The Staycation: This summer's hilarious tale of heartwarming friendship, fraught families and happy ever afters

by Michele Gorman

  ‘Don’t worry about that, I’m hiring a car,’ he told her. ‘We would have needed one in Italy anyway and we don’t want to faff with all the luggage on the train. Just because we can’t go away doesn’t mean you don’t deserve the royal treatment. I’ll see if I can get us a free upgrade, too.’ Then his sharp glance settled on Harriet, who was watching them.

  ‘It’s the train for us,’ Harriet said. ‘At least there’s not too far to go. We should be walking out of your Tube station in …’ She glanced at her phone, then towards the ceiling. ‘An hour and ten minutes. As long as we don’t have to wait for the Heathrow Express for more than ten minutes. Give or take five minutes.’

  Harriet slung a few more bags over herself as if she was a one-woman Everest support team. Was there nothing this woman couldn’t handle?

  Dan made a point of staring after Harriet and her family as they set off for the train. ‘You don’t have to carry anything, Soph. Some blokes are gentlemen. If you want to stay here with the luggage I can go for the car and pick you up out front. I’ll text you when I’m on my way. Is your phone on? Come on, Oliver, help your dad.’

  Sophie put her hand over his as he wheeled both their cases outside.

  ‘You’ll be all right here while I get the car?’

  ‘Of course,’ she answered. As if she couldn’t manage to stand in front of an airport on her own.

  ‘Good girl. You’re going to get exactly the holiday you need,’ said Dan. ‘No stress, no drama. I’ll make sure it’s perfect. Don’t I always?’

  He always had, right from the first night they’d met.

  It could not have been more perfect, the way the city lights had glistened in the warm spring air as she’d cruised up the Thames with her colleagues and about a hundred other passengers. Everyone stood out on deck with their drinks. Sophie was politely trying to listen to her boss’s latest holiday plans (as if she hadn’t booked most of it for him), when she noticed someone staring in her direction. She glanced over. The bloke smiled. It took a few more glances to be sure, but he seemed to be smiling at her.

  Once her boss had gone off for more wine, it took about two seconds for him to come over. ‘Having fun?’ he asked. His long-lash-fringed eyes held hers.

  ‘It’s a work thing,’ she said. ‘I mean, I’m not here for fun. That was my boss, not my boyfriend.’ Smooth, Sophie. Why not just tell him about the dating dry spell, too? Dry spell. Ha. It was a full-on drought. There’d been a hosepipe ban on her love life for months. ‘Are you here for work or fun?’ she asked.

  He was wearing a summer suit, like her, but his probably came from somewhere posher than Zara. Or maybe it was the way he wore it that looked expensive. Sophie had never been good at spotting fake brands, but she was pretty sure his loafers, with the signature Gucci horsebit hardware on top, weren’t from any weekend market stall. She tucked her faux-Fendi closer under her arm. ‘Technically work, but hopefully fun?’ It was a question. ‘If I can persuade you to join me. The band isn’t bad, but I think their feelings are hurt that we’re all out here. We could have a dance and make them feel better.’

  He introduced himself and Sophie practically floated inside on the romance of it all. The band’s singer crooned a Frank Sinatra classic as Dan led her to the practically empty dance floor. She knew some of her colleagues must be watching, but any self-consciousness fell away as soon as Dan took her in his arms. He guided her easily to the music and (she hoped) into looking as if she knew what she was doing.

  ‘You’re an amazing dancer,’ she said when the song ended.

  ‘It’s easy with a good partner like you. Another dance, or would you like a drink?’

  ‘Can I be greedy and have both?’

  He laughed. ‘You can have whatever you want. Stay here. I’ll take care of it.’

  Chapter 3

  Thursday

  Harriet stared down the long corridor that tunnelled beneath the terminals. It would go on and on, she knew, a rat’s maze leading eventually to the train. She shot another look over her shoulder, aimed at James’s feet this time. ‘Can you please try to hurry up! We’ll miss the train.’

  Instantly, she wished she hadn’t snapped. Again. She’d never get things back on track like that. Her husband might be laid-back most of the time, but he could be as stubborn as his goats when she pushed him.

  Must not push, she reminded herself.

  But honestly, what was so hard about walking at a normal pace? That man trekked miles through the countryside every single day. It wasn’t fitness slowing him down. It was sheer bloody-mindedness. She had the whole family’s bags strapped over herself and was still managing to weave past people left, right and centre. The efficient tap of her sandals on the marble tiles had a pleasing rhythm.

  Now that they had a new plan, she wasn’t about to let any of it slip away. Tick-tock. At this rate they’d waste most of the day just getting to Sophie’s house. Plus the contingency time in case they got lost. Not that Harriet usually got lost. They’d really only have sixteen days’ holiday once they got settled in. That last day would be a write-off, between packing and tidying up and bickering over who had to carry what to the train.

  Just thinking about the wasted hours made her sandals click faster. Her sigh carried over the echoing buzz of the other passengers shuffling towards the train. Frustration? Or maybe one of the carry-on straps was pressing too hard on her lungs. She shifted the bags around. No, it was definitely James-induced annoyance. Cold treacle moved faster than her husband. Unless one of his damn goats got loose. Then you should see him go.

  Shame she wasn’t one of his goats.

  Shame they couldn’t rewind fifteen years, either, because she was pretty sure James hadn’t always made her want to set his socks on fire. What had changed?

  He’d once been just the soothing balm she’d been after. True, he’d never been a fast mover, or overly proactive, but he also never got flustered or stressed. The very chilled yin to her uptight yang.

  Those were carefree days, she mused. As carefree as she got, at least. She used to find it hard to get too wound up about things around James. He was the vocal equivalent of sipping hot chocolate under the duvet. Just hearing him quietened the thoughts pinging around her brain. She had enjoyed that once. She knew she had.

  The trouble was, he was still carefree now while she ran around doing everything that needed doing. It was exhausting.

  ‘Come on, James!’

  ‘Sorry, darling, it must be my nose slowing me down.’

  ‘Nice one, Dad,’ Billie said. ‘Mum, I’m guessing there’s probably more than one train into London today. Relax.’

  ‘Relax?’ she said, calculating how many chances they’d already missed on the walk to the platform. Four an hour for the Heathrow Express alone. Plus the Underground. That was probably five more in the same space of time. Adjusted for overlapping schedules. ‘Let’s just try to get there before nightfall.’

  But she did make herself slow down until James was alongside her.

  By the time they reached Sophie’s station – twenty-two minutes on the train, nine stops on the Tube, one change – Harriet had mentally unpacked her cases and recategorised all her clothes, shoes and accessories for the cooler London weather. The beach hats were a waste of space and she probably didn’t have quite enough jumpers for evenings. Just knowing she was still prepared for the holiday felt better. Clothes-wise, at least.

  She’d been fidgeting with the big spiky lump of Sophie’s keys since they’d emerged from the station. Unnecessary things dangled from the ring: a smooth pink stone heart, a green patent leather turtle, three tiny Tesco Club Cards with different serial numbers and, by Sophie’s own admission, keys she didn’t recognise any more. Harriet would switch those house keys to her own neatly utilitarian ring as soon as they got to the house.

  The house. Not the upscale hotel in the centre of Rome. She was doing her best to shift her expectations from the sun-baked ancient capital to north Lond
on. Still, a wave of melancholy swept over her. Sophie’s house was perfectly nice, she was sure. It just wasn’t in Italy.

  I’m mourning for Rome, Harriet thought. All those fine plans going to waste. She’d thought of every last detail, right down to which cafés served the best coffee close to their hotel, and how many minutes’ walk it was to the nearest Metro station. She’d spent weeks arranging it all for them, every fun activity, all the relaxation, each meal. Even the surprises that no one but she would know weren’t spur-of-the-moment.

  She was under no illusions about herself. She knew what some people (all right, most people) thought of her. But this time she really did need to plan everything, because it was more than just a holiday.

  It was the chance to reconnect with James, to remember when they’d enjoyed being in a relationship together.

  She cast another backward glance at him. He was still loping along with his tatty rucksack, this time on the pavement of Sophie’s road instead of the airport terminal.

  The spark had fizzled in their marriage. Even the fizzle had fizzled.

  Not that he was cheating, or anything like that. James wasn’t the type. If someone were to draw a cartoon of a nice, stable, non-cheating bloke, it would look like her husband. There was nothing dishonest about his tall, sturdy frame either, or his hair that never looked quite tidy or his giant farmer’s hands. He didn’t fit the part. Not James.

  Yet for months they’d been about as romantic as a pair of builders fitting someone’s new kitchen. These days they were just clocking in and getting the job done. They didn’t even take tea breaks together any more. She snorted at the euphemism.

  ‘Eww, watch the poo!’ Harriet warned as she stepped around the fresh pile plopped in front of Sophie’s house. What was wrong with people? If you wouldn’t empty your child’s nappy on the pavement, you shouldn’t leave your dog’s poo there either. No one should have to skid through smelly leavings when they didn’t even have a dog.

  Although, technically, she would have one while they stayed at Sophie’s. Spot, it was called, though Sophie had made a huge point of saying that their neighbour would be taking care of it.

  That didn’t mean she wanted to share the house with it. Dogs smelled, and they sniffed crotches and licked their bits and breathed their bitty breath into your face. She didn’t actually know what kind of dog it was, but she was sure it did all of those things.

  As she eased open Sophie’s front door, she braced herself. ‘Hello?’ she called through the crack.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Billie asked.

  ‘To Spot, who do you think? You have to let a dog know you mean no harm before entering its space.’

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’ When Billie put her ear near the door, Harriet caught a whiff of the shampoo she’d used since she was a baby. Johnson’s. It still made her pale curls soft as cashmere. Harriet wanted to plunge her face into those locks and breathe it in.

  Billie would hate that.

  ‘Maybe the neighbour took it for a walk,’ Harriet mused. She pushed open the door, but it snagged on something. Hopefully not the dog!

  It was only a gym bag left on the Victorian tiled floor. She glanced at the crammed hooks lining one wall, where a large swelling of coats, jumpers and carrier bags hung. ‘Its lead isn’t here.’

  James came up behind them. ‘Why don’t we say he instead of it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Why he? Why not she?’ Billie whispered back.

  ‘Anything but it. Though Spot’s a boy’s name.’

  ‘A dog’s spots aren’t gendered, Dad.’

  ‘I s’pose not.’

  Harriet turned away so Billie wouldn’t see her expression. Everything with her had to be gender this and gender that. ‘They’re not here, anyway.’ She settled the matter in a normal voice. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Ta,’ said Billie.

  As Harriet picked her way along the hall, she stumbled over a muddy shoe. Dozens more, some muddy, some not, were scattered over the floor. She only righted herself by grabbing hold of a bike that leaned against the wall.

  Sophie hadn’t mentioned that they’d recently moved in. A few of the cardboard packing boxes lining one wall were crushed on top, some split down the side, as if one of the children had sat on them. And they weren’t stacked straight. One was tipped over, its papers spilled out onto the ornate tiles.

  Harriet could feel her chest constrict as she took in the mess. Clutter everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. She took a ragged breath.

  Five boxes. Six, seven, eight-nine-ten-eleven. One short of a dozen. Fewer than the shoes.

  She was vaguely aware of James moving closer. ‘Harr—? Never mind, finish the shoes. How many?’ He was smiling.

  ‘Twenty-seven.’ One missing.

  ‘Come here.’ She exhaled deeply as his arms encircled her. ‘Want to tidy up?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Wow, Mum,’ Billie said, ‘wait till you see the living room. This must be killing you.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  It wasn’t fine. Her eye sought the banister spindles up the stairs. One, two, three, four-five-six-seven …

  She counted them over and over, her mind filling with the numbers, pushing out the chaos around her. She could feel her breathing slowing as her eyes sought each spindle, ticking them off, ordering things. She tore her eyes away from the banister. That was a bit better.

  This wasn’t what she’d imagined, but it would be okay. She had to make it okay. She just needed a change of perspective. She was good at that. Not being in Rome simply meant that their London calendar was an opportunity. A chance to replan everything with her usual efficiency. She worked best with a sense of purpose, a problem to solve. She loved that challenge as much as she loathed looking down the long, long corridor of unplanned days. All those minutes and hours to fill.

  But first, she had some tidying to do. ‘Take the bags into the bedrooms, will you, James? I just want to put a few things away.’ Her hands clenched with the thought of the task ahead.

  It didn’t take that long, really, once Harriet got started.

  She could feel the calm begin to blanket her most soothingly by the time she’d cleared off the table beside the sofa in the big living room. All the papers and pens, crayons, coins and small plastic figures fitted into the drawer. Maybe if she had time later, she’d find out where those figures went. With each item straightened – the lampshade, a picture frame, the scatter cushion – her mind straightened as well. She plucked odd socks, a hairbrush and two eyeliners from crevices between the cushions. More shoes needed pairing and putting out of sight. The coffee table was inches-deep in higgledy-piggledy newspapers, magazines and schoolwork. Much as she’d love to, she couldn’t just chuck it all into the recycling. One of the sideboard cabinets made a good temporary home. Just while they were staying.

  She hummed as she worked her way through the room, then the whole of the downstairs. The secret to any good tidy-up was economy of motion. Why carry one item to its proper place when she could sweep up five or six things along her path? She had no time for all those extra trips back and forth.

  Toast plates and teacups went into one pile for the kitchen. Nail clippers, bath towels and beauty products went into another. Little piles. Nothing pleased her more than those purposeful little piles waiting to be whisked away.

  ‘You’re making judgements about her?’ James asked when she finally threw herself down on the bare sofa. She knew she’d taken hours to finish, but already the details of her frenzy were fading. That’s what happened when she got focused.

  The room was bright with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall front windows. It bathed the cheery pale-yellow walls. Specks of dust still floated in the beams of light from all Harriet’s activity.

  She bristled at James’s question. ‘Who, Sophie? Why blame her when it’s all of their responsibility to keep a house tidy? Honestly, James.’

  Billie gave her father The Stare from t
he overstuffed armchair she’d claimed. ‘Yeah, really, Dad.’

  Then she raised her eyebrows at Harriet’s smile. ‘What? I don’t disagree with everything you say.’

  It only felt like it. Billie had her legs thrown over the side of the chair. Harriet wanted to tell her to sit like a lady, but that would only spoil this rare moment of solidarity. ‘Let’s do something,’ she said instead. ‘Here, I’ve downloaded a top ten list for London.’

  ‘Oh God, Mum, please don’t schedule everything. Can’t we just do whatever?’

  ‘What’s whatever?’ Harriet’s colleagues sometimes tried that on her, too, with their free-form brainstorming meetings. Solicitors should have more sense than to waste time like that.

  Billie was back on her phone. ‘I don’t know. Whatever we want. That’s the whole point of a holiday.’

  ‘Okay. What do you want to do?’

  ‘Whatever I feel like.’

  ‘Which is?’ Sitting there staring at your phone.

  ‘I don’t know right now.’

  ‘God, you’re infuriating,’ Harriet snapped.

  ‘Me?! Hello pot, this is kettle.’ Then she got a strange look. ‘I found Spot, by the way. Upstairs in the far bedroom. Go on, Mum. Go and look.’

  ‘Billie.’ James’s voice held a warning. ‘Darling, don’t freak out.’

  She was halfway up the stairs before James had even stood up. ‘Of course I’m going to freak out when you tell me not to,’ she muttered. She might not like dogs but they shouldn’t be locked up in a bedroom. That didn’t seem like Sophie, but then she’d already been wrong about them once. There’d been no clue at the airport about what slobs they were. How could people with such nice luggage hide toast plates under their sofa, and possibly dogs in their back bedroom?

  Personal feelings aside, she was not about to keep the poor thing in there. ‘Spot? Don’t worry, darling, you can come out.’

  At first when she opened the door, she thought her eyes were playing tricks. The bedroom was suffused with dim red light. Her hand searched for a light switch. It wasn’t even dark outside. They must have blackout curtains on the windows or something. And a room lit like an Amsterdam brothel. What kind of people kept a dog like this?