‘I’m doing a project on animal behaviour,’ one of them told her.
Hah! They ought to come and do some research at her house, then.
Sometimes, they asked for a bit of help, even though they were meant to do it on their own. ‘Mrs Walker,’ asked a little girl with a patch over her eye one evening; ‘what does Con Fid Ent mean?’ The kid frowned down at the sheet of questions in front of her, sucking her pencil. ‘You’ve got to say what these words mean. I’ve done some but I don’t get them all.’
‘You know,’ she said, pulling up another small chair and inviting the little girl to sit next to her. ‘When I was your age, I couldn’t swim.’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’
Emma nodded. Even now she felt embarrassed to admit it. ‘My dad used to take me down to the swimming pool every Sunday.’ A lump swelled up in her throat. It had been their special time together. ‘Gives me a chance to have some time to myself,’ Mum had said.
‘But,’ she continued, talking more to herself than the little girl now, ‘I was too scared to leave the shallow end. I didn’t have the confidence, you see.’
She was conscious now of a couple of other children listening in. ‘What happened, miss?’ asked a big kid with round red cheeks.
‘My dad told me that we can do whatever we want.’ Her voice grew soft at the memory. ‘He said that our minds can be like magic. You have to believe and then it works.’
She could almost see Dad right now, standing waist-deep in the water and holding his right hand up in the air. ‘So he pretended to wave a magic wand. I was really into magicians then. Dad and I used to watch a conjuring show every Friday night on telly.’
Emma paused again, remembering how they’d snuggle up together on the sofa, her head on his shoulder. Thick as thieves, her mother used to say. ‘So I believed him.’
The little girl with the patched eye drew in her breath. ‘Cool. So did you swim to the deep end then?’
‘Not immediately. It took a bit of time. But I did make a start by doing a few kicks.’
When she had learned to swim properly, Dad had gone out and bought her a pair of roller skates. ‘You’re spoiling her,’ Mum had grumbled.
‘So what?’ Dad had retorted. ‘What’s the point of having a kid if you can’t give her stuff?’
How was it possible, Emma thought now with a lump in her throat, for a father and daughter to have become so distant? Why oh why had he betrayed Mum and her like that? But who was she to talk?
‘I can do the next word on the list! I can do it!’ The little girl with the covered-up eye was jumping up and down with excitement.
Emma glanced down at it. Forgive. There it was, in black and white, as though someone had written it down especially for her. ‘It means make up,’ babbled the little girl. ‘My mum’s always saying that my sister and I have to do that when we’re fighting.’
Getting up from the child-sized chair and adjusting her elasticated skirt, Emma patted the little girl on the shoulder. ‘Your mum’s right. Arguing isn’t nice. Now, who’d like some toast?’
There was a wave of excited ‘Me!’s as she headed for the kitchen. ‘Emma!’ called out one of the other helpers. ‘Can you make some for my table too?’
‘No, thanks.’ A cool, confident voice rang out. ‘I don’t want her to make me anything.’
Was that Alice? She hadn’t noticed her there in the other homework corner. Unable to stop herself, Emma felt her cheeks burning, making it look as though she was in the wrong. The other helper was staring at her curiously. ‘Something I ought to know about, here?’
‘My mother says that she isn’t to be trusted.’ Alice’s words rose above the din around them.
The helper was giving her a really funny look now. ‘It was a misunderstanding,’ Emma muttered. ‘How many pieces of toast did you say you wanted?’
Somehow she got through the rest of the session, but all the time, she had her eye on the door. Would Melissa pick up Alice and Freddie, or would it be Winston? Should she say something or just keep quiet?
‘Always be true to yourself, love.’ That had been one of her dad’s sayings. He might have been a hypocrite, but there was no reason why she had to be one too. So as soon as Melissa came through the door, with her hair tied back in a really clever knot and her face beautifully made up, Emma made her way over, heart pounding with apprehension.
‘You?’ Melissa’s face said it all. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Working. Can I have a word?’ Emma took her to one side. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you this.’
Melissa’s glossy lips tightened. ‘Tell me what?’
‘It was Tom that did it.’ Emma gave a quick look around to check no one was listening. ‘I’m so sorry. He texted the paper and told them some of the stuff I’d told him about you and Winston and the kids … I know I promised not to tell anyone, but I didn’t think my own husband counted.’ To her embarrassment, she felt her eyes well with tears. ‘I’m beginning to think I don’t know him as well as I thought.’
Something gave in Melissa’s beautiful dark eyes. ‘It’s not always easy to know what someone is really like.’
She turned to go but Emma caught her by the arm. ‘I miss … I miss talking to you. It was really nice having you on holiday. You were so kind to me, lending me that medicine and including me in things. I’d like to think we can be friends.’
Melissa hesitated.
‘It’s not cos you’re famous,’ Emma added hastily.
‘Hah!’ There was a wry smile. ‘Not any more.’
Of course. There was a new presenter now, wasn’t there? Mum loved him, but personally Emma didn’t think much of his exercises. They didn’t push you like Winston’s had done. Not that she’d given them a fair chance.
‘It’s because I like you. So can we? Can we be mates?’
Melissa smiled. When she did that, she was a different person. ‘Maybe. I suppose it’s nice to know you’re here to look after my two at after-school club.’ She glanced at Alice, who was hogging the computer, despite the queue. ‘Poor things. They’ve been through so much recently. Perhaps you could keep a special eye on them, to make up for everything else. OK?’
Well, that was something, at least. She’d got things straight with Melissa, even if it had meant dropping Tom in it. Mind you, it served him right. He shouldn’t have done what he had, just as she shouldn’t have allowed the drink and sun to go to her head …
Feeling a bit uneasy, Emma finished tidying the after-school club along with the others and began walking back to her house, where mum was looking after the kids. There was a definite chill in the air: autumn was beginning to set in already. They’d been married now for two months and already they were in trouble. Every time Tom kissed her, she felt so horribly guilty.
‘Thank goodness you’re back.’ Mum opened the door with Gawain in her arms before she had a chance to get the key out. ‘What was in that blue bottle in the bathroom? There wasn’t a label on it.’
The blue bottle? Emma felt a cold fear go through her. That was the one that Rosie Harrison had given her, wasn’t it? She’d brought it back from the villa by mistake, forgetting to give it back. ‘Something to stop you being sick. Someone lent it to me in Greece when Tom was ill. Why?’
Mum jerked her head at Gawain. ‘This one’s only gone and climbed on a stool to take a swig.’
‘What?’ Emma felt her chest tighten with fear. ‘Where were you?’
‘Trying to get Willow onto the potty.’ Her mother’s tone was defensive. ‘It’s not easy being in two places at once.’
She knew that. But that was part of a mother’s job description. Still, this wasn’t the time for blame-throwing.
‘What are you doing?’
Emma was rifling through the kitchen drawer, trying to find the travel file she’d put together after Bernie’s surprise wedding present. There it was. A printout of their flight itinerary and, crucially, a
mobile number.
‘Ringing Rosie, the woman who runs the villa.’ She glanced through the door of the lounge to see Gawain playing happily with his cars. He looked all right but you never knew. ‘With any luck, she’ll tell me what’s in it.’
Her heart still beating furiously, Emma listened to the continental tone. The phone call would cost a fortune but this was more important. What time would it be there? Eight o’clock. She could just imagine Rosie sitting out on the terrace with a glass of wine, snuggling up to Greco, with Yannis perhaps, in the background.
Don’t let him pick up the phone. Don’t.
‘Villa Rosa. May I help you?’
The lilting sound of Rosie’s voice filled her with relief. ‘It’s me, Emma. You know. My husband and I spent our honeymoon with you. He was ill …’
There was a slight change in the tone. ‘I remember.’
‘Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but …’
Briefly she explained what had happened. ‘Jack gave it to us,’ she went on. ‘He said you swore by it.’
‘It’s all right.’ The voice now had changed from cool to reassuring. ‘It’s only flavoured water.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Nor did I at first.’ There was a laugh. ‘It’s one of Cara’s recipes. Remember? She’s the co-owner and a good friend of mine. When Jack was young, it was a little trick of hers. She says that if children think they’re getting something to make them better, they often get better on their own. In other words, it’s psychological. Works on adults too – especially the ones who are hypochondriacs, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Emma could have cried with relief. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Not at all.’ There was a slight hesitation. ‘Actually, it’s funny you should ring. Jack and I may be paying a visit to the UK soon. I was just looking up flights.’
Really? Perhaps that was so Jack could see his father. Poor Melissa! That wouldn’t be easy for her. ‘If you come to Corrywood,’ she said carefully, ‘I do hope you’ll come round for a cup of tea.’
Now why had she said that? Immediately Emma regretted her invitation, made out of politeness and relief about the medicine. Rosie might say something about Yannis in front of Tom …
‘Thanks, but we’re actually going to Devon. Anyway, it was nice to chat. Do keep in touch.’
Devon? Emma couldn’t help feeling curious as she went back to the kitchen. Maybe Jack and his dad were going to meet up out of the public eye.
Still, the important thing was that Gawain was all right. But how weird to give someone something that wasn’t medicine at all! This Cara was either a bit touched or really rather clever …
‘That’s all right then,’ said Mum, casually, when she gave her the good news.
‘Not really,’ said Emma awkwardly. ‘I don’t want to criticise, but you need to watch the kids all the time to make sure nothing happens to them.’
Her mother slammed the teapot down on the table. ‘If you don’t trust me to look after my own grandchildren, you can always find someone else.’
Oh dear. Now she’d offended her.
‘Want chocolate biscuit!’ Gawain was grabbing the packet on the side before she could stop him.
‘Not before your meal, love.’
Too late! Brushing the crumbs off him, she had a sudden yearning for chocolate herself. Unable to resist – despite her new healthy eating regime since Greece – she popped a little piece in her own mouth. Ugh!
Mum rolled her eyes. ‘What’s wrong now?’
‘This biscuit.’ Emma eyed the rest suspiciously. ‘It’s off.’
‘Mine’s all right.’
‘It tasted, well, metallic to me …’
Emma heard her voice trail away as her mother’s eyes hardened. ‘Metallic?’
Then her eyes fell to Emma’s stomach. It was flat. In fact, she’d actually lost some weight in the last few weeks, thanks to the protein diet. It was true that the period she’d had after coming back from honeymoon had been very light, but that wasn’t anything unusual.
‘Do you think you’re pregnant?’ asked her mother sharply.
‘What does Preg Nent mean?’ chirped Gawain.
Why was it that kids only overheard stuff they weren’t meant to?
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’ Emma clutched the chair as her mind went back. Tom … Yannis … The recent change in her pill – at her doctor’s suggestion – because she’d been getting so bloated.
‘Sit down, love.’ Her mother was clucking. ‘A honeymoon baby? How on earth are you going to manage with three? Honestly, Em. Talk about being careless …’
TRUE POST-HONEYMOON STORY
‘After the honeymoon my new husband was posted to Brussels. I stayed in London for my job. It’s a great recipe for marriage!’
Gail, still happily commuting
Chapter Thirty-Two
ROSIE
Dear Rosemary,
How are you doing out there? I get some news from Gemma, of course, and often think about you and your little boy – although he’s not so little now, is he? It seems hard to think that it was all so long ago. I don’t know where the time goes!
I’m writing an old-fashioned letter because I can’t get the hang of these emails, and sometimes it’s better to put things on paper rather than a computer where it’s so easy to say something you don’t mean to, don’t you think?
Anyway, excuse the rambling, but I’m also writing for another reason. I’m aware that you and your dad haven’t seen eye to eye for a while, but I thought you ought to know that he really hasn’t been at all well. In fact, he may well have written to you himself and told you – if so, please excuse me for interfering – but I had a funny feeling that your mum would want me to say something.
If you do decide to come over and pay him a visit, you are very welcome to stay with us. I know Gemma would be thrilled to see you – she and her little family come down to Devon whenever they can. The boys love digging sandcastles on the beach and they’ve given my husband a new lease of life. I am sure your dad would like to see Jack too.
Hope to hear from you soon.
Much love,
Sally
Rosie had read and reread the letter several times since it had arrived out of the blue a few days before. No one ever wrote to her from England: she and Gemma always emailed. But when she read the name ‘Rosemary’, she was taken back all those years to the confused, scared teenager whose father had thrown her out of the house.
‘What’s wrong?’ Greco had asked, noticing her expression.
They were having breakfast on the terrace, overlooking the vineyards dropping down to the sea. Yannis had made a delicious concoction of honey and yoghurt, which seemed to be a rather perfect ending to the half-hour that she and Greco had just spent in bed. Now that the final guests had left and the villa was closed for the usual winter clean-up, Rosie could afford to take some time off in the last of the warm autumn sun.
She glanced down at the letter again with its beautiful sloping writing in proper ink. ‘It’s from my friend Gemma’s mother, Sally. She lives near my dad – in fact, she was a friend of Mum’s – and she says …’ She hesitated slightly, still not sure of her emotions. ‘She says he’s ill.’
Greco sat forward, his handsome face concerned. ‘Then you must go and see him at once.’
‘You don’t understand.’ She stood up and walked towards the edge of the terrace, where tubs of bright red and orange geraniums were still cascading down. ‘When I was pregnant with Jack, Dad said he never wanted to see me again.’
A pair of arms wrapped themselves around her and she leaned back into his warm, reassuring body. Over the last few months, Rosie had learned more about this body – and Greco’s mind – than she could ever have thought possible. Both were full of surprises.
‘People change, my loved one,’ he murmured. ‘It is normal for the old to look back and regret their mistakes. We will do it one day ourselves.’
Rosie gulped, trying to concentrate on the line of trees between the terrace and the sea to stop the tears from welling up in her eyes. ‘Sally implied that Mum would want me to go back and see him. She also said that my father would want to see Jack.’
‘Exactly.’ Gently, Greco spun her round so she was facing him. ‘You do not need to worry about the villa. Cara and I will look after it, will we not?’
He addressed his remark to the figure asleep on the chair in the sunny corner of the terrace. It was Cara’s favourite morning position. Every now and then, the older woman would have unexpected bursts of energy and insist on cleaning the kitchen floor because ‘no one else does it as I do’. Then she would have a long nap before waking up with renewed vigour.
‘Of course we will look after the villa.’
So she wasn’t asleep after all. In fact, Cara was sitting upright now, like a little bird, her beady eyes looking round her. Greek matriarchs, Rosie had noticed, gave the appearance of being ancient with their crinkly tanned skin, but then they surprised you with their sharp minds and observations. ‘It is right for Jack to see his grandfather and show respect, however badly your father has treated you both. It is also important that the boy sees his own father. You must not let history repeat itself. The two of them need to build a relationship just as you need to rebuild one with your own surviving parent.’
Then, as if exhausted by her speech, Cara sank back into her chair and closed her eyes. On the other hand, that might just have been her way of saying ‘No more arguments’.
Rosie glanced up at Greco, who gave her a wry smile. ‘What Cara says must be done,’ he said, gently tilting her chin up to his face as he often did when he was about to kiss her.
‘And you can keep that kind of business to your own room,’ came the voice from the chair.
Rosie moved away, embarrassed, but Greco laughed out loud. ‘She is right. Come, let us take a walk.’
She knew what he had in mind. A walk along the beach often ended up with something more, provided that no one else was around. Rosie didn’t know what had come over her since that time in Athens. It was as though Greco’s touch had unleashed something in her that she hadn’t known existed.
After the Honeymoon Page 29
