The Holiday

by T. M. Logan

I remembered Googling it a few weeks ago – like a typical twenty-first-century hypochondriac trying to decide between a headache and a brain tumour – and discovered that infidelity happened in about a third of committed relationships. Which meant that, statistically, one of us on this holiday would fall victim.

  Was already a victim.

  There was another option, of course: to pretend I never saw the messages. Pretend I had never looked. Just let myself float along with the current, as if everything was still the way it was. Why rock the boat? Maybe it would be better to just imagine he was the good husband and I was the good wife who didn’t snoop on his phone. Didn’t see what could not now be unseen. But I hated the not-knowing, the grey area between the truth and everything else. Black and white suited me best; I didn’t deal well with grey. Never had. I wanted to know – for sure – one way or the other, before deciding what to do next.

  It would be torture to play happy families for a week in the knowledge that Sean had betrayed me with one of my best friends, when in reality my marriage was a car crash happening in slow motion. But I had to know. Observing him, seeing him, I felt sure I would know which one he had picked over me. I spent every working day with evidence, one way or another. Collecting, recording, examining, putting all the pieces together: it was what I did for a living. All I had to do was find the evidence of my husband’s infidelity and follow it to the source.

  I’m going to smoke you out, find out which one of you has betrayed me, which one of you is trying to break my family apart.

  If I could find out exactly what was going on, maybe I could stop it before it was too late. I had a week to find out the truth, to find out what was going on with my marriage and whether it could be saved – with a string of messages between us like an invisible fault line just beneath the surface, waiting to crack wide open and leave me on one side, Sean on the other. Deep within me was a sick, self-destructive urge to know, to know everything, every sordid last detail. To see for myself, with my own eyes. Until then, I was going to have to act as if nothing was wrong. Try to act normal – or as close to normal as I could get.

  I turned the shower off, feeling more alone than I ever had before, as if I was standing on a ledge, about to step out onto a tightrope into the darkness – a tightrope between my old life, the life I thought I knew, and what came next. What was at the other end? Grief and heartbreak, most likely. But it was a journey I had to take, for my own sanity, for my own self-respect. I would get dressed, paint on a smile and get ready for our week together. And I would find out the truth.

  A knock on the bathroom door. Then another.

  ‘Mummy?’ Daniel’s voice, high and excitable. ‘Are you in there?’

  ‘Yes. Just getting ready.’

  ‘Rowan said to tell you that she’s had a text. Jennifer’s nearly here.’

  6

  I dressed quickly in a simple floral print dress and sandals. Listening to Jennifer’s arrival downstairs – Rowan’s greeting typically loud and exuberant – I sat down at the dressing table to rapidly reapply my make-up in an effort to disguise eyes puffy from crying. Tried to marshal my thoughts.

  Act normal.

  And then Jennifer was standing in the bedroom doorway, in cut-off jeans and a pink strapless tube top, sunglasses pushed up into her long blonde hair, phone in hand. She wore no make-up – she rarely needed it – and little jewellery apart from a small silver crucifix around her neck. Even in bare feet she was at least half a head taller than me, and only a couple of inches shorter than Sean’s six feet. She was Amazonian tall, as he had once put it, and straightforwardly pretty in the way that athletic people usually were.

  ‘Knock, knock,’ she said, holding her arms out.

  I got up and we hugged, exchanging observations about the weather, the car journey and her husband’s inability to follow Google Maps.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Jennifer said. ‘Amazing villa, isn’t it – have you had the guided tour yet?’

  ‘Rowan showed me round. The view from the balcony is incredible.’

  ‘I know, right?’ She spoke quietly, as if the owner might be listening. ‘It’s like one of the judges’ houses on X Factor.’

  Jennifer had grown up in California and whenever she got excited or stressed her accent pushed out stronger, stretching the vowels and reminding us that, although she’d lived in the UK more than half her life, the Valley Girl was still in there somewhere. Her family had come to the UK when she was fourteen, relocating from Los Angeles to follow her father’s job as CEO of a multinational, and she had never left, retaining a transatlantic twang to her accent that Americans confused for British and vice versa.

  I studied her a moment. She seemed a bit flustered.

  ‘Are the boys settling in all right?’ I said.

  ‘They’re exploring, I think.’ She checked down the corridor and leaned nearer, lowering her voice. ‘They’ve still not quite forgiven me.’

  ‘Forgiven you for what?’

  ‘We had a bit of a falling-out last night when they were packing. They wanted to bring the Xbox – Ethan had already packed it in his suitcase. I made him take it out, told them they weren’t to waste this week sitting in a darkened room playing stupid Call of Duty or Fortnite or whatever – not when we have the Mediterranean on our doorstep.’

  ‘I take it that didn’t go down very well?’

  She waved a hand. ‘Not especially. But hopefully they’ll be fine once they’ve seen how much there is to do here.’

  She was trying to hide it, but I could tell she was bothered that they had argued. She made it a point never to raise her voice to her boys, never to shout, never to be sarcastic and never, ever, to raise a hand to them. Not even when Jake, aged seven, had been playing with matches and come perilously close to burning their house down. A poem that hung on Jennifer’s kitchen wall at home exhorted parents to reject every negative emotion in favour of raising their children with only praise, encouragement, approval and acceptance.

  The boys were her project, her mission in life. Born only eleven months apart, Jake and Ethan had become all-consuming in the way that small children could be, and Jennifer had quit her job and never gone back. She’d thrown herself into the role of full-time mum with a gusto verging on mania, and was both hugely proud and fiercely protective of her boys. Even when Ethan had joined his older brother at primary school, she had resisted a return to her physiotherapy career and had got a part-time admin job in the school office instead.

  Sean walked in, a towel around his waist, hair wet from the pool. It was the first time I’d seen him since discovering the messages on his phone, and I felt my face flush instantly with a burning sense of anger and heartache. And a million questions. The discovery was so raw, and there had been so little time to process what I was feeling – I needed to arrange my expression, my emotions, in a way that didn’t instantly give away the toxic secret I now carried inside me.

  I couldn’t bear to look at my husband, but I couldn’t look away either.

  He greeted Jennifer with a peck on the cheek – curiously chaste in the circumstances? Perhaps not? – and returned to his suitcase to continue unpacking.

  ‘There’s a games room downstairs,’ I said, hearing the weirdly forced tone of my own words. ‘A pool table, table football and all sorts. I’m sure the children will find something to do.’

  Jennifer nodded, not seeming to notice the tension in my voice.

  ‘I’m really hoping they’ll spend lots of time outside,’ she said. ‘The air is so much cleaner here than in London. And they spend so much time playing on that damn Xbox.’

  Jennifer’s husband, Alistair, appeared at her side in full summer holiday mode: belly-hugging vest top and Speedos, hairy shoulders and bare thighs. I’d always thought they were a bit of a mismatch – physically at least – and they’d turned into one of those couples that didn’t seem to have aged at the same rate. She still had the tall, long-limbed Californian grace that had beguiled a s
uccession of university boyfriends all those years ago, while Alistair seemed chunkier and more dishevelled than ever with his full, scraggly beard and tortoiseshell glasses.

  ‘A-ha!’ Alistair said. ‘I can tell you two were just talking about Xbox-gate.’

  Jennifer sighed. ‘Don’t keep calling it that. It was a storm in a teacup.’

  ‘I said she should have just let them bring it,’ Alistair said. ‘One has to start making one’s own decisions sooner or later, making one’s own mistakes. Why not now? The boys are at that stage in their lives when they’re pushing boundaries, testing themselves and others, and we should encourage it as a move away from childhood into early adulthood. They’re not little boys any more.’

  ‘They’re still my little boys,’ Jennifer said, crossing her arms. ‘And it would be nice if you backed me up once in a while, instead of always making me be the bad cop.’

  ‘But you’re equally as good at being the good cop, mon chéri.’ He gave me a conspiratorial wink. ‘You’ve got that covered as well.’

  ‘All the same, it would be nice if you could treat Jake and Ethan as our children, rather than just a couple more patients to be studied and advised.’

  Daniel burst in, out of breath, hair wet, his crocs slapping on the floor.

  ‘Can I borrow your camcorder, Dad? I’m going to do a house tour like Joe Sugg!’

  Sean went to a drawer and handed over the little camera.

  ‘Be careful with it.’

  ‘Careful is my middle name!’ He ran out of the room.

  ‘Joe Sugg?’ Jennifer said. ‘Remind me?’

  ‘YouTuber, has eight million subscribers.’

  ‘Of course he does.’

  Alistair gestured towards the expensively decorated surroundings.

  ‘The villa is absolutely sensational, isn’t it? Anyone coming for a dip?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ I said. ‘If the water’s still warm enough.’

  ‘Twenty-nine degrees, apparently – just like a warm bath. You coming, Jennifer?’

  ‘Have you seen Jake?’

  ‘Not since they went to their rooms.’

  ‘Could you check down by the pool for him?’

  ‘I’m sure the boys are fine, darling.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Righty-ho.’ He padded off, flip-flops clicking on the tile floor.

  ‘See you down at the pool?’ Jennifer said to me.

  ‘Sure.’

  Sean, who had said nothing so far during this exchange, was taking the last few things from his suitcase.

  ‘Might go for another dip,’ he said, ‘when I’ve got this finished. Amazing pool.’

  Jennifer either didn’t hear him, or acted as if she hadn’t.

  Something was not quite right here, like a bad smell in the room that no one wanted to acknowledge. She’s acting like Sean’s not there. Why would she do that?

  ‘Are you going in, Kate?’ she said.

  ‘Maybe in a bit.’

  ‘Catch you later, then. I’d better go and see about my boys.’

  She walked off towards the stairs.

  I glanced at Sean as he hung shirts in the wardrobe.

  Are you just going down to the pool because she’s going? So you can have a few minutes together? Why was she ignoring you? Why can’t she even meet your eye?

  Perhaps the answer was obvious.

  She can’t meet your eye because she doesn’t want to give herself away. It’s that simple. Is it?

  Is it Jennifer, then?

  I was reminded, more forcefully than ever before, that Jennifer and Sean had been a couple for a few months when we were students.

  And after their split he had got together with me.

  There had been no crossover. At least, that was the story we’d always maintained. It was best to keep the story simple, best for all concerned.

  It came back to me then: the worst thing that Sean had ever said to me, the most hurtful words he had ever uttered – buried in my memory for so long I thought I had forgotten. The game of Truth or Dare we had played after a few months together, Sean almost too drunk to stand. Best sex I ever had? That would have to be Jennifer, ha ha, first love and all that . . .

  A furious row had followed, as I tearfully explained to him that you weren’t necessarily supposed to tell the truth in Truth or Dare, especially if it was as hurtful and horrible as what he had said. Especially if it was about his tall, athletic, American ex-girlfriend who was also one of my best friends. Him blinking drunkenly up at me, saying sorry sorry sorry, over and over again, pleading, swaying on his feet, telling me it was just a joke, just a stupid joke and he didn’t mean it.

  We had split up for a fortnight before I relented to his begging and took him back. It had never been mentioned since and it was so long ago that I hoped it would never surface again. I had never told Jennifer, or the other two.

  How about it, Jennifer? Is it you and Sean? Is it a second go-around for the two of you? Best sex he ever had, after all. Rekindling a first love, something like that? Like those people who hook up with their teenage boyfriends on Facebook and end up leaving their husbands?

  Is it long-overdue revenge for stealing your boyfriend all those years ago?

  No. That was mad.

  Or was it?

  7

  I needed to clear my head.

  I needed a bit of time and space for myself. What I needed most of all was to get out, to get away, to be alone for a while – but that was the one thing I couldn’t have this week.

  I finished getting ready, unplugged my phone from the charger and found a small packet of tissues that would fit into the pocket of my dress. My heart was racing as I went downstairs, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone on the way, and I was almost across the lounge when Rowan emerged out of the kitchen. She had changed again into a sleeveless maxi dress that shimmered and shifted like liquid silk, and held two long-stemmed glasses of champagne in her hands. She offered one to me.

  ‘We should start as we mean to continue,’ she said, clinking her glass against mine. ‘Cheers, Kate.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, summoning a smile as I took the glass.

  ‘You OK, honey?’

  ‘Just a bit tired from the journey.’

  ‘Nothing like a fine glass of bubbly to get you back on track.’

  I took a sip of the champagne, the taste bitter on my tongue.

  ‘Definitely,’ I said, holding up my phone. ‘I’m just going down to the garden to call my mum. Let her know we’ve got here all right.’

  It was a lie: I had already texted my mum to let her know we were here and settling in. But I needed a reason to be alone.

  ‘The restaurant is booked,’ Rowan said. ‘We’ll need to be summoning the troops in about an hour.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I opened the sliding glass doors to the balcony and was instantly shrouded in the intense early evening heat, my racing pulse kicking up another gear. A wide stone staircase led down to the infinity pool, currently deserted, and a right turn took me out onto a lush green lawn that stretched the whole width of the property, with palm trees for shade and benches looking out across the vineyard. The smells were intoxicating: lilies bursting from the flower beds, eucalyptus and pine and summer heat baked into the earth. The garden was bordered by a neatly tended hedge with an iron gateway in the middle that gave on to the vineyard beyond. I glanced back at the house, spotting a small figure on one of the other first-floor balconies. I would know that mop of dark hair anywhere: Daniel, with Sean’s old camcorder held out in front of him. His lips moved as he narrated one of his holiday house films, a junior YouTuber in the making. My little miracle boy, who had arrived unexpectedly after three miscarriages – at a time when I was starting to resign myself to never having a second child.

  Sweat was already beginning to prickle the small of my back and under my arms, the air so hot it felt as if the breath was sticking in my throat, clogging and choking. I took another swallow of c
hampagne and headed for the gate, out of Daniel’s field of view, through into the vineyard and immediately right, away from the villa, somewhere I wouldn’t be seen. I walked along the end of the rows of vines, each one perfectly straight and spaced a few feet away from the next. After a minute I checked over my shoulder again: I couldn’t see Daniel on the balcony any more, or anyone else.

  I kept walking. The more I walked, the more the feelings rose, like a tide coming into shore. The further away from the villa I got, the worse I felt, my heart thundering in my chest. Fight or flight.

  Once again it occurred to me that perhaps I should just confront Sean. March upstairs and tell him that I knew, that I had discovered his secret, and unless he told me the truth, right this minute, I was going to pack my clothes, grab the children, and leave him here. Head straight back to England on the next available flight. But I couldn’t work out whether this was the smart thing to do, the brave thing. Or the dumb option. Was it the worst possible option I could take? As I stood there, it seemed it was all of these things – or maybe none of them. Because there weren’t any right answers any more, only answers that were slightly less wrong than the others. No black and white. Just grey, all grey.

  I stopped, held my hands out in front me. They were shaking, trembling uncontrollably, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

  I’d never experienced one before, but I knew the symptoms and I knew what this was: a panic attack.

  Slumping down against a vine, I closed my eyes and felt the tears come again.

  8

  Crickets filled the evening air with their soft burr as we meandered slowly down the hill to the restaurant. In front of us, Lucy was talking to Rowan, Jennifer and Alistair, while Russ carried Odette on his back. The three boys were somewhere further ahead, Daniel scampering after the two lanky teenagers like a puppy desperate for attention.

  I had reapplied my make-up and knocked back a second glass of champagne to calm my nerves. Sean and I were bringing up the rear of our little group, him walking beside me in a not entirely straight line.