by Jenny Oliver
That was her feeling of strength.
That was the courage that flooded through her veins.
And the calm? The calm was the mornings on the river. Always the same. In winter the sheets of ice would crack and float like sculptures, in spring the cherries would flower and the river would flood and burst its banks, in summer the cygnets would grow into big, fat swans and in autumn the leaves would paint the sky red like a bonfire. Every morning she would take her boat out, she would row up to the weir and back, past the willow dipping its leaves tentatively in the chilly water, past the pub, closed and shuttered up, under the bridge where she’d lie back and look up and see the moss growing on the wooden slats. The river would always smell the same, a sharp tang that infused her skin, her clothes, her life. And as her boat floated in the stream, she would watch the water as it eddied and flowed and the waves danced in the rising sunlight.
That was calm.
Two minutes later, Emily woke up, all groggy and complaining of a crick in her neck. And as she yawned and stretched her arms and the van rounded a bend, ahead of them a huge white and maroon sign for the polo club, she peered forward and said, ‘We’re here. That’s Wilf’s car.’
And all Holly’s inner calm and strength went straight out the window.
Chapter Five
The drive up to the polo field seemed endless. Lining the road were people dressed in polo shirts and blazers, chatting in groups by their flash cars. Arriving in an ice cream van, Holly had never felt so conspicuous in her life. Especially when Emily got over-excited and switched on the nursery rhyme Tannoy so the whole place turned and looked at them and the van sang its way in.
‘There’s Wilf, over there…’ Emily pointed to the far field where a match had just ended. One guy was sitting astride his pony, the other was leading his by the rein. ‘And that’s Alfonso, the guy on the pony. He’s Argentinian, bloody awesome player and absolutely stunning. Just wait till we get close up.’
Holly wasn’t really listening, her blood was rushing in her ears. Wilf had looked up at the sound of the van approaching and stopped where he was. Alfonso had paused, glanced up to see what it was that had caught Wilf’s attention.
‘Pull up on the end of this row,’ Emily said, jumping down out of the van almost before it was parked. ‘Come on. Quicker we get this done, the easier it will be.’ She stopped and turned when she realised Holly hadn’t got out the van. ‘Holly. I promise, it’ll be OK.’ She walked back over to the driver’s side. ‘I shouldn’t have told him, but…’ She blew her hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s done now and I think it’s for the best. At the very least it means that you don’t have to do this on your own. I told him he had to support you. He’s loaded.’
‘I don’t want his money, Em.’ Holly put her hand to her mouth. ‘God, do you think he thinks that I want his money? I don’t want any money. Oh god, it gets worse.’
‘You’re entitled to his money, Holly. For the baby. Oh he’s coming over. Get out of the van. And flump up your hair a bit. And put your sunglasses back on because your eyes look knackered. Hey, Wilf!’ Emily waved. ‘Hi, Alfonso. Oh I love your pony, she’s so lovely. Look at you…’ Emily skipped over to the chestnut mare, rested her hand on the white star on its forehead and made faces into its big unblinking brown eyes.
Holly slipped cautiously down from the cab of the van, brushing down her jeans and then pulling her hands into the cuffs of her jumper, preparing herself almost for battle.
But the reality of it all, the bright sunshine, the lush grass and the chugging of the sprinkler, Emily jabbering on at Alfonso and his pony, Wilf’s palomino munching on a polo mint, wasn’t as she expected.
In her mind she’d had the Eastenders’ theme tune, shouting and maybe a bit of hair-pulling, death stares and ‘how dare you’s. But instead, standing in front of her was Wilf. The same guy who she’d bumped into in The Duck and Cherry pub when they all came to visit the island. The guy who’d sidled up to her all lazy confidence, a pint in one hand, the other toying with a beer mat and said, ‘Miss Somers. What a pleasure…’
Holly, who had been sitting alone while Matt went to get drinks at the bar, had leant forward, elbows rested on the little pub table and said, ‘Nice to see you, Wilf. It’s been a while since you were back on the island.’
‘Hasn’t it just?’
The last time she’d seen him was at the one and only Cherry Pie Festival about fifteen years ago. Wilf, a budding entrepreneur, had just finished boarding school and was desperate to make some cash, start his empire and never look back. Teaming up with his best mate, Alan Neil’s eldest son, Jack, quite possibly the coolest kid on the island, they’d put on what was meant to be a mellow, bijoux little festival. The plan had been to laze about on hay bales in the grounds of the manor house, dance to some local bands, eat food from cute stalls and get drunk till dawn. That all happened, except the flyers got photocopied and passed on and on until more people arrived than the island had ever seen. For Holly, Annie and Co. it was brilliant. For the residents it was less so. By 1 a.m. the police had been called and the little festival shut down. Wilf and Jack scored it a success because they’d more than doubled their money. The residents banned it from ever taking place again. Holly remembered sitting eating cherry pie in the cafe the next morning, dreamily remembering the cheeky snog she’d had with Wilf behind the band marquee. She’d left for a warm-weather training camp in Seville the next day and by the time she got back, Wilf had moved onto bigger, better things. His empire had indeed started and his face, like his sister’s, was all over the society pages of Tatler and Harper’s Bazaar. But while interviewers seemed to fixate on Emily’s single status - ignoring details about her new product launches and asking her over and over again how she felt about her almost-marriage and her doomed relationship history - Wilf just got a few lines referring to him as a bachelor business mogul or playboy restauranteur, then acres of coverage about whichever of his new restaurants was about to open.
‘I hear you’re doing OK for yourself,’ Holly had said, thrumming the pub table with her fingers, glancing up at Wilf, licking her suddenly dry lips.
‘As are you, Miss Somers. What was it at the Olympics? Bronze?’
‘Silver.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you think I’ll jump straight into bed with you.’
Wilf had laughed and said, ‘I think you’ll find you’re looking at me exactly the same way.’
Now, at the polo ground, as Holly walked further away from the safety of the ice cream van, for a second or two, when her eyes met Wilf’s, before anyone spoke, there was that same unguarded connection. He looked dishevelled and tired. His white trousers were grass-stained, his duck-egg polo shirt muddy, his hair pushed back with sweat, the tips of his cheekbones pink under his tan, the hollow around his eyes dark like he’d slept as little as Holly.
But then he glanced to his right, saw Emily and Alfonso watching them, waiting, and turned back, one eyebrow raised and said, ‘Well, if it isn’t the mother of my child.’
Holly sighed and turned away from him, running her tongue under her top teeth and fixing her stare on the ponies warming up on the practice ring. Emily said, ‘Wilf!’ And Alfonso coughed as if he had embarrassed shock caught in his throat. Then he jumped down from his pony, took a couple of strides in Holly’s direction and, hand outstretched, said, ‘Excuse my friend for his rudeness. We lost today and he doesn’t like to lose. You must be Holly? Alfonso,’ he said, one hand on his chest to indicate he was talking about himself.
‘Hi,’ Holly said, swallowing over a lump in her throat, half anger, half held in tears. ‘It’s really nice to meet you.’
‘The pleasure is absolutely all mine. You are going to France this evening, yes? I am driving over later in the week. I have never actually been to France befor
e, can you believe it?’ He smiled and the corners of his eyes tipped up like a cat.
Holly bit down on her thumbnail and smiled, ‘It’s really beautiful, I’ve heard. From Emily.’
‘And I have heard from Wilfred.’ Alfonso turned to try and include Wilf in the conversation, but his jaw was set and he clearly wasn’t in the mood for casual chit-chat.
‘We should probably go to the clubhouse, talk privately,’ Wilf said, indicating towards the big white pavilion, its arched windows sparkling in the sunshine, beautifully topiaried pot plants lined up along the terrace and a huge viewing platform just behind it from where you could survey the entire grounds of the club.
‘I’m not sure there’s time for that,’ Emily said, taking a step forward so she was standing next to Alfonso.
Wilf frowned. ‘What do you mean there’s no time? Your ferry’s not till tonight.’
‘No, actually it’s in two and half hours from Dover.’
‘What?’ Holly held her hands out wide in disbelief.
‘Yeah,’ Emily twizzled her hair around her forefinger. ‘I got it wrong.’
‘Like hell you did,’ Wilf dragged a hand through his sweaty hair and exhaled slowly, his sigh practised over years of exasperation with his sister.
Emily trotted barefoot over to the van where she pulled out her wheelie suitcase and thumped it on the shorn grass, ‘Yeah and also, I can’t come with you, Holly. Sorry.’ She bit her lip, ‘I’ve realised I have stuff to do, important work stuff, so I think the only way it can work is if I go with Alfonso‒’
‘Hang on.’ Wilf held up a hand, ‘What important work stuff?’
Emily looked affronted, ‘Just some stuff that has come up at the office.’
Wilf narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Emily shrugged. ‘Well that’s your prerogative. Anyway, I’ll drive with Alfonso later in the week.’
‘No, Emily, you can’t do this.’ Wilf shook his head. ‘I’m driving with Alfonso.’
‘Well it can’t be the three of us because there’s only two seats in the Ferrari,’ said Emily, concentrating intently on a strand of her blue hair.
‘She has a point.’ Alfonso agreed.
Holly couldn’t quite believe this was happening. But, more than she was annoyed with Emily for getting her into this situation, she found herself increasingly irritated with Wilf. She’d spent the last three months confused, terrified, alone, frustrated, unsure ‒ yet, right now, he could barely look her in the eye. How would he have handled it? she wondered. Conference-called her at the office? Turned up on her doorstep the day the stick turned blue? Called on his mobile as he was slumped against a wall, sobbing outside the doctor’s? Course he wouldn’t. That was what she wanted to tell him, now. Pull him aside from this stupid bickering about who was driving who and say, ‘You would have panicked too. Because this is hard. So stop bloody looking at me like that!’
She turned away and watched a couple of guys warming up on the pitch closest to her, hitting the ball back and forth, shouting jokes, their ponies tight balls of energy.
She got out her phone and texted Annie:
I think Emily’s set me up. She’s making it so Wilf will have to drive me to France. I don’t want to go with either of them. I wish I’d never agreed to this.
Almost immediately, her phone bleeped back at her.
Just go with the flow. Stress is not good for the baby. A x
The baby.
Her baby.
Their baby.
The very idea of a baby growing inside her, a baby tied to this world, to this guy, made Holly suddenly have to rest her forearm on the post next to her.
‘Are you OK? What’s the matter?’ Wilf was at her side in an instant. Quicker than she actually thought someone could move.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, slightly taken aback. ‘I just… I was hot, I think.’
‘Do you want some water?’ He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a bottle of Evian.
Holly frowned. ‘Yeah, thank you.’
‘It’s OK.’ He unscrewed the cap and took a sip.
When she tried to give it back, he waved it away as if she should keep it. Putting the bottle down on the bonnet of the van, Holly cleared her throat and said, to all of them, ‘Look, I don’t want to hang around and listen to all of this. I can go on my own. Wilf, you clearly don’t want to drive there with me and, to be honest, I think it would be all a bit weird, so I’m just going to go on my own and that’ll give us some time to…you know, calm down a bit. OK? Good.’ She turned and headed towards the driver’s side door. Anything to get her away from here, away from the heat and scent and closeness of Wilf standing next to her.
The more she thought about it, the more the idea of going on her own felt like it could be a good thing. Get her to bond with the baby. She’d tried talking to it last week and had felt ridiculous so stopped. A couple of days’ journey on her own might force them into conversation.
‘Codswallop,’ she heard Emily say. ‘Can you imagine what Annie would say if I let you drive, pregnant and alone, to France in a bloody ice cream van. No way.’ Emily shook her head, ‘No, Wilf, you’ve got to go with her.’
Holly paused as she opened the van door, just to check what his reaction was going to be.
Wilf’s top lip tilted up in a half-sneer. ‘I can’t just go now.’
Holly huffed a laugh. Emily raised her eyebrows and did a slight shake of her head. Wilf looked away, scraped his hand through his hair again, then wiped sweat off his forehead with his wrist. ‘It’s just. No. We can’t go together.’
Holly got in the van, slammed the door and started the engine.
Emily ran her finger along her bottom lip, drew her eyebrows together in a frown. The window of the van was open and Holly heard her say, ‘So you’d be happy to let Holly drive, pregnant ‒ with your baby I hasten to add ‒ and alone, all the way to the South of France. Go Wilfred. Very gentlemanly. Nice one.’
As Holly was reversing out of the space, she saw Emily backing away towards the clubhouse with Alfonso, her expression one of disappointment, shaking her head at Wilf. Alfonso was looking at the grass.
Holly was halfway down the rubbly path, passing the spectators having picnics from wicker baskets and lounging in deckchairs. She was contemplating their freedom when suddenly the passenger door swung open and Wilf jumped in. She slammed on the brakes. He was out of breath from his sprint but still frowning when he said, ‘Why are you stopping? There’s a ferry to catch.’
Chapter Six
They only spoke twice on the way to Dover. Once for Holly to say that Wilf was going to have to drive for a bit because she was getting tired. And then for Holly to tell him that it was an ice cream van, not a Porsche, and to stop going so bloody fast.
Wilf had huffed his replies. Holly had rolled her eyes and glared out the window.
By the time they made it to the ferry port, it was like someone had pumped fog into van ‒ the atmosphere between them was so tense. Parking in the hold and heading for the nearest exit, the industrial metal doors clanging behind them, Wilf said, ‘Deck 3.’ His tone of voice seemed to suggest he didn’t think Holly would think to look.
Holly glanced up at the big green sign on the wall. ‘Yeah I got it, thanks,’ she said. ‘Meet you back at the van when we dock.’
Wilf frowned, ‘What do you mean? Where are you going?’
People were pushing past them to get up the stairs and out of the car hold. A fluorescent light was flickering just above Holly’s head, ‘I don’t know. To the cafe or something.’
‘On your own?’ Wilf looked slightly taken aback, green eyes narrowing.
‘Yeah.’ Holly nodded and looked at him as if surprised he could think anything else.
He pulled a hand through his hair and took a step back to let an elderly couple pass between them to the stairs. ‘Oh right. Fine. Yeah. OK.’
‘OK.’ Holly looked at him for a second, one brow rai
sed, and then turned and walked up the stairs. She got the feeling that no one had ever walked away from Wilf before. No one had ever left him standing on his own.
At the top of the stairs she was confronted by the bright, glaring lights of the ferry reception. Posters advertised a quiz and entertainment in the bar, films in the cinema room and a person dressed up as a giant bunny for the kids. Holly made her way to the shop, browsed the magazines for a while and hid behind a carousel of paperbacks when she saw Wilf, incongruous in his dirty polo kit, enter the busy reception area. He didn’t pause to read any of the signs, just headed straight out the nearest exit door to the deck.
Holly bought an overpriced magazine, a bottle of water and a bar of Dairy Milk, then went to look for somewhere to sit.
The ferry was packed. Full of holidaymakers and school trips. Kids, like the ones she coached, in sports uniforms, going on tours to play volleyball and lacrosse. They chattered and shouted and played music really loudly on their phones, and Holly walked as far away down the ship as she could get. The bright sunshine propelled her outside to a small seating area of white plastic chairs where people were drinking beer and reading books, the pages flicking about in the wind.
She found an empty seat by the railing. Behind her the wake frothed and spat. Birds looped in the sky and the engines boomed. Holly tipped her head back, closed her eyes and felt the sun dance on her face. She could do this, she tried to convince herself. She was an ex-Olympian. She was tough and strong and dedicated. She blew out a breath, trying not to think about her first attempt at making it to the Olympic team. The way her arms had locked rigid at the start of the time-trial. How her breath had caught just below her breastbone. The way her eyes had seemed to short-circuit and her brain had lost focus. All she could see in her field of vision was her dad waiting at home for the call to tell him that she’d made it. Waiting alone. Hanging all his hopes on her success.
