The Holiday Home

8


‘Who’s Belinda?’ Pru demanded, her gimlet eye glinting under a perfectly arched eyebrow.

‘Did I say Belinda?’

‘Yes, you did.’ Pru turned to face him, both gimlet eyes fixed on him now.

‘Oh. Ha ha.’ Francis tried to laugh it off. ‘She’s, er, she’s …’ His imagination kicked in: ‘She’s the ghastly woman on the PTA. Haven’t I mentioned her? Only been at the school a year and already making waves. She wants to overturn some ideas the committee have sanctioned. I had a message from Chairman Bob on my phone earlier and it’s been on my mind.’

Pru turned back to her pillow, bored with anything to do with her son’s school and her husband’s dealings with it. ‘Oh. Poor you. Continue with the massage.’

Francis closed his eyes in a prayer of silent thanks, and tried to get some control back into his shaking hands. He reached for the massage oil. It slipped from his grasp and fell on to the cream-and-beige patterned carpet, leaking a new pattern of its own.

‘Oh crikey, Dorothy’s carpet!’ He bent to pick it up, overstretched and slid off the bed himself, knocking the bottle over again.

Pru peered at him. ‘What are you doing?’

Francis was panicking. ‘The bottle. The oil. Dorothy’s carpet.’

Pru was unperturbed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Forget about the carpet. It’s hideous anyway. Put it on the list of jobs that need doing.’

He got to his knees with the oil bottle now safely in his hand. ‘Right.’ Standing, he found the lid and carefully screwed it on to the bottle. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it.

Pru watched him as if he were mad. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to add this job to the list.’

‘Not now, you fool,’ she said, irritated. ‘It’ll wait till tomorrow. Carry on with the massage and then we can all get some sleep.’

‘Oh, I see. Right. Silly me. Massage it is.’

He resumed his position and carefully added more oil to his palms.

‘Hmmm,’ murmured Pru. ‘You are very good to do this for me, Francis. I’m lucky to have you.’

He continued in relieved silence until she started laughing, her body shaking under his hands.

‘Sorry, Pru. Is that tickling?’

‘No, no,’ she giggled. ‘For a moment there, I thought you might be having an affair.’

*

And now it was morning and he felt sick with guilt about the lie he’d told his wife, the first ever, and the affair he hadn’t even started yet. Would never start! What was he thinking? He got out of bed and observed the sleeping form of his wife. The woman who needed him. Trusted him. Relied on him. Eighteen years ago he had left his job and a good career for her. He was a well-qualified social worker. It was his true vocation. His calling. Francis had known he could make a difference to people’s lives. Then he met Pru.

He had been in a case meeting at the local council offices when she had stalked in, slammed her briefcase on the table and demanded, ‘Which one of you is the head of planning?’

She was tall, dark and handsome, and Francis had immediately fallen under her powerful spell.

His colleague told her, ‘None of us are, madam. You’re in the wrong place.’

‘You won’t get rid of me that easily. This is the planning office.’

‘No, this is Social Services. The planning department is in the building next door.’

‘I was directed up here by the idiot girl on reception.’

‘You need to leave this building and go next door.’

It took a while, but eventually she was persuaded that she had gatecrashed the wrong meeting. Picking up her briefcase, she had pointed at Francis: ‘You. Show me where the right bloody room is.’

On their way to the building next door, she’d asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Meake – Francis Meake,’ he stammered.

‘Well, Francis, I’m indebted to you for helping me when I made a complete fool of myself. Let me take you for a drink by way of thanks. I hope you drink Scotch?’ She didn’t give him time to answer. ‘I’ll collect you from the car park at five thirty.’

Within three weeks, to the astonishment of their respective friends and family, she had proposed and he had accepted. He loved the fact that, under her confident exterior, lay a woman who needed him. In return she loved him for his loyalty and gentleness. Here was a man who would never hurt her already wounded heart.

A month later, he had worked out his notice and set about finding a home for the pair of them. His final pay cheque was just enough to pay the deposit on the engagement ring Pru had chosen for herself. She paid the balance.

Her work as a commercial property surveyor was arduous and sounded very complicated. She had a good business brain, like her father and grandfather before her, but had no desire to get into the toy market: ‘I had enough of board games when I was growing up,’ she once told him. ‘I prefer to work in the real world.’

She was a partner in her firm and very well respected. She worked long hours all over the country, but her goal was to open a New York office and grab some of the big bucks. It had taken her only five years to achieve that dream. Five years after that, she opened a Hong Kong office.

Their wedding was plain and simple. The bride wore trousers. Her parents were happy for her but concerned for Francis’s welfare.

‘She’ll eat him alive,’ whispered Dorothy in the registrar’s office.

Henry patted her knee and whispered, ‘She’s got what every working woman dreams of: a wife! Besides, I think he will be good for her. Pru needs someone steady.’

They married early on a Monday morning in order to be sure of catching the afternoon flight to New York. Pru had several meetings lined up and rather than rearrange them, she’d decided to combine business with pleasure. When they returned on Thursday morning, it was to their four-bedroom, faux Georgian townhouse in Greenwich. Well, Francis returned to it. Pru went straight to the office to report on the business she’d secured in America.

Francis revelled in his new role.

Every night he would cook something healthy and delicious for his wonderful, powerful wife. Sometimes she’d come home late, but always with flowers or a scented candle, and always he forgave her. Sexually, he was inexperienced, but Pru enjoyed taking the lead in bed. They were both thrilled when Jeremy was conceived.

Pregnancy didn’t suit Pru. She worked till her waters broke and was back at her desk within five days of the birth. Francis adored being a father. He was a natural. Night feeds, nappies, projectile vomiting – all were constant sources of fascination for him.

He set up his own daily timetable. Up before Pru to prepare her breakfast and wave her off. The mornings were devoted to Jem and housework. The afternoons walking the pram to the shops. He loved taking Jem out in his pram. All the young mums cooed over the baby and marvelled at Francis’s maternal skills.

‘Your wife’s so lucky. My husband has never so much as changed a nappy,’ was a constant refrain.

It was around this time that their sex life started to dwindle, though. Francis would be too tired after a long day with the baby and Pru felt she had done her bit in providing a healthy son. Nothing was ever discussed; with the passage of time the subject was simply forgotten.

Francis had put all of this aside and barely acknowledged any sense of frustration – until Belinda came along.

Belinda touched something in him, there was no denying it. Francis could not admit even to himself that it was his loneliness that made him susceptible to her charms. He wasn’t naturally gregarious or outgoing; all he’d ever craved was a family of his own. His mother had died when he was young, and his father, a GP, had employed a series of nannies and housekeepers to look after him. Though he hadn’t been neglected, he had missed out on a truly happy childhood. Much as he liked the Carew family gathering in Cornwall each year, he yearned to cram Pru and Jem into a camper van and travel all over Europe, seeing the sights. He could imagine them picnicking in the Dolomites or waking up next to Vesuvius. At the same time he envied the mums at the school gates, who spent their summer holidays in caravans near the seaside or took family day-trips to Alton Towers. He could never imagine Pru doing anything so ‘ordinary’, though he was sure Jem would have loved it.

Francis had always got along with the mums (and some of the dads) of Jem’s playmates and school friends. He had been a regular at the Baby Times Coffee Morning Club, enjoying the discussions on breast-feeding versus bottle, postnatal depression and the relationship between parent and child. And he was chatty with the mothers at the school gates and in the PTA. But none of them had ever shown the slightest interest in him. Until Belinda.

She had turned up the previous year, at the beginning of September. It was the first sitting of the PTA after the summer holidays. Francis could still remember the moment Chairman Bob had announced: ‘Before we get down to the business of the day, I’d like to welcome a newcomer. This is Belinda …’

The PTA members had duly craned their necks for a glimpse of the voluptuous woman at the end of the table. She was wearing a psychedelic orange-and-pink kaftan. Her curly blonde hair was piled loosely on top of her head. Dangly earrings framed her chubby cheeks and as she smiled and gave them a little wave, bracelets jangled on her wrists.

‘Hello, everybody.’

Several male eyes had wandered to her delightful cleavage and remained there, transfixed.

Bob had continued: ‘Belinda’s daughter, Emily, has joined us for year nine. Is she fourteen this year, Belinda?’

‘Yes. That’s right. A little Piscean to my Scorpio.’

Somewhat bemused by this, Bob had ploughed on, ‘Belinda is very keen to help with admin and organising our fundraisers.’

‘Actually, I have an idea for a Halloween quiz night,’ she’d volunteered.

The dreaded Mrs Dredey, PTA stalwart, had interjected, ‘Well, we usually do a harvest supper, and we can’t do two fundraisers in one term. There wouldn’t be the support.’

‘Nonetheless, we’ll make a note of the suggestion. Fresh ideas always welcome,’ Bob had beamed, bending to his notepad to scribble: Belinda Halloween. He’d sat up again, ‘Now, I think it’d be a good idea if we all introduced ourselves round the table. You first, Mrs Dredey.’ Each of them had given their names in turn. Francis had been last: ‘My name’s Francis Meake. Welcome.’

Belinda had rewarded him with her twinkling smile. Since that night, she had made it her mission to sit next to him at meetings, pulling her chair as close to his as possible so that he could feel the heat emanating from her. She would bend low, delving in the handbag at her feet for a notepad and pen, all the while displaying her plumply rounded breasts for his benefit.

When tea and biscuits arrived, she would lean across him, tickling his cheek with her curly blonde hair and leaving wafts of her musky perfume in the air around him. While the committee embroiled themselves in some lengthy dispute over the roster for putting out the stackable chairs in the school hall and then putting them away again afterwards, she would put her lips to his ear and whisper little jokes about Chairman Bob and Mrs Dredey. Despite himself, Francis had found her intensely exciting. He loved being in her company. She had a saucy wit that made him laugh and she was interested in him – something he’d never encountered in a woman before. Soon he’d found himself telling her about all sorts of things, including Pru and the Carew family. She was easy company. Once, when he’d had an hour to kill between their PTA meeting and a trip to the dentist, Belinda had made a suggestion: ‘Why don’t you come to lunch at mine, Frankie? We’ve got two hours before we have to collect the kids, and I’ve got half a bottle of red and some asparagus quiche that needs eating up.’

‘Ah, very kind of you, but no,’ he’d said, with more determination than he’d felt. ‘I’d better not risk a ticking off from the dental hygienist!’

She had looked at him sadly, pouting a little. ‘Shame. Some other time, perhaps? There are so many things I’d like to talk to you about.’ She’d stepped closer, smiling, and dropped her voice an octave: ‘None of them involving flossing!’ Her rosy apple cheeks had moved up towards her eyes, making them twinkle.

He’d swallowed hard and a drop of saliva went down the wrong way. He had started to cough, and then couldn’t stop, gasping for breath and choking.

Immediately she’d whipped behind him, one arm round his waist while the other thumped a point between his shoulder blades. He had felt her warm bosoms jostling his back. She’d thumped a couple more times and eventually he had stopped spluttering and begun to take deep breaths of fresh air. She’d let him go and walked round to face him.

‘Better?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

She’d put her hands on his shoulders and kissed both his cheeks. ‘My pleasure.’ She’d winked at him. ‘Bye, Frankie. You owe me a lunch now!’

He had watched as she’d undulated towards her ancient, bright pink Citroën 2CV. It had a soft top and a hand-painted daisy on the driver’s door. She’d got in, causing the suspension to rock, and then driven away, one hand waving through the open roof.

He’d returned her wave, unsettled by her casual intimacy. The arm round his waist. The kiss …

And that was when the inappropriate thoughts about her had started.

And she’d be here on Wednesday. Shit shit shit.

*

Down in the kitchen the early morning sun was streaming through the open French windows. Greg was sitting at the table, working on his laptop. He jumped when he heard Francis’s footsteps and quickly shut the laptop lid.

‘Oh, Francis. It’s only you.’ He relaxed and opened the computer again. ‘Pour me a coffee while you’re up?’

‘Sure.’ Francis was used to taking orders. ‘What are you working on?’

‘Oh, just some stuff in the office. My secretary doesn’t seem to understand I’m on holiday!’ Greg rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue.

Francis carried two steaming coffees to the table and gave one to Greg. ‘Glad I don’t have that kind of responsibility. What’s the problem?’

‘Well …’ Greg felt the need to share a little of his guilty secret, ‘It’s not so much work. It’s my secretary. She’s fallen in love with a man at work. A married man.’

Francis tutted.

Greg continued: ‘And I’ve turned into a bit of a shoulder for her to cry on.’

Hiding his surprise at this unlikely role for Greg, Francis said, ‘Office romances usually end badly, in my experience.’

Greg smirked. ‘Oh, you have experience of office romances, do you?’

‘No, of course not! It’s been years since I’ve worked in an office, and even when I did … But conventional wisdom suggests—’

Greg cut him off: ‘Didn’t you meet Pru at your office?’

Francis was losing his way in this conversation. ‘Well, yes, but it wasn’t like that.’ He made an effort to steer the subject back to Greg. ‘What does Connie say?’

Greg started, and looked over his shoulder to the doorway. ‘Don’t tell Connie, for God’s sake!’

‘Why ever not? She might have some useful ideas and advice.’

‘No, no, old boy,’ spluttered Greg. ‘You see …’ he lowered his voice confidentially, ‘the chap my secretary is seeing is a great friend of ours. Connie knows the wife. I couldn’t let her carry such an unbearable secret.’

Francis nodded. ‘I see. No, that wouldn’t be fair on Connie. So what are you going to do?’

‘Well, I have suggested that Janie, the girl I’m talking about, should go out with a friend of her brother’s. Lovely chap. Army. Just back from Afghanistan. They went on a date last night.’

‘Good. How did it go?’

A haunted shadow flitted over Greg’s features, ‘I don’t know. She hasn’t answered my email yet.’

‘Oh.’ Francis fell silent, then smiled. ‘Maybe she had such a great night with this chap that she’s not in the office yet.’

Greg looked glum. ‘Wouldn’t that be marvellous for her.’

‘I’m sure it’ll all work out.’ Francis’s mobile started to ring. His thoughts still occupied with Greg’s problem, he answered without looking at caller ID.

‘Hello, Francis Meake.’ Suddenly, his face took on a slight flush. ‘Hello, Belinda … yes … yes … That’s right. Treviscum Bay … We’re Atlantic House … yes, what a coincidence … TODAY? … I thought you were coming on Wednesday … A last-minute cancellation … lunchtime … yes, Dairy Cottage is right next door to us … yes … quite a coincidence … OK … see you later … bye.’

Greg watched Francis place the phone on the table as if it were a grenade with the pin missing.

‘Are you all right, old man?’ he asked.

Francis picked up his coffee cup but his hand was shaking so much he had to put it down.

Greg tried again, ‘Who’s Belinda?’

Pru strode into the kitchen.

‘A mother at Jeremy’s school. On the PTA.’ She stopped when she saw Francis’s ashen face. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

Francis looked up from where he sat, into his wife’s perceptive eyes. He blurted, ‘It’s Belinda. She’s rented Dairy Cottage. She’s arriving with her daughter today.’

Pru looked quizzical ‘Ah, Big Ben told the kids that someone we knew was coming down. I thought it was Wednesday.’

‘Big Ben had a cancellation.’ Francis looked as if he were in shock; which of course he was.

Pru gave him a funny look, then said, ‘Well, you don’t have to have anything to do with her.’

‘I, er, no … at least … that is, she may want to talk to me about, er, school things.’

‘That’s OK. It’ll keep you busy. Is her husband coming down, too?

‘She’s divorced.’

‘Better still! We’ll never see her. She’ll be out looking for a holiday romance.’ She rubbed Francis’s shoulder. ‘Now, how about you get me some of your granola and blueberries?’

Francis gladly did as he was told, but a feeling of impending doom settled over him like a fog over the moors.