After the Honeymoon Page 8

This is my time, Emma reminded herself, recalling her mother’s no-nonsense advice during the reception. If you don’t give yourself time – and your husband – then your marriage won’t work out. Take it from me, love.

  Emma hadn’t realised she’d dozed off over her book until voices began to punctuate her dream. In her sleep, she’d been fighting with Gawain over one of those stupid chicken vol-au-vents; telling him that he couldn’t have one because they’d make him sick.

  ‘They’re my children. You knew I had responsibilities when you married me.’

  Slowly Emma opened her eyes, realising that the voice came from a tall, extremely beautiful woman with long dark hair and a flimsy blue beach wrap. It was the strikingly good-looking couple from the plane and reception.

  ‘Marvyn can’t just announce he’s going away,’ the man was saying. ‘He’d promised to have them.’

  The woman was taking his hand now, twisting it in what looked like a conciliatory gesture. ‘But it’s his work. He can’t help it.’

  Then they were out of earshot. Hitching herself up on one elbow, Emma watched curiously as they walked along the beach. From their expansive hand gestures, it didn’t look as though they had resolved their argument.

  So that lovely dark-haired woman had children too! But who was this Marvyn? A male nanny, perhaps. There were quite a few male au pairs in Corrywood now. Still, thought Emma, getting up to check on Tom, that wasn’t any of her business.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked softly.

  Tom gave a groan, causing Emma a stab of panic. It was all very well for the doctor at home to advise giving it a few days. But out here, it might not be so easy to get help.

  ‘Mum says some of our guests have been sick,’ she said nervously. Tom could be a bit of a hypochondriac at the best of times. ‘Might have been the chicken vol-au-vents. How many did you have?’

  ‘Just a couple.’ There was another groan. ‘But it could be travel sickness. I had this before when the lads and I went to Ibiza before we met.’

  He could have told her!

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice at the door. It was the boy from reception. ‘Just checking you’ve got everything you need. I forgot to give you this, too.’ He handed her a leaflet. ‘It tells you about the various activities we have here.’

  ‘Actually, my husband isn’t well. It might be food poisoning. Or maybe travel sickness.’

  The boy made a sympathetic face. ‘We’ve got a great remedy for that. Hang on a minute and I’ll bring it over.’

  He returned within minutes, holding a small blue bottle without a label. ‘You just take a spoonful every four hours,’ the boy said confidently. ‘It’s one of Cara’s old recipes. She used to own this place before Mum became her partner.’

  Really? Emma had wondered exactly how you got to start a place like this.

  Tom glanced at the bottle through half-closed eyes. ‘I’m not taking that stuff. They don’t have the same rules and regulations as we do. It could be anything.’

  Emma coloured up with embarrassment and sent a sorry look to the boy, who kindly gave her a reassuring don’t worry glance back. ‘Let me know if you want anything else,’ he added. Goodness, he seemed very confident for his age. What was he, Emma wondered, fifteen, sixteen or seventeen? It was hard to tell because he was so tall, but his face looked young.

  ‘The doctor,’ groaned Tom, sitting up and reaching for the bowl Emma had found. ‘I’d like to see the doctor.’

  Mortified, Emma mopped up her husband. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the boy, who didn’t seem fazed at all: indeed, he was opening a cupboard to find clean towels. ‘I think my husband’s right. Can we make an appointment?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘You don’t need one. You just queue up.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the town hall. He’s there every Friday.’

  Friday? But today was Sunday.

  Emma’s heart was beginning to race. ‘Isn’t there any way of getting him here faster?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’ The boy glanced at the bottle. ‘Like I said, take this. It works every time. Well, usually.’

  After he left, Tom began to nod off again. A sleep would do him good. It would also, thought Emma guiltily, give her a chance to return to the sun, while listening out for her husband.

  Stretching out on the lounger, she looked at the leaflet the boy had brought. It had a pretty drawing of the Villa Rosa on the front. There was some practical information, including instructions on not putting lavatory paper down the loo. Oh dear. Too late for that. You couldn’t drink the tap water either unless it was boiled.

  Emma turned the leaflet over. A pool! She hadn’t realised there was one. There was early-morning yoga too. She’d always wanted to try that out. Goodness, for a small place with only a few rooms, the Villa Rosa seemed to have a lot going on. There were even art classes in the afternoon. How she’d love to do those too. But she couldn’t leave Tom here alone, could she? He might choke on his vomit, and she’d never forgive herself.

  It was like being in a sweet shop without being allowed to touch anything.

  Putting the leaflet in her bag, Emma caught sight of the bundle of wedding cards which she and Tom hadn’t had time to open before leaving.

  She ought to wait until Tom was better to enjoy them, Emma told herself. But then she caught sight of a large beige envelope with a sloping handwriting that she hadn’t seen for many years. Her skin began to crawl.

  Nervously, Emma took out the letter from inside a gaudy glittering wedding card, inviting them in silver writing to be ‘Happy Ever After’.

  Don’t read it, she told herself. It will only upset you. But, unable to help herself, her eye was drawn to the opening paragraph.

  Dear Emma,

  By the time you read this, you will be a married woman. You may not think I am qualified to hand out advice but there are still some things which I feel I must tell you.

  Advice? Who was he to talk?

  When I first met your mother, we respected each other. Respect is more important than love. It is, or should be, the foundation of all relationships. But it has to be nurtured or else it can so easily get lost.

  Hah! Had her father shown respect when he’d gone off with that woman?

  I am aware that you think badly of me but that is because you are young. One day, you might know why I acted as I did. One day, you might know the truth.

  With all my love,

  Dad

  How dare he? As for the truth, she already knew it! Emma’s mind went back to that horrible day when, as a fifteen-year-old, she had listened through her parents’ door to the arguing. Words like ‘that woman’ and ‘if you’d shown me more affection’ were still indelibly printed in her mind, along with Mum’s hysterical weeping.

  Did her father honestly think she could ever forgive him for the pain he had caused her mother? Despite this, she quickly found a pen and wrote down the address on the card before furiously swinging her legs over the chair and running down through the warm sand to the sea. Standing in it, with the water splashing her ankles, she tore up both letter and card into tiny little bits and threw them into the air. They floated down like cheap pink glitter confetti, only to lose their sparkle as they hit the water.

  Too late, Emma realised she’d committed the sin of pollution. She tried to scoop up the bits of paper but a wave came in and took them out of reach. Had anyone seen what she’d done? She glanced down the beach. That striking couple from the plane were sitting down now on some rocks. They were some way off but she could see, slightly enviously, that they were kissing. Clearly they’d made up.

  It was more than she was going to do with the writer of the letter. In fact, Emma told herself, walking back to the villa, there was no need to tell anyone she’d received it.

  Let alone reply.

  TRUE HONEYMOON STORY

  ‘When my parents got married in 1939, they spent their first night in a thin-walled room next to a spinster grea
t-aunt.’

  Carol, happily single

  Chapter Eight

  WINSTON

  ‘But where will the children sleep?’ protested Winston when Melissa had announced that her kids were on their way out here, right now. For a moment, he had visions of Alice and Freddie sharing their room, which wasn’t even theirs at all.

  The absent owner, he’d decided, was one of those weird bohemian types. You could tell that just by observing the large collection of floaty coloured scarves hanging from the back of the door; a tacky shell mirror which was far too low for either of them (suggesting she was short) and a strange blue and green ornament on the window which, his wife had exclaimed approvingly, was called a dream catcher.

  Dreams? The whole idea of his stepchildren (he was still getting used to that phrase) coming over to share their honeymoon, was a complete bloody nightmare.

  Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, Melissa had accused him of not being sympathetic. ‘It’s not easy for them,’ she’d said with an edge to her voice that he hadn’t heard before. ‘They’ve been used to having me around for themselves. You knew you were taking them on when you asked me to marry you.’

  They’d been walking along the beach to ‘discuss’ it, although Winston had tried to calm things down when he realised that the plump, pretty, moon-faced bride was outside her cottage (which would have been theirs if the kid at reception hadn’t got it wrong), staring curiously at them.

  Then Melissa had burst into tears and said that she was sorry, but if Winston didn’t want her children, that was the same as Winston not wanting her. Maybe, she’d added tearfully, all this had happened too fast and perhaps it was better if she just went home with Freddie and Alice.

  That had scared him. Already, he couldn’t imagine life without Melissa. At least, he didn’t think he could. Or was it, Winston asked himself uncomfortably, because he didn’t do failure?

  You couldn’t have much more of a failure than a marriage that had disintegrated on day one of the honeymoon. The papers would love it.

  What was needed now was a plan of action. Damage limitation, as they’d called it in the corps. So he’d sat his bride down on the beach, which was rather picturesque, in a basic Mediterranean way, and folded her into his arms. ‘Of course I want your children,’ he had said, before adding silently to himself, but only because I can’t have you without them.

  And then she’d put her head into that little space below his arm and they’d nestled up together. It hadn’t been long before their lips homed in on each other’s and they were well and truly locked together. Not in that way, of course, even though it was a private beach, but pretty damn near it.

  ‘The children will have to sleep on the floor,’ said Melissa suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Well, there’s nowhere else, is there?’

  Instantly, he sat up. ‘We’ll have to think of something. Besides, Alice is virtually a woman.’ He felt himself reddening. ‘It wouldn‘t be right for her to see us in bed.’

  Melissa shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But you are her stepfather.’

  For a grown woman, his new wife could be very naive. Maybe she didn’t realise just how scathing the press could be. Winston shuddered. He could just imagine the headlines: ‘“Work Out With Winston” Shares Honeymoon Room With Teenage Stepdaughter’. No way.

  ‘We’ll talk to the kid at reception.’ His mouth set. ‘If he hadn’t messed up our booking, it wouldn’t have been a problem.’

  Melissa stroked his cheek. When previous girlfriends had done that in the past, it had irritated him. Possession, it had screamed. Now he found it soothing. Reassuring. ‘You can’t blame him. It might have been our fault.’

  No. Winston didn’t do mistakes (Nick, Nick) and nor, by default, did his staff.

  ‘Let’s go and find him – see if he’s sorted something out.’ Standing up, he stretched out into the warm sun before reaching down and pulling Melissa up, gently slapping her bottom. She giggled. That was better. They’d make this disaster work out somehow.

  ‘You’re just used to all those smart five-star places they put you up in,’ Melissa added teasingly as they ambled up the beach, arm in arm. There was something in that. For the last Christmas special, the television people had sent him to St Lucia, where he had performed a morning workout session on the white sandy beach for the viewers back home. The hotel had been amazing, with an enormous round bed, facing the veranda. Now that would have been a real honeymoon destination.

  Still, at least they’d managed to avoid any paparazzi here. No one would have expected them to have pitched up at a two-star taverna on a mediocre Greek island; especially one where they’d been allotted staff quarters.

  ‘Look. There’s our young man from reception,’ said Melissa, pointing. ‘How sweet. He’s feeding the chickens.’

  Winston marched right up. ‘Look, I know we talked about this earlier, but we’ve got a problem here. As you know, my wife’s children are coming out and they need somewhere to stay. I believe you suggested putting a mattress on our floor, but frankly, that’s not good enough.’ He shot a look at Melissa that read, Don’t say anything. Leave this one to me.

  The boy stood up, dusting the corn off his shirt, and shrugged. ‘There isn’t anywhere. I’m sorry. Unless …’

  ‘Yes?’ said Melissa quickly.

  ‘Well, unless they’re willing to share the stable block with me.’ He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘There’s one room free opposite mine, although it’s pretty basic. It’s next to the cook or at least it will be when he arrives. The old one had to leave unexpectedly.’

  Great! So there wasn’t any decent food here either!

  ‘I need to confirm it with Mum – she’s one of the owners.’ The kid spoke hesitantly as though he was working all this out in his head. ‘But it’s not easy to get hold of her at the moment.’

  Melissa clutched his arm. ‘The stable block will do for a bit, won’t it, darling? The children will be here by teatime. In fact, we need to send a taxi to meet them. Marvyn’s text said that—’

  ‘Mum, Mum!’

  I don’t believe it, thought Winston, watching a black car screech to a halt at the bottom of the slope where the Villa Rosa’s grounds met the dusty lane. They were here already.

  ‘Dad got us an earlier flight,’ panted the boy as he ran up and flung his arms around Melissa’s waist. ‘And he arranged for a car to bring us here from the airport. Said it would be a nice surprise for you to have us early.’

  I’ll bet he did, added Winston to himself. Couldn’t Melissa see what was going on here? Marvyn was trying to sabotage their honeymoon, for whatever reason. Jealousy? Maybe. He’d seen the way the man had looked at his wife, as though he hadn’t realised until now what he’d thrown away.

  Well, it was too bloody late. She was his now! Winston folded his arms, grappling with the emotions that were rippling through him. OK. Compromises had to be made. If Melissa’s children were that important to her, he, Winston, would have to show willing. That scene earlier, when she’d talked about leaving him, had unnerved him.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said stiffly as the girl came tottering up the slope. What was she wearing? Those heels were totally unsuitable for her age – she was thirteen, not twenty-three – and she was actually wearing make-up.

  Alice shot him a look that was made up of pure hostility. ‘Welcome?’ she repeated. ‘It’s my mum we’ve come to see. Not you.’

  Say something, he wanted to tell Melissa. Tell your daughter not to be so rude. But Melissa was hugging both of them as though she hadn’t seen them for weeks instead of hours and there was a look on her face that made him realise something. Melissa was overjoyed they were here. In fact, she was a completely different woman. So he wasn’t enough for her … Not on his own, at any rate.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she exclaimed, all shiny-eyed. ‘We’re here together as a family.’

  Family? The girl scowled at him from under her mother’s arm, cle
arly thinking along the same lines. There was no way they could ever be a family. Who was she kidding?

  ‘You’re going to love it here,’ continued Melissa, unaware of the faces her daughter was making at him. ‘There’s a lovely swimming pool and there’s a banana boat and lots of little places to explore on the beach.’

  The girl’s eyes were rolling now and she was muttering something that sounded like ‘Boring’. Winston could read her like a book. Much as he hated to admit it, there was something in her that reminded him of being that age himself.

  There was a small, polite cough beside them. ‘There’s a disco, too, in town, with special under-eighteen nights.’

  Winston had forgotten that the owner’s son was still there. Was there no privacy in this place? Then he became aware of something. Alice had stopped rolling her eyes. Instead, she was extricating herself from her mother’s arms and adopting a lolling position on the boulder by the villa sign.

  ‘I’m Jack, by the way,’ said the boy in that casual way which boys adopted at that age when they were trying to impress a girl. (Oh yes, Winston could remember that one all right).

  ‘I’m Alice,’ squeaked the girl in a contrived voice that was so ridiculously artificial that Winston almost laughed out loud.

  ‘Cool.’ Jack was edging from one foot to the other. Meanwhile, Freddie was staring up at the older boy with admiration all over his face.

  This might not be so bad after all, Winston suddenly realised. With any luck, Jack might come in handy, if only to distract his stepkids.

  Catching Melissa’s eye, he smiled. Instantly she visibly relaxed. ‘Thank you,’ she said, tucking her arm into his as they followed the kids up to the villa. ‘Thank you for being so good about all this.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘I thought it all seemed a bit too convenient when Marvyn said he could have them.’ Winston gave her a comforting hug, then stopped briefly to brush his lips against hers. Instantly, as if through some magic detection radar, Alice whipped round and shot them a how dare you kiss my mum glare. He felt Melissa stiffen with embarrassment.