The Family Holiday

by Elizabeth Noble

‘What could you be scared of telling me, for Christ’s sake? Oh, fuck – you’re not moving, are you?’ Nick felt a stab of genuine fear. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘No. No. Well …’ Fran wasn’t looking at him now. She was staring hard at her hands in her lap. Turning her napkin over and over into a fan.

  ‘Come on. Spit it out.’

  ‘Me and Craig. We’re splitting up.’ She spoke fast.

  Nick was shocked. ‘What? Divorcing?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘Separating for now. But, yes, probably divorce at some point. I haven’t got that far.’

  ‘Oh, my God. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘What’s his problem?’

  ‘It’s not his problem, Nick. It’s mine.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Nick was trying to remember the last time he’d seen the two of them together, but he couldn’t remember when that was. Ages ago.

  ‘I don’t want to be married any more. Not to him.’

  Nick didn’t speak. He waited. He’d got better at doing that.

  Fran took a very deep breath. ‘I don’t love him any more. I haven’t for ages. Sometimes I’m not sure I ever really did. Not properly. Not like …’ For a second he swore she was going to say ‘like you and Carrie’, but maybe that was just him. Her voice trailed off. ‘Not like I should have done.’

  ‘Why didn’t you want to tell me?’

  ‘It seems so – so ungrateful, when you …’

  Nick put up his hand to stop her. ‘Don’t do that.’ He hated it. He’d been very aware of it over the last year. At work. Around. People felt they needed to minimize their own shit because yours was so much worse. Did your spouse die in a car accident? No? Then what have you got, really, to complain about? But that was them, not him. He hated the weirdness it put into all his real conversations. He hated Fran doing it now. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t know.’

  She laughed, but the sound was hollow. ‘For Christ’s sake, Nick. Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘How long?’

  She shrugged. ‘Have I been feeling like this?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Months.’ She curled her lip. ‘Years.’

  ‘God. Did Carrie know?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘I’m glad you told her.’

  ‘Do you remember that time we went into town and had cocktails? Her first big night out after Arthur?’

  He remembered it well. Arthur had wailed all evening, refusing to take breast milk from a bottle. Carrie had come home a bit tipsy (although she hadn’t drunk much) and fed him, and he’d gone straight to sleep, and she’d joked about being the worst mother in the world, and he’d joked that she should be more worried about being the worst wife in the world. It was the first time they’d made love since the baby, because two big glasses of wine made it easier than it might have been without. The memory hit him in the face, all senses blaring. Her laughter, and her hand pulling him towards the stairs.

  ‘That was when I told her I didn’t think I could stay with him.’

  Carrie hadn’t said a thing.

  ‘It was so long ago.’

  ‘I know. I tried. God knows I tried. When Carrie died …’

  She struggled to articulate what she meant, but he thought perhaps he understood nonetheless. Just as he also understood that you couldn’t stay married to a person you weren’t happy with just because someone else had lost the person they were happy with. Like a weird, messed-up tribute to marriage.

  He put his hand in the middle of the table, beckoning for hers. She took one out of her lap and let him hold it in his own. Squeeze. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. You have no idea how much I wish he was a total pig. You know?’ She was laugh-crying. ‘A serial cheat, or a bully. Or a weirdo.’

  ‘No, you don’t. He’s still the kids’ dad.’

  ‘You’re right. Okay. I wish he was dumping me. He didn’t believe me. Not at first.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I think he does.’

  ‘And the kids? Do they know?’

  ‘I figure it won’t be real for them until he actually moves out.’

  ‘And is that going to happen?’

  ‘He’s rented a flat in town. From the beginning of July. I’ll start talking to them about it nearer the time. I think that’s best.’

  Nick didn’t know what to tell her. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ He wasn’t sure. Kids were extraordinary little emotional weathervanes. He’d learnt that much from Bea and Delilah since Carrie.

  They finished the evening, but the light tone of earlier had disappeared. Nick felt inadequate. And sad.

  He paid their bill while Fran was in the loo. When she came out, he could see that she’d been crying, and he wished he’d known more what to say.

  His car was parked outside the restaurant. Had he imagined he’d be sober enough to drive it home? He pulled out his phone and tapped onto the Uber app. ‘I’m calling you a cab.’

  ‘Can I drop you at home?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘I’m going to walk.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Can I get a hug?’

  ‘Of course.’ He wished he’d offered. Not treated her like she was brittle. He knew better. Nick opened his arms and Fran stepped into them. He closed them around her, and they stood on the pavement together. She’d hugged him before – lots of times, casual, quick embraces – but this felt different. She was taller than Carrie. Thinner. And she clung to him now. For the first time he felt her breasts squashed against his chest. Her arms around his waist, where the new love handles were. Her breath was coming fast, and her chest heaved. Nick adjusted his stance. This was the closest he’d been to another human being – except his small, precious children – in so long. He could smell her hair. He wanted … he didn’t know what he wanted.

  Fran pulled back a fraction, and he felt her ragged breath on his neck. Suddenly, he just needed it to stop. He moved his hands to the tops of her arms, and deliberately stepped back, putting air between them.

  A car pulled up. The driver wound down the window. ‘Chamberlain.’

  Fran gave a small laugh. ‘Saved by the Uber.’

  ‘Fran.’ He knew he needed to say something. He just didn’t know what.

  She raised her hand to stop him. ‘Night, Nick.’

  24

  Charlie silently thanked Daphne and the universe that 30 July dawned bright and sunny. Arriving in good weather seemed far preferable to any alternative scenario and more portentous of a happy time. The forecast on his iPhone wasn’t bad either – the temperatures were pretty consistently predicted to be in the low twenties and there was a row of defiant yellow suns for the next ten days, bar one day midweek, which currently showed rain. He resolutely ignored it.

  He was up early, keen to be the first to arrive, too excited (or anxious) to sleep well. He’d packed the car last night. Daphne would have packed the night before. Their honeymoon was the last time he’d ever packed a suitcase for himself, before he’d lost her. They’d come from different houses, of course. Their suitcases were dropped off at the pub where their reception was held, then stowed in the boot of the car to which his best man had tied tin cans. It was great, seeing all their mates in the pub, but, God, they’d been in a hurry to get away. To start married life. Sleep together. They’d driven to their Devon hotel without stopping, been shown to their room by a rotund, smiling woman, who talked too much, then gone to bed and stayed there for about eighteen hours straight. Eventually, he had lain on pillows and watched her unpack, teasing him for what he had and hadn’t brought, and when he’d complained, she’d climbed back onto the bed, sat across his lap and promised him he’d never have to pack his own suitcase again. He’d joked about that alone being a good reason to marry her, even though she’d given him so many better ones. And he never had.

  She’d have packed for both of them, and thus his linen shirts and casual trousers would have arrived looking smoother and fresher than
they would today, but he’d done his best, at least, to match tops and bottoms as she would have done. She’d complained, with some justification, that, left to his own devices, he’d only wear beige, navy and grey. Without her, his ultra-neutral instinct prevailed most of the time, but he’d tried to pack from what he thought of as her end of his shirt rail where the stripes, pastels, and – whisper it – the odd floral print she’d bought him, or made him buy for himself, still hung. He’d closed the case and put it by the front door before he remembered swimming trunks, which took some finding, and then he’d added trainers, he wasn’t sure why.

  The rest of the boot he’d filled with booze and his camera equipment – including the big tripod he’d had to rummage in the loft to find. Daphne would have demanded a group shot. They’d be eleven, he’d realized. More than they’d ever been before. They’d been an uneasy eight in the last family photograph – the one she’d had framed and hung in the hallway. Him and Daphne. Alex and Laura, with a toddling Ethan, Nick and Carrie, and Scott. It had been taken at Nick’s wedding. It wasn’t a conventional posed picture – there was nothing formal or organized about the day Nick and Carrie had planned for themselves – but at some point the photographer must have gathered them together so casually they hadn’t even known he was doing it, and snapped them laughing at something, Charlie couldn’t remember what. The women were sitting on hay bales, clucking over Carrie in the middle, ethereally lovely in her lacy slip of a dress, and the men grouped behind them facing in different directions, beer glasses in hands, while Ethan was at the front, captured in a hip-thrusting, arm-waving dance move. It was a gloriously happy photograph. Even Alex and Scott looked relaxed.

  And now Daphne, Alex and Carrie would be missing. Big people-shaped holes in the fabric of his family. But Bea, Delilah and Arthur might dance. Heather, Hayley and Meredith would add their American health and orthodontically enhanced smiles. Could he take a picture where they’d look as happy? Could he make it happy?

  The M40 was as benevolent as the weather, and Charlie pulled in half an hour before he was due to meet the woman, Lucy Moore, he’d been speaking to on the phone for so long. There was a red Fiat parked on the gravel, and as he pulled in beside it, a young woman in a pretty flowery dress came out of the house, smiling broadly. She bounded over to the driver’s door and opened it for him. ‘You must be Mr Chamberlain.’

  He nodded. ‘Please, call me Charlie. And you’re Lucy?’

  She pumped his hand enthusiastically. ‘I am. Lovely to meet you. Welcome.’

  Her enthusiasm was contagious. She quizzed him about his journey, almost took credit for the clement weather, and insisted on giving him the tour. And the house was as good as it had looked in the pictures. Charlie was relieved. The kitchen was enormous, dominated by a long scrubbed-pine table, with a racing green Aga at one end, and a separate oven and a hob. Lucy knew her stuff, and talked incessantly, pointing out the main fridge – ‘And that’s the drinks fridge. There’s a small chest freezer, too’ – a larder cupboard, ‘Nice and cool for cheese and things’, and a door that led to the utility room, although she insisted on calling it the flower and boot room, ‘because who comes on holiday to do washing?’ She was far more charming than irritating, though. Her obvious pride in the house and all its thoughtful extras was very appealing.

  There was a chintzy living room, with nice squashy sofas, lots of books, magazines and board games, then a games room, with a pool table, table tennis, and a small card table with a chessboard. She explained it used to be the dining room, but ‘Who wants one of those, these days, hey?’ Besides, she added, there was a small kitchen and a dining area down by the pool – that was where the caterers would set up and serve his special birthday dinner.

  Outside, a wide patio had loads of wicker seating, a couple of umbrellas and a fancy-looking barbecue. A path on one side led down to the large chalet-type building that housed the swimming-pool, behind bifold glass doors that pushed all the way back ‘so it feels like you’re actually swimming outside, on lovely days’, and the fence of the tennis court was visible down a path that ran along the other edge of the house. Lucy waved expansively at the rest of the garden. ‘There’s loads of places to explore or get lost …’

  Upstairs, on the first floor, there were large, beautifully decorated bedrooms for him, Laura, and Heather and Scott, each having an en-suite with a roll-top bath, plus two other bedrooms, one set up for Nick’s three children, and one a double, with a shared bathroom. They all had large, dark pieces of furniture, but bright modern curtains, and soft furnishings.

  The final two bedrooms were on the top floor, in the eaves of the house – two twin rooms sharing a bathroom.

  Back down on the first-floor landing, tour evidently over, Lucy asked, ‘Are you deciding who goes where?’

  ‘God, no. I’ll let them duke it out among themselves, once they get here.’ Charlie laughed. He’d carried a bag up the stairs on his first trip up. He picked it up. ‘I’m bagsing this one, though.’ He headed for a bedroom.

  He’d chosen the smallest of the three, of course. Heather and Scott were the only couple, and he wanted Laura to have a nice room. He’d be more than fine in the smallest.

  ‘Fantastic. Good for you.’ Lucy laughed her jolly laugh. ‘Right. Well, I’ll leave you to it. Hopefully the rest of the family won’t be far behind.’ And she was off, mentioning for the third or fourth time that she was just next door, and that he wasn’t to hesitate if he needed anything, anything at all. ‘Have the most glorious, wonderful time!’

  Charlie was out in the garden, confirming what he had read about the utter safety of the swimming-pool – a code keypad, and one of those clever covers that you could apparently float a hippo on – when he heard cars. Stupidly, his heart beat faster. They were here.

  They’d managed to arrive together – well, Laura and Nick had. He’d warned his sons, in the vaguest of terms, that Laura would be alone, so Nick didn’t express surprise at seeing Ethan in the front seat of her beaten-up Volvo and no Alex. As Charlie emerged through the hall that ran from front to back of the house, he saw Nick shaking Ethan’s hand, then relenting and ruffling his hair, although he had to reach up to do it. Laura had obviously taken Arthur out of his car seat, and she was holding him on her hip while bending over to kiss Bea and Delilah.

  ‘You’re here.’ He held open his arms expansively.

  ‘Granddad!’ The little girls charged at him, squealing. He managed to pick them both up, but only for long enough to squeeze them to him, and plant kisses on their gorgeous necks, before he set them down. Laura next. He registered that she looked tired. And thin. Arthur reached out, and clung to him, a human bridge between him and his daughter. Then Ethan, too old and too tall for squealing or clinging, but fond enough to submit to a manly hug. And Nick, his baby boy. The sight of him made Charlie want to cry old-man tears. His beautiful baby boy.

  Scott and Heather weren’t far behind. ‘We’d have been on time, Dad, but there was this blasted conference call as well …’

  ‘Isn’t there always?’ Eye-roll. ‘We had to pull over on the M4.’ That was Heather, immaculate and warm …

  It wasn’t quite true, although there had been a conference. Somewhere between home and the Cotswolds, Hayley had spotted a sign for Reading and the whole festival thing had reared its controversial head again. The teen who’d climbed into the car in a reasonable mood, scrolling on her phone and bobbing her head to the personal soundtrack in her ears, instantly changed.

  ‘When are you gonna agree to let me go? Really agree. Everyone else is making plans.’

  ‘You’ve got a ticket, haven’t you?’ There was indeed a ticket, purchased as an end-of-exams gift.

  But Hayley wasn’t mollified. She knew that her mother was still not certain that she would let her use it. ‘Not the same thing.’

  Meredith sighed dramatically, and put on her own headphones. This was a row she’d heard before, more than once.

  Heather an
gled herself in the passenger seat so she could see Hayley. Scott tried to make eye contact, but she avoided his gaze.

  ‘Listen, Hayley. I just don’t feel good about it.’

  Hayley started to speak, but Heather raised a hand to stop her. ‘It’s my job to protect you.’ She corrected herself. ‘Our job. There’s a hundred things that could go wrong.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating. Hundreds of thousands of kids go. Every year.’ Hayley’s tone was derisory.

  ‘And something dreadful happens every year.’ Hayley snorted. Heather counted off hazards on her fingers. ‘Drink, drugs, sex –’

  ‘What do you even mean, sex?’ Hayley interrupted, incredulous.

  Scott wished he had headphones.

  ‘I mean I need you to be safe. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘And I will be. You did a good job, raising me. I’m sensible. I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘It’s not you I don’t trust, darling. It’s other people.’

  Hayley tugged at her hair dramatically. ‘That’s just so stupid.’

  ‘Help me out here, Scottie,’ his wife implored.

  Scott took a deep breath, and paused just a second too long.

  ‘See, even Scott thinks you’re crazy!’ Hayley leapt into the space he’d foolishly left.

  ‘Hey, Hayley, that’s not true.’ Scott sensed danger.

  It was the one piece of unsolicited advice Dad had given him after a few glasses of wine at his and Heather’s wedding. Always present a united front: that’s the secret with teenagers. ‘If I disagreed with your mother, I’d tell her in private. Never in front of you lot. Never.’

  ‘Your mum is looking out for you.’ He’d already told her that he thought it would be fine. That he thought Hayley deserved it, and that he thought it would be unkind, under the circumstances, to separate her from her new friends.

  ‘But you’d let me go, wouldn’t you?’ She’d make a great lawyer, his stepdaughter.

  She was hectoring the witness now. ‘I’d be in a big group. Kitty’s brother – and he’s twenty-one – he’s going, with a gang of mates, and they’ve told her mother they’ll pitch tents with us, so there’ll be blokes around to “protect us”.’