The Single Mums' Mansion: The bestselling feel-good, laugh out loud rom com

by Janet Hoggarth

  ‘All right, Princess Jacqui! We’re just sleeping here. Chill – we have a balcony. Look, why don’t we go and see what the other room is like next door; it’s open too. It’s on the corner of the building so it might be bigger?’

  ‘Oh, please, can we have that one instead?’

  I’d forgotten that Jacqui never roughed it. This had been her first Easy Jet flight. (‘I only ever turn left, darling.’)

  ‘What do you mean, there’s no free booze?’ she had asked suspiciously when I explained why no one was asking us what we wanted to drink half an hour into the flight. ‘Of course there’s always free booze!’

  ‘Not on Easy Jet!’

  ‘Well, why didn’t we book BA then?’

  ‘Because they were too expensive! We can buy the booze on board.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say that?’ Tragedy averted.

  This new room was about a metre wider, a decent-sized window flooded the slightly larger kitchenette with late afternoon sun. The bathroom was also marginally roomier and boasted a window, so it was less like showering in an airless coffin.

  ‘Oooh, we could swing a cat now.’ Jacqui clapped her hands and sat down on the bed nearest to the floor-to-ceiling metal-framed French windows, the gauzy marine-blue curtains billowing in the breeze.

  ‘Let’s hope no one is actually booked in this room.’

  ‘You snooze, you lose!’

  Agia Efimia was a little seaside village nestled in a natural horse-shoe bay at the foot of black pine-covered mountains and was served by the azure Ionian Sea. I had wanted to visit this island ever since I had read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin eons ago. The story had spoken to me in such a way that I had to reread it three times. I think it was because the heart-breaking pathos linked hands with the unadulterated humour of the main characters in a way that mimicked everyday life for anyone, anywhere, experiencing life in general. Real life, horrific as it can be, always manages to shoehorn in some humour, no matter how small. At Sam and my wedding, his sister read aloud a famous soliloquy from the text, expounding the joys of love and marriage. This pilgrimage felt like I had come almost full circle on my journey to recovery.

  Ali had already booked to go and see her mum in Spain, which had turned into a complete and utter soap opera in itself. A week before the school holidays, I stumbled in from a run, hot and sweaty and starting to feel a lot fitter. I noticed how my thighs no longer chafed and I could fit into my skinny jeans once more. A small victory against the recent events that faded further into the past each day.

  ‘Fuck off, Jim! That’s so below the belt.’

  Ali’s voice was bellowing from the kitchen. She was shouting so loud I actually thought Jim was in there launching insults at her.

  ‘She lost the baby!’ she screamed at full pelt. My ears burned at the words and I tore into the kitchen from the hallway, slamming the door open. Ali was on the phone by the kettle and spun round the second I barged in, killing the call.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked sternly.

  ‘Oh, God, Mands. Fuck.’

  ‘You told Jim about the baby?’

  ‘Yes.’ Indignation showed its colours on her inflamed cheeks.

  ‘Why? It’s none of his business. Who else did you tell?’

  ‘Ursula. Sorry, she was so suspicious at your birthday because you weren’t drinking. She guessed. I just told her so she didn’t start a rumour!’ That now made sense. I had received a lovely card from her after my birthday thanking me for the party and wishing me luck for the rest of my fortieth decade, sure that it was going to be my best. She knew.

  ‘You could have said I had cystitis. That was the official excuse!’

  ‘I know. I forgot in the panic of her questioning me. You know what she’s like!’

  ‘So, when did you tell Jim?’

  ‘It was when I was having the thing with him. I said I might have to move out and we were just talking about me moving back in if we got back together. It wasn’t gossipy. I was just saying it as something that was going to affect me.’

  ‘But you knew I said you could stay. You were just blabbing! He didn’t need to know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. So sorry. He was going to tell Sam you were hiding your pregnancy from him to get more money.’

  ‘What? Why? Was this to get at you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s his way of getting revenge for everything. He wanted Grace to go to Majorca with him and Hattie but I had already booked to take her to see Mum and he wanted me to cancel, even though it’s the one thing Mum’s looking forward to. He also wants to have her one week on, one week off. But won’t actually be there to look after her most of the time. He would be at work! It’s a fucking power trip. He knows the best way to get back at me is through her.’

  ‘Right, enough! Give me your phone.’ I could hear the rushing in my ears, with which I was well-acquainted, heralding a white-knuckle ride.

  ‘No, don’t ring him, please.’

  ‘Give it. I need to talk to him.’ Ali slowly handed over her phone.

  ‘Ah, changed your mind, have you?’ Jim sneered contemptuously.

  ‘Hello, Jim. It’s Amanda.’ Silence. ‘I believe you’re using my misfortune to bully and blackmail Ali into handing over Grace.’

  ‘Oh, Amanda, you know I would never do that. She’s got the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘Just how wrong did she get it? So wrong that you were going to tell Sam I was pregnant when in fact that actually isn’t true. My baby died, Jim. DIED! And you were going to use this information to garner one up over Ali when in fact what you should be looking at here is what is best for Grace. She isn’t a fucking pawn to be pushed and pulled between you.’

  ‘Look, Amanda, I know what you’re saying, but Ali won’t let me have her. I was desperate. I needed to—’

  ‘What you needed to do was think about the fucking ethics behind what you were about to do. A baby DIED. My baby! And over here in this house, I gave a home to your baby when you made her homeless. So, if anyone has any right to give you shit about your treatment of Ali and your ridiculous parental rights, it’s me. Don’t you ever, EVER pull a cowardly stunt like this again or I will come round there and pull your fucking balls right off. I will make life so fucking shit for you that you will wish you never crossed me.’ I handed the phone back to Ali, shaking. She stood before me, now ashen-faced, catching flies with her mouth.

  I pushed open the glass doors, lurching out into the garden, and sank down onto one of the benches.

  ‘Oh my fucking God, Mands. That was amazing. He will be shitting his pants now.’

  ‘Please, can we never speak of this again? I’m unimpressed you told him, and I need a few minutes to calm down.’

  ‘Oh, yes. You have no idea how sorry I am.’

  ‘Do me a favour. Next time when I say don’t tell anyone something, don’t tell them. It will make life so much easier.’

  ‘Would a shot of tequila help?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ali brought out two shot glasses and we downed them silently.

  I remained on the bench for about an hour, watching the birds swoop and glide to and from the lawn like First World War bi-planes executing daring victory rolls. The anger dissipated and I felt bad that I had snapped at Ali. I knew she was a motor-mouth and Sam was bound to find out about the baby some time via Sarah and Will. But he would find out in an innocent way, not someone poisonously flagging up that he could have given me less money because I was deceitful. When I came out of the shower a beautiful blue and white embroidered beach dress was laying on top of my bed. A Post-it note was stuck on it.

  I’m sorry. I love you loads. You do so much for us. Ali and Grace xx

  27

  Eat Chips Drunk

  ‘What are you doing?’ I mumbled still half asleep, hair slicked to my scalp from last night’s oppressive heat. Our air con consisted of opening all the windows and hoping to create a natural wind tunnel. It hadn’t really worked. Jacqui stretched her arms up to the ceiling,
silhouetted against the light streaming in from the balcony windows.

  ‘Yoga.’

  ‘You should have woken me up. I’ve never done yoga.’

  ‘There’s not enough room for both of us.’

  ‘There is outside.’

  Ten minutes later, we stood barefoot on the front lawn, both wearing leggings and vest tops, shaded from the sun by the guesthouse and the surrounding cypress trees.

  ‘Normally I would use a mat, but we’ll have to improvise on the grass. Look out for bugs.’

  Jacqui guided me through one of her typical sequences, my legs trembling holding some of the more challenging postures. Parts of my body that never saw the light of day were being pulled and stretched beyond their comfortable limits.

  ‘Right, now we’re going to come down into Savasana, the corpse pose.’

  I could see someone watching us out of the corner of my eye. They were standing at the top of the steps leading up to the reception. I rolled down to lie straight on my back like Jacqui for the final pose.

  ‘Close your eyes and let everything leave your head, feel the weight of your body on the grass. Let your breath go…’

  I felt myself submit to the uneven ground, my feet flop out to the sides and the sun caress my face as it rounded over the rear of the building, its rays dappling the sharp waxy Mediterranean grass between the shifting shadows of the trees. Crickets hummed in the dense undergrowth and birds tweeted in the cloudless sky. As peace stole over me, I remembered something I had mentioned to Woody ages ago about a holiday in Greece. ‘I want to send all my sadness out to the sea.’ The email link to this little guesthouse had been one of his parting gifts to me.

  Jacqui’s voice snagged me out of my contemplative state and we sat up, bowing whilst cross-legged, wishing each other Namaste.

  ‘Wow, Jacqui. I loved that. My body feels alive. Why aren’t you teaching yoga?’

  ‘Strangely, or rather not so strangely, it’s something I have been thinking about for a while.’

  ‘Why not just do it then?’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess I’ve felt so broken and rubbish for so long that I thought who am I to teach anyone anything.’

  ‘Healer, heal thyself! That’s why I learned Reiki, to help me, but I’ve helped others, too.’

  ‘True. I feel like I need to get today out of the way, and then see how I feel.’

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘Hungry!’

  As we walked lazily back up the steps, the person who had been watching stepped out of the office at the side.

  ‘Good morning! Were you beautiful ladies doing yoga?’ She had a hybrid Greek/American accent and her English was faultless.

  ‘Yes, we were,’ Jacqui answered her.

  She looked a bit older than us, a few more laughter lines etched round her inquisitive brown eyes and dark salt-and-pepper hair piled stylishly into a loose bun on top of her head. Her long black and yellow flowered halter-neck dress was nipped in at the waist, giant silver hoops hung from her ears and her wrists were adorned with a myriad silver bangles that clashed like an irregular simulacrum of the nearby lapping waves every time she moved her arms. She was mesmerising.

  ‘I love yoga, but I have to drive to Assos to do it and I don’t always have the time.’

  ‘If we’re in a state to do it tomorrow, please join us,’ I said, then slipped a furtive sideways glance at Jacqui to check if this was OK. I could tell she was as equally charmed.

  ‘Yes, please do,’ she urged. ‘My name’s Jacqui, and this is Amanda. Are you the owner?’

  ‘I am. Mrs Kourakis,’ and she held out a slender hand for us to shake. I was already in the throes of a girl crush. ‘But please call me Remi. Yoga tomorrow sounds good. What are you up to today?’

  ‘Well, Jacqui’s ex-husband is getting married today and we’re going to have our own anti-wedding party!’ Her inclusiveness already made her feel like a friend.

  ‘What a brilliant idea! I’m also divorced. A bit of a scandal, living here.’

  ‘Me, too!’ I eagerly joined in the party.

  ‘Do you want to come in and have some coffee before you start your day? I just made some.’

  Remi’s sprawling apartment underneath the building had double doors leading onto a secluded garden, hidden away from balconies and prying eyes. I popped my head out and breathed in the redolent herbs planted in deep blue terracotta pots on the rather pleasing stone-flagged patio. At the end, bordering next door’s irregular brick wall, a sizeable vegetable patch bloomed with plump runner beans, potatoes and what looked like fennel and bristly artichokes. The rich russet-coloured soil was obviously dense with vital nutrients, unlike our sodden London clay back home.

  ‘Oh, wow, I love your home,’ Jacqui said breathlessly. ‘Where did you find all the art?’

  The white-washed open-plan living area and kitchen walls were covered with a medley of contrasting canvases. Some were abstract blocks of colour with texture painstakingly ground into them, thick insistent marks tempting you to run fingers over the deep grooves. Some smaller ones bore more figurative paintings of nudes set against brightly coloured backgrounds. The terracotta floors were identical to those in the rooms above, but the furniture was anything but perfunctory. Vibrant glass and wood medicine cabinets stuffed with curiosities from India and possibly Morocco were placed side by side with ornately decoupaged and lacquered dressers that could have hailed from ancient China, upon which gilt-framed photos were displayed, quite a few of the girl from reception yesterday. The two chunky navy-blue sofas invited guests to sit down and squash the motley African print cushions arranged artfully along the back of each one. Mirrors of all sizes were dotted round the walls, reflecting back light, opening up the room even further. I loved the doors of the kitchen cabinets, all coated in dusty blues and reds, with ceramic hand-painted handles. It was my dream décor.

  ‘I painted the canvases,’ Remi admitted modestly.

  ‘You’re an artist?’ I gasped, my crush instantly elevating into stalker-like echelons.

  ‘Well, I try to be, but organising this place is my main job.’

  ‘Do you sell many?’ I asked.

  ‘I do a show in Fiskardo once a year and every few years I hold one in Athens. But people know where to find me, and I have a website. Come, let’s sit in the garden and you can tell me all about yourselves.’

  *

  ‘So, you’re here to wash away your sorrows?’ Remi surmised from our scaled-down tales.

  ‘That would be correct,’ Jacqui laughed, curling her hair round her fingers.

  ‘You’ve come to a lovely place to do it. I came here after my divorce from my ex-husband. We had lived all over – he’s Greek-American and his job meant we travelled. One day he just decided no more. Karys, our daughter, was only eight and I knew I didn’t want to live in America. I’m from here, but Argostoli, the capital, so we returned to stay with my parents while I decided what to do.’

  ‘Oh, how stressful,’ I sympathised. ‘Do you still see him now?’

  ‘Of course. He comes regularly to visit Karys, who is off to university in Athens in September, and she in turn visits him. We make it work.’ I wondered if one day I would reach acceptance of my own circumstances. That kind of peace still felt a little out of my grasp.

  ‘So where do you recommend for our day of excess?’ Jacqui quizzed. ‘We want to sunbathe, eat, drink copious amounts of wine and maybe have a boogie.’

  *

  I woke stiffly curled up in a ball on top of my crusty beach towel, the light teasing my eyes open. The beautiful embroidered dress that Ali had given me was now grey and blue with dubious stains spoiling it. I was still wearing flip flops. My mouth was so dry I had to forcibly peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth, removing a layer of skin cells. I had somehow acquired a twinkly silver ankle chain and a hefty blue-stoned ring on my wedding finger. I dragged myself up to sitting and with relief found Jacqui curled up next to me, her large sunglasses
on, mouth open, dried spittle in one corner. Her nose was sunburned. She also sported a blue ring on her wedding finger.

  The pebble beach had served as a suitably castigatory bed; I rubbed my back as I tried to remember what had happened. It had all started off so civilised when we’d bunkered down in one of the marina bars after a day of eating and sunbathing, but once we’d imbibed that second bottle of wine we flew a little too close to the sun…

  ‘Have you seen those cute boys over at the bar? They keep pointing at us.’

  ‘At you. No one would point at me, unless I’ve revealed one of my apologetically saggy tits by accident.’

  ‘Shut up! Of course people would point at you! You’re amazing.’ I didn’t feel amazing right then. I felt three sheets to the wind and could hear my own voice slurring, so to a casual observer I must have appeared completely wasted. The most recent visit to the loo had also revealed that the beach-proof, waterproof, nuclear-war-proof mascara and eyeliner were in breach of trading standards.

  ‘Oh fuckity fuck, they’re coming over.’

  ‘Where’s the emergency lip gloss?’

  Earlier in the day, Jacqui and I had visited the authentically Greek place Remi had recommended. It was aptly called the Paradise Beach Taverna and overlooked a bucolic little stretch of coast bearing the same name. Paradise Beach wasn’t in breach of anything – a small white pebbled cove lined with weather-beaten olive and fir trees, plaited trunks curling towards the ocean, bleached silver by the unremitting sun.

  Already a bit tipsy after our lunchtime wine, we set up camp near the edge of the sea, thus ensuring navigating the pebble shore for a swim wasn’t akin to an agonising barefoot Lego run.

  ‘I can’t actually believe Simon gets married today. I mean, it doesn’t feel like it. I don’t want to sit and cry. I just want to be here on this stunning beach and swim in the sea, let the ocean hold me and wash away all the crap.’

  ‘Good. Then that’s what we’ll do. I have wanted to send my sadness out to sea for ages. I can Reiki it for us when we’re in the water.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be a clean channel when you do Reiki? You’re a bit pissed. What if you open up a channel into the underworld and sell our souls to the Devil?’