by Fern Britton
Connie was moving about the room with hangers and holiday clothes. ‘Do you want me to unpack your case for you, Greg? Might as well, while I’m doing mine.’
He was typing something and had a little smile on his lips. He didn’t answer his wife.
‘Greg?’
‘Hmm?’
She walked to the bed and bent over him to see the screen, which instantly went dark as he pressed the sleep button.
‘What are you up to that’s making you smile?’
‘Oh, one of the guys at the gym. Just been to Berlin on a stag weekend. You wouldn’t want to know what he’s been up to.’
‘Were you invited?’ she asked airily, picking up a couple of T-shirts and placing them in an open drawer.
He closed the lid of the laptop and turned to face her. ‘Yep. But why would I go out for hamburger when I have steak at home?’ Eyeing up his wife’s shapely, hourglass figure, he made a grab for her as she passed the bed on the way to putting an emptied case away.
‘You have a much nicer arse than your sister … or your mother, for that matter.’
‘Do I?’ Connie giggled and wriggled out of his grasp to check herself in the cheval mirror.
‘Yes, you do.’ He grabbed his wife’s waist again as she walked past the bed.
‘Greg, I’m not sure there’s time for that!’
He pulled her down beside him, and lifting her hair from her neck began nibbling the way she liked best.
‘Greg, I have to make supper for the kids. Pru won’t, and I don’t want any of that wholefood budgie stuff Francis dishes up.’
Her husband persisted with the nibbling and then allowed his hand to drift to her breast. He felt her nipple stiffen under her T-shirt.
‘Come on, darling. Just a quickie. It’ll release all the tension in you.’
Ten minutes later she did feel a lot better. She looked at Greg’s handsome face as he slept and marvelled at how lucky she was to have a husband like him. He wasn’t a tall man, but his dark grey eyes and tanned face made her heart flip still. He was a great dad to Abi, who adored him, and he had never strayed in the twenty years they’d been married. Of course, it wasn’t all sweetness and light, she reflected. There were weeks on end when she didn’t see Greg. He worked too hard and was always away on business, selling Carew games to the rest of the world. She knew she should be grateful; Abi went to a brilliant school and they had never wanted for anything, but there were times when she resented having to hold the fort. All those nights out without her husband, feeling like a spare part. Parents’ evenings alone, school plays alone …
She pushed these thoughts from her mind. Connie pitied the wives of the men who’d been on the Berlin weekend. Life was good – wasn’t it?
*
Next door in the master bedroom, a fully dressed Francis was astride a shirtless Pru.
‘Gently, Francis. Careful.’ Pru’s voice was muffled in her pillow as Francis massaged her back.
‘Sorry, Pru. I had no idea your back was so bad. Why didn’t you tell me? I shouldn’t have let you drive.’
‘We’d never have got here.’
‘I know, but I like to look after you and Jeremy, you know that. That was the deal we made when your career took off and we decided that I should stay at home.’
‘Yes, darling. And very good you are too. So good, I think my back feels a lot better.’
Francis got the message and climbed off her.
Pru stood up and did a few stretches. ‘Yes, I think you’ve worked a miracle. Get me a nice G and T, and then you can make a start on supper. We don’t want Connie’s fish finger feast on the first night.’
*
‘I hope your mum makes supper tonight.’ Jeremy was lying across Abi’s bed. ‘I’m really hungry. I only had, like, freakin’ sushi in the car.’
Abi laughed and threw a pillow at her cousin’s head. ‘We had Marks and Sparks sandwiches and crisps.’ She stood sideways to the dressing-table mirror and sucked her tummy in. ‘Jem, d’you think I’m getting fat?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t even look.’
‘I don’t need to. You look the same as usual.’
‘Maybe I should go on a diet.’
‘I don’t like skinny women.’
‘So I’m not skinny?’
Jeremy picked up the pillow and threw it back at Abi.
‘Shut your face. Don’t get so paranoid.’
‘Gran said I had puppy fat.’
‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, man. At Christmas my mate Sean thought you were hot.’
‘The one with the teeth?’
‘There’s nothin’ wrong with his teeth. Anyway, his mum’s got him braces now.’
Abi mimed putting two fingers down her throat and made a retching noise. ‘Lovely.’
‘That’s harsh.’ Jem laughed. ‘He’s a good mate.’
Francis’s voice trilled up the stairs: ‘Dinner, all. Come and get it.’
‘Shit,’ said Jeremy. ‘Dad’s got to the kitchen first. Bloody buckwheat and quorn again.’
*
Dorothy and Henry had come over from their bungalow next door to join the two families for supper. Dorothy was rummaging in the fridge, looking for the magnum of champagne that she’d won in the Lifeboat raffle.
‘Henry!’ She turned, brandishing the bottle.
‘Yes, my darling?’
‘Make yourself useful and open this. I’ll get the glasses.’
‘They’re on the table already, Dorothy.’ Francis indicated with his chin as he poured boiling water on to a bowl of couscous.
Dorothy was waspish. ‘Dear Francis, you’re a wonder! How lucky Pru is to have you. Tell me, what have you knocked up for our gastronomic delight tonight?’ Privately, she thought he was too much of a softie. She preferred men to be men and wasn’t in favour of all this ‘new man’ business.
Francis smiled, Dorothy’s sarcasm sailing over his head. There was nothing he liked better than cooking a meal for the family.
‘Oh, you know me. Something wholesome, nutritious and delicious, I promise.’
Dorothy turned away from Francis and looked wryly at Henry, who stifled a snigger, disguising it as a cough, before saying, ‘Right, old girl. Glasses ready? She’s about to blow.’ And with that the champagne cork came away smoothly in his gnarled but experienced hands.
‘Hey, Poppa.’ Abi entered the kitchen and gave her beloved grandfather an affectionate hug. ‘Got a glass for me?’
‘Ah! Ha-ha! There you are, my favourite granddaughter.’ He poured her a fizzing glassful.
‘I’m your only granddaughter, Poppa!’
‘Well, let me look at you.’ Abi did a little twirl. ‘My goodness, you are a beauty. So tall and so slim. You remind me of Granny when I first met her.’
Dorothy, who had impatiently wrestled the bottle from Henry’s hands and was now pouring herself a glass, looked up. ‘Yes, but I had an eighteen-inch waist.’
‘So you did. So you did,’ Henry replied. Then, winking at Abi, he added, ‘Mind you, in those days they knew how to make a good corset.’
Jeremy had joined them and gladly took the glass his grandmother offered him.
‘See, Abi! You don’t need to go on a diet.’
Connie caught this last comment as she arrived with a satisfied-looking Greg. ‘Abi! You are perfect as you are! You certainly do not need to lose weight.’
Abi looked sheepish. ‘Granny said I did.’
Connie turned to her mother. ‘Mummy, I don’t ever want to hear you say anything like that again. You always went on about my weight when I was Abi’s age, and it’s so hurtful.’
‘Not my weight,’ said Pru, gliding into the room with no sign of a limp. ‘I’ve always had trouble putting weight on.’
Connie retaliated swiftly, ‘Yes. Just a pity your ego couldn’t be put on a diet too.’
Henry looked at his daughters sternly. ‘Stop that this minute. And Dorothy, kee
p your opinions to yourself.’
Dorothy, looking pious, said, ‘I won’t say another word.’
‘Good.’
There followed a strained tension that only very close families recognise.
‘Well …’ Francis put down his champagne flute. ‘Who’s ready for aubergine and haloumi bake, tagine of chickpeas and herb-laced couscous?’
*
There was a surprising amount of food left over.
‘That was delicious, Uncle Francis. I feel fully vegetable and pulsed up,’ said Abi, taking her half-eaten plate to the bin.
Jem jumped up and did the same. ‘That was top, Dad. Thanks. Do any of you mind if Abi and I leave the table and watch telly in the rumpus room?’
‘That’s fine,’ said Henry. ‘I want to talk business with Greg anyway.’
‘Great,’ said Greg, topping up his and Henry’s glasses with the remains of the bottle.
‘Let’s go to The Bungalow.’ Henry took Greg’s arm, adding in a lower voice: ‘We might catch a bit of the cricket while we’re at it.’
‘Anyone want a coffee or tea?’ Connie asked her mother and sister. They nodded. ‘I’ll go and make some.’
‘No, absolutely not – I’ll go and do it,’ said Francis, leaping up. ‘You girls have got plenty to catch up on.’
‘That is so sweet of you, Francis. Much appreciated.’ Connie gave him a warm hug and then hurried after Dorothy and Pru.
As the women walked away, Francis collected the remaining plates and scraped them into the bin.
*
‘Here you are, ladies,’ he said ten minutes later, carrying a tea tray laden with mugs and organic muesli biscuits. ‘Where shall I put it?’
‘Coffee table, Francis,’ said Pru, barely looking at him.
‘Well, the kitchen’s all clear for the morning. I’ll just pop over to The Bungalow to say good night to Henry and Greg.’
‘OK. See you in the morning. And thank you for supper, Francis.’ Connie smiled at him as he left.
Pru turned to their mother. ‘How are you settling into the new bungalow, Mummy?’
‘It’s perfect, darling. Easy to clean, lovely and warm. Everything brand new. What else would we do with all that garden. It was the ideal plot and it’s the best thing your father ever persuaded me to do.’
Connie looked unconvinced. ‘How could you bear to leave Atlantic House and live in a modern box?’
‘Easily. When your father and I bought Atlantic House we were considerably younger than we are now. Your father can’t get up on the roof to paint gutters any more. It takes him two days just to mow the lawn. And I am fed up with all the housework. The Bungalow takes twenty minutes, tops. Also, now we have our separate rooms and bathrooms, we get along so much better.’
Connie raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t you miss cuddling up to him at night? I think he misses you.’
‘Sex is very overrated, darling. I’m glad all that side of things is finished. Much nicer to do the crossword together.’
‘Too much information, Mummy!’ Connie preferred not to hear her mother talk about her sex life.
‘Well, I’d love separate rooms,’ sighed Pru. ‘Francis and I have never bothered too much with that sort of thing.’
Connie looked astonished. ‘Don’t you have sex either?’
‘No. Still, it’s not as if I’m a panting twenty-something, is it?’
Connie thought for a moment. ‘When did you last make love?’
‘I can’t remember. Couple of years, at least.’
‘Two years!’ Connie was shocked. Greg had told her that if they didn’t make love at least three times a week his testicles would be damaged. ‘Poor Francis! He must be feeling so neglected!’ Connie was indignant on her brother-in-law’s behalf. ‘I make sure Greg is very happy. I always have.’
‘And you?’ her mother asked. ‘How about you? Does he make sure you’re happy?’
‘Yes. Well, it’s not as if the earth moves every time. But it’s the glue that holds a man and woman together in a marriage.’
Pru tipped her head back and laughed. ‘Dear little Connie. It’s as if the feminist movement never happened.’
‘No. It’s not to do with that. It’s …’ Connie felt flustered and hated her elder sister for trying to belittle her.
Dorothy stepped in. ‘Darling, one day you will pray for separate bedrooms. Believe me.’ She stood up and said pointedly, ‘Now, I am off to my peaceful bed in my horrid little bungalow.’ The comment was aimed at Pru, who didn’t react. Dorothy continued: ‘I suggest the pair of you head off for an early night too.’
Both girls tutted in annoyance behind their mother’s retreating back.
Dorothy heard and, without bothering to turn round, added: ‘With luck you’ll be asleep before either of your husbands return.’
*
While the women had been chatting, Henry had been catching up with Greg. He poured them each a large glass of Scotch and motioned for Greg to sit in one of the two armchairs.
‘So, my boy. The business is looking in excellent shape.’
Greg stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Yes, we’ve had a good first half of the year and the Japanese are meeting the delivery dates on the new apps, which I believe will increase our turnover significantly over the next twenty-four months.’
They discussed markets, initiatives and overheads for a while, and then Henry said, ‘You know, my old father wouldn’t recognise the company now. He would have hated all these virtual games. His mantra was always “Nothing can beat the fun—”’
Greg finished it off for him: ‘“—of a family sitting round the table playing Ludo.”’
Henry looked at him in surprise. ‘Have I mentioned that before?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘Well, you’ve been with the company … ooh, how many years is it?’
‘Coming up for twenty-two.’
‘Twenty-two years. My goodness! And look at you now: managing director.’
Every year Greg and Henry had this discussion. Greg had joined the company as a graduate trainee. His excellent degree in business and marketing meant he’d been marked out as management potential, but he’d had the nous to ingratiate himself with his colleagues and bosses, getting noticed as the lad who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty sweeping the shop floor or making a good impression on visiting VIPs. Within a few months, Henry had begun grooming him for bigger things.
Henry liked to have Greg as his eyes and ears among the workers. Greg never pulled any punches. He told Henry who was good, who needed help and who was just plain useless. He also persuaded Henry to make improvements to staff working conditions by loosening up the rosters, smartening up the canteen and improving holiday leave. None of this did him any harm with his workmates or with Henry. One summer he’d received an invitation to a private barbecue at Henry and Dorothy’s house. He could still remember how hard he’d tried not to flirt with Connie. She was almost eighteen and reminded him, in certain lights, of a young Brigitte Bardot.
‘I’ll tell you honestly, Greg,’ Henry said now, ‘I didn’t think you were good enough for Connie when you asked me if you could marry her. But you’ve been a marvellous addition to the family and the company. Cheers!’ They raised their glasses to each other.
Greg had heard this speech many times before.
‘I am lucky to have her and Abi and a job with a company I’m so proud of.’ This answer always achieved a satisfactory end to the conversation. Henry grinned over his empty glass. ‘Get me another of these and let’s see how we’re doing against the West Indies, shall we?’
Henry enjoyed male company. He was fond of his sons-in-law. Both so different, but decent husbands to his girls. He heard the front door open and Francis’s voice called out, ‘Helloo.’
‘Come in, my boy, come in,’ Henry roared. Francis appeared in the sitting room.
‘Hi. Am I disturbing you?’
‘Not at all, old boy. Get yo
urself a glass of Scotch and sit down.’
Greg shifted his legs so that Francis could get past him to the drinks tray.
‘How are the women?’ Greg asked sardonically.
‘Fine. All having their cup of tea and chatting nicely.’
‘How do you put up with them?’ asked Greg.
Francis looked bemused. ‘I like them. I like women. Between us three, we’ve done pretty well.’
Greg was about to say something horribly misogynistic when it struck him that it might upset his father-in-law. Coughing, he replied, ‘Quite so. Very lucky indeed. Women. God bless them.’ And he raised his glass in salute.
On the television the England team were fielding like demons and the West Indies were falling apart. None of the men found it necessary to talk. This was the pleasure of being a man.
Henry must have dozed off for a moment, because the sound of his wife’s voice woke him with a start.
‘That’s it, boys.’ Dorothy stepped over their sprawled legs and reached for the remote control. ‘I’m turning this off.’
‘We were enjoying that!’ protested Henry.
She sniffed the air. ‘You’ve been enjoying too much whisky – I can smell it. Come on, chop chop. You’ve all got beds to go to.’
The men slowly stood and stretched. Henry shook hands with Greg and Francis and slapped them both on the shoulders. ‘Good to see you, fellas. Sleep well. Sorry about She Who Must Be Obeyed.’
‘I heard that!’ came his wife’s voice from the hallway.
After closing the door on ‘the boys’, Henry went to the kitchen where his wife was making two cups of Ovaltine. ‘Nice lads,’ he said. ‘The girls are happy enough, aren’t they?’
‘I think so.’
‘Lucky fellas to have such good wives.’ He patted her bottom. ‘And I’m lucky to have you.’
She handed him his mug of Ovaltine. ‘Down, boy!’
5
It was the first morning of the holiday proper. Francis loved this time. He had got up early and gone for a walk on the cliff path. The sun was promising a warm day and as he felt its heat on his muscles, he broke into a gentle jog which felt really good. He was of medium height, slim build and thinning hair. An average-looking man, but with a kind face and expressive eyes. His mouth was regular and he had exceptional teeth. White and even. Flossed every morning. He stopped on a stretch of springy grass and lay on the turf, closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face. The phone in his pocket vibrated, signalling a text message.
