Bernie picked up her spatula as though it was a weapon to ward off any evil. ‘Then you deny it, don’t you? More peas, love?’ The last comment was addressed to the bright kid in glasses. ‘Sorry. All gone. How about chips instead?’
By the end of October, Emma had decided that maybe Bernie was right. Much as she disliked lying to Tom, perhaps it was better to keep quiet about Yannis.
How could she risk him leaving her? Did she really want Gawain and Willow to grow up in a single-parent family as she had, as a teenager? Seeing Dad had really brought that home.
Fear of losing Tom suddenly made her appreciate him all the more. What had seemed irritating, like his heavy snoring or fastidiousness about drying the cutlery even though the dishwasher had done it, now appeared comforting.
What was it the song said? Something about ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.’
It was true. She loved Tom. He was the only one she wanted. It had been a terrible, terrible mistake …
Nor would she tell Mum that she’d seen Dad. What was the point? There was too much water under the bridge now. Perhaps she should count her blessings.
‘Mind if I go out with the lads tonight?’ Tom asked one evening. It was nearly Halloween and she was helping Gawain to carve out a pumpkin.
‘’Course not.’
‘Don’t do the nose, Mummy. Gawain wants to do that.’ Her son was getting increasingly bossy as her waistline expanded. Perhaps he could sense the new rival growing inside her. She patted it gently. Poor little thing. It wasn’t its fault that she didn’t know who its dad was.
Willow meanwhile was into everything.
‘Not the knife!’ She grabbed it just in time. Parenthood was like negotiating your way through a maze of potential dangers. Frankly, it was a wonder that there weren’t more accidents.
‘Sure you can manage?’ asked Tom, standing there, clearly desperate to go.
She tried to make a joke out of it, patting her stomach again. ‘If I can’t manage with two, there’s no hope!’
After he’d gone, Gawain started to fall asleep over the pumpkin and Willow, bless her, did the same. Bliss! She could get both children to bed and sit in front of the television, feet up on the sofa, watching some soppy drama.
It was, as chance would have it, about a father and daughter reunion. Emma’s attention began to wander to the letter that Dad had sent, just after her visit, asking if she would consider bringing the children over.
Give me some time, Dad, she’d written back. I’ll think about it.
At the moment, it was too much. If she did take the kids, Gawain would be bound to blab it out to Mum and then there’d be all hell to pay. She hadn’t even told Tom about the visit in case he opened his mouth.
Another deception. Where did it end?
Emma must have fallen asleep, because the first thing she heard when she woke was the door slamming. Briefly, she thought she was still dreaming.
‘What the hell were you thinking of?’
Sleepily, she sat up, feeling the baby kick as she did so. Rubbing her eyes, she saw her husband standing before her. His eyes were wild and red.
‘What do you mean, Tom?’
He sat down opposite her, his face drawn with anguish. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
A cold fear shot through her. Never before had she seen Tom like this. At the same time, she could hear Willow crying, closely followed by Gawain.
‘You’ve woken the kids,’ she said nervously.
‘Whose kids, Emma?’ he roared. ‘Are they really mine, or might they be someone else’s, like that one in your stomach?’
He jabbed a finger towards her. Emma’s body froze and the baby went still as though it knew something momentous was happening.
‘Who told you—’ she began.
‘So it’s true!’ Tom flung back his head as a wail came out of his mouth. ‘Phil was right.’
Phil, Bernie’s husband? She’d told him?
‘It’s not the way you think,’ she began.
‘I don’t want to know any more.’ Tom was pulling her to her feet. ‘Get out. All of you. The kids too. I don’t want to see any of you again.’
GOT YOU!
A couple on honeymoon who burgled a pensioner’s house, were jailed for four years.
Recent newspaper headline
Chapter Thirty-Five
ROSIE
It was November already. Bonfire night! Rosie hadn’t expected to stay this long in England. A fortnight was surely enough time to pay her dues to her old father.
But then circumstances had forced her to change her plans.
Rosie still felt furious when she recalled that horrible scene where her father had called her son a … No. She wouldn’t even say those words out loud.
Afterwards, when she had marched back to tell him what had happened as a result, her dad had expressed a mild regret. ‘Stormed off, you say? Well, I can’t help that. You used to do the same when you were his age, I remember. But you always came back again.’
Then, with a flicker of concern in his eyes, he had added, ‘Got to his father’s place safely, has he?’
‘Yes,’ she’d replied tersely, thinking of all the panic calls she’d made to Jack’s mobile that had gone straight through to answerphone. She had thought the worst, worked herself up into a real state before Jack had finally called.
He’d refused to pick up her calls after that, though, until the following day. ‘Are you all right?’ she’d demanded, anger fuelled by relief.
‘Stop fussing, Mum. Of course I am. Dad says I can stay up here for a bit.’
For a boy who’d only just met his father, he seemed to have slipped into the ‘Dad’ bit rather easily. What did that mean? That he’d craved a father figure all along?
Certainly he sounded quite happy – not at all like the upset boy who had rushed off from his grandfather’s cruel greeting. ‘At least here I’m with people who want me,’ he added in a more biting tone.
Rosie had gripped the mobile. ‘You’re wanted down here too. I miss you. And Gemma’s children love being with you.’
‘Yeah, but Grandad doesn’t, does he?’
She’d winced at the raw hurt in his voice. ‘You will come back in time for our flight, won’t you?’
‘Whatever,’ he muttered.
So she’d spent the rest of half-term making the most of Gemma’s company and spending a couple of hours every day with her father, because Sally had been right. Dad wasn’t very well.
‘Heart trouble on top of the cancer. Not much they can do about it. One of those things. Waterworks problem too.’ He patted the bag at his side. ‘Charlie the catheter, I call it. Bit of a nuisance, but they say that at my age, you’re more likely to die with prostate cancer than from it. Got a few problems with my liver, too.’
More than that he wouldn’t say, but there was no doubt that he was quite frail. It took him an age to get up and put the kettle on. ‘I can do it myself, thanks very much. I’m not dead yet.’
Gradually, over the next two weeks, she’d learned to ignore his harshness. Age had changed her too. Instead of being cowed by him, as she had been as a teenager, she realised that bullies like Dad soon gave in, if challenged.
‘You shouldn’t have sent me away when I was pregnant,’ she’d finally said, the day before they were due to fly home. Jack would be back tonight and if she didn’t say what needed to be said, there might not be time. They were sitting in his lounge with the late autumn sun shining weakly through the lace curtains, which needed a good wash. (Not that she was going to interfere unless she wanted her head bitten off.) ‘I was only seventeen. Mum wouldn’t have done it.’
His eyes had flickered. She’d struck a nerve there. ‘You shouldn’t have got pregnant,’ he sniffed.
‘It happens sometimes. Anyway, I wouldn’t change it for the world.’ She got out her iPad. ‘Jack’s a fine boy. You hardly got a chance to look at him. Take a glance at some of these pictures
.’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I don’t do all that newfangled technology. Photographs should be held – not seen on some kind of screen.’
Then Rosie thought of the photograph album she’d slipped in her bag at the last minute, before leaving Greece. ‘He looks like you, you know.’
‘Hah! With that colour?’
‘You could see it right from babyhood,’ she continued, ignoring him. ‘Look.’
Before he could protest, she’d placed Jack’s baby and toddler album on her father’s lap. The resemblance really was amazing. Jack might have Winston’s colouring, but he had his grandad’s nose and that way of holding his head to one side, as though asking a question.
Her father snorted again. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do,’ she was about to reply but then her phone had rung. Jack. Getting up, she made an excuse to go into the old-fashioned galley kitchen with the calendar on the wrong month and the loaf of bread that was growing mouldy on the side.
‘Hi! Are you on your way down now?’
‘Actually, Mum, I’ve got something to tell you.’
Rosie leaned against the fridge door, closing her eyes. Part of her had been expecting this. ‘Dad says I can stay on if I want.’
‘But what about school?’
‘That’s the thing. Can you talk to Gemma’s husband?’ She could hear the pleading in his voice. ‘See if I can go to Corrywood for a bit? It would give me a chance to get to know Dad. Please.’
It was the ‘please’ that tore her heart. What, she wondered, staring at the dirty plate on the side of the sink, had happened in those two weeks? Was it possible that Winston, damn him, had taken her place in his affections?
‘How long is a bit?’ Rosie asked quietly.
There was a short silence. ‘Maybe until Christmas?’
Christmas? That’s crazy, she started to say, but then stopped as Dad appeared at the door, stick in one hand and catheter bag – which needed emptying – in the other. She had gone through much of her life without a mother and at the age of seventeen had had to make do without either parent. Perhaps her son deserved some time with his father now – time he should have had when he was younger.
‘OK,’ she heard herself say, while rapidly thinking through the practicalities. The flight would have to be changed. She’d need to talk to Cara and Greco, not to mention Jack’s school. And she ought to talk to Winston, too, and Melissa. Would she mind, Rosie wondered fleetingly, about her husband’s love child (as the papers put it), taking up residence for three months?
‘I’ve got things to do here too,’ she added. ‘I’ll have to ask Sally if I can stay on with her.’
As she spoke, she looked at Dad. Was she imagining it, or was that a brief flicker of pleasure on his face? If so, it had gone before it could be properly identified. ‘I also want to talk to Winston,’ she added. ‘Is he there?’
There was the sound of someone speaking loudly in the background. A woman. ‘They’re busy at the moment,’ said Jack quickly. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks so much, Mum! It would be really cool if Joe agrees to take me on at Alice’s school. And it will be a great chance for me to see what an English education is like, won’t it?’
Nice try. She knew why he really wanted to stay. It wasn’t just because of Winston – it was because her son was in love! What right did she have to put a halt between Alice and Jack? Especially after what had happened to her.
Dad hobbled over to the kettle just as she slipped the phone back into her pocket. ‘So you won’t be shooting back to this Greek place after all, then?’ He sniffed, wiping his hand on his sleeve before putting the same hand in a rusty tea caddy. ‘We’ll have more time to talk then. Fancy another cuppa, do you?’
Yes, Joe had said, after he’d made some enquiries. Jack could stay at school until Christmas, although he’d need to work hard. The curriculum was different from the one he was used to, but it wasn’t the first time that they’d taken in children on a temporary basis.
Of course, Sally had said. She’d love Rosie to stay on. It would be company, and it would give her a chance to see her father, wouldn’t it?
‘Isn’t it great?’ Gemma had enthused on the phone. ‘You can come up to Corrywood and see us at weekends. It will give you a base to visit Jack.’
But Rosie wasn’t sure. It was too much change, too fast. Not long ago, she and Jack had seen each other all day, every day. She missed him. Just as she missed Greco, who had sounded most put out when she’d rung with the news.
‘You are not coming back for three more months?’ She could just see him tossing his head with indignation. Almost hear the sea splashing against his boat with the waves sparkling in the sun. ‘You wish to spend some time with Winston, I suppose.’
‘No, it’s not like that,’ Rosie tried to explain, aware of the thin wall between the guest room and Sally’s bedroom. ‘I’m only going to be in Corrywood at the weekend. I’ll be spending the rest of my time with my dad.’
‘Pah! The one who threw you out?’
‘You were the one who encouraged me to go,’ she reminded him. ‘Like you said, he’s old. I may not have this chance again. Talk to Cara. She will understand.’
There was the sound of shuffling as though Greco was moving to another place. Perhaps he wasn’t on the boat after all. Maybe he was at the villa, leaning over the terrace wall and admiring the olive grove. She felt a lurch of homesickness.
‘Our Cara,’ said Greco quietly, ‘she is here for a reason.’
Rosie sighed. ‘I know. She thought I needed her and now I am gone.’
‘No. It is not like that. She tell me the truth now. Her nephew’s wife, she threw Cara out. Said she is interfering old lady.’
Rosie gasped. ‘That’s awful. May I speak to her?’
‘No. She has pride. Me too. You stay in your England, Rosie. We will manage without you.’
Then he had rung off. Bruised, Rosie resisted the temptation to ring back. If Greco wanted to act like a child, that was up to him.
Now, four weeks later, their communication was only in the form of brief texts. Greco didn’t do email, and when she rang him, he failed to pick up. Meanwhile, her weekday visits with Dad were growing easier and longer. They had fallen into quite a pleasant routine. She would arrive in the morning with the paper and a bag full of shopping (no more mouldy bread) and they’d do the crossword together over a cup of tea. Then she’d do some washing for him – grudgingly he’d agreed to that – and a bit of cleaning after lunch, while he had an afternoon nap. After cooking him a bit of supper she’d head back to Sally’s.
The evenings were more difficult. Lovely as Sally was, Gemma’s father was more austere and dinner was very formal. Rosie often thought, with longing, of the balmy evenings on the terrace at home, in Greco’s arms, with fairy lights strung above them. Still, if he couldn’t accept what was happening in her life, he wasn’t worth it, was he?
She missed Jack too, dreadfully. ‘Are you sure he’s all right?’ she asked Winston on more than one occasion during their increasingly regular let’s talk about our son calls. Although she’d gone up to Corrywood twice to visit Jack, it had been difficult. Gemma’s terraced house was already bursting with three small boys and there was little privacy to talk. When she’d taken Jack down to the local pizza place, it had been full of single dads, trying desperately to talk to their kids. And so far, there hadn’t been an invitation from Melissa and Winston, where Jack was still staying, to go over there. Not even for coffee.
Until now, that was. R u cming up ths wkend? Winston had texted when Dad was having a nap one bright November day. If so, wd u like to spend bonfire nt with us? There’s smthing gng on at the schl.
Yes, she had texted back after checking that Gemma could put her up. She’d love to. And now, here she was, at Corrywood station, waiting for Winston and Jack to collect her. Gemma would have done it, but she was busy cooking for the firework spread and Joe was up to his eyes in organising
the display.
Rosie was beginning to feel like a teenager all over again, waiting to be picked up. It was cold, too, but a rather nice brisk cold, with the sky lit up by pink swirling stars and bursts of sparkling silver trails. Other families and schools had started their fireworks early, reminding her of childhood bonfire nights in Devon. It had been so exciting!
‘Mum!’ Rosie was jolted out of her reverie by a tall boy waving at her from the road outside. Jack! She’d only seen him two weeks earlier but he seemed different now. A new jacket, she noticed. Rather nice. Brown suede. Had his father bought that? She should have been pleased but instead she felt slightly cheated that Jack could allow Winston to slip into his life so easily.
Running towards her, Jack gave her a big hug. That was better. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, his breath warm on her cheek.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ she managed, as he dragged her to the car. Melissa was in the front seat, eyeing her coldly. Uh-oh. Winston’s invitation had clearly come from him alone and not from both of them.
In the back, she could see Alice, done up to the nines with heavy black smudgy lines round her eyes and a skirt that was surely guaranteed to give her hypothermia. Her brother, Freddie, was digging a packet of sparklers into her ribs.
‘Get off, Freddie!’
Some things never changed.
‘Welcome!’ Winston gave her an uncertain smile from the driver’s seat. ‘Had a good journey? Jump in. We’re going straight to the display.’
The conversation in the car might have been stilted if it hadn’t been for Alice and her brother.
‘They’re my sparklers.’
‘No, they’re not. They’re mine.’
‘Piss off, Freddie!’
‘Alice!’
This last remark was from Jack. ‘Thank you,’ said Melissa coolly, turning round briefly. She really was very beautiful, Rosie thought, although she looked a bit thinner than last time. Then she added, ‘Your Jack is very good at keeping my daughter in line.’
‘Mum!’ whined Alice. ‘You’re so embarrassing!’
After the Honeymoon Page 33
