Fran.
They hadn’t spoken since the dinner.
Busying himself with preparations to come away, frantically trying to get up to date with work so he needn’t do any over the next ten days, trying to remember what they’d all need while they were here, and what had to happen at home while they weren’t was a kind of multi-tasking he wasn’t used to. He hadn’t realized it had been a while since he and Fran were in touch. Longer, probably, than they’d gone without speaking since Carrie died. Except he sort of had known. He’d probably been avoiding her. It had been weird and awkward outside the restaurant, and he didn’t know how to erase that bit and get back to what they were before it had happened. He’d half hoped she would do that for them both. He was used to her fixing things. But she hadn’t called him. And now he felt a bit of a shit about it.
Guilt pricked at him.
He picked up his mobile, searched for her name among his contacts. His finger hovered above the call button, and then he made himself press it.
She didn’t answer. Four rings and then he went to voicemail. He wasn’t ready to leave a message – he hadn’t known what he was going to say when he heard her voice, so he certainly wasn’t prepared to converse with the synthesized one speaking to him now.
‘Ah. Um. Um. Hi, Fran. It’s me. Nick …’ He hit himself on the forehead. Awkward bugger. Like she wouldn’t know it was him. ‘All settled in here. The kids have lapsed into a coma. Must be the country air. Just … checking in … Think you’re off yourself, sometime.’ He didn’t know how to end the message. ‘So … um … if I haven’t missed you, have a great time. Call me back. Or not. Um. Yep. Talk soon. Lots of love.’
God. Ridiculous. He switched the phone to silent so it wouldn’t wake the kids.
He heard the murmur of chat wafting up from downstairs. He ought to go back. He wasn’t sure he could face it. The kids looked so cosy. He leant back against the headboard and closed his eyes for a moment. Fatal. Perhaps he could leave them there, and just bed down in the truckle. He was tired. But he hadn’t said goodnight to everyone, and he didn’t want to be rude. He went to the loo, then splashed some cold water on his face, determined to manage another half-hour at least.
When he came out, his phone screen was silently lit. Fran. He took the handset back into the bathroom, gently pushed the door closed, and perched on the edge of the roll-top bath. ‘Fran?’
‘Nick. Hi! Did you just call me?’
She sounded perfectly normal. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Did I disturb?’
‘Absolutely. Thank God. How are you?’
Her voice was happy and light. Possibly even very slightly slurred.
‘Good. Here in the sunny Cotswolds …’
‘Snap.’
‘Oh. You’re away too. I thought it was nowish …’
‘Yep. Yurt me up, Scotty. Got here yesterday.’
‘How is it?’
‘Honestly? Not as basic as I’d feared. More basic than I’d have chosen.’
He laughed.
‘Much as I’d like to think I’m a roughing-it, back-to-nature girl, I think I may just have to admit to being a power-shower four-hundred-thread-count-as-long-as-I-don’t-have-to-iron-the-sheets kinda girl.’
‘You’re not in an actual tent, are you?’
‘Well. Yes and no. It’s glamping, darling. So it’s a tent, but not Bear Grylls-style. It’s sort of shabby chic. Shabby chic meets gap year in India …’
‘I kind of get it.’
‘You know who’d love it? Carrie would have loved it.’
He got the feeling she’d invoked her on purpose. Inserted her for the normality of it. But she was probably right. Sounded straight up Carrie’s alley. ‘Are there lots of like-minded people around, at least?’
‘Bit soon to tell. How about yours?’
‘Well, the people are all family. The house is quite grand.’
‘Shut up. You’ve got four-hundred-thread-count sheets, haven’t you, you jammy bugger?’
He laughed again. ‘Very possibly. I’ve also got to worry about the kids scratching antiques and drawing on fancy-wallpaper walls, though.’
‘Quelle horreur. My heart bleeds.’
He’d missed her. Missed the banter. She always brought him up a level, from the depths he felt himself fighting not to sink into. She got to ignore the huge Carrie-shaped elephant in his room because she knew – better than almost anyone – just how big it was. And that normality mattered to him. It was probably why the weird physical thing – whatever it was – that had happened between them had freaked him out so much. He couldn’t risk losing her by getting things confused, by messing them up. She was too important to him.
‘I’m over here drinking wine from a box. From an actual box. With a spout, Nick. And you’re over there playing at Lord Grantham in Downton Abbey. What is wrong with this picture?’
‘We should meet up.’ He’d said it before he’d thought. He wanted to see her.
‘Really?’
‘With the kids.’ For the avoidance of confusion. For a moment she didn’t answer, and he wondered if she was trying to come up with an excuse not to. ‘Why not?’ he dared her.
She hesitated for just a second. Then he heard the smile in her voice. ‘Yeah. Why not? That’d be fun.’
‘Okay. Let’s, then. Why don’t you text me the details of where you’re staying? I’ll figure out what might work – try to find somewhere the kids would like, halfway between us.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I’ll gift the other adults here a kid-free afternoon. A lot of highbrow paperbacks got splashed around the pool this afternoon.’
‘You just had to get the pool in, didn’t you?’ But she was still smiling. He could hear it. ‘You do that, Nick. I gotta go. I’ve had to walk to the edge of a field to get a good signal. Better get back to the yurt and make sure the kids haven’t been stolen by dingos.’
‘Leave it with me. Talk to you tomorrow. Don’t fall into the fire on your way to the toilet block in the middle of the night.’
‘Piss off.’
Normal service, apparently, resumed. Thank God.
29
Charlie was surprised to realize he’d slept very well. That didn’t happen often any more. He seemed to sleep lightly, waking at small sounds and changes in light, to go to the loo once or twice, or plagued by restless legs and cramping toes. Sometimes he was awake for two or three hours, listening to the World Service, and then he’d fall into a deep sleep from which he awoke, almost hung-over, after nine, which felt lazy. Maybe it was the country air, or the relief of everyone having arrived safely and relatively happily, or the three or four drinks he’d had last night, two or three more than he was used to. It was nine thirty. He stretched at the window, and enjoyed the gentle breeze on his skin, before showering and dressing. The others might appear in pyjamas or tracksuits but he was from a generation that needed to be dressed to face the world.
Lucy had told Charlie she lived with her husband Col in a cottage on the edge of the grounds. She’d said he could pop round, if he needed anything. He had telephone numbers – a landline and a mobile – but since she’d offered, and since he fancied a walk, Charlie strolled over to ask about the floodlights on the tennis court. He might carry on to the village, to the newsagent, to buy a pile of papers. Everyone seemed to read them on their phones now, but he preferred a paper. He wasn’t sure which they took. You couldn’t tell, could you, when they studied their phones? He amused himself by reckoning the FT for Scott, the Mail for Heather, The Times for Laura and the Guardian for Nick. But he might be wrong. He wouldn’t like to voice the guesses aloud. He liked the rustle, and the browsability of newsprint, and he really didn’t like constantly pushing buttons on his phone with his thumbs. His family wouldn’t either, if they knew anything about arthritis. And they were going to know about arthritis, the way they carried on – the kids especially – their thumbs constantly working the keys of their damn devices.
He could hear church bells – a sound he’d always loved, but realized he didn’t hear much, these days. Daphne had arranged for a ring of them, a full glorious forty-five minutes, on the morning of their wedding all those years ago. She hadn’t told him – it had been a wonderful surprise. She’d even tried to persuade him to try campanology. He’d chosen home-brewing instead, much to her chagrin, back in the days before craft beer, when it meant a hoppy smell emanating from plastic vats in the bathroom and a vile yet potent result. A couple of years before she died, Scott had given him ‘a gin experience’ for his birthday: he and Daphne had mixed botanicals in a smart London hotel, overseen by an exuberant gin-maker, producing his own bespoke spirit that Daphne had christened Homebrew 2, the gin they had been drinking last night.
The bells were lovely. He felt light and cheerful as he strolled. So far, so good. Things had seemed easy enough yesterday when everyone had arrived – jolly, even. They had all mucked in. The kids were a great help, distractingly noisy and demanding. The bigger kids had even been chatting – he’d seen them.
Lucy’s cottage was as appealing as the bigger house but in a completely different way. The latter was solid and even quite grand. This one was utterly pretty. They were both lovely places in this very lovely part of the world, where there were still bells. The garden was the star of the show here – it was clearly a real labour of love. Daphne would have been enchanted by it: she had loved cottage gardens. Butterflies fluttered in swathes of buddleia in front of towering sunflowers, and a bed of vividly coloured dahlias was immaculately staked and pruned. There were galvanized metal and terracotta pots of geraniums, pinks and zinnias by the front door, and the knocker was a brass bee, like the one at the main house. The effect was gloriously old-fashioned and welcoming.
Lucy answered the door in a blue linen sundress, her hair piled on her head and contained by a colourful scarf. She was as warm and friendly as she had been the day before. She seemed unperturbed by his intrusion, apologizing unnecessarily for the floodlight issue, and promising to call the electrician first thing on Monday. She was just making tea, she said – her husband Col was mowing the lawn – would he like to join them? Something about her open face made him say yes – it didn’t feel as if she was just being polite. Why not?
Col, it seemed, was just like her in temperament, if not in physicality – he was a big bear of a man, with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair. He abandoned the mower gratefully when Charlie and Lucy rounded the corner with a tea tray, and came over to the shaded patio, smiling broadly. He shook Charlie’s hand warmly, apologizing for his sweaty, dishevelled appearance, and took a seat, stretching his back and crossing his arms behind his head, tilting his face towards the sun. Lucy lightly stroked his arm as she passed him – the affectionate gesture touched Charlie.
‘Is everything all right up at the house?’
‘It’s wonderful. Living up to expectations and some.’
‘Glad to hear it. It’s a fantastic old place. They did a beautiful job, too, renovating it.’
Charlie nodded agreement. ‘Who actually owns it?’
‘It’s a couple. They have a small chain of clothing shops in London, the south-east. As far as Cheltenham, actually. This was a bit of a project for them. I think she likes renovations, to be honest. They bought this off the old boy who’d lived here for ever about five years ago. He couldn’t cope with it – the place was getting quite dilapidated. He went into a home, to be nearer to one of his kids.’
‘I’m sorry.’ That was probably Charlie’s greatest fear, the dreaded care home.
Col smiled and nodded. ‘He died quite soon – really soon – afterwards. Which was probably what he would have chosen. His wife had died. He’d had enough.’
Charlie knew exactly what he meant.
Lucy looked slightly anxious, keen to change the subject. ‘One of the floodlights isn’t working,’ she said.
‘Oh, no.’ Col sat forward. ‘Want me to come and have a look at it?’
‘No, no. No need. Certainly isn’t urgent. I absolutely don’t want to disrupt your weekend.’
‘I’ll call Ben in the morning.’ Lucy smiled. ‘I’m sure he can sort it.’
Col nodded. ‘Ben’s a great guy. Knows what he’s doing. Have you got keen players?’
‘My daughter-in-law, Heather, is, I think. She’s very keen for her daughters to play too, although I’m not sure they’re quite as gung-ho.’
Col grinned. ‘Got you. Teenagers, are they?’
‘They most certainly are.’ This wasn’t entirely fair on Meredith, who was being Mary Poppins to the smaller children as he spoke, but he reasoned they didn’t need to hear the minutiae of his family dynamics.
They talked easily for a while longer. Col was an accountant at a practice in Cheltenham. He was evidently a few years older than Lucy. He’d bought the cottage before he’d met her several years ago, and she’d moved in with him before she’d got the job as manager at the house. ‘Not that it looked much like this, before she arrived, inside or out. Classic bachelor pad.’ His pride in her was evident.
‘It’s a beautiful home.’
‘The bones were always there, but I’d never had the time, the inclination or the vision to make it look like it should – like it does now. That’s where this one came in.’ He gestured towards Lucy, who beamed at the compliment.
‘So it all worked out beautifully.’ She smiled lovingly at Col. ‘Dream man, dream house.’
Col groaned theatrically. ‘Oh, God. Cringe.’ But his face said otherwise. ‘Sorry, Charlie. I’m well aware that we’re nauseatingly happy.’
‘Why would you apologize for that? I was nauseatingly happy with my wife. It’s rather nice to be in the orbit of nauseatingly happy, just for a while.’
For a moment or two the three of them sat in the pretty garden, each looking out at the bucolic scene, sipping their tea. Charlie hoped the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. He hadn’t meant to make it so.
Lucy broke the quiet by asking if he’d like his tea topped up. What would the English do without their tea and their tea talk? He didn’t want any more, really, but it was easier to acquiesce and let her fuss with the teapot and milk jug.
‘Lucy says you’re with your family for the week.’
‘That’s right. Ten days, actually.’
‘So who is with you?’
‘All three of my kids with their families.’
Col waited, seeming to want to hear more. Perhaps they were interested in the minutiae after all. ‘My eldest son, Scott. He married rather late, found himself with an instant family.’
‘The tennis players?’ Lucy was back now, and had obviously been paying attention, when he introduced them all yesterday.
‘Exactly. Heather is American.’ This was apropos of nothing. Charlie realized he probably needn’t have mentioned it. It made him sound quite old and rather parochial. ‘My other son, Nick – he’s the youngest. He’s the father of the three small people – he lost his wife, Carrie, a year ago. He’s a widower.’ It was a bloody awful word.
‘Oh, God. That’s awful.’ Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth, her shock real. There was nothing you could really say. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ He’d said that a lot. What else might fit the moment? Every time he’d said it in the twelve months since it had happened, the shock and horror of it was reflected back at him from the face of whoever heard it, and each time it reverberated with him anew.
He moved along. And then remembered that now, newly, he had to explain Laura’s family too. ‘And Laura, my daughter – she’s separated from her husband.’ It was obvious Col and Lucy didn’t know what to say to this catalogue of misfortune. He tried to explain. ‘Part of why I booked the house – I’m trying to help them all. And I’m not much good at it, really. Not good at it at all. That was very much my wife’s department. She was the fixer in our family. But I have to try. I figured, I don’t know, proximity … time, space, somewhere neutral, maybe
that would be a start.’
He was startled by Lucy putting a hand on his arm. She looked tearful. He hadn’t come for this. He didn’t know these people, whose idyllic Sunday he’d invaded. He put his hand across Lucy’s, patted it, then sat forward on his chair, readying himself to stand, to leave.
‘So, yes, don’t ever apologize for your nauseating happiness.’ He gave a small laugh, hoping to make it less awkward, drawing things to a close as graciously and elegantly as he could manage.
‘I think they’re lucky to have you.’
He wanted to correct her: they were lucky to have had their mum, that’s for sure.
Desperate to change the subject, and to escape now, he scanned for a safe subject. ‘Everything okay for the dinner – the caterer – tomorrow?’
Lucy let him move on. Perhaps she was even relieved. ‘Yes, yes. All good. I spoke with Jen on Friday. She’s fantastic. Calm, organized. And a brilliant cook. She’ll pitch up about five, I think, to get everything ready. Is that okay?’
The Family Holiday Page 15
