An Almost Perfect Holiday

by Lucy Diamond

  Then another idea came to her. What was the name of that painting they’d both been giggling over the other day? The girl with the guitar, or banjo, whatever it was. Caravaggio was the artist, yes, because she’d had to stop herself from making puerile jokes about his name.

  She switched on her tablet and started searching – The Lute Player, there it was. The painting showed a pensive-looking girl in a white peasant-style blouse plucking the strings of a round-bellied lute, with several other instruments arranged in front of her. Whoa – check out those eyebrows! Izzie had snorted at the time, and then they’d had a bit of a laugh about the most inappropriate tune the girl could have been playing on that lute. ‘He’s got the whole world in his hands,’ George had sung in full happy-clappy style, while Izzie argued that the girl was more of a rock fan instead. ‘She’s about to break into the chorus and go full headbanger,’ she’d joked. ‘WHOA-OH! Livin’ on a prayer!’ George had yelled, pretending to rock out, and then they’d both burst out laughing.

  Izzie smiled wistfully now, remembering the conversation. What on earth are you two cackling about? Mum had asked, mystified, but you could tell she’d been pleased that they’d hit it off all the same.

  Sitting up a little straighter, Izzie flexed her fingers, the idea taking shape in her mind. Okay, Lute-Playing Girl, forgive me for what I’m about to do to you, in terms of Photoshopping and ridicule, she told the painting in her head. As for you, Caravaggio, do not choose this moment to turn your spectral eye on a holiday cottage in Cornwall, mate, or you’ll be totally spinning in your grave.

  Then she got to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Olivia’s parting words had rung in Lorna’s head all morning like the reverberations from a struck gong. There was a baby.

  As the front door closed, she had staggered a little with the shock. She clutched at the radiator for a moment, unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of what she had just heard. There was a baby. A baby! She blinked a few times, her mind racing with impossible questions. Did this mean . . . ? Could it be that . . . ?

  ‘Roy!’ she cried, turning the envelope between her fingers and gazing down at it as if it contained the mysteries of the universe. In a funny sort of way, it did. ‘Roy, where are you?’

  They had sat on the sofa together, the letter between them. Her hands were shaking so much, he ended up having to hold the closely written pages. ‘It’s a boy,’ she said, a sob in her throat. She could hardly read the words any more because the tears in her eyes were making the world blur and shimmer. It was as if an enchantment had been revealed, changing everything. ‘Our grandson, Roy. He’s out there somewhere, Aidan’s boy. Can you believe it?’

  They held hands and stared at one another, neither of them able to quite find the words that adequately described their feelings. For twenty long painful years, she had thought their little family had come to the end of its journey; that it would terminate with them, in a dead-end of a disused siding, never to go any further. But now . . . But here . . . According to this letter, there was another stop on the family line, after all. Another person in the world with Aidan’s genes. A grandchild, just as they’d always wanted. Longed for!

  ‘What will we do?’ Roy asked. His voice was hoarse as if he too had a lump in his throat.

  ‘We’ll find him, of course,’ said Lorna. She wiped her eyes and read the letter all over again, just to make sure she hadn’t imagined any of it. A baby. Their grandson. ‘He’d be nineteen now,’ she worked out. ‘A young man. Older than Aidan ever lived to be . . .’ Sadness pushed up through her, the usual sadness at the injustice of their having lost their only child, at imagining all the things he could have achieved: a career, a family, great happiness. And yet there was a strange elation mingled in there too; bubbles ascending. The story wasn’t over yet, after all. If they could just find this boy – this young man, rather – it would be the closest thing to having Aidan back again. ‘So he was born in Dorchester . . . there must be records of the birth and adoption. We’ll find a way to trace him.’ She blew her nose. ‘Our grandson, Roy!’

  Roy’s chin was wobbling. ‘We might never even have known about him,’ he said, eyes moist. All of a sudden, he sounded upset, his face twisting in such an ugly way she almost didn’t recognize him. ‘We could have gone to our graves not knowing!’

  ‘I know, love, but . . .’ Lorna bit her lip. She was too overcome with happiness right now to go near any recriminations. It was as if she didn’t dare jinx this extraordinary news by allowing negative feelings to invade. ‘Olivia was very young, though. It must have been such a hard decision for her, what with having lost Aidan and . . . Look, she’s told us now anyway, hasn’t she? And that can’t have been easy.’

  ‘Yes, well, bully for her. But she could have considered our feelings before, couldn’t she? Just because she didn’t want to deal with the consequences didn’t mean . . .’ He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. ‘We could have had him,’ he said savagely. ‘Rather than give him up to be adopted, we could have had him!’

  ‘Roy, we can’t think like that,’ Lorna said helplessly, although now that he had said these words, it was hard to ignore them. She too was picturing them building train-sets with Aidan’s little boy, finger-painting in the kitchen with him, playing football in the garden. The house mocked them with its emptiness. All the memories that could have been. How she would have doted on that child.

  ‘Can’t we?’ Roy replied. ‘Well, I do. Because she didn’t think of us for a moment when she robbed us of the chance to know our grandchild, did she? That’s nineteen years of his life gone, which we’ll never get back.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ She reminded herself of Olivia back then as a teenager: a quiet, polite girl, with a wariness about her that told Lorna she took nothing for granted. Olivia had not had an easy life, growing up; she didn’t have the secure sort of background that could have coped with an unexpected pregnancy thrown into the mix. They had to take that into account, remember that she must have been devastated and despairing. They had all been! ‘I’m not sure we’d have been up to the job of looking after a baby at the time,’ she said slowly. ‘We were in pieces ourselves, remember. I was, anyway.’ She pictured herself unmoving in the bed, a silent mound of unhappiness. Maybe she’d have been able to drag herself up to look after a small motherless baby, but grief had numbed her for a long time. Realistically, it might well have been too much for her, she knew. Perhaps it was only right that the baby had grown up somewhere devoid of tragedy, at least in those early years. She patted her husband’s hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s be positive. We’ll find him and we’ll make up for lost time. Well, I’m going to anyway. If you want to sit and sulk, then that’s your lookout.’

  Give him credit, Roy did have the grace to look sheepish at that. ‘I’m not sulking, I’m just . . .’ he began, then sighed. ‘I’m just sad. But you’re right – this is good news.’ He wiped his eyes again and put his glasses back on. ‘So. Now we need to find him.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Maggie zoomed down the road, singing along to the radio, and felt joy swelling inside her chest as the miles between her and Amelia ticked down and down. Her voice wobbled with sudden emotion as the melody reached a higher pitch and she had to break off, rolling her eyes at herself. Goodness! What had happened to her on this holiday? She seemed to have shed a restrictive cocoon that had always kept her in check, emerging as a far more carefree butterfly. Someone with a swishy new haircut who sang loudly in the car and became choked up with unexpected sentiment at a deeply uncool soft-rock ballad in fact. Someone who, just the evening before, had dared to ask a man out on a date and became alarmingly fizzy and giddy about the pleased Great idea! text that had come in reply.

  ‘Go, Maggie!’ Em and Olivia had cheered her last night and she’d felt positively buoyant with good cheer, as if she might very well float on up into the warm night sky. It was funny how, at the start of the week, she’d felt
so old and frumpy compared to fun, impulsive Em, and yet now, with her new hairdo and mindset, she felt younger again. Energized. Ready to take on the world, as Suzanne the hairdresser had said.

  What a peculiar holiday this had been so far. In the first few days it seemed as if she had lost her daughter, but by dealing with that, she appeared to have regained her own self. Her past had caught her off-guard, yet had also pushed her into a bolder new future. Yes, she would try dating again. Yes, she would be more open to new invitations and experiences. She would allow her world to expand, make sure there was room for friends and hobbies and possibilities, rather than focusing her spotlight solely on Amelia, shrinking her life down to its small, safe bubble.

  Talking of whom, Maggie had been thrilled to get Amelia’s call that morning as she sat there in the kitchen, trying to get rid of her hangover with an enormous fry-up and approximately twenty gallons of tea. ‘You want to come back early?’ she’d echoed in surprise. ‘How come? Is everything okay?’ Has he not treated you well? I will kill him, if so, I swear to God, I will.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Amelia said without a huge amount of conviction, then hesitated. ‘I mean . . . they’re all right. No one’s been horrible to me or anything, but . . .’ You could practically hear her pulling a face. ‘But the kids are doing my head in,’ she went on, lowering her voice. Then she gave a snort. ‘I am so glad I don’t have little brothers or sisters, you know. Man, they are a nightmare. And Celeste is . . . well, she’s getting on my nerves too. She acts like she’s this total earth mother, but do you know what I saw in her car when we went out earlier? Big Mac wrappers. I’m not kidding. Big Mac wrappers!’

  ‘No!’ cried Maggie, and then they were both laughing. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Really. But even so, you’ve got to get me out of here. Please? She does all this drumming and shit, with bongos and whatever, it’s driving me nuts. Oh yeah, and get this, she “doesn’t believe” in washing-up liquid. She says it’s unhygienic. I’m like . . . Right. Yeah. Whatever you say, love. But I’m kind of not wanting to eat off your plates any more.’

  Well, she was her mother’s daughter on that front at least, Maggie thought, remembering how she too had blanched at the filthy kitchen. ‘You should get her to take you with her next time she goes to McDonald’s,’ she joked and then they both started giggling again.

  ‘I might – you know, her cooking is absolutely rank. Dad’s is even worse. They basically just serve up mush. I haven’t actually chewed anything in, like, the whole time I’ve been here.’ There was a loud groan down the phone. ‘I’m like, hello, have these people never heard of pizza?’

  ‘What about . . .’ Maggie stumbled over the unfamiliar construction, ‘your dad? How are you getting on with him?’ She thought about the photos she’d seen the day before, Amelia’s breathless comments and enthusiasm. Having an amazing time with my famous dad!!!

  The reply was somewhat less gushing. ‘He’s all right. But I don’t think he’s met many teenagers. You know? He either talks to me like I’m about five or like I’m twenty-five. I’m educating him, basically.’

  Maggie couldn’t resist smirking as she sipped her tea. Teenagers were so brutal. ‘Well . . . It’ll take you a while to get to know each other, I guess,’ she said.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Amelia.

  ‘It’s good that you’ve met, though, isn’t it? And you can build things up?’ Maggie went on. Check out Lady Magnanimous, she thought, unused to feeling so gracious.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Amelia, although she didn’t sound wholly enthusiastic. Certainly not the blissed-out joyful person of her social-media accounts. ‘I’d kind of like to get to know him more slowly, without all the others here, though. Say, for an afternoon at a time. A day even, now and then. Maybe he could come round to ours sometimes, when we’re back in Reading? You know, like you were saying about him coming over for Sunday dinner – that sort of thing. Just until we know each other better. What do you think?’

  ‘That sounds very sensible to me,’ said Maggie, scooping up the last forkful of baked beans. ‘So do you still want me to pick you up later on, or would you rather stick things out until Friday?’

  ‘Can you get me today? Like, as soon as possible?’ Amelia asked, her voice small. ‘Please? If it’s not any trouble or anything . . .’

  ‘Sure,’ Maggie said. It was only then that she remembered the other photos she’d seen on her daughter’s Instagram account: the antics with the tequila, the ‘naughty trip into town’ that Em had referenced. ‘It’s no trouble,’ she went on, ‘although I would like to have a proper chat with you later. About things that have been going on.’

  There was a pause. No doubt Amelia was pulling one of her Mu-u-u-u-m grimaces at the prospect of a ‘proper chat’. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘We’ll discuss all that later,’ Maggie said. ‘But right now I’d better get dressed and hit the road, hadn’t I?’

  ‘You’re not dressed?’ Amelia’s shock was almost gleeful. ‘Mum! I’m appalled. Standards are slipping without me.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ said Maggie, thinking about all the wine she, Em and Olivia had put away last night. ‘See you later then, love.’

  The two of them would start again, she’d decided with a new optimism, finishing her breakfast and then hurrying up to the shower. They’d be honest with one another from now on. She’d have to admit to snooping on Amelia’s social-media life, but in turn Amelia would have to come clean about the tequila incident. And then Maggie would lay down a few strict new rules and insist that this was not a bargaining matter. Oh, help. Amelia would be hot-footing it straight back to Will’s at that rate, saying she’d changed her mind, you wait. But possibly not, she thought, remembering Amelia’s lukewarm comments about staying there just now.

  Her thoughts turned to the conversation she’d had with Em the night before, about how their children were growing up, finding their own ways, for better or worse. About how Em’s kids had to be dragged places with her these days, how they’d rather be doing more adventurous, adrenalin-rushing activities better suited to their age. For the rest of the evening, Maggie’s mind had kept returning to the subject, nudging at it with the uncomfortable feeling that she might have been going about this holiday all wrong. For whatever reason, Amelia had made it clear she no longer wanted to do the type of things they’d done when she was little. So maybe Maggie had to find an acceptable middle ground, be a bit more adventurous herself in suggesting other day-trips and activities they could try.

  It was only as she was brushing her teeth that an idea struck her and she grinned at herself in the mirror. Of course. Perfect! Within a few minutes she was searching online and then entering her credit-card details, too quickly for her to go and bottle out. There! she thought with a mixture of triumph and trepidation, as the email confirmation beeped through on her phone moments later. Let it not be said that Maggie Laine couldn’t surprise her own daughter now and then. Let it not be said that she couldn’t surprise herself, for that matter.

  Driving along now, she turned up the car radio and sang louder than ever. Even added a lung-busting harmony on the chorus for good measure. Maggie, you devil, she thought with a grin, indicating and moving into the fast lane.

  ‘Hey!’ Will opened the door with a cautious smile; the unconvincing sort of smile you might find yourself wearing when dipping a toe in the North Sea. ‘Hello, Maggie, do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’ Then he blinked. ‘You look different. New haircut?’

  ‘Ten out of ten for observation,’ she replied, smiling. ‘And yes please to the tea.’ Here she was again at Will’s house, but she was no longer the tense, uptight woman of her previous visit. Since then she had transformed, both inside and out.

  ‘Hi,’ she added joyfully as Amelia appeared in the hallway behind her father. As she saw her daughter’s shy smile again, she felt the old connection twanging between them, the invisible umbilical that had always linked them so closely, so tightly. S
urely Amelia hadn’t grown taller in the scant few days she’d been here? No, she couldn’t have. Yet the separation, however brief, meant that Maggie could appraise her through new eyes. Just look at her, so leggy and gorgeous, with that cloud of dark hair and those amazing cheekbones. Her girl. Her wonderful girl!

  ‘Mum, why are you staring like that?’ Amelia protested, squirming under her mother’s gaze. ‘Whoa, and what did you do to your hair? You look . . . actually quite nice.’

  Maggie laughed. ‘Damned with faint praise,’ she said, stepping forward and hugging her. ‘Ooh, that’s better. That’s what I needed. I’ve missed you.’

  It was strange how, once the threat of something terrible had eased, you could look upon the world with a new benevolence, she thought, walking into the kitchen moments later. This room, for instance, no longer seemed the revolting health hazard it had done last time – now it was diminished to merely a scruffy, homely sort of place that could do with a few antibacterial wipes and a good mopping. It didn’t bother her. She could even acknowledge that it held a certain sort of rustic charm. Hark at her, turning mellow in her old age!

  Even more surprising was how normal this already seemed – her, Will and Amelia sitting down together in the same room and it being . . . well, okay, really. Conversation was a little strained, admittedly, as if they were all on their very best behaviour, but everyone was trying, she realized, because everyone wanted the situation to work out. This was how grown-ups were supposed to deal with such matters: on civil, practical terms, leaving emotions at the door. Not that all the emotions were turning out to be dark ones anyway in this case, she was discovering. Because every now and then Will would say something affectionate to Amelia or tease her, and Maggie found herself experiencing unexpected prickles of gladness rather than jealousy. This is how things could have been if . . . she began thinking at one point, but then silenced her own voice. Could-have-beens were never helpful. And anyway was he still the man of her dreams, sitting there with his thinning, dyed hair, with his hipster T-shirt and stubble? No. He wasn’t a patch on Paul, let’s face it.