She hesitated. Only for a second, but it was enough.
‘Come on, Em,’ he persisted. ‘You know it makes sense. My darling Emma.’ He was still kneeling in front of her, blocking the television screen. ‘I’ve asked you before but I’m doing it again. Will you do me the honour of being my wife?’
Just at that moment, there was a shout from the bedroom. ‘Mum? Mum!’
‘You see,’ said Tom exultantly. ‘Our son wants us to get married.’ He squeezed her hand, trying to stop her as she leaped to her feet to check Gawain was all right. ‘We owe it to our children, Em. We owe it to them to provide a stable life with married parents.’
But we can do that without being married, she wanted to say. Yet she could still taste the fear of a few minutes ago when she’d thought he was going to finish with her. Maybe, if this was so important to Tom, she should go along with it.
‘Mrs Walker, Mrs Walker! I’ve finished!’
The shrill little voice cut into her thoughts, bringing Emma back to the present. It was the poppet from Year One with buck teeth and glasses. Every day, the child insisted on sitting on her own, away from the other girls who were all chatting away like gossipy old women at the small red plastic tables and chairs. Poor little mite!
‘Finished?’ she repeated, kneeling down next to her. ‘I don’t think so. Look, if we move this piece of pasta next to this slice of tomato, it makes a face, doesn’t it? Try eating the nose. That’s right! What’s that like?’
The little girl put her head to one side, considering. ‘OK.’
Getting children to eat was a bit like horse whispering. You had to get them to think it was their idea. ‘Now, how about taking a little nibble out of pasta man’s ear?’
Somehow, Emma succeeded in encouraging the child to almost finish the plate and felt a little thrill of satisfaction.
How she loved her job! It had been Bernie who’d suggested she went for it when Gawain had started pre-school next door. Bernie was already working there herself, and she’d pointed out the notice, pinned on the board where they queued up to drop off and pick up the children. ‘It’s quite hard work but we have a laugh,’ Bernie had assured her.
It had been a lifesaver. The supermarket hadn’t wanted her any more when she’d tried to cut her hours down after Willow was born and she needed to do something, especially with the mortgage. She and Tom had been saving up for years for their own place; after all, they couldn’t live with Mum for ever.
Then, six months ago, they’d actually got one of those special deals with a housing association. It wasn’t a big place: just two small bedrooms, a galley kitchen where you rubbed shoulders, an L-shaped lounge and a garden just big enough for Gawain to ride his trike.
As Tom said, it might swallow up most of their monthly incomings, but at least they had a place of their own. Much as she loved her mum, it hadn’t been great, sharing a kitchen and bathroom. And, as she’d tried to reassure her mother, they were only round the corner.
Even so, the mortgage meant Tom had to do overtime at the garage. The dinner lady job helped a bit, but the best thing about it, to be honest, was that she hadn’t so much found a job as discovered a vocation.
‘See you’ve worked your magic again,’ remarked Bernie when she left her place at the kitchen counter to help Emma and the other two mealtime assistants clear up while the children shot off to the playground, accompanied by the duty leaders. ‘Little Miss Buck Teeth almost cleared her plate. That’s a first.’
Emma didn’t care for expressions like ‘buck teeth’. Her own had a funny little gap in the middle; Tom declared it ‘endearing’ but she hated it. That was something she’d have liked to have had fixed before the wedding, even though it was impossible. For a start it was too expensive. And secondly, there was only a week to go.
‘Have you got a second?’ asked Bernie as Emma reached for her cardi to go home. ‘Only the girls and I wanted to have a bit of a word.’
Her friend led her through to the back of the kitchen where the dishwasher was buzzing merrily. The surfaces were spotless and the smell of antiseptic just about took away the smell of sausages and broccoli. Emma’s stomach was beginning to rumble. All she wanted was to collect Gawain and Willow and get back home for a crispbread and cottage cheese – part of the pre-wedding diet she’d been on for months now but which still hadn’t made much difference.
Nor had the famous Winston King’s breakfast television workout, which she’d tried to do while dishing out breakfast at the same time.
‘We’ve got a little present for you,’ said Bernie excitedly, handing her a white envelope. ‘It’s not just from the girls. The teachers contributed too. In fact, it was Gemma Balls’ idea.’
How kind, thought Emma as she ripped open the envelope. It was typical of Gemma Balls to organise a collection. She was so nice. And bright too. Exactly the kind of person that Emma admired. Even now, she still felt a bit cheated when she thought about her old dreams of being a teacher.
She pulled out the piece of card from the envelope. It didn’t look like an ordinary voucher for Boots or Marks & Spencer. This one had a picture of a beautiful little house with red and purple flowers growing up the outside with a stunning blue sky behind and a beach running down to the sea.
One week at the Villa Rosa in private cottage, said the lettering below. Breakfast and dinner included.
There was a photograph too of a pretty blonde woman, standing on a balcony holding a glass of wine. Co-owner Rosie Harrison will look after your every need.
Emma looked up at Bernie. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s a honeymoon!’ Her friend’s eyes were sparkling with the excitement of giving someone something really nice. ‘I knew you didn’t have one planned. That was why I was trying to get you on the wrong track earlier when I asked if you were going away.’
Emma was still trying to take this in. ‘But the children …’
‘We’ve got it sorted. Your mum’s going to have Willow and Gawain.’ Bernie was almost jumping up and down now like the little boy in Year Three who went hyper at the whiff of an additive. ‘We talked to Tom about it first, of course, and he thought it was a great idea. He also confirmed you had a passport. See? We’ve thought of everything.’
He should have told her first, Emma thought. This wasn’t the sort of thing you could spring on someone. A cold feeling of panic wrapped itself round her chest. She’d never left Willow and Gawain before. How could she do so now? ‘Your mum will cope,’ said Bernie as if reading her mind. ‘It will do you and Tom good to go away together. He said you’ve never once had a break without the children.’
True. But that was because she’d become as dependent on them as they had on her.
‘Honeymoons are so expensive,’ she blurted.
Bernie looked smug. ‘That’s the beauty of it. The villa belongs to a friend of Gemma Balls who lives in Greece. The school secretary gave me the number.’ She glanced at the picture. ‘Posh, isn’t it?’
Her eyes sparkled as though she was going herself. ‘You’re going to love it, Em! You’ve got your own cottage that’s in the grounds, and in the evening, the owner cooks a meal on this gorgeous terrace overlooking olive trees so everyone can eat together if they want.’ She gave Emma a knowing wink. ‘Or they can have a bit of privacy, if you get what I mean.’
There was a silence during which Emma tried to think of the right words. Greece? Abroad? She’d never flown before: when she and Tom had gone to Paris, it had been on Eurostar. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’ asked one of the other meal assistants sharply.
Swiftly she tried to gather herself. They’d all saved up for this. Gone without. Just for her. It was incredibly kind of them.
‘I’m stunned.’ Quickly she hugged Bernie and then the other two. ‘It’s an amazing present. Thank you so much.’
TV FITNESS STAR SET TO MARRY DIVORCED MOTHER OF TWO IN WHIRLWIND ROMANCE!
Charisma magazine exclusive
Chapter T
wo
WINSTON
Everything was planned, his assistant Poppy had assured him. Yes. Privacy was top priority. Details had already been ‘leaked’ to the press about the wedding taking place in Antigua or the Maldives, depending on which gossip column you read. Photographers were, even as they spoke, frantically booking rooms at local hotels in a bid to get the best spot.
But only five people in the world knew where Winston and Melissa were really going. He and his bride; Poppy (who had arranged the decoys plus the real booking); his agent; and Melissa’s ex, Marvyn damn him. In case of emergency, since he was looking after the kids.
‘Just one thing,’ Poppy added, one of her immaculately manicured fingers poised over her iPad. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to do an exclusive with the Globe? It’s a very good deal and I’ve got a contact there who’s promised copy approval, even though it’s not officially allowed. So if there’s anything you don’t like, you can take it out before they go to press.’
Winston King drew himself up to his full six foot seven inches and gave his assistant the look he reserved for anyone who had stepped seriously out of line. It was a stance he had mastered in the Royal Marines, where it had been drummed into them that it wasn’t just physique that you needed for the job. It was attitude too. And intelligence.
‘I’ve told you,’ he said, in a voice which journalists had described as a Russell Crowe growl or a James Bond seductive whisper, depending on his mood. ‘Melissa and I want complete and utter privacy. Especially on our honeymoon. We don’t want to end up on a front cover.’
‘Sure. Simply checking.’ She gave a patronising shrug. ‘And by the way, they call it a mini-moon if it’s less than a fortnight. At least, that’s what Charisma magazine says.’
Poppy gave another glance at the iPad. ‘Mini-moons are either for people who can’t afford a longer one or for really busy couples.’
Was that so? Still, a week was enough, wasn’t it? Melissa didn’t want to leave the kids for longer and he had his programme to get back to. Besides, it was all arranged, and when Winston made up his mind to do something, he never backtracked. It was part of his make-up; a birthright passed on by his haughty West Indian grandmother, who had insisted that nothing was out of his reach. Not even the elite public boys’ school she had sent him to when his parents had died, a historical institution where he could so easily have sunk, instead of swum, were it not for his intimidating height, his strangely attractive bald head (a result of falling out of a tree at ten), and his sporting abilities.
‘What if someone needs to know where you are?’ asked Poppy, picking up her iPhone. It was amazing how people couldn’t seem to function unless they were ringing or texting or emailing. Danger to them was a poor audience rating or a broken fingernail – not a burned out body on the field and the roar of gunfire.
Calm down, calm down.
Winston selected a clove of garlic from the dish in front of him and chewed it carefully. A clove a day kept you in tip-top condition; it was a tip on his website. But clean your teeth afterwards, especially if planning close contact with someone!
‘Need to know where we are?’ he repeated. ‘Simply tell them we’re incommunicado.’ Forcing himself, he gave Poppy one of his brilliant smiles that the camera loved so much. ‘And by the way, I won’t always have my mobile on.’
Her eyes flickered. ‘But what if I need you urgently?’
Winston took a swig of warm water with a slice of lemon and grated ginger. Fantastic for the circulation. Another tip on his website.
‘Poppy, if I was in a coma, would you be able to ask me something important?’
‘No, but …’
He felt his smile growing tight. ‘Remember? No buts. Just toned butts.’
That was another of his Work Out With Winston slogans. The audience loved them.
If someone had told him a few years ago that he was going to have his very own breakfast television show, advising the nation how to tone up their pecs and abs and the rest, he’d have laughed in their face. He was a Royal Marine, not a fitness clown. Or at least, he had been a Green Beret until signing his release papers, just after his thirty-fifth birthday, when the horrors of war had finally got to him.
Block it out, Winston told himself fiercely. It was the only way to survive.
After getting out, he’d met up with a former batch mate who was working as a fitness instructor for an exclusive health club in London. ‘You ought to do the same, mate,’ said the man, who was more of a colleague than a friend. Winston didn’t do friends; it wasn’t good to let someone get too close. His parents’ early death had taught him that. ‘The money’s great, and you won’t believe the celebrities I come across. There’s …’
But Winston wasn’t bothered about big names. It was a job he needed. Something regular that could help him obliterate the images that had been indelibly stamped on his mind over the years. So many stories, so many lives, some of which he’d been able to save and others where it had been impossible. The little girl desperately screaming at him for help, before the sniper’s crack felled her to the dusty ground. The burning shack where he had instructed his men to stay outside while, ignoring his own safety, he had stumbled in to drag out a woman screaming for her children. The kid with one leg who followed them around, pleading with them to take him home. ‘UK good place. This bad.’ The screaming masses who spat at them, who blew up the tanks, who would cut their throats if they could – and did.
Not to mention Nick. Always Nick. Sitting on his shoulder. Cemented into his memories.
Initially, when he’d returned to the UK, Winston had still expected someone to take a potshot at him. It took every ounce of strength not to jump if a car backfired or a siren screamed in his ear. At times, he loathed London with its crowds and shop windows full of clothes and unnecessary stuff for the house, with crazy price tags. How he despised all those self-centred people, obsessed with buying things to make themselves ‘happy’ when there was a whole world out there, just trying to survive.
At other times, he marvelled at the beautiful buildings; the art galleries (he was particularly fond of the Royal Academy, where his grandmother used to take him during school holidays); and the parks.
As luck would have it, his physical instructor friend broke a leg the week after their conversation. ‘Any chance of you taking over for me, King? I don’t want them to get anyone else in case I lose the job altogether. It’s only for six weeks, but it will give you experience.’
Winston was grateful for the tailor-made opportunity. Luckily for him, the gym was only half an hour away from the two-bedroom flat in Kensal Rise he’d bought using his grandmother’s legacy, which gave him just enough space between work and home. Winston had had enough of living on the job. Some men, when they left the Royal Marines, missed the noise and banter of everyone around them.
After Nick, he just wanted peace.
Rather to his surprise, Winston took to his new life like a duck to water. ‘You’re doing well,’ said his supervisor after one particularly demanding overweight woman had told him that Winston was a ‘real asset’. ‘Keep going like this and you could stay on if you want.’
‘Not if it means kicking my mate out of his job,’ he retorted, fixing the bloke with what his mates used to call ‘His Majesty Look’. ‘But I’d appreciate a reference.’
He got it. Four weeks later, he moved on to another gym where he was equally successful. There were even more celebrities here, although to Winston, each client was the same.
‘Would you consider private sessions at my house?’ one of his clients, whose agency had instructed her to lose a stone before the next film, had asked. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
She named a figure that stunned him. Why not? Even though his grandmother had left him enough money to buy the Kensal Rise flat, he still needed an income. Besides, it wasn’t as though he had a girlfriend to moan about him working all hours. And it helped to block out everything else.
It was at this actress’s house that he got his big break. By chance (his grandmother always used to say he was lucky), a TV producer friend called round with a script. ‘We could do with someone like you,’ he said, eyeing Winston in his black lycra leggings and bare chest. ‘Ex-Marines, you say?’
‘Royal Marines,’ Winston had replied, gritting his teeth.
‘How old, if you don’t mind me asking?’ The producer sucked in his breath at the reply. ‘Might get away with it. Take my card. Give me a ring.’
Quite how it happened so fast, Winston wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the television world worked very differently from anything he’d known before. If he’d still been in the corps, he’d be doing his morning pyhs (the name for the gruelling dawn workout) and then heading for morning prayers (the daily briefings) before going out on ops (operations).
Instead, here he was under the hot studio spotlights, doing a five-minute stint every morning on breakfast television. He earned more in a month than he’d done in a year. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up like the Londoners he’d loathed when he’d first come here. To ease his conscience, Winston made some substantial donations to the Royal Marine Benevolent Fund.
Meanwhile, the nation loved him and the emails were pouring in, praising the lithe Marine – he was always having to add the Royal bit – who appealed to everyone from teens to grans. All the nationals wanted to interview this rising star who insisted on cycling instead of using the studio car. Even Charisma, not to mention The Times and Tatler.
‘You’ve got to do it,’ squealed the producer when Work Out With Winston became so popular it was offered its own half-hour slot. So he did, making sure that he only allowed the interviewers to get so far before pulling the covers over his personal life.
Then one day he came into the studio to find a different make-up artist from the usual jolly, grandmotherly Carole. Winston took one look at the gorgeous woman waiting for him and suddenly found it hard to breathe.
After the Honeymoon Page 2