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The Holiday Home
Fern Britton


You will love this heartwarming, witty novel fromSunday Times best-seller, Fern Britton. The perfect Cornish Escape!Two sisters. One House. The holiday of a lifetime…Set on a Cornish cliff, Atlantic House has been the jewel in the Carew family crown for centuries. Each year, the Carew sisters embark on the yearly summer holiday, but they are as different as vinegar and honey.Prudence, hard-nosed businesswoman married to the meek and mild Francis, is about to get a shock reminder that you should never take anything for granted.Constance, loving wife to philandering husband Greg, has always been outwitted by her manipulative sibling. Suspecting that Pru wants to get her hands on Atlantic House, Connie won’t take things lying down.When an old face reappears on the scene, years of simmering resentments reach boiling point. Little do the women know that a long-buried secret is about to bite them all on the bottom.Is this one holiday that will push them all over the edge, or can Constance and Pru leave the past where it belongs?Pendruggan: A Cornish village with secrets at its heart









FERN BRITTON

The Holiday Home










Copyright (#ulink_6d8ce649-3662-5f91-9911-ef911c9b0f23)


This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

Copyright © Fern Britton 2013

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Illustration © Robyn Neild

Author photograph © Neil Cooper

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Source ISBN: 9780007468539

Ebook Edition © 2013 ISBN: 9780007468553

Version: 2017-12-21

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.


For Jack. May all your dreams come true. I love you.

Mum xx


Table of Contents

Title Page (#u894f31f6-d802-5b34-ac2b-de5fa27e4606)

Copyright (#u2bf9969b-7115-54e2-874e-09121ab60895)

Dedication (#u4920e889-e376-5c62-9c50-109e3e1db4e1)

Chapter 1 (#uc20e1db6-291f-5aa0-958d-5c8a007c35dc)

Chapter 2 (#ud64c0e80-9091-5980-b900-a00f291b4c5a)

Chapter 3 (#ued2c6570-455f-566a-9734-6b5f192abe36)

Chapter 4 (#ua4e4bb93-fe5a-56e0-9031-b5c8562cad1f)

Chapter 5 (#ud66dca58-56eb-552f-bb10-9e5c70b6c839)

Chapter 6 (#u3e448adc-03c6-53ea-936d-5b8bc060f1a2)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading: A Seaside Affair (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading: A Good Catch (#litres_trial_promo)

Read on for a Q&A with Fern (#litres_trial_promo)

My Cornwall: Fern Britton (#litres_trial_promo)

By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Atlantic House 1988

THE HUSK OF A DEAD FLY LAY DRY AND BRITTLE on the sun-bleached oak window sill.

The house was silent and empty in the drowsiness of the bright spring morning. If its almost three-hundred-year-old walls harboured any memories of previous occupants, the weddings and wakes, conceptions and christenings that had taken place here, there was no sign. Where rich brocade curtains had once hung from the tall windows, there clung trailing cobwebs. The days when handsome young men in tight breeches and high-collared frock coats had wooed maidens in muslin dresses were a thing of the past. Maybe the rustle of petticoats along the top landing could still be heard, but only by the tattered moths. In the musty bedrooms, patches of insidious damp crept ever outward, their spread unobserved and unchecked. In the cellars, the dark, dank, seaweed-scented stone walls were covered in a glistening silvery scrawl, marking the passage of slugs and snails. The worn steps, hewn out of the rocky floor, descended into darkness and the sound of the waves lapping against the walls of a natural cave beneath the house. On moonless nights, two hundred years ago, smugglers would time their arrival for high tide, steering their vessels through the opening in the rocks on the beach where the waves surged in, on into the torchlit cavern where their cargo of contraband brandy, tobacco and lace would be unloaded, away from the prying eyes of the revenue men. Only the odd holidaymaker ventured into the cave nowadays, but a rockfall twenty metres from the beach entrance prevented them from reaching the forgotten cave. The sea, however, continued as it always had done, ebbing and flowing into the recesses below Atlantic House.

In the old days, the gentleman of the house would welcome his gang of smugglers and lead them up the stone steps into an innocent-looking outhouse. A fortified wooden door opened into the garden. To the left was the back door of the house, now stiff with salt and age, which led into the kitchen. In front of the old hearth and chimney, still blackened by the fires of countless cooks, smugglers would have their wounds attended to by the lady of the house. And if the revenue men whose guns had caused the wounds came knocking, the fugitive would stay hidden in the cool of the pantry while the gentleman and his lady entertained them.

Today the ancient range, once the beating heart of the house, was cold, its doors seized with rust and its hot plates covered in soot falls.

Out in the garden, wild with broom, tamarisk, escallonia and fuchsia, the lawn bore no resemblance to the croquet pitch it had been between the two world wars; these days it was a Cornish meadow giving on to a buckthorn and gorse hedge. The weathered wooden gate, which had once banged so gaily on its sprung hinge with the constant traffic of beach-bound children, now drooped sadly.

As he placed the heavy key in the lock, estate agent Trevor Castle took in the commanding elevated position overlooking the much-sought-after Treviscum Beach. The key refused to move. Trevor leaned against the studded oak front door, gave the key a twist, and tried again. Still nothing. Bending down, he laid his clipboard, camera and retractable tape measure on the worn flagstones. Using both hands now, he managed to get the reluctant key to turn. As he pushed open the heavy door, a horrible squeal of protest from the unoiled hinges gave him a little fright. He steadied himself and carried on pushing. Something was blocking the door. When he had created a big enough gap to squeeze his head through, he paused for a moment, bracing himself for the prospect of a rotting corpse on the other side of the door. To his relief, when his eyes adjusted to the darkness he made out a pile of faded circulars and junk mail wedged against it. Chuckling at his stupidity, Trevor bent his full weight against the door and heaved until the opening was wide enough for him to step into the house. He stooped to clear the blockage and then returned to the porch to collect his estate-agent tackle.

With the door now open wide, the sun poured in, lighting up the impressive oak-panelled hall and spilling into the open doorway of the grand drawing room ahead with its breathtaking view down to the ocean.

‘Wow. Hello, House,’ Trevor said out loud. He stepped into the hall, stirring aged dust motes. He didn’t feel any gust of wind, but the front door banged shut so loudly behind him, he gave an involuntary jump and a yelp of fright. Hand resting on his pounding heart, he exhaled with relief.

‘Steady on, Trev, buddy. Only the wind.’

This was his first solo trip since joining Trish Hawkes & Daughter Property Agents. After weeks of trailing around after Trish, she had finally deemed him ready to go out and measure and photograph a house by himself.

‘Atlantic House will be a good one to start you off,’ she’d announced, reaching round to the key cabinet and unhooking a large, obviously antique key. ‘Empty. No bloody occupying owner to interfere.’

‘Has it been vacant long?’ he’d asked.

Trish had smiled, but there had been an uncharacteristic reticence about her as she’d replied: ‘Erm, about ten years. I think.’

‘Ten years! But it says here it’s a sea-front location, with its own private cliff path to the beach. Place like that shouldn’t stay empty ten minutes.’

‘Oh, erm, there was a bit of sadness in the family. Child had an accident or something. Anyway, the surviving daughter has just inherited and wants to get rid.’

‘Okey-dokey.’ Trev had been full of confidence as he had collected the heavy key from Trish’s hand. ‘Let’s make money.’

He’d sauntered out of the office, conscious of Trish’s eyes following him as he made his way to the car park. He reckoned he created a favourable impression, smartly dressed in a grey suit with matching grey shoes, his hair carefully gelled and coiffed, aftershave strong but not unpleasantly so. Little did he know that Trish considered him the epitome of an eighties wide boy, complete with aspirations of an XR3i Ford Escort Cabriolet and a fortnight in Magaluf (or Shagaluf, as she’d overheard him say when she walked in as he was on the phone to one of his mates). But the frown wrinkling her brow as he disappeared round the corner of Trevay harbour had not been prompted by any doubt about his abilities. It was a pang of guilt that had Trish asking herself whether she’d done the right thing in sending him out to Atlantic House. But then, he was a strapping lad of twenty-three; he’d be fine … wouldn’t he? Rather him than her.

*

Having decided to start at the top of the house and work his way down, Trevor strode across the hallway. His footsteps sounded heavy on the bare wooden treads as he climbed the wide staircase. On the landing he stopped and counted eight doors, all closed.

The door to his left opened into a good-sized bedroom with a view over the driveway and lane. He measured up, took a couple of photos and jotted down a brief description to be written up in more flowery prose later. He carried on to the next room. A huge lavatory with a cracked wooden square of a seat and a chain-handled flush. The iron cistern above had been painted in many layers of cream paint, but he could just make out the maker’s name and a date: 1934. Next door was a bathroom with an enormous, deep bath in the corner. Brown stains marred the porcelain under the bulbous antique taps, but when he turned one on there was no water.

The adjacent door led to a bedroom at the side of the house with a pretty sea view. The middle door, bang opposite the stairs, opened on to a magnificent master bedroom with French windows leading out to a balcony offering a stunning view of Treviscum Beach and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. The key was still in the lock and turned reasonably easily. Trevor opened the door to the balcony and stepped out into the light sea breeze. Now this was more like it. He tested the hand rail. The wood seemed solid enough, apart from a few splinters pricking his palms. Holding on in order to steady himself, he bounced lightly on the wooden floor. It bounced back. This house was going to be a money pit, but it would surely be worth it.

Trevor stood basking in the breeze for a moment, fantasising that the house was his. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the warm fresh air. Opening his eyes, he leaned over the balcony to take a look at the garden and terrace below. Suddenly the wood beneath his hand gave way, tipping him into empty space. As he lunged forward his scrabbling hand somehow managed to grasp one of the supporting uprights. There was a clank from below as the broken rail hit the flagstone terrace.

‘Bloody Nora!’ Beads of sweat broke out on his tanned forehead. Trevor cleared the floorboards of the balcony and made it back to the safety of the master bedroom in a single stride, shutting the balcony door behind him. Relieved that no one had seen his brush with death, yet at the same time shuddering at the thought of how long it would have taken for anyone to come to his aid, he stood with his back against the window, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. ‘Get a grip, Trev,’ he told himself.

After carefully relocking the door he set about measuring the room, followed by a further three bedrooms, all with either a sea view, a garden view, or a view of the drive. When that was done he returned to the ground floor.

Even in its dilapidated state, the drawing room was impressive with its high ceiling and generous window seats either side of French windows opening on to the terrace. Looking out, Trevor saw the broken piece of handrail lying innocently on the stone. Feeling a frisson of fear, he immediately turned his back on it, trying to put it out of his mind.

After measuring the drawing room he turned his attention to the study, followed by a charming morning room with an inglenook fireplace, and an intimate dining room with a plaster frieze of grapes around the corniced ceiling.

At the far end of the kitchen, which surely hadn’t been updated since Queen Victoria’s coronation, a tongue-and-groove door with a wrought-iron latch stood ajar. He went to it and saw it led to an old pantry or larder with original worktops made of slabs of marble. This, he imagined, was where butter, milk and meat would have been stored in hot weather. Again he set to work with his notebook and measuring tape, talking to himself as he recorded the details.

When he finished measuring and checked his watch, he was surprised to discover that almost three hours had passed since he had left the office. And he still had the garden to do.

Locking up the front door and pocketing the key, Trevor fought his way through the thicket of dead grass and brambles, round to the sea-facing side of the house. How wonderful it looked from this angle, with the setting sun reflected in the windows, making the house glow as if it were illuminated from within and full of life.

Never in his brief career had Trevor been asked to measure a garden of this size. His puny tape measure was clearly inadequate for the task, so he decided instead to stride round the perimeter, counting each step as a metre.

He hadn’t gone far before he lost count, the number falling from his memory as soon as he saw the old fortified wooden door in the side of the house. Natural curiosity and the desire to faithfully record every room led him to descend the four stone steps to the door. Half hoping to find it locked, he was surprised when it opened easily, releasing an aroma of sea damp and age that seemed to envelop him. The interior was pitch-dark and he could hear the distant sound of the sea coming up from below. In the light of the setting sun he struggled to make out the odd-shaped room, which seemed almost cave-like. As he stepped over the threshold, he felt a prickling at the base of his spine. Not fear, quite, but a warning not to go any further. After his unnerving experience on the balcony, Trevor decided it might be wise to let the surveyor check this one out. Closing the door behind him, he scampered up the steps away from the gloom and into the daylight.

On the drive back to the office he rehearsed the story he would tell Trish. Best to leave out the brush with death and the dark forebodings, he decided. As far as Trish was concerned, the house was a gem. In need of renovation, but a unique opportunity to acquire a charming period home with stunning aspects. Yes, that should do nicely on the particulars.




1 (#ulink_acd949f9-d1a4-56b5-97a9-daf80bd91bd3)


As the wind whipped at her silk scarf, Dorothy struggled to tighten the knot that secured it under her chin. Although it was a sunny day with clear blue skies, it was bitterly cold. Not the ideal weather for motoring in an open-topped car.

Henry took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her. ‘Not too cold?’

‘A little.’ She shrugged herself further down into her sheepskin coat.

He smiled, not hearing her. ‘Jolly good.’

They had set off from their house in the Home Counties that morning, en route for Cornwall and a property described in the Country Life advertisement as:

An unmissable and rare opportunity to purchase this perfect Cornish Holiday/Family house. Accommodation comprises six bedrooms, two bathrooms, drawing room, dining room, morning room and study. Spacious original Victorian family kitchen. The master bedroom, with dressing room and en-suite bathroom, has its own balcony offering panoramic ocean views. All rooms on the ocean-facing side of the house boast equally stunning aspects. Set in half an acre of mature cliff-top gardens with private access to the public beach of Treviscum Bay. The property is in need of some modernisation. Despite its age (built circa 1720) it is currently unlisted.

‘Take the next left,’ Dorothy, fighting with the turning pages of her road map, shouted above the wind as her husband sat grinning at the wheel of his new Aston Martin Virage Volante.

‘What?’

‘Next left. To Bodmin.’

‘Left here?’

She nodded vigorously and pointed with her gloved hand at the signpost.

He smiled. ‘Righto, Number One.’ He slowed the V8 engine to a throaty rumble and took the exit.

Henry couldn’t believe how wonderfully his life had turned out. Who’d have thought he’d rise to this, given the dire straits he’d found himself in a decade ago.

On the death of his father, Henry had inherited Carew Family Board Games. Unfortunately the firm that had been his father’s pride and joy was by this time a dinosaur in a shrinking market. Nobody wanted to play board games any more, even if they did have beautifully hand-crafted pieces and block-printed boards. Henry had been left an albatross, complete with a mountain of debt, a loyal workforce he couldn’t afford, and a factory with outdated machinery making parlour-game staples such as Ludo, Snakes and Ladders and Draughts. Settling the death duties on his father’s estate had left him with no means to pay his own mortgage, let alone bail out the firm. In despair, he invited his bank manager out to lunch, hoping that a sumptuous five-course meal would secure him an extension to his business loan. It took the manager less than fifteen minutes to turn down the request. Indeed, if the current overdraft wasn’t reduced forthwith, Henry’s factory and machines would be repossessed by the bank.

‘But my father was with your bank for more than forty years. Please, if you just bear with me a while longer, I won’t let you down,’ pleaded Henry.

The bank manager, a fat man who enjoyed golf and making his customers squirm, shook his head sadly.

‘Henry, your father was a close friend and a good man, but he didn’t move with the times. Unless you can give me a sound business plan, some reason why the bank should reinvest, my answer has to be no.’

Henry took a deep breath and looked the smug slug in the eye. ‘I have an idea for a game that will knock Trivial Pursuit, Cluedo and Monopoly into a cocked hat. I can’t say more because our competitors must not get wind of it.’

‘My dear boy, what is it?’

‘I told you, I can’t say. But if I were to offer you my house as collateral, would you let me have the money I need?’

The slug stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into his coffee, thinking.

‘OK, I’ll authorise the loan – but only for six months. After that …’ he continued stirring, his lips curving upward in a smirk, ‘… the bank moves in.’

The relief Henry had felt at securing the loan evaporated at the prospect of this odious man and his bank getting their hands on his home and Carew Family Board Games. Unfortunately there was a major flaw in his new business plan. The top secret game that was going to take the world by storm didn’t exist.

Henry drove back to the factory and locked himself into his father’s old office. How could he have been so rash and stupid? How the hell was he going to invent a blockbuster of a game in a year, let alone six months?

He pulled out the bottom drawer of his father’s desk and found the bottle of Scotch Dad had always kept there. He opened it and put it to his lips with a silent prayer: Dad, I need your help. I’m in the shit and some of it’s your fault. Give me an idea, a way out of this mess.

He sat back in the tilting revolving wooden chair and put his feet up on the desk.

What am I going to do, Dad? I’m going to lose the factory and my home. A hundred people will be out of a job. People who loved you and trusted you. They are expecting me to make everything all right, but I’m afraid I’ve cocked it up. He took another swig of Scotch.

It was some time later when Old Reg, the foreman and longest-serving member of staff, came to say good night. He found Henry, his eyes red from tears, sitting in his father’s chair, the bottle of Scotch half-empty. Reg saw it all and knew without asking that it was only a matter of time before Carew Family Board Games became a footnote in history. Murmuring, ‘Good night, Mr Henry,’ he closed the office door gently behind him.

*

Henry’s brain was in turmoil. Had he committed fraud? Could making a false promise be construed as extorting money from the bank? Would he be arrested? Could he afford a lawyer? What would happen to Dorothy and the girls? Lawyers were expensive. He was only trying to do the best for his workforce, his family. Oh God, he’d go to jail. He’d better get a lawyer.

In a panic, he dug out his father’s old address book and flipped to the ‘L’ tab. His finger traced down the pages.

‘Lawyer, lawyer,’ he muttered under his breath. He stopped for a moment and said the words again: ‘Lawyer, lawyer.’ Feverishly he picked up a pencil and began writing the words, followed by DEFENDANT. JUDGE. JURY. Then he drew two boxes and wrote GUILTY in one and NOT GUILTY in the other.

He phoned home and told Dorothy not to expect him back for supper.

*

The next morning he called a meeting on the shop floor for every member of staff. He hadn’t slept all night, he reeked of body odour and alcohol. They expected the worst.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for giving me your time today. Carew Family Board Games was my father’s proudest achievement. Many of you worked with him and loved him as I did. You miss him as I miss him. I am very grateful that you have remained so loyal to me as I try to fill his shoes. But the truth is, the world is changing and this company is struggling. When arcade games and the Rubik’s Cube came on to the market, my father thought they would be a flash in the pan. “Nothing can beat the fun of a family sitting round the table playing Ludo,” was his mantra.’ Some of the older employees laughed in remembrance of this. ‘He was wrong, though. We are on the brink of insolvency.’

There was a subdued murmur from the group, and then Reg spoke up: ‘Are you shutting us down, Mr Carew?’

Henry swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. ‘I hope not, Reg. I have an idea for a new game. A board game that I think could beat even Monopoly for world sales. The World Toy Fair is four months away: if we can have the new game ready by then, we’ll secure the orders we need to turn this company round – but I need your help and your faith to pull it off. This is the promise I make to you: if I can’t turn this company round in the next six months, I will sell everything I have – bar my house, which is promised to the bank …’ He paused, gulping back the tears that threatened. ‘And I will split the proceeds between you. However, if we make this game a success, you will all become partners, sharing in the profit.’

His workforce stood, incredulous. Some of the older women who remembered the boom years were sniffing into screwed-up tissues. The younger workers looked dumbstruck. In the end it was Reg who stepped forward and asked, ‘What do we have to do?’

*

It took Henry and the team just two weeks to produce the cardboard prototype of Lawyer, Lawyer. Four sets were made and taken home in turn by the Carew workers. Each day they would come in with suggestions, refinements and clearer rules. Finally everyone was in agreement that they had the definitive version. A game of cat and mouse between the law and the citizen. Reg oversaw the first factory-made prototype as it came off the production line.

It was beautiful. The box lid depicted Number One Court of the Old Bailey. In the dock stood a decent but anxious-looking man. On the bench sat a hideous gargoyle of a judge bearing an uncanny resemblance to Henry’s bank manager. And taking the floor was a smart lawyer, thumbs in his lapels and smiling wolfishly at the jury.

Reg carried it with pride to the boardroom and placed it on the elliptical table. The workers came and filed past it as it lay in state.

That afternoon, Dorothy dialled the local Chinese takeaway and ordered a supper for everyone. It was a party not one of them would forget.

On the eve of the World Toy Fair, Henry carefully packed the newly manufactured boxes of Lawyer, Lawyer into the back of his rented Rascal van. Dorothy was already settled in the passenger seat. The entire workforce gathered in the car park to wave them off.

Old Reg leaned in and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Good luck, Mr Henry. Your father would be proud of you.’

Henry put the car in gear and drove carefully out of the factory car park, Dorothy waving from the window while he tooted the horn until they were all out of sight.

The World Toy Fair at Olympia was very familiar to Henry. He’d worked a stand there with his father from the time he was a boy. Only when his father fell ill did they stop attending. His death had left Henry without the cash or wherewithal to organise a stand. Now, he found himself looking forward to it. But at the same time he was consumed with nerves.

He glanced at Dorothy and said, ‘What if this doesn’t work?’

She smiled back at him. ‘It’ll work.’

‘We could lose every—’

‘We could, but we won’t.’

Most exhibitors had booked a year in advance. When Dorothy had called to make a reservation four months previously, there were few slots remaining. They were allocated a stand on an outside corner.

‘You wouldn’t put a hen in a space as small as this,’ complained Henry when he saw it.

Dorothy, who was staggering under several boxes of order forms and fliers, ignored his pessimism. ‘Help me with these, will you?’ she said, thrusting the surprisingly heavy boxes towards him. Then she looked around, hands resting on her slender hips. ‘Small but perfect. We’re handy for the loo and the café – think of the footfall we’ll have. Couldn’t be better.’

He grudgingly nodded. ‘Suppose so.’

‘Come on, Prince Charming – two more trips and the van will be unloaded.’

Dorothy was a good organiser. By midnight, their little stall looked inviting and ready for the official opening in the morning. Several other exhibitors broke off setting up their own stands and dropped by to chat and reminisce about Henry’s father. One or two were desperate to get a look inside the Lawyer, Lawyer boxes, but Dorothy was having none of it. ‘The premiere is tomorrow, boys! No peeking till then.’

The four days that followed were the busiest they’d ever known. The opening morning was slow, but that afternoon the buyer for Hamleys came by. After Henry talked him through the rules, he couldn’t resist playing a round. Henry let him win, obviously, and the buyer put an order in for such a large amount that Dorothy thought she’d misheard and left a zero off the end. When the buyer leaned over and corrected her, she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him. After that, word of mouth spread quickly. Every toyshop chain and department store was clamouring to place an order for the exciting new game.

As soon as they returned to the factory, the production line got into gear. For the first time in the history of the company, the machines were rolling twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. Extra night-shift staff were taken on to meet the orders, which were coming in from as far afield as Australia and Japan.

Within months Lawyer, Lawyer was the game on every family’s Christmas list. The fat bank manager invited Henry out for lunch. Henry accepted the invitation and was delighted when he heard the name of the restaurant: very expensive and excellent reviews. Henry selected the most extravagantly priced dishes and wine, enjoying the wincing expression of the slug sitting opposite.

Over coffee, and the finest brandy, the bank manager offered Henry as much money as he needed to expand the business. Henry thanked him, but declined to commit himself immediately.

On his return to the office, Henry immediately set about transferring all his company and personal accounts to a rival bank. Then he dictated a fax to his former bank manager, telling him to get stuffed.

A few days later, an order came through from Buckingham Palace. Henry made sure his Press Office (Dorothy) leaked the news to the Nigel Dempster column in the Daily Mail.

The company was now safer than it had been for twenty years, but there was no sitting back on their laurels. It was Old Reg who came up with the next idea. Tapping on Henry’s office door, he came in and explained that his son, who had a degree in electronics and computer science, wanted to devise an electronic version of Lawyer, Lawyer. After discussing the proposal with Dorothy and his new bank manager, Henry began investing in the technology that would produce the first hand-held Carew Family game.

The resulting worldwide sales paid off the mortgage of every Carew employee.

And that was how Henry and his beloved Dorothy came to be sitting in an open-topped Aston Martin on their way to buy Atlantic House, the Cornish holiday home of their dreams.




2 (#ulink_3e3c74e8-976d-5ac1-a921-7ef0881df582)


On the other side of Bodmin, past the wildness of the moor, the scenery grew gentler. Now they were travelling through a verdant countryside of fields and farms.

The Aston got stuck behind a tractor dripping slurry from its huge wheels. The smell of ammonia made Dorothy’s eyes water. Henry started to get frustrated. He accelerated and braked and weaved in and out of his side of the road, banging the steering wheel with his string-gloved hand. ‘Pull over, you village idiot!’ he snarled.

Dorothy saw the time had come to have words. ‘Henry! Do you want me to be sick on the cream leather? Besides, shouldn’t you be trying to make friends with the locals?’

Grumbling, he attempted patience. By the time the old farmer pulled into a small lay-by, waving them through, Henry was almost amiable.

He had barely finished waving a gracious acknowledgement when he found himself stuck behind a bus.

‘What do they want to bring bloody buses down these lanes for?’ he growled.

Dorothy laid a hand on his knee. ‘If we’re going to live here, we have to accept this pace of life.’

Eventually the bus stopped and Henry throttled past.

The roads narrowed into lanes the closer they got to the coast. The hedges, studded with primroses, rose high above them. Signposts boldly announced TREVAY 5 MILES. But as anyone knows, five Cornish miles can mean anything between two and ten.

Dorothy consulted her map and raised her voice to be heard above the wind. ‘We don’t want to get into Trevay itself. There’ll be a turning on the left to Lower Barton first.’

The Aston, stroking the vegetation between the narrow hedgerows, navigated the route to Lower Barton with its beautiful church and pub, then on to Higher Barton with its small supermarket, post office, pasty shop and garage, and finally down the unmade stony road to Treviscum Bay. And there, gleaming in the afternoon sun, stood the most wonderful house Dorothy and Henry had ever set eyes on.

Its large sash windows and porticoed front door seduced them immediately. Yes, the roofline was sagging, several slates were missing and the garden was badly overgrown, but they knew even before setting foot inside the door that they had to have it.

The front door opened and a young man stepped out to greet them.

‘Mr and Mrs Carew? Hello, I’m Trevor from Hawkes Property Agents. Come in, and welcome.’

Inside, the house was cool. There was a faint smell of damp, but the rooms were spacious and filled with sunlight. Henry and Dorothy took in the grandeur of the panelled hall, then followed Trevor into the high-ceilinged drawing room. If they weren’t hopelessly in love with Atlantic House already, the breathtaking view of the ocean from the French windows sealed the deal.

Careful not to sound too enthusiastic, they let Trevor escort them through the downstairs rooms and up to the bedrooms and ancient bathrooms. No words passed between Henry and Dorothy. They didn’t need to discuss it. They knew this house was for them.

Back in the hall, Trevor asked, ‘Shall I leave you to have a walk round on your own?’

‘Oh, I think we’ve seen enough,’ Henry said in a weary voice. ‘There’s a hell of a lot that needs doing. What can be done on the asking price?’

‘This is a highly desirable property that’s attracting a great deal of interest.’ Both men knew this was a lie, but it was the expected opening gambit of the duel. ‘I think it very unlikely the vendor will drop the price,’ parried Trevor, before delivering a clumsy blow: ‘In fact, I think it’s fair to say that a bidding war has already started.’

Dorothy looked pleadingly at Henry, who had begun to reach into his pocket for the car keys. ‘I haven’t come all this way to be held over a barrel. I’m a serious buyer, prepared to pay cash. Take it or leave it.’

‘Mr Carew,’ the agent stopped him, ‘I’m sure that if you were to make a hard-and-fast offer this afternoon, the vendor could be persuaded to come to some arrangement. Especially when I tell her you are a cash buyer.’

‘OK, let’s do that.’

‘Why don’t you follow me back to my office in Trevay and I’ll see if we can’t have the deal done by tonight.’

In the car, Dorothy had time to air her thoughts.

‘Please, please don’t let this house get away,’ she beseeched.

‘It’ll cost a fortune to bring the place up to scratch. Besides, I am not about to be made a monkey of by some venal estate agent who takes me for a wealthy Londoner.’

‘But you are a wealthy Londoner.’

‘Yes, dear – but he doesn’t know that.’

‘What do you suppose he thinks this car is then? A Reliant Robin? Henry Carew, your cover is already blown.’

*

Subject to a surveyor’s report and the usual searches, the deal was concluded that afternoon. Trevor, glowing with satisfaction and looking forward to working out his commission as soon as the buyers were out of the way, stood up to shake hands.

‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.’

Dorothy, who was putting her scarf on, paused. ‘Actually, there is something: I’d love to know more about the history of the house.’

Trevor looked over at his boss. ‘Trish, where would Mrs Carew be able to find out all about the history of the house?’

Trish, who had suddenly developed a keen interest in the contents of her desk drawer, seemed a little flustered as she replied: ‘Well, erm, the library would be the place to start. And, er, we have a very good local museum …’ Then she looked up and met their gaze. ‘Actually, there is something … something you should know. A young girl died in the house. It happened about ten years ago. It’s her sister who is selling the house.’

Dorothy stopped fiddling with her scarf. ‘Died? How? Illness? Accident? Murder?’

‘Oh, nothing sinister! No, no, it was a drowning. Poor thing.’ Trish turned to Trevor. ‘Did you show Mr and Mrs Carew the smugglers’ cave?’

Trevor blushed. ‘I thought I’d leave that to the surveyor.’

‘Smugglers’ cave?’ questioned Henry. ‘Sounds fascinating. Where is it?’

‘The entrance is in the garden. There are steps leading under the house into a cave. At one time there was a passage or cavern that led out on to the beach somewhere. But I think it’s blocked off now,’ said Trish.

Dorothy wanted to know more about the dead girl. ‘Did she die in the cave?’

‘I can’t remember all the details. I believe she’d been playing in the cave when it happened. Either the tide came up or she slipped … I’m not sure. It was in the papers at the time. The library will have copies.’

Henry saw that this news had upset Dorothy. He put his arm round her. ‘Come on, old girl. We’ll make Atlantic House a happy home again.’ He turned back to Trish and Trevor. ‘Right. I think my wife deserves a slap-up meal to celebrate. Where’s the best place to have dinner and stay the night?’

*

Over the following weeks, Dorothy threw herself into researching the history of the house. The coroner’s inquest into the death of fourteen-year-old Claire Clovelly returned a verdict of misadventure. She had apparently hidden in the cave following a row with her family. Nobody was sure exactly what had happened, but the most likely explanation was that she had slipped on the slimy rocks, banged her head and drowned.

‘I think we’d better block the cave up, Henry,’ said Dorothy, fearful. ‘I don’t want Constance or Prudence going down there.’

‘The girls will be fine! They’re far too sensible to mess about down there.’

Dorothy was adamant: ‘Block it up.’

Henry gave no answer. He’d already instructed the builders to open the cave up. With high tide access for a small vessel to sail in and out, it would be the perfect place to put a boat.

*

It took all that summer and autumn for the builders to do their stuff, but by the following Easter the house was reborn. Upstairs had been remodelled so that each of the six bedrooms had its own bathroom. Henry and Dorothy’s room was the grandest, commanding a stunning view from its brand-new balcony.

The next-best was the blue room, which was cool and sophisticated, with double-aspect windows overlooking the beach and the bay.

The yellow room was bright and sunny, but slightly smaller. It had only one sash window that looked out on to the garden and the gate to the cliff path.

The remaining bedrooms were smaller still and looked on to farm buildings and the driveway.

Downstairs, the huge kitchen was once again the heart of the house. Simply done with a scrubbed wooden dresser and enormous table, it was dominated by the scarlet four-oven Aga, which had replaced the rusty old range. The roomy walk-in larder had been retained, along with the original flagstones, which had cleaned up a treat. New French windows had been installed in the sea-facing wall of the kitchen, opening on to the terrace.

They had also knocked through the old walls separating the kitchen from the dining room, which had in turn been merged with the drawing room, creating a glorious flow of light and space.

The study now doubled as a rumpus room for the girls and their school friends, who would join them for summer holidays.

It was the very epitome of eighties chic.

Outside, the ancient back door led to a newly planted herb garden and, Henry’s pride and joy, the renovated smugglers’ cave.

The curious room above ground was cool enough to house his wine cellar and the steep stone steps leading down to the cavern had been made safe.

‘Mind your head,’ he told Dorothy as he led her by the hand, the light from his torch bouncing off the dimpled walls. ‘The electrician is putting lights in next week.’

‘I still don’t like it, Henry. You shouldn’t have wasted time and money on this. It would have been better blocked up. It scares me.’

‘Don’t be silly, old thing. It’s exciting – smugglers and redcoats and all that stuff – a slice of Cornish history, right in our own backyard.’

Dorothy’s concern was writ large across her furrowed brow. ‘I don’t want to be proved right on this, Henry. It’s an accident waiting to happen.’

Henry patted her arm reassuringly. ‘I promise you, there’s nothing to fear, darling. Besides, the children aren’t little any more, so stop worrying!’

The steps took a twist and a turn and then opened out into the natural boathouse under the cliffs.

‘Ta-dah!!’

Henry stretched out his right hand and Dorothy saw something bobbing on the water.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘A 1967 Riva. The best speedboat money can buy. And you see?’ He pointed at the floor. ‘I had the lads concrete a level jetty on the old rock ledge so we can tie her up and get on and off easily.’ The torchlight picked out the jetty and the polished wooden hull. Dorothy could make out cream leather seats and a shiny wooden steering wheel.

‘How much?’ she said in an angry voice.

‘It’s a present to us from the company. We deserve a little toy.’

‘You and your bloody toys! That’s not a board game. That’s a monstrous waste of money.’

Henry was crestfallen. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I can take you and the girls out for trips around the coast and picnics on secluded beaches.’

‘That’s another thing.’ She rounded on him. ‘Can you even drive the bloody thing?’

Henry smiled. ‘Ah well, yes, you see, I’ve booked the whole family on a seamanship course.’

Dorothy pursed her lips.

‘Don’t you want to know what she’s called?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Look, darling,’ he urged, pointing towards the boat.

She shook her head in disbelief as she picked out the golden letters painted on the stern: Dorothy.

Dorothy scowled. Henry kissed her. She frowned. He hugged her. Finally the beginnings of a smile reached her lips.

‘You’re mad and bad but lovely to know, Henry Carew.’

‘No greater compliment was ever received – thank you.’

*

Henry and Dorothy were very pleased with their newly restored home and loved inviting the locals in to marvel at how the old house was being reborn.

Prudence and Constance had come down to see it during the Christmas holidays and had been less than impressed. Still in the throes of being renovated, the house was barely habitable. The girls were billeted at a local hotel while the damp and mould in the bedrooms was being dealt with.

‘It’s so cold,’ shivered Pru, clad in her new striped dungarees and red ankle boots.

‘And spooky,’ added Connie, shaking her wash-and-wear perm so the corkscrew curls bounced.

Dorothy looked at them sternly. ‘There are no spooks here. And it’s cold because the central heating hasn’t been installed yet. Want to see your bedrooms?’

‘Do we get to choose?’ asked Pru.

‘Well, let’s see.’

Sighing inwardly, knowing that a jealous spat between the siblings was bound to ensue, Dorothy led the way upstairs. The three of them picked their way over the dust sheets, abandoned tools and other builders’ detritus cluttering the landing to the first door.

‘Look at the view, girls!’ Dorothy threw open the door leading to the yellow room. ‘Who wants this one, overlooking the garden and the cliff?’

Assuming their mother was showing them the best room in the hope of winning them over, Pru, who was always quickest off the mark when it came to getting what she wanted, jumped in: ‘I do!’

Connie’s shoulders slumped dramatically. ‘I knew she’d get the first choice. It’s not fair. I really like this room. Pru gets the best of everything.’

Fighting the urge to scream, Dorothy forced a bright smile and kept her voice tone jolly as she told them, ‘Prudence, wipe that conceited look off your face. Connie, please refrain from sulking. I have a super room for you – follow me.’

Pru pushed past Connie, who whispered, ‘You always get the best.’

And Pru replied sotto voce: ‘Tough shit, little sister.’

When their mother opened the door of the blue room, Connie’s mouth dropped open as she took in the double-aspect windows with views of the beach and the bay. ‘Yes!’ she cried, fist punching the air. ‘Yes! This has to be the best room. I love it! Thanks, Mum.’

Pru was now the one who was in a sulk. ‘I thought you said you wanted the other room.’

‘Nope. This is mine and that is yours. Fair’s fair, eh, Mum?’

Dorothy, distracted by the screech of the plumber drilling in the en-suite, answered vaguely, ‘Yes, of course, darling. Sort it out between the pair of you. Off you go.’ Moments later she was lost in a discussion about power showers and hot-water tanks.

Pru glared at Connie. ‘Give me this room.’

‘No. You chose yours. This is mine.’

‘It’s too big for you.’

‘No it isn’t.’

‘The other room suits you much better.’

‘Why?’

‘Yellow is your favourite colour.’

‘No it isn’t. I like blue.’

‘You’re spoilt.’

‘You’re jealous.’

Dorothy wandered back in from the bathroom.

‘All settled, girls?’ Registering the sulky expressions on the girls’ faces, she promptly abandoned all efforts to placate them. ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake – why don’t you two go and explore the beach before I banish the pair of you to the box room – you’ll have plenty to mope about then, won’t you?’

*

Nothing more had been said about the bedrooms. Not because Pru had given up; she was just biding her time.

The family didn’t visit Cornwall again until the Easter holidays. That first day, both sisters were squashed into the back of their father’s new Range Rover, surrounded by the bedding, kitchenware and other household bits and pieces their mother had packed around them after they’d got in.

Henry insisted on having Radio 4 on for the entire journey, so the girls plugged themselves into their Sony Walkmans, staring glumly out of the windows at the passing traffic.

At Bristol they stopped for elevenses. Moody as hell, Pru and Connie trooped in behind their parents, scowling at the food on offer in the cafeteria.

Dorothy tried to adopt a light, cheery tone: ‘OK, girls, what do you want?’

‘A doughnut,’ said Connie.

‘That’s very fattening,’ said Dorothy, looking pointedly at Connie’s rounded tummy. ‘Have an orange juice and a banana. Pru?’

Connie’s lip wobbled, stung by the suggestion she was overweight.

Pru, still plugged into her Walkman, didn’t respond. ‘Pru!’ her mother asked again. No response. Henry took the headphones off his elder daughter’s ears and shouted, ‘Take those bloody things off and answer your mother!’

Pru stared blankly. ‘What?’

‘Your mother has asked you three times: what do you want to eat?’

‘Nothing. And she only asked me twice.’

Henry took the Walkman and headphones from Pru’s hands and stuffed them in his pocket. ‘Right. I’m confiscating these.’

‘But, Dad!’

‘What do you want to eat?’ he barked again.

‘Nothing,’ she shouted, and stalked off to W H Smith, throwing over her shoulder: ‘This is SO unfair.’

Henry nearly went after her, but Dorothy laid a hand on his arm. ‘Let her go. I’ll be glad of the peace.’

*

Back in the car, Pru glowered and sulked without her Walkman. Connie smugly and irritatingly listened to hers, flicking her sister the occasional two-fingered salute.

After a while, Pru waved her hand in front of her sister’s face in order to attract her attention.

‘Hello,’ she said exaggeratedly. ‘Earth to Constance! Let me have a listen to yours, Con.’

Connie was indignant. ‘Why should I? It’s your own fault Dad took them off you, not mine!’

‘Oh, come on, Connie,’ Pru wheedled, going for the sympathy vote – a tactic Connie was always a sucker for. ‘You know I’ve been desperate to listen to that new Madonna tape for weeks, and you did promise to swap when we left London. I was going to let you have the Kylie one, remember?’

‘But Dad’s confiscated it.’

‘Exactly – not fair! Come on, you know I’d do the same for you.’

‘You would not!’

And so it went on, with Pru eventually breaking her gentler sister down.

Connie managed to tune out the tinny strains of Madonna’s ‘Express Yourself’, and stared out of the window, drinking in the Cornish scenery as it sped by. She hoped that Pru wouldn’t be a complete cow over the whole bedroom business, but she had a horrible suspicion that her sister would outwit her again, same as she always did. She sighed loudly, attracting a quizzical look from her father through the rear-view mirror.

At last the Range Rover crunched slowly down the lane and into the driveway of Atlantic House. Pru got out quickly and, with suspicious brightness, told her father: ‘I’ll help you take the luggage upstairs.’

He raised an eyebrow in surprise and disbelief, but handed her a suitcase and a couple of pillows and opened the front door for her.

A couple of minutes later, Connie climbed the stairs, lugging her bags behind her, and threw open the door of her bedroom, the big and beautiful blue room.

‘Surprise!’ sang Pru from the depths of the pretty four-poster bed. ‘Your room is down the hall, little sister.’

‘Very funny, Pru,’ laughed Connie, before turning to her mother. ‘Mummy, thank you. This is the best room ever.’

‘Which is why I am having it,’ said Pru. ‘The yellow room is so pretty and just right for you, Connie. Much more suitable for a fourteen-year-old.’

Connie’s face darkened. ‘And why should this room be suitable for a horrible sixteen-year-old?’

‘Because,’ Pru said reasonably, ‘I am studying for my O-levels and I need this room to study in. It’ll be quieter for me.’

‘Mummy!’ Connie turned to her mother for justice. ‘You said this was my room.’

Dorothy, staggering up the stairs with her own luggage, heaved a sigh. She was tired of constantly having to adjudicate in her daughters’ petty squabbles. Opting for the path of least resistance, she turned to Connie. ‘Darling, be a sweetheart. Pru needs to do lots of studying to get good grades, or else she won’t get a place at university. As soon as she’s through with all that you can swap rooms – OK? Hmm? For my sake?’

Connie knew she was defeated before she’d even started. It was typical of Pru to resort to these guerrilla tactics. Mum always said she loved them both equally, but somehow she always ended up twisted around Pru’s little finger. She was so manipulative!

Nonetheless, Connie acquiesced. She had no appetite for a fight she was bound to lose.

‘OK, Mum – but I’m only doing this for you, not her.’ Connie cast a filthy look in her smirking sister’s direction.

‘Good girl. Right, girls – let’s give Daddy a hand with the rest of the luggage.’

Pru got off the bed and put her arm round Connie. ‘Your room is lovely. It’s perfect for you. I’ll help you settle in.’

Connie looked at her sister and silently swore that she would get her sister back for this. Never mind how long it took.




3 (#ulink_3218cb93-a288-5d2c-97b9-22a9545fef7e)


Some decades later

‘What on earth is your father doing now?’ Connie Wilson could feel her temper starting to rise. ‘Greg?’ she shouted up the stairs. ‘Come on – we’ve got to go.’

Calm down, she told herself, you’ve got the whole summer ahead of you. Don’t let the holiday get off to a bad start, don’t let it get to you!

Abigail, sitting quietly on the sofa, bags packed and at her feet, looked up from her book. Though only sixteen, she had endured enough family holidays to realise how stressful her mother found the whole business. With an expressive shrug of the shoulders, she returned to her place on the page.

Connie tossed her expensively highlighted hair back and put a hand over her eyes.

‘God, we’re going to be late again. Why does everybody leave it all to me?’

Abigail sat unmoving, peering over the top of her book as her mother pulled the specs from her blonde head and checked for the umpteenth time the long list of notes she’d made in her Smythson diary.

‘Well?’ She looked at Abi pointedly.

Abi indicated the bags at her feet. ‘Mum, I’m all packed and ready to go.’

‘Sorry, darling. I don’t mean to be a grouch, it’s just that I hate the thought of Pru getting there before us.’ Connie glanced towards the stairs. ‘What on earth is your father doing? Why is he taking so long?’ Rolling up the sleeves of her stripy sweatshirt, she marched to the foot of the stairs and bellowed, ‘Greg! Please can you turn your computer off. Surely work can wait for a few hours? We need to get a move on.’

Upstairs, Greg had his feet propped up on the wide and empty expanse of his ultra-cool desk, or ‘work space’ as he preferred to call it. This was his oasis. A place of sanctuary from the bedlam of his wife’s domain. A place of privacy. He slowly rocked himself on the ergonomically designed kid leather chair, sighing as he ran his hand through his wavy dark hair, now speckled with grey – much to his annoyance.

Raising his voice he shouted back, ‘Darling, won’t be a minute. Just got some loose ends to tie up at the office. Your father will want to have a full report as soon as we get there.’ He listened for a response from below, but none came. ‘Sorry about that, Janie,’ he murmured into the receiver of his agonisingly trendy and sleek steel handset.

‘That’s all right, Greggy,’ returned the voice of a well-educated young woman. ‘I’m so going to miss you.’

‘And I shall miss you. But I shall be thinking of you every moment of every day and every night, Janie darling.’

‘You will call me when you get there won’t you, Greggy?’

Irritation flared in him. Janie was getting too clingy.

‘Greg!’ Connie was shouting again. ‘Please hurry up!’

Greg, beginning to lose interest, was eager to end the call. ‘Yes, Con, I’m coming,’ he shouted. Then, speaking softly into the phone: ‘I’ll try. I’ve got to go. If only for Abigail’s sake.’ He started to tidy his desk, closing the lid of his laptop and looking round for its leather case. Lately he’d found himself wondering whether the time had come to kick Janie into touch. Lovely girl and all that, but it was asking for trouble, having an affair with your secretary. Especially when your father-in-law owned the company. Maybe he could pay her off, get her another job in a friend’s company. He’d write her an excellent letter of recommendation. After all, she was very good at her job. And very, very sexy.

Greg Wilson considered himself a reasonable man. A man who was satisfactorily married while indulging in a slice of illicit cake. Surely it was expected that a man in his position would have a mistress? Then again, mixing business with pleasure … that was where he’d made a mistake. He’d have to give some thought to the Janie problem over the summer hols.

‘Janie, I really have to go. I’m only off to Cornwall. Not to the other side of the world. I’ll call when I can.’

‘Promise, Greggy?’ she purred.

‘Promise.’ Greg was now standing up with the phone sandwiched between shoulder and ear, shovelling things into his briefcase.

‘Bye bye, baby cakes.’

‘Bye, sexy.’ And he hung up. He’d added the ‘sexy’ to keep her sweet. She did the ‘sexy secretary’ look very well. Business suits with tight pencil skirts and high heels. And beautiful underwear that encased her twenty-six-year-old derrière to perfection.

He could hear the sound of a heavy suitcase being dragged across the hallway below.

Taking one last look around the room to see if he’d forgotten anything, he gathered up his laptop and went downstairs to inspect the damage.

His wife frowned up at him, ‘Greg, you know I want to leave as early as possible. We must get there before Pru.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Connie. Why you and that sister of yours insist on this ridiculous battle of wits each year is beyond me. And watch what you’re doing to the floor. It costs a fortune to polish those marks out.’

Connie was at the front door with the largest of three suitcases. She turned very slowly, took a deep breath, was on the verge of saying something unkind but thought better of it. Instead she continued towards the front door.

‘Here, let me help you. Before you scuff the paintwork as well.’

‘It would have been nice if you’d spared the time to do your own packing as well,’ Connie muttered, then, more loudly: ‘I think I can manage, thank you.’

Greg moved towards her just as she got the front door open. There ensued an unseemly scuffle as he tried to wrench the case from her hand and she held fast. It was Abigail who stepped in.

‘Mum! Dad! Why do we have to start every summer holiday with all this aggro? It will be brilliant once we get there and we’re going to have a LOVELY time! Let’s get on the freakin’ road.’

*

Fifty miles away, in an expensive corner of South-East London, Connie’s sister Pru was waiting for her pedicure to dry. She’d been up since four, tying up a few overnight loose ends that her overseas office had thrown up. These commercial surveyors could be such a bore. Now, she was lying on the bed in her extremely white and bright but sparsely furnished bedroom – a room so desperately tasteful it wouldn’t have looked out of place between the covers of Elle Decoration. She watched as her beauty therapist packed away the many pots of nail polish and lotions she had used on her client.

‘Thank you so much, Esther. I love this colour. What’s it called again?’

‘Pantie Glimmer,’ said Esther, a tall slender girl with a violent fake tan.

‘Pantie Glimmer? Where do they get these names from? I should think taupe was a perfectly adequate description.’

‘Yeah,’ deadpanned Esther. ‘But not very sexy, is it?’

Pru was about to argue the merits of taupe, one of her favourite shades in décor and clothing, but was stopped by a gentle knock on the door.

‘Enter,’ Pru called.

The door opened quietly and the slightly anxious face of her husband, Francis, appeared.

‘Hello, darling. You look marvellous.’ He took an appreciative sniff of the room. ‘Lovely smell. What is it, Esther?’

‘Ylang-ylang, geranium and sandalwood. It’s very good on ageing skin.’

Beneath her perfectly styled, short and sleek brown hair, Pru’s face stiffened, and her blue eyes took on a look that could only be described as icy. Francis hurriedly said, ‘Well, that’ll be lovely when my wife needs it.’ He turned to Pru: ‘Jeremy and I are ready when you are. I’ve packed the car and I’ve got some sushi for the journey.’

‘In the cool box?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there fuel in the tank?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give me ten minutes. Oh, and remind Jeremy that once we start there’s no stopping. I want to be there in under four hours.’

‘Righto.’

Francis went downstairs, confident that he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Exactly ten minutes later, having sent the Aveda beautician packing, Pru swept out of the house to find her sixteen-year-old son already in the back seat, iPod headphones stuffed in his ears, and her husband waiting to shut the front door.

‘Is the alarm primed?’

‘Yes.’ Francis nodded.

‘Are the window locks checked?’

‘Yes, Pru. All sorted.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’

Pru walked to the driver’s side and got in. The keys were not in the ignition. Francis heard her tut of annoyance and, realising his mistake, hurriedly pulled the keys from his pocket and handed them over. ‘Sorry, darling.’

Pru checked her face in the wing mirror and started the engine.

‘My skin isn’t getting old, is it, Francis?’

‘Good lord, no.’ Francis smiled at her.

‘I didn’t think so.’

She slammed the gear stick into drive and pulled away in a spray of gravel before either son or husband had done their seat belts up.

*

Connie was aware that she was clenching her jaw. Her shoulders were up round her neck and her hands were in tight fists on her lap.

‘Can’t you drive any faster? This is a motorway. You can do eighty without getting stopped. The police accept that.’

‘No, Connie. The limit is seventy and that’s what I shall stick to. I’ve got nine points already. If I get stopped again, they’ll throw the book at me. Can you imagine what your father would say? The expenses I put in for chauffeured cars last time I got banned were horrendous.’

Connie bit her lip and looked out of the window to distract herself. They were passing the exit for Bristol Parkway station. The junction for the M5 wasn’t far. Another half an hour and they’d be at Taunton Deane Services. She could have done with a loo stop and a Costa coffee, but she was determined to arrive at Atlantic House ahead of Pru. This year the best bedroom was going to be hers.

She knew that she was behaving stupidly. This happened every year, and every year she got angry with herself for getting sucked into yet another silly, juvenile spat with Pru. Most of the time, Connie was a normal person: loving mum, good wife, someone who knew how to enjoy herself with friends and who appreciated her luck in life. But at the prospect of getting within ten feet of Pru, Connie started acting like a whiney, jealous teenager. It was in-furiating that after all these years she was still letting Pru get to her, but her sister’s competitive streak, combined with her superior attitude, was too much to bear. God only knew how Francis and dear Jeremy managed to put up with the woman. Connie was convinced that it was only thanks to Francis that Jem had turned out to be such a well-adjusted kid. Mind you, neither he nor Abi were kids any more; Abi’s seventeenth birthday was fast approaching, and she would be taking her A-levels next year and choosing a university. For a moment Connie allowed herself to wonder what Archie would have been doing now. Even after all these years it was hard to think about the little boy she had miscarried four months before she fell pregnant with Abi. Pru hadn’t attended his funeral; she’d been in New York on business. And she’d changed the subject whenever Connie mentioned him, closing the door on that heartbreaking grief.

Connie looked at her watch and was horrified to see the time.

Hearing her muttering under her breath, Greg glanced her way. ‘Can’t you just let your sister have the room she wants? She inevitably gets it anyway.’

‘Exactly my point. She always gets Mummy and Daddy’s old bedroom. It’s warmer, bigger and has the best view from upstairs. She knows it’s my turn this year yet she always wangles her way in. You and I deserve that room for a change.’

‘Does it really matter? You’ll be asleep anyway – you won’t see the view. Besides, we get her old bedroom, the blue room.’

‘The blue room that was meant for me and that she took!’

‘Darling, that was almost a quarter of a century ago.’

‘Quite! She had the best room all those years, now I want Mummy and Daddy’s room. I like to go to sleep to the sound of the sea, and wake up to the sunshine. And anyway, the blue room is so dated and dingy. Why should I have Pru’s cast-offs?’

Greg, who’d speeded up to overtake a horse box, pulled back into the inside lane and slowed down. An elderly Vauxhall with several young lads in it overtook him.

‘What did you do that for?’

‘What?’

‘Let those yobs through.’

‘They weren’t yobs. And if they had been, what would be the point of upsetting them and risking them ramming me off the road?’

Connie sighed in frustration and looked again at her watch.

*

Francis tried to look as relaxed as possible, though he couldn’t stop himself casting nervous glances at the speedometer as the needle hovered over 110 mph. His legs were getting numb where they were jammed in the footwell against the cool box.

It made him nervous when Pru drove this way. Understandably. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that at least they would all die together.

This annual race between the sisters for the best room in Atlantic House was a mystery to him. All the rooms were lovely. A bit dated and faded perhaps, but that was part of the charm of the place.

He resisted the desire to brace himself and grip the armrests as Pru advanced aggressively, then braked hard, a few feet from the rear wheels of an innocent Renault Scenic with three bicycles strapped to its roof and a back window full of teddies and a potty.

‘Get out of the way, you moron!’ she hissed, rapidly tugging the stalk that flashed her headlights. ‘Use your mirrors and you’ll see me.’

The Renault resolutely stayed where it was: in the outside lane and pottering along at a reasonable seventy-five miles per hour.

‘Right,’ said Pru, and suddenly swerved to the left then accelerated hard, undertaking the smaller car and blasting her horn as she did so.

The driver and wife stared in astonishment at this madwoman rushing past them in a blur. She swung the steering wheel to the right and, causing them to brake, pulled out in front of them.

‘Ha! That’s better.’

Francis was aware he hadn’t taken a breath for a few seconds and took a quick gasp.

Pru looked over at him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, my love.’

‘Good. I think we’re going to do this journey in record time.’

Francis paled. ‘Great.’

Jeremy’s voice came from the back. ‘Are we stopping to eat?’

‘No,’ said Pru.

Francis rustled around in the cool box at his feet. ‘Would you like me to feed you a bite-sized sushi, Pru?’

Pru didn’t take her eyes from the bumper of the Porsche in front of her. ‘I’m driving.’

‘Righty-ho.’

One hundred and fifteen, one hundred and seventeen …

‘I’ll have one.’ Jeremy’s hand came over the back of his father’s seat. ‘Is there anything to drink?’

His mother cut in. ‘Don’t give him anything to drink. I told you I am not stopping. I want to get to Atlantic House before my idiot sister and her husband stake a claim on our room. When I inherit the house, as eldest child, we shan’t ever have this ridiculous argument again.’

To emphasise her point she rammed her foot on the accelerator.

That was when they heard the wail of a police siren.

*

‘Look – some silly fool has been caught by the cops.’ Greg pointed with delight at the car pulled over on the hard shoulder, an unmarked police car behind it with its blue lights twinkling cheerily across the back window.

‘Oh my God!’ cried Connie. ‘It’s Pru and Francis!’

Abigail reached for her mobile phone and texted her cousin:

Hi! Just passed you. What room do you want? I’ll make sure you get it. Love Abi xx

Connie could now relax. The police would hold Pru up for at least half an hour. Served her right.

‘Anybody want a crisp or a prawn sandwich? They’re next to you in the M and S bag, Abi love.’

As the small picnic was shared out between them, the atmosphere in the car lightened.

Greg upped his speed to just under eighty, Connie sang along to her Michael Bublé CD and Abi had a little snooze. By early afternoon they were in Cornwall.

Another eighty miles and Connie called out, ‘Get your pointy fingers ready!’ This was a family tradition. The first person to spot the sea and point was the winner.

‘I’m sharpening mine!’ said Abi, miming a sharpening movement. Connie laughed. Abi had completed the family ritual.

Up a small hill, past an old coaching pub, and there, at the crest of the road, they saw ahead of them the sparkling Atlantic. All three of them pointed their sharp fingers at the sea and shouted in unison: ‘I see the sea!’

Within minutes they had turned on to the familiar lane, through Lower Barton, on to Higher Barton and along the narrowing and sandy lane that led to Treviscum Bay.

Holidaymakers were carrying surfboards and shepherding children and dogs down to the beach. The tide was low and a warm afternoon sun had made a welcome appearance. Greg drove slowly past them all and then turned right into the tamarisk-lined driveway of Atlantic House. Parking in the shade of a handsome blue hydrangea he pulled on the handbrake and switched the engine off. ‘We’re here.’ He smiled at Connie.

She leaned over and kissed him. Pulling away, she said with a laugh, ‘Quick, let’s nab the main bedroom.’

As they got out of the car and stretched, an attractive older woman with implausibly chestnut hair, red lipstick and tight white jeans, topped off with a jaunty blue-and-white striped T-shirt, came walking round the side of the house. She stood with her arms open wide and a beaming smile.

‘There you are!’

‘Mummy!’ Connie ran to her mother and hugged her.

‘Hello, Dolly!’ said Greg, who knew that his mother-in-law hated this abbreviation of her name. She ignored him and his pathetically tedious joke.

‘Connie, darling! Welcome. Daddy and I have been on tenterhooks all day.’ She kissed her younger daughter.

‘Where is Daddy?’

‘At home, watching the wretched cricket highlights,’ Dorothy replied, turning to Abigail. ‘Abi darling.’ They embraced for a moment, then Dorothy stood back and appraised her granddaughter’s figure. ‘So pretty despite the puppy fat. Never mind – I’ll get that off you. I’ll tell Poppa he’s not to let you eat any of his chocolates.’

‘Mummy—’ started Connie, about to chastise her mother for picking on Abi’s weight, but she was cut off by Dorothy.

‘Come on, Connie, I want to hear all your news. Let’s put the kettle on. Greg – bring in the bags, will you?’

Dorothy swept Connie into the house, leaving Greg and a wounded Abigail to carry the luggage. Abigail kept her head down to hide the hot tears she could feel pricking her eyes. Greg put his arm round her. ‘Abi, she’s a silly, jealous old woman. Forget it. There’s nothing wrong with you. If anything, I reckon you need fattening up – and I shall make it my business to take you out for a cream tea every day.’

‘Thanks, Daddy,’ said Abigail, managing a smile.

*

Pru, still on the Okehampton bypass but driving at only ninety miles an hour now, was seething.

‘These jumped-up nobodies in their little blue uniforms, doing no good to anyone. Why aren’t they out catching criminals instead of hassling innocent motorists? It’s appalling. I shall get on to the solicitor and demand an apology from the chief constable. They’re not getting away with this.’

Francis kept quiet, merely nodding when he felt it appropriate to do so.

On and on she went. Past the sign to Jamaica Inn and St Breward, through Bodmin, Wadebridge and Padstow, until finally they arrived at Atlantic House.

As soon as he saw that Greg and Connie had got there before them, Francis knew what was coming.

‘Mummy, how well you look!’ Pru limped slowly round to the front of the car and towards her mother, who was standing on the doorstep with a mug of tea in her hand.

‘Prudence! Connie and I have been waiting ages. How long did the police stop you for? Connie saw you.’

Connie came to the front door too. ‘Yes. Poor things. We saw you, but there was nothing we could do to help so we just pushed on. We made good time actually.’

Pru smiled through gritted teeth. ‘How super!’

Dorothy stepped aside and ushered Pru in. ‘So, apart from the speeding ticket, how are you? Why are you limping?’

‘I’m fine, Mummy. So happy to be here again – oof!’ Pru suddenly came to a halt as if in spasm, her right side collapsed on itself, a look of pain on her face.

‘My God, whatever’s the matter?’ Dorothy rushed to her aid.

Smiling bravely and steadying herself, Pru replied, ‘It’s the drive. I’ve been sitting too long. You know Francis, he never lets us stop.’

Her mother glowered at the blameless Francis, who was standing on the drive with several heavy bags at his feet. He gawped at his wife with his mouth open in astonishment.

‘Francis, don’t stand there like a halfwit. Bring Pru’s things in while I get her comfortable.’

‘I’m fine, Mummy. Really I am. Ow! Don’t take my arm, it radiates the pain into my leg.’

The pair walked into the cool shade of the beautiful old hallway, leaving Connie to help Francis with the bags.

‘How was the drive?’ she asked him knowingly.

He smiled at the sister-in-law he was so fond of. ‘The usual.’

‘How was she with the police?’

He sighed. ‘Forceful is the best word for it.’

‘Ah.’

‘Quite.’

They looked at one another and laughed.

‘Let’s get these bags in and I’ll fix you a brew – unless you fancy something stronger?’

‘Oh, Con, you are a dear. I think a nice cup of camomile tea will do me nicely.’

Pru, meanwhile, had followed her mother to the large cream drawing room overlooking the sea.

Dorothy plumped the cushions on the long and inviting sofa.

‘Here, darling, put your feet up. I’ll have Connie bring you tea and a hot-water bottle.’

Connie, hearing this as she entered the room, looked at Pru suspiciously.

‘Hi, sis. What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing really. The osteopath thinks it’s a slipped disc, but I’m fine. Aargh!’ She screwed her eyes up at the alleged sudden pain. ‘It’s only when I move. Mummy, would you find my bag? Francis will know where it is. I have some painkillers in it.’

‘Of course, darling.’

As soon as their mother had left the room, Connie rounded on her sister.

‘There is nothing wrong with you. And, no, you are not having the big bedroom.’

‘Connie, I am in severe pain here. I don’t want to spoil anyone’s holiday, but I simply can’t sleep on that bed in the blue room. It just isn’t firm enough.’

Connie stood with her hands on her hips. ‘If you think I’m going to relinquish the big room because you’re pretending to have a bad back …’

Dorothy returned. ‘Here’s your bag, darling. Connie, Pru must have the big room. You’ll be fine in the blue room. Golly, how selfish you are! I’ll tell Francis to swap the luggage round.’ She swept out of the room calling, ‘Francis, Francis.’

Pru, with a gleeful look of triumph, preened. ‘Well. That’s sorted then. Get me a cup of tea, would you?’




4 (#ulink_9173ad03-ac1e-57b3-a465-e1a839d9c094)


‘I can’t believe Mummy fell for that. Bad back, my arse.’ Connie was in the blue bedroom, unpacking the first of their four bags while Greg lay on the bed fiddling with his laptop.

He was exchanging very personal emails with Janie. Her descriptions of what she was wearing and what she was doing to herself at that moment were turning him on. He rolled on to his stomach to conceal his excitement.

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, keep 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 yourself 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 (#ulink_764d2235-3f45-5d2e-9857-ce21caa335e5)


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.

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 for 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 (#ulink_71cf9e63-c356-5fe1-94f0-50a298b4b6a9)


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.’

Greg felt a sense of liberation flood through him. He had the whole afternoon undisturbed with his phone and Janie.

*

Connie, too, was feeling liberated as she sauntered along the path to the beach. An afternoon with no responsibilities. Bliss! No need to talk, listen or do anything but lie down and read or sleep.

‘Connie, wait for me.’ A familiar voice broke into her bubble. Connie kept walking.

‘Connie!’ Irritation in the call now. ‘I said wait!’

Connie breathed deeply, stopped and turned. Pru was at the top of the path, closing the garden gate. She looked cross and hot as she drew level with Connie.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were off to the beach? You knew I’d have said I’d come.’

‘Yes, I did know, but actually I was hoping for a bit of peace and quiet.’

‘Oh, me too. Don’t you find Mummy’s endless chatter and sparring with Daddy awfully wearing?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the kids! They’re good kids, I know, but the noise, the mess – it’s exhausting.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now Francis has decided to take to his bed. I just had to get out of the house.’

‘Yes.’

They found themselves a sheltered spot of dry sand in the sunshine and rolled out their towels, smoothing them to remove any wrinkles and sitting down gently so as not to get any sand on them.

Connie slipped out of her shorts and top to reveal a well-cut bikini and curvy thighs. She picked up her book and began to read.

‘What are you reading?’

‘Something from my book club.’

‘You’re lucky to have the time.’




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