After the Honeymoon Page 5

  ‘That’s for two hours a day, Tom. We’re talking about a whole week.’ Emma’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘What if they want me at night? What if my mother doesn’t watch them properly and they have an accident? I’d never forgive myself.’

  Or you, she had silently added.

  ‘That could happen any time.’ Tom, normally so compliant, had a firm edge to his voice. ‘We deserve some couple time, Em. Besides, it’s all arranged and paid for. You’d upset Bernie and the girls who saved up for this out of their earnings.’ He bent down to kiss her. ‘You’d upset me too.’

  He was right. She had no choice but to go along with the girls’ generous gesture. It would, she knew, have made a big dent in their pay packets.

  To make herself feel better, she’d made a list of all the things that her mother might need reminding of, for a long-term stay. Gawain hated any food that was orange or green (which ruled out quite a lot of vegetables). His spare Spider-Man tee-shirt was in the storage bag under his bed. Willow’s fluffy blue comfort blanket was kept in the second drawer down. The brake on the pushchair was a bit stiff. And so on and so on. The list was endless.

  ‘I know most of this,’ her mother had said, glancing at it dismissively. ‘Besides, I did bring you up, you know. Stop fussing.’

  But she couldn’t help it, especially as it was time to go now. Inside Corrywood Hall, the guests were still bopping along to the loud disco which they’d got for a discount rate because one of Tom’s friends knew the DJ, and picking away at the cold buffet which she hadn’t been able to touch, thanks to nerves. All that money they’d been saving up for years had been blown. And to show for it, she had a shiny gold wedding ring on her left hand, and a piece of paper which tied her to her husband for life.

  Divorce, in Emma’s book, wasn’t on. Not when you’d suffered like she had, from her parents’ bitter break-up.

  ‘Better get going or we’ll miss the flight,’ said one of Tom’s friends chirpily. ‘I’ve got the car ready outside.’ He winked at her. ‘The boys and I did it up. Tin cans, foam and everything. Wait till you see it!’

  Gawain caught hold of her skirt and, as if on cue, Willow began to whimper as Tom prised her off his neck and handed her over to Emma’s mother.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ whispered Emma. ‘I can’t leave them.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Her mother’s voice was sharp, hissing in her ear. ‘You’re a wife now. Not just a mum. Don’t make the mistake I did. Tom’s a bit dull but he’s a good man. Just make sure you hang on to him.’

  Emma stared at her mother, shocked. It wasn’t the ‘dull’ bit, which Mum had come out with before. No. It was the ‘Don’t make the mistake I did.’

  The divorce had been Dad’s fault for going off with that tart in the office. Was it possible that Mum blamed herself for not giving him more attention? If so, that was ridiculously old-fashioned.

  Frankly, she’d expected more from her mother. At fifty-two, she was still a very good-looking woman. Even her name, Shirley, suggested a certain joie de vivre which, despite her single status, Mum possessed all right. Sometimes she was mistaken in the street for a taller Barbara Windsor. She had the same blonde looks and warm, welcoming face, with a throaty laugh that made you feel good about yourself. Certainly, if it wasn’t for Mum looking after Willow, Emma couldn’t do her dinner lady job.

  Maybe Tom was right. She ought to trust her enough to go away. After all, you only had one honeymoon.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy won’t be long,’ she said, giving both children one more kiss and hug. ‘Be good, won’t you?’

  Oh no. Willow was beginning to wail even louder and Gawain, with a grip that was incredibly strong for a four-year-old, adamantly refused to let go. ‘They’re just tired,’ her mother said crisply with an authoritative air. ‘I’ll take them home now.’

  Somehow, Emma managed to extricate herself from her son’s grasp, feeling like a traitor. ‘Mummy,’ he called out desperately as Tom took her hand and led her to the car outside. A group of friends were already gathered there, confetti in hands; broad grins on their faces. ‘I can’t do this,’ she cried, the tears rolling down her face as she threw her bouquet into the little gathering. ‘I really can’t.’

  ‘They’ll be fine.’ But her new husband’s voice was tight and she could tell from his tone that he had doubts too.

  ‘What if the plane crashes?’ she whispered as Tom’s friend’s car, with its silver and purple ‘Just Married’ pennant fluttering from the aerial, slid through the night on the way to Heathrow. ‘We wouldn’t be around to bring up the kids. What if …’

  Tom’s hand reached out for hers and held it firmly. ‘You can’t go down that road, love.’

  Oh, but she could. ‘We should have changed before we left,’ added Tom, adjusting his suit trousers uncomfortably. ‘There’ll just be time at the airport if we don’t get held up.’ His arm wrapped itself around her. ‘How does it feel to be Mrs Walker?’

  Wonderful, she wanted to say. Perfect. But she couldn’t. All Emma could think of, as Phil’s old Vauxhall Cavalier approached the bright lights of the airport, was that she’d left her children behind and that if she had a choice, she would gladly have swapped them for Tom here on the back seat.

  ‘The temperature in Siphalonia is approximately twenty-six degrees and counting.’

  The pilot’s enthusiastic voice sent a ripple of appreciative murmurs through the plane. Emma woke up from an uneasy sleep, hazily recalling the events of the last few hours, and felt her stomach lurch with fear all over again as she thought of the children. She glanced at Tom, whose face was lit up with excitement. I hate you for not understanding, she thought. I hate you.

  But it was too late to turn back. They were here. And if anything did happen to the children, they could just fly back like Tom said, providing there was a flight available.

  ‘I also have another notice,’ said the pilot’s voice, crackling slightly on the loudspeaker. ‘We have a newly married couple on board. Mrs and Mrs Walker! Let’s give them a round of applause, shall we?’

  And to Emma’s embarrassment, Tom stood up and made a mock bow, pointing to her. Everyone began to turn round in their seats: for a minute she wished they hadn’t changed out of their wedding finery and into jeans and sloppy sweatshirts. Then there was a wave of clapping and someone thrust a glass of something bubbly into her hand. Even though she didn’t particularly like the taste, she knocked it back for Dutch courage, as Mum would say.

  ‘Here’s to married life,’ declared Tom excitedly, clinking his plastic beaker with hers. ‘Feeling better now?’

  She nodded, tucking her arm into his. Of course she didn’t hate him, she told herself guiltily. That had just been because she was tired and upset.

  ‘Look,’ Tom said, pointing out of the window just as he’d done when they’d taken off at Heathrow. But this time, instead of lights in the darkness down below, she could see a vast expanse of blue sea and then the outline of an island in the early-morning light. It was like the toy car mat that Gawain had at home, with a network of tiny roads and a garage and shops and houses.

  ‘Which one of those is the Villa Rosa, do you think?’ she asked, caught up in the euphoria of seeing the tiny white houses with little patches of brown and green around them.

  ‘Maybe that one.’ Tom sounded like a child. ‘The L-shaped one with the pool.’ He gripped her hand tighter. ‘Hang on. We’re going to land.’

  It was much smoother than she’d expected, even though there was a terrible noise and a feeling of real speed, like being in a sports car, perhaps – though she’d never been in one. Then they stopped. At last! Emma jumped up before the seat belt sign had been switched off. ‘You’ve got to wait,’ said Tom, as if he was an experienced flyer. There was a ping. ‘Right. We can go now.’

  Almost unable to believe she had got through her first flight, Emma watched her husband(!) heave her hand luggage out of the overhead locker and gesture that she should go ahead.
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  Nervously, she made her way past the stewardess and then clung to the top of the steps as the dry heat hit her.

  She was actually in Greece! Gawain and Willow felt so far away now that they might almost be in another world. Part of her wanted to dive back into the plane and beg for a flight home. But another part of herself, a part she didn’t recognise, was excited. Curious.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Tom unnecessarily as he shepherded her onto the airport bus behind a very pretty, tall, dark-haired woman holding hands with an even taller, well-built, bald West Indian with large sunglasses who kept looking nervously around. Now where had she seen him before? The woman looked a bit familiar too.

  ‘We’re here,’ repeated Tom, as though he could hardly believe it either. ‘We’re on our honeymoon, Em! Isn’t that amazing!’

  TRUE HONEYMOON STORY

  ‘We drove to Wales but it rained so much that we went home.’

  Jo, still happily married after twenty years

  Chapter Five

  WINSTON

  Had they been spotted? Winston looked swiftly around the airport bus, taking in the passengers, using his training to home in on anyone who looked suspicious.

  There were no obvious candidates. Even so, he ran through the options around him. There was that other honeymoon couple who’d had that tacky announcement on the plane which had made him cringe. She looked quite sweet despite her rather simple moon face and a body that needed to shed at least a stone. But her husband wore clear-rimmed glasses and a thick grey sweatshirt, despite the heat, with ‘I’M ON MY HONEYMOON’ written on the front in big bold red letters. How naff was that? He shuddered at the thought of ever wearing something like that.

  There were a couple of Greeks staring out of the window with no particular interest in anyone else. And there was a family of five who were making a right old racket because one of the kids had lost a toy on the plane and wanted to go back for it, even though the bus had already set off for the terminal.

  The high-pitched whining reminded him of Melissa’s girl, who was always moaning about something. Neither she nor the boy had bothered to hide their resentment at his intrusion into their mum’s life. In fact, there had been a number of times in the last few weeks when Winston had been worried Melissa was going to call off their wedding altogether just because the children, as she insisted on calling them (even though the older one was a teenager), were still feeling ‘unsettled’.

  But somehow, Winston had won her round. With carefully thought-out arguments and – dare he say it? – a smattering of charm, he had persuaded Melissa that Alice and Freddie would benefit from a permanent male presence in the house, instead of a father who was always away, doing some big deal in Singapore or Hong Kong or banging yet another secretary (he hadn’t voiced that last bit, obviously). And indeed, he really did believe it himself. All the children needed was a firm but kind hand. Starting with a break from their mother.

  Besides, it would do them good to be with their father for a week. Winston would have given anything, at that age, to have had that opportunity.

  As the bus rattled its way across the airport to the terminal, Winston put his arm around Melissa and pressed his lips against her hair, breathing in her smell. ‘Did you enjoy the wedding?’ he whispered.

  She nodded, sinking her head into the broad dip in his shoulders. When she’d first done that, it had felt like someone had slotted a missing jigsaw piece into his body. ‘It was perfect,’ she murmured.

  It had been, too. For a few brief seconds, Winston allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes and recalling every precious minute. That tense wait inside Corrywood registry office (a nondescript dark red building near the post office), waiting for Melissa to arrive. Desperately willing her to come – there was a pit of fear in his solar plexus, in case she’d changed her mind. Casting questioning looks at his assistant and agent, to check that there weren’t any photographers about.

  That had been one of Melissa’s stipulations when she’d accepted his proposal. ‘I don’t want to get caught up in all that publicity,’ she had insisted. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on the children. Or on us.’

  She was right. Winston didn’t like it himself, though he knew there had to be some price for all the money he was paid. Still, he was as keen on a private ceremony as his bride was, despite the lucrative magazine and newspaper offers which had come pouring in.

  And somehow, thanks to all the false trails that Poppy had laid, they had achieved it! Melissa had arrived, looking stunning in an Amanda Wakeley dress and a little black sequin jacket because, as she said later with her beguiling smile, you didn’t get to her age without earning a few black marks.

  They’d said their vows and recited a poem each (which they’d made up themselves), despite Melissa’s daughter giving him the evils and the boy continually kicking his sister during the ceremony amidst loud ‘ouches’.

  Afterwards, they’d sneaked out of the back entrance, giggling like a pair of school runaways, and into his agent’s Mercedes with tinted windows. Then they’d taken the children and Melissa’s sister, who’d travelled from France, out for a late Italian lunch.

  The difficult bit had been the evening when the husband had turned up to collect Alice and Freddie. Amazingly, since the man only lived round the corner in Corrywood, Winston hadn’t met Melissa’s ex before; partly because he’d taken care not to be around when he came to pick up the kids for weekends and partly because the man was always away working. But Winston had built up a mental vision of him, accrued through jealousy and the odd family photograph that was still in the house.

  When Marvin turned up at the restaurant as arranged, Winston had been a bit taken aback. His predecessor was taller than he’d realised. More good-looking too, with a suave assurance that made Winston feel he’d been the one who was in the wrong.

  ‘Dad!’

  Alice and Freddie had flung themselves at him, and Winston was surprised to find himself experiencing a slight pang of resentment as he watched the man ruffle the kids’ hair and then – bloody nerve! – place his cheek against Melissa’s.

  She had flushed like a beetroot.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Marvin had said, in what sounded to him like an over-jovial voice. Then as he walked past Winston he had muttered, ‘Good luck. You might need it.’

  What do you mean? Winston had almost said. Conscious that his fists were clenched inside his pockets, Winston watched his new bride’s anxious face as she kissed the children goodbye. ‘It’s only a week,’ she kept saying, but they didn’t need any reassurance – couldn’t she see that? The turncoats were happy as Larry, skipping along with their dad towards one of those ridiculously big people carriers where a tarty-looking peroxide blonde was waiting in the driver’s seat.

  ‘It will be all right,’ he’d murmured to Melissa on the way to the airport. ‘It’s you they really love.’

  She’d given him one of her sad but amazing smiles which made him feel both protective and alive. Really alive; as though she’d just opened a huge shaft of light in his head. ‘Thank you,’ she’d replied softly. But nevertheless, she’d been quiet all through the flight and as soon as they’d landed, had checked her phone. ‘They promised to text as soon as they got back,’ she’d fretted. ‘But the reception here is awful.’

  The little buggers were probably having too good a time to bother with their mother. ‘We’ll call from the villa.’ His eyes were still distracted; darting everywhere; checking, as they got off the bus and made their way into the small, cool terminal, that there wasn’t anyone around with a camera.

  It wasn’t just Melissa’s privacy he was worried about. It was the other thing too. There was only so much that the world was allowed to know about Winston King. It wouldn’t do for anyone – including his bride – to get too close. She might not understand.

  ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ exclaimed Melissa as the car turned the corner and stopped outside a smallish white house with the sign ‘Villa Rosa’
outside.

  Winston’s sharp eyes took in the position. Perched on the seafront as the ad had said. Surrounded by hills which would be perfect for the ten-mile jogs he liked to take every day. A slightly faded Mediterranean-blue veranda running along the front, and the glimpse of the promised holiday cottages, also in white, at the back.

  ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘You did well to find it.’

  When Melissa had first mentioned the notice at the children’s school, advertising the Villa Rosa, he’d got his assistant to check it out. Yes, she’d assured him. It was very quiet and they didn’t have any other English bookings.

  Great. Then there’d be no one to spot them.

  So he’d instructed Poppy to book under a false name. Luckily, she wasn’t asked for passport details. At the same time, he’d got his assistant to book some more high-profile destinations in other spots to throw snoopers off the track; the privacy would be worth the cancellation fee.

  Hang on. Another car had stopped close behind them. It was the other honeymoon couple. ‘Feeling any better, Tom?’ he heard the bride saying in one of those little girl voices that set his teeth on edge.

  So they were staying here too? An English couple who might recognise him – just what he hadn’t wanted! Hastily he put on his shades again. If necessary, he’d keep them on for the whole holiday. Inside and out.

  ‘I still can’t get any reception,’ Melissa was saying, checking her phone again.

  Winston fought back the impulse to tell her that she had to get over this. That for one week only, she needed to let the children go. ‘As I said, we’ll ring from reception,’ he reminded her briskly. ‘Let’s make a move, shall we?’

  Slinging one suitcase on his back, he picked up the other and marched ahead, conscious of the admiring glances both from his wife and the moon-faced bride. ‘He must be strong,’ he heard the latter mutter. Instantly, he reproached himself for doing something that stood out. Wasn’t the whole point about this break to have some privacy? To look after Melissa? To make an amazing start to their life together?