by Fern Britton
He set up his own daily timetable. Up before Pru to prepare her breakfast and wave her off. The mornings were devoted to Jem and housework. The afternoons walking the pram to the shops. He loved taking Jem out in his pram. All the young mums cooed over the baby and marvelled at Francis’s maternal skills.
‘Your wife’s so lucky. My husband has never so much as changed a nappy,’ was a constant refrain.
It was around this time that their sex life started to dwindle, though. Francis would be too tired after a long day with the baby and Pru felt she had done her bit in providing a healthy son. Nothing was ever discussed; with the passage of time the subject was simply forgotten.
Francis had put all of this aside and barely acknowledged any sense of frustration – until Belinda came along.
Belinda touched something in him, there was no denying it. Francis could not admit even to himself that it was his loneliness that made him susceptible to her charms. He wasn’t naturally gregarious or outgoing; all he’d ever craved was a family of his own. His mother had died when he was young, and his father, a GP, had employed a series of nannies and housekeepers to look after him. Though he hadn’t been neglected, he had missed out on a truly happy childhood. Much as he liked the Carew family gathering in Cornwall each year, he yearned to cram Pru and Jem into a camper van and travel all over Europe, seeing the sights. He could imagine them picnicking in the Dolomites or waking up next to Vesuvius. At the same time he envied the mums at the school gates, who spent their summer holidays in caravans near the seaside or took family day-trips to Alton Towers. He could never imagine Pru doing anything so ‘ordinary’, though he was sure Jem would have loved it.
Francis had always got along with the mums (and some of the dads) of Jem’s playmates and school friends. He had been a regular at the Baby Times Coffee Morning Club, enjoying the discussions on breast-feeding versus bottle, postnatal depression and the relationship between parent and child. And he was chatty with the mothers at the school gates and in the PTA. But none of them had ever shown the slightest interest in him. Until Belinda.
She had turned up the previous year, at the beginning of September. It was the first sitting of the PTA after the summer holidays. Francis could still remember the moment Chairman Bob had announced: ‘Before we get down to the business of the day, I’d like to welcome a newcomer. This is Belinda …’
The PTA members had duly craned their necks for a glimpse of the voluptuous woman at the end of the table. She was wearing a psychedelic orange-and-pink kaftan. Her curly blonde hair was piled loosely on top of her head. Dangly earrings framed her chubby cheeks and as she smiled and gave them a little wave, bracelets jangled on her wrists.
‘Hello, everybody.’
Several male eyes had wandered to her delightful cleavage and remained there, transfixed.
Bob had continued: ‘Belinda’s daughter, Emily, has joined us for year nine. Is she fourteen this year, Belinda?’
‘Yes. That’s right. A little Piscean to my Scorpio.’
Somewhat bemused by this, Bob had ploughed on, ‘Belinda is very keen to help with admin and organising our fundraisers.’
‘Actually, I have an idea for a Halloween quiz night,’ she’d volunteered.
The dreaded Mrs Dredey, PTA stalwart, had interjected, ‘Well, we usually do a harvest supper, and we can’t do two fundraisers in one term. There wouldn’t be the support.’
‘Nonetheless, we’ll make a note of the suggestion. Fresh ideas always welcome,’ Bob had beamed, bending to his notepad to scribble: Belinda Halloween. He’d sat up again, ‘Now, I think it’d be a good idea if we all introduced ourselves round the table. You first, Mrs Dredey.’ Each of them had given their names in turn. Francis had been last: ‘My name’s Francis Meake. Welcome.’
Belinda had rewarded him with her twinkling smile. Since that night, she had made it her mission to sit next to him at meetings, pulling her chair as close to his as possible so that he could feel the heat emanating from her. She would bend low, delving in the handbag at her feet for a notepad and pen, all the while displaying her plumply rounded breasts for his benefit.
When tea and biscuits arrived, she would lean across him, tickling his cheek with her curly blonde hair and leaving wafts of her musky perfume in the air around him. While the committee embroiled themselves in some lengthy dispute over the roster for putting out the stackable chairs in the school hall and then putting them away again afterwards, she would put her lips to his ear and whisper little jokes about Chairman Bob and Mrs Dredey. Despite himself, Francis had found her intensely exciting. He loved being in her company. She had a saucy wit that made him laugh and she was interested in him – something he’d never encountered in a woman before. Soon he’d found himself telling her about all sorts of things, including Pru and the Carew family. She was easy company. Once, when he’d had an hour to kill between their PTA meeting and a trip to the dentist, Belinda had made a suggestion: ‘Why don’t you come to lunch at mine, Frankie? We’ve got two hours before we have to collect the kids, and I’ve got half a bottle of red and some asparagus quiche that needs eating up.’
‘Ah, very kind of you, but no,’ he’d said, with more determination than he’d felt. ‘I’d better not risk a ticking off from the dental hygienist!’
She had looked at him sadly, pouting a little. ‘Shame. Some other time, perhaps? There are so many things I’d like to talk to you about.’ She’d stepped closer, smiling, and dropped her voice an octave: ‘None of them involving flossing!’ Her rosy apple cheeks had moved up towards her eyes, making them twinkle.
He’d swallowed hard and a drop of saliva went down the wrong way. He had started to cough, and then couldn’t stop, gasping for breath and choking.
Immediately she’d whipped behind him, one arm round his waist while the other thumped a point between his shoulder blades. He had felt her warm bosoms jostling his back. She’d thumped a couple more times and eventually he had stopped spluttering and begun to take deep breaths of fresh air. She’d let him go and walked round to face him.
‘Better?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
She’d put her hands on his shoulders and kissed both his cheeks. ‘My pleasure.’ She’d winked at him. ‘Bye, Frankie. You owe me a lunch now!’
He had watched as she’d undulated towards her ancient, bright pink Citroën 2CV. It had a soft top and a hand-painted daisy on the driver’s door. She’d got in, causing the suspension to rock, and then driven away, one hand waving through the open roof.
He’d returned her wave, unsettled by her casual intimacy. The arm round his waist. The kiss …
And that was when the inappropriate thoughts about her had started.
And she’d be here on Wednesday. Shit shit shit.
*
Down in the kitchen the early morning sun was streaming through the open French windows. Greg was sitting at the table, working on his laptop. He jumped when he heard Francis’s footsteps and quickly shut the laptop lid.
‘Oh, Francis. It’s only you.’ He relaxed and opened the computer again. ‘Pour me a coffee while you’re up?’
‘Sure.’ Francis was used to taking orders. ‘What are you working on?’
‘Oh, just some stuff in the office. My secretary doesn’t seem to understand I’m on holiday!’ Greg rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue.
Francis carried two steaming coffees to the table and gave one to Greg. ‘Glad I don’t have that kind of responsibility. What’s the problem?’
‘Well …’ Greg felt the need to share a little of his guilty secret, ‘It’s not so much work. It’s my secretary. She’s fallen in love with a man at work. A married man.’
Francis tutted.
Greg continued: ‘And I’ve turned into a bit of a shoulder for her to cry on.’
Hiding his surprise at this unlikely role for Greg, Francis said, ‘Office romances usually end badly, in my experience.’
Greg smirked. ‘Oh, you have experience of of
fice romances, do you?’
‘No, of course not! It’s been years since I’ve worked in an office, and even when I did … But conventional wisdom suggests—’
Greg cut him off: ‘Didn’t you meet Pru at your office?’
Francis was losing his way in this conversation. ‘Well, yes, but it wasn’t like that.’ He made an effort to steer the subject back to Greg. ‘What does Connie say?’
Greg started, and looked over his shoulder to the doorway. ‘Don’t tell Connie, for God’s sake!’
‘Why ever not? She might have some useful ideas and advice.’
‘No, no, old boy,’ spluttered Greg. ‘You see …’ he lowered his voice confidentially, ‘the chap my secretary is seeing is a great friend of ours. Connie knows the wife. I couldn’t let her carry such an unbearable secret.’
Francis nodded. ‘I see. No, that wouldn’t be fair on Connie. So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, I have suggested that Janie, the girl I’m talking about, should go out with a friend of her brother’s. Lovely chap. Army. Just back from Afghanistan. They went on a date last night.’
‘Good. How did it go?’
A haunted shadow flitted over Greg’s features, ‘I don’t know. She hasn’t answered my email yet.’
‘Oh.’ Francis fell silent, then smiled. ‘Maybe she had such a great night with this chap that she’s not in the office yet.’
Greg looked glum. ‘Wouldn’t that be marvellous for her.’
‘I’m sure it’ll all work out.’ Francis’s mobile started to ring. His thoughts still occupied with Greg’s problem, he answered without looking at caller ID.
‘Hello, Francis Meake.’ Suddenly, his face took on a slight flush. ‘Hello, Belinda … yes … yes … That’s right. Treviscum Bay … We’re Atlantic House … yes, what a coincidence … TODAY? … I thought you were coming on Wednesday … A last-minute cancellation … lunchtime … yes, Dairy Cottage is right next door to us … yes … quite a coincidence … OK … see you later … bye.’
Greg watched Francis place the phone on the table as if it were a grenade with the pin missing.
‘Are you all right, old man?’ he asked.
Francis picked up his coffee cup but his hand was shaking so much he had to put it down.
Greg tried again, ‘Who’s Belinda?’
Pru strode into the kitchen.
‘A mother at Jeremy’s school. On the PTA.’ She stopped when she saw Francis’s ashen face. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
Francis looked up from where he sat, into his wife’s perceptive eyes. He blurted, ‘It’s Belinda. She’s rented Dairy Cottage. She’s arriving with her daughter today.’
Pru looked quizzical ‘Ah, Big Ben told the kids that someone we knew was coming down. I thought it was Wednesday.’
‘Big Ben had a cancellation.’ Francis looked as if he were in shock; which of course he was.
Pru gave him a funny look, then said, ‘Well, you don’t have to have anything to do with her.’
‘I, er, no … at least … that is, she may want to talk to me about, er, school things.’
‘That’s OK. It’ll keep you busy. Is her husband coming down, too?
‘She’s divorced.’
‘Better still! We’ll never see her. She’ll be out looking for a holiday romance.’ She rubbed Francis’s shoulder. ‘Now, how about you get me some of your granola and blueberries?’
Francis gladly did as he was told, but a feeling of impending doom settled over him like a fog over the moors.
9
Francis had done the washing up, ironing and vacuuming and was wondering whether he should change the sheets. Physical activity, and cleaning in particular, was a good distraction. He had always liked cleaning; it helped focus his mind.
He wished he was alone in the house, but the threat of showers was keeping everyone indoors.
Pru was in their room talking loudly on her mobile. She’d waved him out when he’d attempted to spray stain remover on the oil-marked carpet.
As he walked back out on to the landing he could see the kids mowing the lawn. Or rather, Jem was driving the ride-on machine, another of Henry’s gadgets, and Abi was sitting huddled in her hoodie, reading a magazine.
Downstairs, Connie was littering up the kitchen with her mother and father. Henry had bought himself an iPad while on the trip to see staddle stones in Lostwithiel. He didn’t have a clue how it worked so Connie, not exactly a high-tech whizz herself, was attempting to get it up and running.
‘Don’t keep touching the screen, Henry, you’ll put fingerprints all over it,’ said Dorothy.
‘Mummy, you’re supposed to touch the screen, that’s why it’s called touch screen,’ said Connie irritably, trying to make sense of the instructions.
Dorothy was getting bored and impatient.
‘Why did you buy the thing, you silly man?’
Henry frowned at her. ‘Why don’t you go and decide where to put your bloody staddle stones and leave me and Connie to sort this out.’
Dorothy was huffy. ‘It’s starting to rain.’
‘Well, make some coffee then. Francis has washed the machine out,’ said Connie.
Francis heard this and was dismayed. He took pride in cleaning out the coffee machine and really enjoyed making the first pot with a sparkling appliance. It was clearly not to be. Gathering up the hoover and his trug of polishes and dusters, he put his bum to the drawing-room door and pushed it open.
Greg was lolling on the sofa, squashing the newly plumped cushions. He was on his mobile. He signalled Francis to sit down and be quiet. ‘I’m glad you had a good time … of course I’m not jealous … So what’s Adrian like? … Is he? … Does he? … Did he? … Sounds a lot of fun … What did you wear? … What time did he drop you off? … That’s late, you must be tired this morning … Mmmm … yeah … It’s OK here … Yeah, having a great time … Connie’s really brown, nice tan marks … Not jealous, are you? … ha ha ha … OK, you’d better answer it … Speak later … Same to you … bye, bye.’ He hung up. ‘Janie,’ he explained.
‘Ah,’ said Francis. ‘How did the date go?’
Greg put a fingertip in his mouth and started to bite the nail. ‘Too bloody well.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
Greg stopped chewing and gave a half-hearted smile. ‘Yeah, sure it’s good. For her. But not for my mate. I mean, he really likes her.’
‘But he’s married.’
‘Sometimes, it’s not enough to have one woman in your life.’
Francis thought of Belinda and coloured. ‘Hmmm.’
They sat in silence for a bit before Greg said, ‘If my friend left his wife for her, it would cause a hell of a stink.’
‘Divorces are never easy.’
‘No.’
‘Does he have children?’
‘Yes. It would be horrible for Abi.’
‘Abi? That’s a coincidence. Same name as your daughter.’
A look of fear fled through Greg’s eyes. Then he laughed, ‘Oh! I see what you mean! Never thought of that. Ha! Abi! Yep. Popular name and all that. Anyway …’ He slapped his hands on his knees, stood up and beamed at Francis. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Weren’t you looking for me?’
‘No. I want to vacuum round.’
‘Oh, right, right. I’ll get out of your way then.’
He patted Francis on the shoulder and walked out. Francis looked at the squashed cushions on the sofa and replumped them.
The phone rang twice and the postman knocked once. Each interruption sent Francis’s heart a message to stop beating for a second. Belinda had said she was arriving at lunchtime.
One bathroom left to do. What time was lunchtime? Twelve? One? Two? Oh God, this waiting was purgatory.
By two thirty there was still no sign of Belinda. Connie’s lunch, of shop-bought Scotch eggs, bagged lettuce and plastic-potted potato salad, would have played ha
voc with Francis’s digestion at the best of times, but today it was impossible for him to even sit at the table. The synthetic smell of cheap salad cream was the last straw.
‘Nothing for me, thank you, Connie. I had a big breakfast. I’m going to get some fresh air. Do excuse me.’
He went to the front door and stepped out into the watery sunshine. The clouds were parting at last. He sat on the stone bench, underneath a beautiful overhanging apple tree with low-lying, thick branches. He had overheard Henry saying to Dorothy only yesterday that they should get the tree surgeon in to trim it back. Francis liked the seclusion that it afforded him. The garden really was amazing. An Albertine rose bush bloomed lusciously nearby. He drew in great breaths of salty air, full of the aroma of freshly mown grass. His nerves were giving him nausea. He closed his eyes, hoping it would pass.
‘Frankie! Look at you sitting among the apples and roses. Just like Romeo waiting for Juliet!’ His eyes snapped open. Belinda was coming towards him. Francis jumped up so quickly at the sound of her voice that he forgot about the branches that were dangerously close overhead. As he stood, his skull took an almighty crack from a particularly thick branch.
‘Argh, Jesus!!’ Francis clutched at his head and then, looking up, he saw Belinda heading towards him. The bump on his head had obviously been a nasty one; as he took his hand away from his skull he saw blood on his fingers. Nausea welled within him. Belinda, who had looked quite normal to begin with, suddenly seemed crystal sharp, almost as if he were watching Henry’s HD television, then her outline grew smudged and wonky as if in a dream. Her ample bosoms were dancing like dandelion heads in a soft breeze. Her voice was coming and going in waves of sound he couldn’t make out. Closer and closer she got to him, her mouth moving and her arms outstretched. So close was she now that the light of the sun was dimmed, while the ground beneath him rose up and tipped his stone seat to the left. Her lips were almost on his own. Then darkness came.
