‘Jesus, could you be any louder?’ Billie called out from her room.
Harriet froze. She should have closed the bedroom door, or at least the en-suite door. She made a face at James on the bed. ‘Sorry!’ she called to her daughter. ‘She’s awake,’ she warned James.
‘We’ll be quiet,’ he said.
They both cringed as Harriet sat on the bed. Sophie’s bed frame was one of those old-fashioned brass ones. It sounded like an angry duck.
That was only half the problem. ‘You’re never quiet,’ she reminded him. It wasn’t until she’d seen that programme about mating tortoises that she realised her husband could have done the sound effects. She liked the sound of mating tortoises, as it happened, but Billie would never nod off if she heard that. ‘We’ll have to wait till she’s sleeping.’ His hands went straight for her pants. The mattress quacked. She slapped him away. ‘James, I mean it. Wait.’
They both lay down on their backs. James’s hand found hers.
Billie’s light hadn’t been on, Harriet remembered. She’d go back to sleep soon. Harriet was sleepy herself. She closed her eyes. Too much food. It had been a good night. Like the old days when they still liked each other. That seemed such a long time ago, she thought as she drifted into sleep.
The next morning, Harriet picked up her mobile again, but she couldn’t cancel the appointment. She’d chosen all the right treatments for an absolutely perfect spa day. Besides, she was not the kind of woman who changed her plans for a man. Even when last night was such a good start – until she fell into a margarita slumber – and she was clearly on a roll now and they should probably do something equally fun with their clothes on today. Just to cement things.
But that was a slippery slope. It might start with a single cancelled appointment. The next thing you know, you’re going to lectures on obscure Russian philosophers to improve yourself. All for him.
She was fine the way she was, thank you very much. ‘What are you doing today?’ she asked James when he came into the kitchen for breakfast, wearing stretched-out jogging bottoms and a t-shirt. His thick hair was all squashed on one side and sticking up on the other. ‘I packed more than one thing to sleep in, you know.’
He leaned down to kiss her as if he hadn’t heard. ‘I thought maybe the Transport Museum.’
‘I didn’t know you were fond of buses. I thought tractors were your thing.’
The sticking-up part of his hair waved around when he shook his head. ‘I guess I’ll have to expand my horizons.’
‘Your hair’s all …’ She pointed.
‘Good thing I didn’t accept that invite to the Oscars, then.’
‘Hilarious. Will Billie join you?’
He was opening and closing all the kitchen cabinets. ‘What’s that? Probably not. She didn’t sound interested. Have you seen any painkillers? It’s fine, I don’t mind going on my own.’
She pointed to the open bottle of paracetamol. They’d already started working on her hangover.
‘I couldn’t get her to come to the spa with me either,’ she told him. It would have been such a nice thing for them to do together – just the girls – that Harriet felt sure she’d at least be tempted. ‘What’s Billie going to do then?’
He shrugged. ‘Ask her.’
She hated it when he got practical like that. ‘She always says dunno.’
‘Maybe she does dunno.’
‘Maybe she’s wasting her life on that damn phone. She needs to be with real people, James, not looking at a screen.’
He circled his arms around her as she sat on one of Sophie’s stools. She leaned her head back against his chest. She stayed like that even though his t-shirt needed a wash. ‘She is usually with real people,’ he said. ‘Who do you think she’s on her phone to? That’s what kids do now. We talked on the phone at that age, too, remember, way back when?’
‘They’re not talking, though. They’re Instagramming pictures of their breakfasts. How do we even know who’s at the other end? It could be some forty-year-old perv and we’d have no idea. His Facebook picture is probably a unicorn.’
‘Nobody’s on Facebook any more,’ James said.
‘Oh, so you know all about social media now?’ He didn’t even Instagram his own goats. He got Marion to do it. Probably their breakfasts, too.
‘Want some coffee?’ he asked.
‘No. I want to know who our daughter is talking to.’
‘Ask her.’
Like it was that easy.
Chapter 12
Thursday
Sophie did a double take. It was James, right there on the high street! She was sure she recognised his big frame and wild hair, even all the way across the road. She glanced at her phone. Only twenty-five minutes till her treatment. She wouldn’t have enough time to go with him to the house and then back. Then there’d be a chat and tea, and she’d definitely miss her appointment.
Why hadn’t he rung first? Dan was locked up in his office. James’s office. Would he mind Dan using it? She should ring to warn him. But he’d be cross at being disturbed.
She had a better idea. She could have a chat with him in the village and save him a trip to the farm. Then Dan wouldn’t need to be interrupted. Good plan, Soph.
She waved to catch James’s attention, but he was staring down the road. She’d just started to cross over to see him when his face broke into a grin. He still wasn’t looking at her, though. His smile was for the woman hurrying his way. She was tall, trouser-suited and very, very sleek. She could have come fresh from a spa treatment herself. She was that kind of glowy.
Sophie’s greeting died on her lips when the woman wrapped her arms around James. She crept back onto the pavement, turning her face away. The village green might be between them, but still. Not that they’d probably notice her. They were too absorbed in each other as they walked together to a little convertible parked further along. James folded himself into the front seat and they sped off.
How odd, she thought as she looked for the shop that she’d noticed the other day. Harriet hadn’t mentioned anything about James coming to visit. But then she, Sophie, hadn’t told Harriet anything about Dan’s activities, either.
She gazed into another shop window. Books, this time. Nice, but not what she was after.
Harriet and Sophie had hardly talked about Dan or the children. Or James or Billie for that matter. Harriet’s questions, she realised, were always about her, not her as a mum or a wife. In real life, whenever she did manage to snatch conversations, usually with other mums on the chauffeuring circuit, talk swirled around the school-children-partner vortex. It was even worse when Oliver and Katie had been babies. Then, she did meet up with others from her NCT group, playgroup and nursery, yet she had felt like one more formula debate or cracked nipple description might tip her over the edge.
Talking to Harriet was different. Dan didn’t get any of Harriet’s time. Neither did the children. Sophie liked not having to share. Harriet felt almost like a proper friend, the kind she used to have.
Glancing into another window, she caught herself smiling.
Then, towards the top of the high street, Sophie found the shop she wanted. Its front window was festooned with bunting and sparkling crockery, interesting-looking books, pretty ceramic egg cups and homely jams. It was the needlepoint cushion that had first caught her eye. Stressed Spelled Backwards is Desserts. She’d buy it for Harriet as a thank you present.
‘Hello again!’ called out the woman sitting behind the till.
It took Sophie a moment to place her. It was Delia from the deli. ‘Oh, hello, I didn’t recognise you without the apron.’
Her smooth dark hair might be swept into the same up-do and the flick of her liquid liner as bold and perfect as the other day but here, surrounded by etched martini glasses, funky butter dishes and shiny silk robes, she looked more like a 1960s party hostess than a celebrity chef. Context was all.
Delia stood, pulling at the bustline of her very fi
tted jumper. ‘I’m a woman of many talents.’
Delia’s many talents were clearly on display but, glancing around the shop, Sophie didn’t see any more of the cushions. That figured. She didn’t want Delia going to the bother of getting it out of the window before she knew the price. There was probably only so much demand in a village this size for dust mop slippers and ceramic ducks. Maybe she charged a fortune for everything. Or what if it was some kind of rare Cotswold needlepoint technique that was too dear? Then she’d have to buy it anyway.
The front door slammed open just as Delia was reaching into the display for the cushion. ‘Mum! I need change.’ The young woman’s eyes widened when she saw Sophie. ‘Sorry.’ With the same eyeliner flick as her mother, her giant eyes looked like they’d been filtered through Katie’s Snapchat account.
‘Mind, Becca!’ Delia handed Sophie the cushion. Luckily there was a faded sticker on the back. It wouldn’t cost the earth.
‘How much do you need?’ Delia asked her daughter. ‘Because I haven’t got a lot of change.’ She looked at Sophie. ‘Will that be card?’
Sophie slipped the twenty-pound note back into her pocket. ‘I can pay by card if it helps.’
The card machine wasn’t as interested in making Delia’s life as easy as Sophie was. ‘Let me just try it in another minute,’ Delia said, holding the little machine in the air. ‘The network gets fiddly.’
‘It’s just that I need to be at the spa soon.’ She glanced at the loudly ticking wall clock.
‘Another treatment?’ Delia squinted through her acid-green reading glasses at the tiny screen. ‘It’s connecting now. That’s progress. It was a snail facial you had, wasn’t it?’
‘Killed one, did you?’ Becca said. ‘Creamed ’im, I heard.’
‘Becca, manners.’
Word got around fast. Sophie felt her face bloom red. ‘By accident!’
‘She threw ’im at the wall.’ Becca’s stare wasn’t rude, though it was direct. ‘Slime everywhere. Molly slipped in it.’
‘I didn’t throw him!’ Sophie protested. ‘It was just a natural reaction. It wasn’t that messy.’
‘Tell that to the snails.’
Delia ignored her daughter. ‘Too right, love,’ Delia consoled Sophie. ‘Letting garden pests on your face. Don’t blame you. Ah, it’s gone through now. Wait and I’ll give you a receipt.’
‘No need!’ Sophie thanked her and fled the shop.
She was flustered and puffing when she turned up at the spa. ‘I’m sorry I’m late! The card machine over the road wasn’t working.’
‘That’s okay.’ When Molly whispered, Sophie could feel herself calming down. It was okay. It would be okay.
‘Do you want to know about the treatment today?’ Molly asked. She didn’t seem to be holding a grudge about yesterday.
‘As long as no live animals are involved, I don’t need to know.’ They probably wouldn’t let her within ten feet of so much as a pot plant.
Molly led her to their usual massage room. ‘You’ll want to be completely undressed today,’ Molly murmured, holding out the paper pants. ‘But keep your robe on. I’ll be back when you’ve changed.’
Sophie was in position on the massage table with her face in the hole when Molly came back in. It was a bit uncomfortable with the double knot of her robe digging into her tummy. ‘Come with me, please,’ said Molly. ‘We’re changing rooms.’
Awkwardly, trying to keep her robe closed, she climbed off the table and followed Molly.
When Molly opened the door at the end of the corridor, Sophie walked into a wall of heat. The sauna was lit only by a single red light in the ceiling, but she could just make out that everything was panelled in pale wood. And it was about seven hundred degrees. Sophie could feel her actual hair sweating.
‘Aren’t you going to boil in that?’ she asked Molly. Then she worried that that sounded like the start of a porn film. Especially in a sauna. Bom-chicka-wow-wow.
Molly glanced down at her tunic. ‘I’m fine,’ she whispered. ‘If you want to take off your robe?’
Sophie was already pulling at the belt. Nudity-schmoodity. She could die in here.
Lying on the wooden bench and trying not to think of all the sweaty bodies who’d been there before her, she positioned the (too small in her opinion) towel over her behind as best she could.
It took about ten seconds for her boobs to start sweating. That bench would look like the Shroud of Turin with nipples by the time she got up.
She’d heard of sweaty yoga – which sounded like a circle of hell beyond exercise – but never sweaty massage.
She waited for Molly to drip the oil on her back, but all she heard was rustling. Then the wet hiss of water being poured on hot coals. Oh great, more heat.
She waited. Molly rustled. Sweet wrappers? Probably too good to be true. Something paper, then. Maybe it was an origami massage. That was Japanese, too, she thought, like the snails.
She was about to be rubbed with paper cranes.
Thwack!
What the …?
Molly took aim again. Thwack! Something decidedly twiggy poked her arm on that round. She twisted her head around for a look.
Molly shook handfuls of thick green foliage at her. ‘Relax,’ she cooed.
Fat chance of that when someone was swinging garden clippings at her naked body. ‘What is this?’
‘It’s a banya massage from Russia. It stimulates the circulatory system.’
Not to mention that she’d leave smelling like she’d just strimmed the lawn. Suddenly the comment from the village’s own Mrs Thatcher made sense. ‘Sticks and stones will break my bones,’ she’d told her at the butcher’s shop. Sophie hoped not.
Thwack! For such a gentle-sounding girl, Molly must have a lot of pent-up anger. Sophie wasn’t sure her masseuse had read the whole instruction booklet on this technique. Maybe it was in Russian. Surely it wasn’t supposed to hurt.
She stifled a giggle. She was paying for this! Well, Dan was paying for this.
No, Soph, she thought as another thwack made her jump. You’re paying for this. That would take time to get used to, but Harriet had been perfectly right. She’d earned this. For better or worse.
By the time Molly had exhausted her branches, Sophie was feeling something close to relaxed. Light-headed, anyway, from the heat.
‘Maybe something a little gentler next time,’ she told Molly.
Back outside, Molly scanned the appointment book. ‘Tomorrow will be perfect for you. Do you want me to tell you?’
Even with the garden theme that was emerging at the spa, she was still enjoying the adventure of not knowing what came next. That just showed how little adventure she’d had lately, she supposed. Oh, Dan sometimes sprang a night out on her, and she did love those, but she had to face facts. She got excited when the café round the corner put a new cake on the menu.
This week had been different. For once, the journey seemed like hers.
Take the walks back from the village. She didn’t have to pick anyone up from practice or lessons or do the shopping or cooking that was inevitably wrong anyway. Nobody was depending on her. The laundry mountain was back in London.
She hadn’t felt this light in years. She hoped it wouldn’t be years before she did so again.
Sophie went home, crawled into bed and had a nap.
Before this week, she hadn’t done that in years, either.
She had no idea what time it was when Oliver stuck his face inches from hers. ‘Mum? Mum! Someone’s here.’
The light streaming through the bedroom windows was still bright. She mustn’t have been asleep for long. ‘Who is it?’
‘A lady with flowers. Dad’s not here.’
‘Where is he?’ Flowers for her? Dan could be sweet sometimes. He was probably sorry about having to work so much. That was the kind of gesture he loved.
‘He’s gone for a run,’ said Oliver. ‘He wouldn’t let me go, even though I can keep up.’
<
br /> Sophie hated hearing the hurt in Oliver’s voice. He idolised his dad. ‘Of course you could, darling. Dad just wants some time alone.’
Didn’t they all? She could have slept for hours more. ‘Tell the lady I’ll be down.’
Checking in the mirror, her face was a little creased from the pillow, but at least it wasn’t beetroot red from the sauna any more. She smoothed her hair and straightened her dress.
It wasn’t a thoughtful bouquet from Dan, though. It wasn’t a bouquet from anyone, but a middle-aged woman pulling boxes from the back of a van painted all over with brightly coloured daisies. Her thin arms, sticking out from her faded sleeveless cotton blouse, flexed as she carefully lifted each box.
‘Hello? Can I help you?’ Though it looked like more arm exercises.
The woman hesitated when she looked up. ‘Thank you. Is Mrs Cooper not in?’
‘No, she’s on holiday. We’re staying in the house while they’re away.’ This woman must not be from the village, because everyone there already knew that, and a lot more besides.
‘These are all the jars,’ the woman explained. ‘Where would you like them?’
Ah, the fundraiser. At least she wasn’t going to dump them on the grass like the other delivery person had done with the tables. ‘In the barn, please, but I’ll help you. Those, too?’ They both looked at the paper-wrapped bunches of flowers sticking out of wooden frames on the floor.
‘Isn’t it a bit early for the flowers?’ Sophie asked as she held out her arms for the first batch.
The woman shook her head, explaining that they always delivered at least forty-eight hours before an event so they’d have a chance to open.
‘But the event isn’t till next weekend.’ In other words, after they’d gone back to London.
‘Mmm, no.’ The woman pulled the order sheet from her jeans pocket. ‘This Sunday. Look, the note says right here.’
‘But that’s three days away!’ Sophie cried.
‘You don’t have to worry. They’ll open in time. They’ll be perfect.’
That was not what Sophie was worried about. She didn’t give a toss about whether they’d be perfect, or even if they’d open, frankly. She cared that hordes of Boy Scouts were about to overrun her holiday.
The Staycation: This summer's hilarious tale of heartwarming friendship, fraught families and happy ever afters Page 12