by Jenny Oliver
But her body and her brain had separated when the start had been called and she couldn't get her limbs to do what they were meant to do. She couldn’t get her blade out the water quick enough or sharp enough, she couldn’t get her legs firing, she couldn't find any rhythm, her adrenaline just zapped, dissipated, gone, so that every stroke was like rowing though cement. She lost her time-trial by 1.3 seconds. She wasn’t on the Olympic team that year.
Her dad had actually cried. And Holly had been shattered.
Enid had found Holly sitting in her car, her rucksack packed, her passport in her bag. She had opened the car door and said, ‘You cannot do this. You cannot do this, young lady. You weren't ready. That was all. But you cannot quit. You cannot run away. You have to finish what you’ve started. You’ll regret it for ever if you don’t.’
From her seat on the ferry, Holly wondered now if Enid had been talking as much about herself as to Holly. You’ll regret it for ever. Suddenly so clearly said with a voice of experience. She thought back to the letter they’d found about the dead officer addressed to Enid and wondered what secrets were hidden in those words.
Then a shadow blocked out her sunshine and a voice said, ‘I’m sorry, OK.’ Holly opened her eyes to see Wilf silhouetted in front of her.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Holly tipped her chair up to flat and shielded her eyes to look up at him. He had on a pair of black Wayfarer sunglasses and took them off as he carried on talking to her.
‘I was annoyed with Emily. I was annoyed that I was in this position.’ He paused. ‘Not this position,’ he said quickly, pointing to Holly’s bump, ‘But this position,’ he said, trying to encompass Holly, himself and the ferry. ‘But I realise that I’ve been behaving like a bit of a brat. So, I apologise.’
Holly didn’t know what to say. This hadn't been what she was expecting. She’d settled into the idea of them not speaking for the rest of the journey and then drawing up some sort of custody arrangement once in France. ‘OK,’ she said in the end.
‘Good. I just wanted to, you know,’ he looked out towards the ship’s wake. ‘Clear that up.’
Holly had never seen him unsure of himself. Standing there with no possessions other than the clothes he had on, his phone and his wallet, he seemed suddenly quite vulnerable.
‘I’m going to go and er…’ Wilf pointed to the other end of the boat.
‘OK,’ Holly said, still not quite trusting the situation.
Wilf turned to go, then paused, his hand on the railing. ‘Unless, I don’t know, unless you want anything. Do you need a drink or something to eat? I mean, how does this work?’
Holly saw him take in her Take a Break magazine and Dairy Milk for the first time and inwardly cringed.
‘That doesn’t look very healthy,’ he said with a frown.
‘It’s to stop the morning sickness. Well, afternoon sickness.’
‘You didn’t say you were sick.’
‘That’s because this is the first time we’ve spoken,’ Holly said, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms in front of her.
Wilf tried to hide a smile. He slipped his shades back on and said, ‘Yeah, fair enough. Well, I was going to get a beer so maybe I could get you something. A Coke or something and d’you want a sandwich?’ He paused, took his sunglasses off again, ‘If, I mean, it’s OK for me to sit with you. I wouldn’t want to cramp your style.’
Holly rolled her eyes, then said, ‘I’ll have a Fanta, please.’
The corner of Wilf’s mouth quirked up, ‘Fanta, gotcha. Anything else? Sandwich?’
‘Are you having one?’ she asked.
‘Quite possibly.’
‘OK, if you’re having one, I’ll have one. Thanks. Cheese.’ She wanted to say no mayo because it made her feel sick but didn’t want to seem too picky.
He nodded, turned and strolled away, hands in his shorts pockets.
Holly leant forward, her elbows on the table and wondered if that had been the best way to play it. Or should she have just nonchalantly sent him packing? Or should she have said more?
She watched his casual, loping gait. Watched as a group of women at the table by the door paused to glance at him.
Thought, I’m having this guy’s baby.
And then thought about all the years to come when he’d be with different women and she’d have to navigate the idea of them being part of her child’s life.
It was too huge to think about. Too depressing a reality.
So instead she thought about what he’d looked like when he came over to apologise. His hand toying with the shades, one reaching up to adjust the open collar of his shirt like he might be a bit nervous. The sharp angularness of his nose. The high lines of his cheekbones. The bright green of his eyes. The same colour as her own. Did that mean the kid would definitely have green eyes?
What if it looked like him?
She’d have a mini-Wilf in her life always.
That would be weird.
‘One Fanta, one sandwich,’ Wilf put a paper plate with a white bread sandwich down on the table along with his beer and what looked like a BLT, and then got the can of Fanta out of his pocket. ‘Yours is the cheese. I asked for it plain ‒ is that OK? I figured I’d want something plain if I was pregnant.’
Holly looked at her plain, pale cheese sandwich and it almost made her cry.
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Plain is perfect.’
Wilf pulled out a chair and sat down, quite pleased with himself for getting the sandwich thing right, and untwisted the cap off his beer.
‘Excuse me?’ An elderly woman with a stick came over to where they were sitting. ‘Are these seats taken?’ she asked, indicating to the cluster of empty plastic chairs next to their table.
‘No,’ Holly said, gesturing for her to sit. Wilf budged his chair along so she could get through.
‘You’re all set up, aren’t you?’ the woman said, nodding towards their sandwiches and drinks. ‘I’ve brought my own,’ she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out some tinfoil packages and a beaten-up old green Thermos flask. ‘My, don’t you have lovely eyes.’
Holly was looking down at her sandwich and, assuming she was talking about Wilf, glanced over his way to admire his eyes along with the woman, when she realised they were both looking at her.
‘You’re a lucky thing aren’t you, young man?’ the woman said to Wilf. ‘Got yourself a real beauty.’
Holly winced, embarrassed.
‘Haven’t I?’ Wilf said, leaning back and clearly enjoying the slight tint to Holly’s cheekbones.
The woman unwrapped her first tinfoil package and inside was a pork pie cut into quarters. She unwrapped the next which held a segmented tomato and a third little tinfoil ball had a scotch egg in it.
‘That’s a magnificent-looking lunch,’ Wilf said, eying up her foil parcels.
‘Thank you,’ the woman said, proud, ‘I always say to my husband, I’ll make us a pack-up and then we don’t have to eat any of the boat rubbish. How much did you pay for that?’ she said, nodding towards Holly’s insipid-looking cheese sandwich.
Wilf shook his head, ‘I have no idea actually, just tapped my card on the reader.’
‘Honestly.’ The woman shook her head, ‘Throwing money away. You should be making a packed lunch for the two of you,’ she said to Holly.
Wilf sat back and grinned, ‘Yes, honey, you really should have made us a packed lunch.’
‘It’s the way to keep them, my dear, you mark my words. A well-fed husband never strays.’
‘Excellent advice,’ Wilf said with a laugh. ‘What have you been doing all this time, Holly darling?’
‘I don’t know, sweetheart,’ Holly said, tilting her head to one side, ‘You never let me into the kitchen. He never lets me cook.’ She looked regretfully at the old woman. ‘He insists on doing everything ‒ the cooking, cleaning, hovering and ironing. He’s a real metrosexual.’
&nb
sp; Wilf bit down on his lip, glanced away for a second, and then leant towards the woman, elbows resting on his knees and said, ‘It’s actually just cos she’s so terrible at it. No idea what to do with a saucepan.’
Holly was chewing on her cheese sandwich and had to force down a swallow before saying, ‘Darling, I thought you loved my cooking! I don’t know what he’s talking about, seriously. He adores my food. I think the problem is…’ She lowered her voice as if taking the woman into her confidence, but kept it loud enough for Wilf to hear. ‘He’s a bit embarrassed that I earn so much more than he does and that he wants to stay at home and keep the place lovely. He’s scared people might not think it’s manly enough, but I tell him that actually people would admire him. Wilf’s dream…’ she whispered and the woman sat forward a touch, ‘is to be a house-husband.’
Wilf snorted into his beer.
The woman looked slightly aghast.
‘My secret is out,’ Wilf said, turning to look out to sea, a grin on his lips as he took a swig from the bottle of Kronenberg.
The woman didn’t say anything else, just started folding up her tinfoil packages, clearly a bit puzzled by the back and forth. Holly sat back and took another bite of her sandwich, a satisfied smile twitching on her lips.
‘Ah, there’s my husband,’ the woman said, seemingly ready to wave at anyone who walked by just to leave the two of them, and started putting all her packages back into her bag. ‘Bit windy for me out here, I think I’ll go back inside,’ she said and, picking up her walking stick, she stood up and looped her bag over her forearm. Before she left she leant forward, patted Holly on the back of the hand and said, ‘A nice packed lunch. Always keeps them coming back.’
When she had gone, Wilf raised a brow at Holly. Holly wondered whether to say something back, to make some quip that joined them as insiders on a joke, but when he didn’t say anything she realised she didn’t want to look too eager, too keen. She didn’t want to show her cards in fear that he might act aloof or dismissive. She didn’t want to make herself any more vulnerable than she already was, so she just raised her brow back at him and they ate their sandwiches in silence.
Chapter Seven
‘OK, so which way do I go?’ Holly asked as they drove away from passport control. Wilf was in the middle of unfolding the giant map. The early evening sun was still bright, the light a hazy yellow mist that seemed to infuse the trees and graffiti-covered concrete.
‘This map is useless. I don’t have data roaming. Where’s your satnav?’ he said, peering into the glove compartment.
Holly shrugged, ‘I don’t have a satnav.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I know where I’m going most of the time,’ she said. ‘Shall I go right? Everyone else is indicating right.’
‘You’re not going right. You’re going left. Left. Look. Left. Head towards Lille.’
‘OK, well you’ve gotta tell me the directions in advance. How am I meant to know?’
Wilf was struggling to get the map to fold into a decent size. ‘Just turn left. Left. Other side of the road, Holly!’ he shouted.
‘I know,’ she shouted back, stress levels rising as other cars were shooting past her. ‘I’m just adjusting to being on this side.’
‘Shall I drive?’
‘No,’ she snapped.
Wilf went back to his map. ‘Jesus, this thing’s from 1994.’
Holly glanced over, ‘It’s my dad’s.’
‘Well, this road we’re on ‒’ Wilf pointed to the motorway they were about to pull out on. ‘It’s not on here.’
Holly frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it wasn’t built!’ Wilf said, crumpling the map down on his lap with a sigh. ‘It’s a useless map.’
Holly concentrated on the road. She was trundling along in the slow lane, getting her bearings, knowing he was judging her driving. ‘Could I have my sunglasses, please? They’re in my bag.’
Wilf was trying to fold up the map again. ‘What did you say, sorry? What do you want?’
‘My sunglasses.’
Putting the map in the glove compartment, he picked up her bag and had a cursory poke about, ‘I don’t think they’re in here,’ he said after a moment.
‘They are.’
‘I don’t feel comfortable going through a woman’s bag,’ he said, shaking his head, then sitting back, one arm draped along the back of the quilted leather seat.
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘There might be stuff in there I shouldn’t see. I don’t know. Tampax, the pill, things like that.’
‘Wilf.’ Holly glanced over, brow raised. ‘They’re the last things I’m going to be needing.’
Wilf sniggered like a school boy and Holly shook her head in disbelief.
‘Sorry.’ He held a hand up. ‘Sorry. OK, sunglasses.’ He was still sniggering to himself as he rummaged through her bag and finally came out with her Ray-Ban case. ‘You have a lot of stuff in here. Do you need all this?’
‘Can you just give me the glasses, please?’ Holly said, wanting him to stop poking through her stuff now.
‘I mean, you have a bag within a bag. What’s in here?’
‘Just stuff. Lip balm. Keys. Tissues. Stuff.’
‘And this?’ he held up her diary with a bemused curl of his lip. Annie had given it to her as a joke, it had Hello Kitty on it and a lock in the shape of a heart. It was meant to be her baby diary. She was meant to use it to get to know the baby, record the pregnancy. Annie had read that it was a good way to bond.
‘Can you just stop going through my stuff? Hang on, was I meant to turn off there?’ They sailed past the exit that pointed to the autoroute south and towards some traffic lights, a boulangerie on their right and a flashing green chemist’s sign.
‘Shit, yes. Shit.’ Wilf turned back in his seat to see the exit slip away from them. ‘Come off here.’ He pointed to the intersection.
‘That might not be the right way.’
‘Just come off. Jesus, do you have to plan everything?’
Holly frowned and as she turned at the traffic lights, pulled over at the side of the road next to a little cafe, the tables outside filled with people smoking cigarettes and drinking carafes of wine and espressos. ‘You’re the one who’s meant to be navigating,’ she said. ‘That’s the passenger’s job. They navigate. So don’t shout at me.’
‘I was navigating!’ he said. ‘The road we want is not on this map!’ He waved the bundled-up map in her direction, his nostrils flaring as he looked at her. ‘I’m going to download a satnav app.’
‘Good for you,’ she said, folding her arms.
Wilf’s jaw tensed as he got out his phone.
The sun was hovering on the tops of the buildings ahead of them, peeking above shops and office blocks. Holly stared out the windows at the customers in the cafe, laughing, shouting, waving their hands to emphasise a point.
She wondered how her and Wilf had got back to this bickering. It had been quite fun on the ferry. There had been a frisson between them. She’d thought maybe they might start to get on. She’d started to envision an evening where they talked about the baby and the future. And maybe she would be able to tell him how angry she’d been when she found out, and then how scared and then how protective and then how completely confused. And how she wanted him to be going through the same as she was. How all she really wanted was for him to say that it was as much his responsibility as hers and he would make sure that it was. None of her daydreaming involved sitting at the roadside of a French town while Wilf swore at his phone and downloaded the viamichelin app to get the route to Provence.
‘OK, right. I’ve got it,’ he said, looking down at his iPhone. ‘Let’s go.’
The sun had dipped now, no longer hovering just above the skyline. Holly pushed her sunglasses up on her head. As they hit the autoroute, she noticed a buzzard circle overhead but she didn’t point it out. Just drove in silence.
Then, after ten minute
s or so, she leant forward and switched on the radio.
She felt Wilf glance her way as the DJ boomed out with top-speed French and then they played some crazy European hip-hop. She could imagine Wilf’s face, could imagine him wanting to turn the radio off but refusing to give her the satisfaction, and it made her smile to herself, the flat green countryside stretching out for miles either side them. Out the corner of her eye she saw him tip his head back against the white leather seat, cross one ankle over the other knee, and put his hands behind his neck.
She’d never been with anyone where they seemed to be talking to each other without saying anything. She knew that he couldn’t bear the radio but that he was actually quite enjoying his stubborn refusal to admit it. She knew that he was thinking that he’d be driving faster. She knew that he knew that they were totally incompatible. She knew that he was working out how to ‘do right’ by the baby without it all getting messy. She also knew that he still thought that it would all have been easier if he’d driven over with Alfonso.
As the glare of the sun disappeared, the view was cast in a soft yellow tint. Alongside them were fields and trees, tall blocks of flats and billboards. They went through Lens and Arras, bypassing Paris towards Reims. Wilf had his eyes shut, only opening them every now and then to check his phone and compare the line of the map to the road signs.
Holly was tired. The fields and farmhouses and windmills were blurring round the edges. The steering wheel felt heavy and her leg was knackered from the clutch. The sudden lethargy of pregnancy was new to her. The feeling of being weak. She had never been weak before, always the strong one. Now she needed to go to the loo every half an hour. Gone were the days of training, up at dawn, the blades frozen to the ground, on the water at night with little lights on her boat, weight training in the gym, circuits, ergos, runs, time-trials. Everything scheduled. Her life was like a timetable. Now, she went to bed at half past nine exhausted but couldn’t sleep. Now, if she didn’t eat, or have enough water, or if she got too hot, she felt dizzy and had to sit down. Now, when she got tired she got emotional. Now, she was vulnerable.
