The Holiday Home

3

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.