made it look easy. Five children! They couldn’t all be hers, could they? And even if they weren’t, how was she managing to cope with them all single-handedly? If that was Olivia, she’d be in a hot sweat, utterly frazzled, frantically counting heads every thirty seconds, terrified of losing someone in the crowd. If that was Olivia, she probably wouldn’t have left the house at all, let alone manoeuvred the whole group around the busy streets, let’s face it.

  She trudged miserably on, feeling worse by the minute. Then again, who would entrust her with five children to mind, after what she’d done? She didn’t deserve her boys. She didn’t deserve to have anyone at all.

  The Summer of Yes group chat

  Izzie – Guys, it was a lie, okay? Nothing happened with me and Mum’s boyfriend. OBVIOUSLY. Because I am sixteen and he is, like, old. Also because he is MY MUM’S BOYFRIEND. I just felt embarrassed because nothing fun was happening to me so I made it up. Sorry. If you have told anyone about it, please pass on the truth. Mum is about to kill me and hates me. I feel such a dick.

  Izzie turned off her notifications before she could see or hear any of her friends’ messages, which would no doubt pour in thick and fast. They would probably chuck her out of the friendship group for this, or someone would start a new group without her and they’d all bitch about what a weirdo she was and what a liar. She cringed, imagining how it would go round everyone from school like a flash. How she’d start at sixth form and be faced with loads of people she’d never met giving her the side-eye because they all knew about her.

  Don’t make friends with her, she’s a liar.

  Yeah, she makes stuff up about sleeping with old people. That’s a bit creepy, don’t you think?

  Ew, gross! I’m steering well clear.

  She flopped down onto the bed with a groan. Next she had to phone up her dad and confess to him as well, which was going to be equally horrendous. Meanwhile downstairs it was ominously quiet. Mum had looked as if she was about to puke when George put his head round the door and said that Charlotte had turned up. ‘What?’ she squawked, aghast. ‘Here? Now?’

  He’d nodded, looking glum. ‘She flew back a day early to pick up Seren,’ he said. ‘She’s been trying to ring me, but because of my phone going in the pool . . .’

  Mum’s face – it was as if something had cracked inside her, thought Izzie. It wasn’t as if Em was particularly vain, but Izzie had switched on the family PC more than once to find that Mum had been googling this Charlotte woman, so she obviously felt pretty competitive about her. The fuss she always made about her appearance whenever Dad had brought Michelle round, you’d have thought the Queen was coming for tea. Clearly she would have liked a bit more notice to prepare for the Other Woman this time too. ‘Right,’ she’d said weakly. ‘I’ll come down. Actually, can we just have a word in private first?’

  Izzie had hung her head. George hadn’t looked at her once, she realized as Mum went out of the room, closing the door behind her. How embarrassing this was. How excruciating!

  She dialled her dad’s number, wishing that an enormous sinkhole would appear under the cottage and destroy it all in an instant. Make this nightmare end. ‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said miserably when he answered.

  ‘Izzie! About time! I’ve been going out of my mind here. Are you all right? I couldn’t believe my ears when Louise—’

  ‘Dad – stop. Let me speak,’ she begged before he went off on one. ‘Dad, it wasn’t true,’ she said in the next breath. ‘What Louise told you – it didn’t happen. Nothing happened.’

  That took the wind out of his sails. ‘What?’ She could tell he was frowning. He had such bushy eyebrows, her dad; she and Jack were always taking the mick out of him for them. Now she could practically hear them crashing together. ‘What do you mean? Look, you don’t have to cover up for him, love. If he has laid a finger on you . . .’

  ‘He hasn’t. He really hasn’t,’ Izzie said. She could hear footsteps on the stairs and Seren singing a Disney song at the top of her voice. At least someone was happy. ‘Dad – please, take no notice of what Louise said. It was just a stupid joke to my friends. I swear. Nobody else was meant to see it.’

  He didn’t like being in the wrong, ever. If he was answering a football quiz show on the radio and said the wrong answer, he’d immediately go all defensive and make excuses. They phrased the question misleadingly! How was anyone meant to know that? Sometimes even: Where do they get these facts from? Out of the presenter’s backside?

  He was silent now, pondering. ‘Dad?’ she prompted. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ From where he was sitting, anyway. Izzie had plenty to worry about, thanks to her own stupid attempts to impress. ‘So you can call off the troops, okay? Stand down. George has done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Right,’ he said gruffly. ‘Well, if he does . . .’

  ‘He won’t,’ she assured him. Not least because George was probably going to dump Mum over this, just as fast as he could. You would, wouldn’t you, if the teenage kid of the person you were dating started spreading lurid rumours about the two of you. You’d be backing right off, hands up, saying, ‘Whoa, no, I did not sign up for any of this.’

  They ended the call and she lay there feeling utterly flat. All the sparkle of seeing Fraser earlier had left her. Now she just felt like a stupid kid who had wrecked everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  And then there were three, thought Em as she retreated wearily inside the cottage a short while later. Just like that, the magic was over, the bubble had popped and she was back to normality: one single mum and her kids. So that was that.

  How humiliating that this had all happened in front of Charlotte too – beautiful, professional Charlotte, who had appeared looking miraculously uncreased and glamorous despite the flight from Berlin, followed by a hire-car drive down to Cornwall from the airport. Meanwhile Em was in the rattiest old cut-off jean shorts she possessed, along with a pink vest top that had a deodorant mark under one arm. Plus her hair was like a tangled fright-wig, thanks to the boat trip, and she had no make-up on and . . . Oh God. It was impossible trying to be competitive because she had already lost so badly; she had lost everything.

  She’d had to drag George into their bedroom because she couldn’t face having such a torturous conversation in front of his ex. ‘Listen, I know everything’s gone a bit mad today,’ she said, ‘and I’m so sorry. If I could explain properly, I would, but . . .’ She bit her lip unhappily, thinking of Izzie in the next room, squirming with embarrassment. ‘I can’t really tell you what’s happened. I know that sounds nuts, but I swear I’m going to make sure everything’s put right and . . .’

  George was already glancing past her towards the door, as if he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. As if he couldn’t bear being trapped in here with her for a minute longer. ‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ he said, interrupting her rambling plea. ‘This didn’t really work, did it? It’s probably best if I go back with Charlotte and Seren now; I think that’s the most straightforward thing. Charlotte’s going to drop her hire car in Truro, then I’ll drive the three of us back.’

  Em blinked, wounded, as the words hit her hard. This didn’t really work, did it? Oh God, he had actually said that, kindly but with weariness. He wanted shot of her, and fast. Who could blame him, after what had just happened? ‘You mean . . .’ she began pathetically, then stopped herself because she knew what he meant and didn’t need him to spell it out. ‘Right,’ she croaked, her heart breaking. No, George, no. Please, no! Her knees swayed as if they could no longer support her. Her eyes filled with tears and she had to dash them away quickly. Do not cry. Do not fall apart.

  George gave her a half-smile, but his heart wasn’t in it, she could tell. ‘I should chivvy Seren along, get her to pack her stuff,
’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ she said robotically as he left the room, trying not to torture herself with visions of the three of them on their unexpected road trip together. Seren would doze off contentedly in the back while George and Charlotte discussed the terrible holiday in low voices. Oh God, what a nightmare, she imagined Charlotte saying, appalled. The ex-husband said WHAT? Because the daughter . . . ? Christ, thank goodness I could rescue you a day early! Give it till the first service station and they’d be bonding over Em’s ineptitude, and then they’d be looking into one another’s eyes once more and re-evaluating their marriage in a new light. We were good together, weren’t we? one of them would say. We were so good. You know it’s not too late to try again, right?

  Em hurled herself onto the bed and punched the pillow, allowing herself a silent scream of anguish. This didn’t really work, did it? she heard him say again and it was like a pain in her chest, a huge rock crushing her. Goodbye, relationship. Goodbye, happiness. Goodbye, George. It had been so bloody lovely while it lasted. It was only the knowledge that Charlotte was downstairs that prevented her from bursting into full-blown howls. Keep it together. Just keep it together.

  Then she scuttled through to the en-suite to splash cold water on her face and try to comb her hair into something less insane. She gave her lashes a lick of mascara and threw on a clean striped top before she hurried down, heart in mouth, to greet their surprise guest.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, finding Charlotte in the living room, helping Seren to pack up the books and toys she’d left there. Em found herself seeking out the big flashy diamond engagement ring on Charlotte’s left hand as if that was any kind of reassurance, but it didn’t make her feel better. Okay, you win, she thought, as the other woman straightened up and smiled at her. He’s all yours now. Not that it was a competition – she was trying so hard for this not to be a competition – but Charlotte was indisputably beautiful and elegant in a crisp navy trouser suit and spindly heels. She had long dark hair and wide brown eyes, plus a full luscious mouth with perfect lipstick. Damn it, Em totally should have changed out of those jean shorts as well as her manky top, she thought with a stab of regret.

  ‘Hi! Emma! I’m Charlotte,’ the other woman said unnecessarily. ‘I’m so sorry about turning up early like this – George is so rubbish at replying to texts normally that when he didn’t this time, I just assumed he would have received them, but . . .’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Clearly not. Sorry if I’ve caused chaos.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Em said brightly. God no, I’m delighted that you turned up a day early before I could clean the house and make myself a tiny bit more attractive. I’m THRILLED you made it in time to see the fallout from my daughter’s social-media lying frenzy, and to be here just as George realized he couldn’t stand me any more. Cool! ‘Um . . . Can I get you anything? A drink, something to eat?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. We’ll be out of your hair as soon as we can,’ Charlotte said.

  It felt like a criticism, as if Em was pushing them out of the door. ‘There’s no hurry,’ she felt obliged to say, then realized she’d run out of conversation. ‘Um . . . so how was your conference?’ she asked after an agonizingly blank few moments.

  ‘Busy,’ Charlotte replied, stuffing some picture books into a bag. Then she looked up at Em and wrinkled her nose. ‘Kind of boring, actually. Loads of stiffs. I was quite glad when they changed the running order and I could leave, between you and me.’

  Damn it, now she had to go and be nice, on top of everything else. Nice and not up-herself. Why couldn’t she be an unpleasant airhead like Michelle? That made life a lot easier, in Em’s experience. ‘Conferences can be like another planet sometimes,’ she said, hoping she sounded sage and savvy, a woman of the world herself. In truth she’d only ever been to one conference and it had been in a budget hotel just outside Swindon, and Em had got so pissed with the other delegates that she’d fallen over on the dance floor. Charlotte didn’t need to know that, though. ‘Anyway,’ she said weakly, ‘nice to meet you.’

  George was in the kitchen, bagging up his hiking boots with a nearly-dry towel draped over one shoulder. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about this,’ he said as she came in. It didn’t seem possible for a conversation to take place without someone apologizing, all of a sudden.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she replied. Make that two people apologizing. They were all just utterly sorry. She hesitated, feeling wretched, not wanting the connection between them to be severed quite so suddenly. Until this holiday, they’d been getting on so well! Was there no chance they could return to that place? She hadn’t even really been able to explain what had happened with Izzie. ‘Um . . .’ she began tentatively, but her confidence deserted her. She was too scared that George might be more brutal about the split if she pushed things.

  He didn’t seem to notice her hesitation. In fact he was already striding past her. ‘I’ll just get my stuff from the bedroom,’ he said over his shoulder.

  In a matter of minutes it had become ‘the bedroom’, rather than ‘our bedroom’, she realized glumly. Shortly to be ‘your bedroom’. ‘Mum’s bedroom’. And thus the dream was over, as was her chance to have a last private moment with him. With a bustle of packing and checking, the three of them were out of the house and driving away before she could muster the courage to try again.

  An hour or so later, Em sank into one of the pool loungers with a very large and very cold glass of white wine. It was a beautiful tranquil evening, the sun casting streaks of bronze and pink across the sky and backlighting a cluster of small puffy clouds; she could hear the raspy clicking of crickets somewhere behind her, while a late-working bee nudged against the smudgy purple lavender heads. A gorgeous scene, in other words. Idyllic. The sort of moment that an artistic type might photograph and put on their social media (no filters!). Shame she felt like screaming her head off instead, frankly.

  Aaaargh, though. Seriously: aarrrrggghhhhh! So much for her perfect holiday. So much for her and George’s families mingling in joyous harmony. Her dreamily scripted happy-ever-after had become a horror story, with one disaster after another, and now there had come one final terminal crash into the buffers as he’d packed up and gone. Gone for good? Who knew, although she wouldn’t blame him if, after this week, he had decided to run for the hills, or at least to the nearest monastery.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this earlier?’ she had all but howled to Izzie after George, Seren and Charlotte had left and the house had taken on the sombre feel of a recent bereavement. ‘You could have told me stuff was going on with your friends – you can always talk to me about how you feel, however embarrassing it might be.’

  Izzie had given her a Get real sort of look, though. ‘Yeah, but when? When was I supposed to talk to you? I can never get you alone,’ she’d pointed out. ‘Apart from now, obviously – but I’m guessing it’s a bit late for talking now.’

  She’d guessed right. It was a bit late for everything now, unfortunately. Certainly too late for Em to have paid more attention to her own kid when she’d needed it. So that was another point to chalk up for bad parenting.

  Staring glumly down at the ground, she noticed that Seren had left her little Sylvanian Families fox behind. It must have been blown off the sun lounger in a gust of wind at some point, because it was now lying face-down in the grass. You and me both, mate, she thought, reaching over to pick it up and wiping the dirt from its velvety nose.

  Dinner had been cooked on autopilot: some white fish with lemony new potatoes and salad for dinner, but nobody seemed very hungry. ‘So George and Seren have just . . . gone?’ asked Jack in surprise, seeing the table only set for three. He had never been the most observant child when it came to joining dots; he sailed through life oblivious of his surroundings half the time. ‘How come?’

  Em gave him a weak imitation of a smile (‘Your divorce smile,’ Izzie had once called it, and the naming was apt). ‘They just decided to go back early,’ she said.
‘Seren was always going to leave with her mum at the end of the week, remember, but . . . yeah. He went earlier too.’ She had run out of steam and knew she must sound unconvincing, but Jack nodded, accepting it as fact.

  ‘Oh, right,’ was all he said. ‘Hey, Amelia’s back soon at least,’ he added in the next moment, completely unrelatedly. As if that made up for anything. He slopped mayonnaise onto his potatoes in a shuddering dollop. ‘You know, the girl from next door?’

  ‘Um . . . That reminds me,’ said Izzie just then. ‘Is it okay if I go out tonight? With a friend?’

  Em stared at her. Izzie had put on a lot of make-up, she noticed, but despite that, you could see that her cheeks had turned pink beneath it. ‘What friend?’ she asked, and then waved a fork impatiently. ‘Forget I asked that, actually, because whoever it is, the answer’s no. Not after today. I think we all need a quiet—’

  ‘But, Mum, come on!’

  ‘No,’ she said, and all her frustration and misery gave the word extra weight, so that Izzie jerked in her seat as if she’d been kicked. ‘You’re not going anywhere. You can stay in and think about . . . about what you’ve done.’

  Jack immediately looked interested. ‘What has she done, anyway? What was that weird phone call from Dad about?’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ yelled Izzie, tears springing from her eyes, and then she wrenched herself from the table and was running upstairs.

  So that had been a nice mealtime. Call her a terrible parent (again), but Em just did not have the stamina to go up after her, to try and patch things up. She’d had her fill of drama for one day, without getting into an argument about why Izzie couldn’t go out tonight, on top of it all. Even her wise friend Kathy wouldn’t have been able to dredge up a single positive affirmation about this whole disaster.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered to herself now, taking a massive, medicinal swig of wine, and then jumped, because a voice quite nearby asked tentatively ‘Are you all right?’