The Holiday Home

by Fern Britton

  Call me! x

  It was from Belinda.

  Francis looked around, guiltily, and deleted the message. Stuffing his phone back into his pocket he headed for home.

  He let himself quietly back into the house and tried to focus on his chores. He emptied the dishwasher, set up a recycling station, emptied the kitchen bin and put the coffee on. Then he sat down with the previous day’s crossword and attempted to put Belinda out of his mind. He almost leapt out of his skin when Jeremy and Abigail appeared with a cheery ‘Morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ His hands shook as he straightened his reading specs. ‘You made me jump.’

  Abigail gave him a squeeze on her way to the fridge, ‘Soz, Unc. Didn’t mean to!’

  Jeremy looked at his father. ‘You all right, Dad – feeling OK? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘Erm, yes.’ Francis laughed self-consciously. ‘Do I? Gosh, no, nothing wrong. Just a tad preoccupied, that’s all.’

  ‘With what – not worrying about tonight’s dinner, are you? Lentils and broccoli stir-fry or quinoa and broad bean stew? God, please let Aunt Con cook tonight, Dad – we’re wasting away!’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Francis said, aiming a swipe at his son with a tea towel.

  Abi swung a large bottle of orange juice towards Jem. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Yuh. Thanks.’ Jeremy sat at the breakfast table, expecting his cousin to sort it out for him.

  ‘Can I cook you some scrambled eggs?’ his father asked.

  ‘Nah. Abi, get me some crunchy nut cornflakes, would you?’

  ‘What did your last servant die of?’ Abi replied, bashing him on the head with a teaspoon as she passed.

  ‘So, kids, what are you up to today?’ Francis asked, reaching for the box of cereal.

  *

  The cousins found themselves a warm spot in the dunes. The tide was on its way in and the sea was calm and glistening.

  Abigail stretched her arms above her head and took a deep breath. ‘I love the first day of the holidays, don’t you?’

  Jeremy, who had been watching a gorgeous redhead wriggle into her bikini while attempting to keep her towel round her, gave a distracted, ‘Mmm.’

  Abigail followed his eyeline. ‘You’re punching way above your weight there, boy.’

  Jeremy pretended to be confused. ‘What? Hmm? Oh, the ginger? Hadn’t noticed her. But now you mention it she’s all right, I suppose.’

  The pair of them lay watching the girl as she carefully applied sun cream to her generous bosom and milky thighs.

  Jeremy sighed lustily. ‘Do you suppose she’d like some help with that?’

  Abigail giggled. ‘Men! Don’t you think of anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  The pair laughed, enjoying the friendship they had always shared. More like brother and sister than cousins.

  Abi settled down to read her gossip magazine and Jeremy’s attention was now drawn from the redhead to the rest of the beach. There were a lot of gorgeous girls about this summer, he thought longingly. But how was he going to meet one? He would be seventeen next year and girls occupied his every waking moment and his dreams too. He turned on his side towards Abi and, shielding his eyes from the sun, asked, ‘Any of your mates coming down this year?’

  ‘No. They’re all busy. I wanted Clemmie to come, but her mum’s getting married again or something, so she can’t.’

  Jem was sorry to hear this. Clemmie was hot. He said, with some wisdom, ‘Parents enjoy ruining kids’ plans.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Abi turned on her side to face Jeremy. ‘How were your GCSEs?’

  ‘All right, I think. Mum tried her best to bribe me into getting straight As.’ Here he imitated his mother’s voice: ‘“One hundred pounds for every A you get, young man.”’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see.’ He shifted his weight to get more comfortable. ‘By the way, what are you going to do for your birthday this summer?’

  Abi’s birthday, falling in August, was always spent in Cornwall. Usually her parents organised a barbecue in the garden with local kids and any holidaying children Abi and Jem had befriended on the beach. But this year would be her seventeenth and she was hoping for something better.

  ‘I want to have an all-night party, on the beach. Dancing till dawn, no parents, sexy boys and plenty of booze.’

  Jem sniggered. ‘Yeah, right. And Auntie Connie’s agreed to that, has she?’

  ‘She doesn’t know yet. She might never know. Maybe you and I could organise it without her or Dad ever finding out …’

  *

  It was almost midday and Francis was at the kitchen table writing a shopping list when Connie came in.

  ‘Morning, Francis.’ She kissed the top of his head.

  ‘Morning, Connie. Good lie-in?’

  ‘Marvellous. I’ve been reading. It’s bliss not to have to get up for anything. Greg’s still asleep. I’ve left him to it.’

  ‘There’s coffee in the pot. Would you like me to make some toast?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re a darling, Francis. Yes please.’ She slumped into a chair. ‘How’s my hypochondriacal sister’s back this morning?’

  The two of them shared a smile at their mutual understanding of Pru’s ruse. Connie knew that Francis had his wife’s number, but he was far too loyal (and too smart) to ever criticise his wife. Pru was lucky to have him, but Connie doubted that her sister appreciated the things Francis did for her, the sacrifices he’d made.

  ‘A lot better, I think. I’ve run her a hot bath to loosen it.’

  ‘Yes. I noticed there was no hot water.’ Connie sighed and stretched her arms above her, watching her brother-in-law as he popped two slices of bread in the toaster. ‘Francis?’

  ‘Ye-es?’ He was chewing the end of his biro now and looking at his very long shopping list.

  ‘You must be glad of this summer break. How have things been?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Busy running around ferrying Jem to and from his various social activities – I was pretty strict about making sure that he found time to study – but lately it’s been all work and no play, what with his GCSEs.’

  Connie nodded. ‘I know what you mean. I seem to spend all my time chauffeuring Abi. I worry about her. She’s so beautiful, I can’t help being afraid that she’ll be lured away from the straight and narrow.’ She brushed at a couple of Jeremy’s cornflake crumbs left on the table. ‘She’ll be seventeen soon. My little girl is almost grown up.’

  ‘You can’t hold them back, Con. Do you remember how you were at that age?’

  ‘Christ – I don’t want to remember!’ She laughed and swept the cornflakes into her hand before getting up and putting them in the bin. ‘How are things with the PTA? Last time we talked, you were really getting stuck into all that stuff.’

  Francis gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, pretty much what you’d expect: so far so boring!’ He hurried to change the subject: ‘But Pru’s the one with the stress, not me.’

  ‘You work hard too, though, looking after the house and Jeremy.’

  The toaster popped and Francis grabbed a plate, a knife and the butter dish, then put it all down in front of Connie.

  She thanked him. ‘Greg’s always putting in long hours at work, so I’m in the same boat as you. Being the one who stays home, keeping things running smoothly – that’s important work too. I like to think I’m providing a sanctuary for him to escape to, leave the stress behind.’

  Connie ploughed on: ‘He and Pru are lucky to have us. It’s the little things, isn’t it? Making sure the fridge is stocked with their favourite food. A well-ordered house with clean towels and a comfy bed.’

  Francis was still distracted. ‘Well, yes …’

  Connie went for the big one: ‘A nice cuddle in the marital bed at the end of a long day.’ She stopped to observe his reaction to the last comment. Apart from a slight pause in writing his list, Francis made no response.

  ‘Greg and I have been married f
or twenty years, and the physical side of our relationship is terribly important. Good sex keeps a couple together, don’t you think?’

  Francis stopped writing and blinked at her, not sure he’d heard her correctly. ‘Sorry, Connie. What did you say?’

  ‘How long have you been married to Pru now?’

  He put his pen down and tore the list from the pad.

  ‘Eighteen years this November.’ Connie and he were close and enjoyed each other’s company, but he was feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the turn this conversation was taking. ‘Anything you need from the village? I must get this shopping done.’ He was standing now and looking around for his mobile phone and car keys.

  Connie knew when to pull back. She’d have to continue this conversation slowly over the coming weeks.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll probably have a little expedition down there myself this afternoon to pick up supplies – Greg loves the chilli jam they do at the deli. But thanks anyway.’

  ‘OK, see you later.’ He found the keys and his phone on the side. As he picked them up, his phone buzzed with another text. He glanced at the name of the sender. Belinda again. He put the phone in his pocket without opening the message.

  Curious, Connie decided to tease him further: ‘Aren’t you going to see who that is? Or is it your secret lover?’

  Francis was fumbling with his linen jacket. ‘School PTA round robin, I expect. Bound to be something that can wait. I don’t want to miss the fresh granary loaves at the baker’s. Tell Pru I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

  *

  He could feel the phone burning in his pocket. His heart was thumping in his chest and his breathing got faster. He hopped in the car and set off down the drive and out on to the sandy beach lane, relieved to have escaped before Connie asked any more awkward questions. Why did he feel so furtive and guilty? It wasn’t as if there was anything between them … Or was there? No, he’d done nothing to encourage her.

  A small child in jelly shoes, bucket and spade in hand, suddenly stepped out in front of him. Francis executed a perfect emergency stop and smiled at the child’s harassed mother, who shouted an obscenity at him and yanked her daughter back on to the verge.

  He had to put all thoughts of Belinda aside and concentrate. Belinda … Attractive, full-hipped and full of life. He had met her when her fourteen-year-old daughter, Emily, had joined Jeremy’s school last September. Belinda was a merry and willing new recruit to the PTA. A divorcée in her early forties, she’d made a beeline for him from the start. It wasn’t Francis’s style to strike up relationships with people; he was happiest with his family around him and the few friends Pru liked to socialise with, but there was something about Belinda that was hard to resist. She was constantly inviting him over to her place for lunch. He hadn’t taken up the invitation … yet.

  He carefully reversed into a tight space in the Higher Barton village car park and turned the engine off. Unable to resist any longer, he reached for his phone and looked at the screen. Belinda’s name was top of the list of incoming messages:

  Hi Frankie. Amazing coincidence – am coming to Cornwall Wednesday. Staying in Treviscum Bay. Anywhere near you? Emily and I would love to see you. xxxxx

  ‘Oh, shit shit shit!’ Francis said out loud. It was Sunday today. She’d be here in three days. What was he going to do? How did she know where he was? Had he told her he was coming to Treviscum Bay? Was she stalking him? How would he explain this to Pru? ‘Shit shit shit,’ he said again.

  *

  Normally, Francis liked nothing better than a trip to the shops in Higher Barton. He enjoyed renewing old acquaintances with the shopkeepers and chatting to the baker about his latest lines. Today, however, he had found it impossible to concentrate on the lengthy explanation the baker had given him about his new range of gluten-free products.

  ‘Would you like to try a loaf? It’s hard to tell the difference.’

  Francis had ended up buying four more loaves than he’d intended. He’d wondered, with more anxiety than was necessary, whether there was any room in the freezer, admonishing himself for not checking before he’d come out. He’d fretted all the way home, trying to focus on the loaves instead of contemplating what would happen when Belinda arrived.

  ‘Francis, there you are.’ Pru was lying on a comfortable lounger outside the sliding kitchen doors, on the sunny terrace.

  ‘Hello, Pru,’ Francis called over-brightly, setting down the six or seven plastic carrier bags that were cutting into his fingers. ‘Let me empty the car and I’ll make us a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Did you get my paper?’

  ‘Yes, dear!’ He gave her a beaming smile, hoping that it would cover any remnants of guilty thoughts about Belinda.

  Pru gazed at him steadily. Frowning slightly. Oh God, did she suspect? He looked back at her, unable to move.

  She spoke. ‘Well, go on then. I’m waiting.’

  ‘What for?’ He felt a squirt of fear in his stomach.

  ‘Get. My. Paper.’

  Weak with relief, he rummaged in the carrier bags: ‘Yes. Yes. Of course, darling.’

  *

  ‘What’s for lunch, Dad?’ Jeremy and Abi walked in through the sliding doors bringing sandy feet with them. Francis visibly jumped again.

  ‘Don’t creep up on me! How many times have I told you! You’ll give me a heart attack!’

  ‘OK. Chill, Dad. What’s making you so nervy today?’

  ‘Nervy?’ Francis snapped. ‘I am never nervy!’ He looked at the two pairs of sandy feet. ‘Get outside and clean those bloody feet. Both of you. This is my holiday, too, you know.’

  ‘Blimey, Dad, no need to shout.’

  ‘I am not shouting,’ shouted Francis.

  ‘Sorry, Uncle Francis. Come on, Jem.’ Abi steered her cousin outside and threw over her shoulder, ‘I’ll be back to help you lay the table in a minute, Uncle Francis.’

  Francis slowly resumed unpacking and storing the groceries, then made a start on washing the lettuce for his organic poached salmon salad. His thoughts were a mess. Should he tell Pru about Belinda? How would he introduce Belinda? How long was she planning to visit? Oh God, oh God.

  ‘Francis?’ Pru’s querulous voice made him jump yet again. He clutched his chest with a damp lettuce hand. He turned to face her. ‘Yes, darling?’

  She studied him intently, until he felt as if his mind was being read. Eventually she said, ‘Are you all right? You look very pink and glazed.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just, erm, thinking about some jobs I need to do.’

  ‘Oh, good. Would you put the dripping tap in our en-suite basin on the list? Get Greg to help. He does bugger-all when he’s here. When’s lunch?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  ‘Bring it up to me, would you? I’m expecting a conference call any minute.’

  ‘Yes, Pru.’ But she’d already left the room.

  Abi and Jem reappeared with clean feet and found Francis looking worse than ever.

  ‘Dad, you don’t look at all well. Sit down and I’ll make you a drink.’

  Francis did as he was told.

  Abi started to lay the table. ‘I’ll fix lunch, Uncle Francis, and Jem and I will wash up. You need a rest.’

  6

  Francis looked so poorly that even Pru noticed. Mildly concerned, she graciously vacated the big bedroom saying that she would take her conference call in the rumpus room, while Jeremy drew the curtains and settled his father down for a nap.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine, Jem.’

  ‘You’re not, Dad. You don’t look yourself. What time did you get up this morning?’

  ‘Not too early. Five-ish.’

  Jeremy raised his eyebrows as his father lay down on the bed. ‘Did you run?’

  ‘Only a little jog.’

  ‘Well, there you are. You’re just a bit knackered. Get some kip and we’ll see you later.’ Jeremy pulled a soft rug over his father’s legs and left him to it.

 
Lying alone in the semi-darkness, Francis could hear the quiet roar of the ocean through an open window. His mind was in shreds. What should he do? Belinda was coming. Belinda was coming. Belinda was coming. Come on, man – pull yourself together – have a sleep and the answer will come to you. Belinda is coming, Belinda is coming. The rhythm of these words took him into a restless slumber.

  *

  Downstairs, the rest of the family sat down to the tasty salmon salad Francis had prepared. There was an odd silence as they ate, missing Francis’s attentions. Everyone finished quickly. Thanks to a bit of teamwork, they tidied up the kitchen in no time and cleared off to do their own thing.

  ‘Come along, Henry.’ Dorothy was standing impatiently by the back door. ‘It’s at least forty minutes to Lostwithiel.’

  ‘Lostwithiel? Why are you going there?’ asked Connie.

  ‘There are some staddle stones for sale. Supposed to have come from Daphne du Maurier’s house in Ready Money Cove. They’d look rather good on our drive.’

  ‘What are staddle stones, Granny?’ asked Abi.

  Henry answered, ‘Those stone mushroom things. I’m not prepared to pay over the odds for them, Dorothy.’

  Dorothy waved a hand airily. ‘Your Poppa has short arms and long pockets. Now come along, Henry.’

  Abi looked at Jem. ‘Fancy a bike ride?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, draining his glass of squash.

  Abi dropped a kiss on her father’s head. ‘Bye, Dad. See you later.’

  Greg was desperate to find a quiet place where he could talk to Janie on his mobile. Connie and Pru were still in the house. He walked to the stairs and called up: ‘Connie? I’m going to the garage – fill up with fuel while I can. See you in a bit.’

  Connie appeared at the top of the stairs in shorts and T-shirt with a towel and a book under her arm. ‘OK, darling. I’m going down to the beach for a snooze and a read.’