What did her son see in this girl? wondered Rosie exasperatedly as Winston pulled up in the school car park. Still, parents couldn’t choose their children’s friends, could they? Just for a minute, she thought of Dad and his reaction to Winston. Maybe it wasn’t easy for any generation.
‘You’re here!’ squealed one of Gemma’s little boys, running towards her clutching a torch and wrapped up in a woolly hat and gloves. It was difficult to tell which one of Gemma’s lot he was in the dark, but Gemma was close behind. She watched those three like a hawk.
‘Come and have a mulled wine,’ said her friend, grabbing her by the arm. Rosie looked back at Jack, who was holding hands with Alice and heading off towards a group of teenagers. Both Winston and Melissa had melted into the crowd, no doubt relieved to be free of their pick-up duty.
‘It’s been so weird without Jack,’ said Rosie wistfully as she watched Gemma juggle her children with ‘Not another drink!’ and ‘Hold my hand!’ and ‘Not near the bonfire!’.
‘I can imagine.’ Gemma clucked sympathetically. ‘Any chance he might go down and see his grandad again?’
‘No way. Jack’s furious with him.’
‘You can see why. I remember when—’
‘Mummy, I need a wee-wee.’
Gemma groaned. ‘Why is it that you can’t have a conversation for more than one minute without someone wanting to join in?’ But she said it in a laughing way rather than an irritated one. ‘Can you hang on to these two for me? I won’t be long.’
Rosie took a small warm hand in each of hers. She would have liked more than one child … Still, she was lucky to have Jack.
‘Hi. Are you new here?’
She looked up to see a rather good-looking, shortish man hovering nervously nearby. He was holding hands with a small girl with long blond plaits and a pink fluffy coat.
‘My name’s Matthew. This is my daughter Lottie.’ Then he glanced down at the boys. ‘Which class are yours in?’
Rosie laughed awkwardly. ‘Actually, they belong to Gemma and Joe Balls.’ She looked across at the bonfire where her own son was chatting to some other teenagers. It hadn’t taken him long to make friends, she observed with a mixture of admiration and hurt. ‘My boy is nearly sixteen. He’s over there.’
‘With your husband?’
Was she imagining it, or was this kindly-faced man chatting her up? ‘Actually, I’ve never had one.’
It felt curiously liberating to tell the truth after years of pretending to be a widow in Greece.
The man was looking really keen now. ‘I’m a widower and … yes, Lottie. What is it?’
The girl was tugging at his hand impatiently. ‘I want a burger from the stall over there.’
‘Of course, princess.’ He gave her a regretful look. ‘Maybe see you around later?’
Rosie nodded just as Gemma came rushing back. ‘Sorry. There was quite a queue. Was that our Matthew I just saw? Chatted you up, did he? Poor man is always looking for a wife. He did have someone – a lovely woman who went back to Canada – but now he’s really lonely.’ Then Gemma stopped as though an idea had just occurred to her. ‘Actually—’
Rosie cut in before she could speak. ‘Don’t even think about matchmaking. My life is complicated enough as it is.’
The boys were still hanging on to her hands. ‘We want a sausage! We want a sausage!’
They were so sweet! ‘I’ll take them,’ Rosie offered. Feeling pleased to have a job, she made her way to the burger stall. There was a long queue. ‘There’s another over there,’ said someone. So there was.
‘Don’t let go,’ she instructed the boys as she threaded her way through the crowds. ‘Is Daddy coming too?’ she heard a little boy asking his mum. ‘I don’t know, Gawain,’ said a blonde woman, who also had a pushchair in tow.
Wasn’t that Emma, the bride from last summer? But before she could say hello, a particularly bright firework lit up the sky, casting a great umbrella of light over the whole playing field. It only lasted for a few seconds but it was enough to make Rosie gasp.
Not because it was so beautiful – because it was, with its pink trails entwined with blue and silver rain – but because of what it had revealed.
Melissa. At the edge of the car park. Tall, beautiful Melissa, with a man’s arms around her.
Someone who – she could almost swear – wasn’t Winston.
But before she could even take in the implications, her phone rang. Greco. Greco?
‘It is me. I am ’ere.’
The noise around her was so loud that Rosie could hardly hear. ‘Can you say that again?’
‘It is me. Greco. I am in England.’
This time, there was no mistake. ‘Why? Where?’
‘To see you, my Rosie. But there is problem. Big problem. The police, they have got me.’
A chill passed through her as she clung on to the boys, who were beginning to wriggle madly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Eet is complicated. Please come and help me, Rosie. Quick.’
HONEYMOON HOMILY
If a husband suggests a second honeymoon, he’s probably having an affair.
If a wife suggests a second honeymoon, she’s probably not getting any sex.
Anonymous
Chapter Thirty-Six
WINSTON
Winston was looking for Melissa in the bonfire crowd – where on earth was she? – when he caught sight of a distressed Rosie stumbling towards him, with a small boy in each hand. ‘Have you seen Gemma? I need to find her urgently to give these two back.’
Instantly he knew something was wrong. Her eyes were wild and a tendril of blond hair had escaped from under her pink woolly hat which he almost felt like pushing back for her. ‘Greco has just rung. He’s in trouble.’
Greco! The name took Winston back to those hot, heady days of the honeymoon. Melissa had been more loving then, although he should have seen the signs when the children had arrived – signs which had been confirmed since he’d moved in to Corrywood. He was never going to be part of this family. They had made their roots long before he had come into their lives. It was a losing battle.
‘What’s wrong with Greco?’ Winston asked reluctantly. He hadn’t cared for the man then, and there was no reason to change his mind.
But perhaps, he thought, looking at Rosie, who really was rather lovely in a completely different way from Melissa, he was ever so slightly jealous … It didn’t seem right that this Greco had seen more of his own son over the years than he had. Or that he now had the girl whom he, Winston, had fallen in love with so long ago.
‘He’s been held at Customs,’ Rosie was babbling in distress. ‘Something about being given something without him realising.’
That old chestnut! Winston let out a groan. ‘Drugs?’
Rosie shook her head vehemently. ‘Greco doesn’t do that sort of stuff.’
How often had he heard that before?
‘He wants me to go there. To Heathrow.’ Rosie was gasping now. ‘But I don’t know how at this time of night.’
‘I’ll take you,’ he heard himself say. ‘I know a good lawyer, too. We can ring on the way.’
‘There you are!’ Gemma came rushing up, her face etched with concern. ‘You weren’t where I left you. I’ve been looking for the children everywhere.’
She sounded cross, Winston noticed. ‘I’m sorry.’ Rosie was crying and Winston felt hurt on her behalf. Couldn’t her friend see something was up? ‘I was looking for you too. I’ve had a call and …’
He’d leave them to it while Rosie explained. Besides, before he could take her anywhere, he needed to find Melissa and fill her in on what was happening. She must be somewhere, he told himself, threading through the crowd round the bonfire. Ah! There was Alice. Holding hands with Jack.
‘Seen Mum anywhere?’ he demanded, shouting above the noise around them.
A firework flew overhead with a hissing sound, lighting up her face. He could see the girl smirking. ‘She
’s talking to Dad.’
Really? He hadn’t known Marvyn was here. ‘Tell her I’ve had to take someone somewhere as an emergency,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll ring her. OK?’
If Winston was forced to admit to a weakness, he’d have said cars and bikes. The latter was great for getting about town, but after Work Out With Winston had taken off, he’d also treated himself to an Audi convertible. Its four-wheel drive was brilliant in weather like this and it gathered speed smoothly. It felt as though he was doing forty instead of seventy.
He might not be earning what he used to but this was one luxury he was determined to keep.
The motion, as they shot down the motorway, soon rocked Rosie to sleep. Best thing, Winston observed. It gave him time to think too. Not just about Melissa, who was being so off and distant at the moment, or her daughter, who had made it clear she loathed his presence, even though her brother (still grateful perhaps for the boat incident) was much nicer. But about himself as a father.
Over the last few weeks, since his son had been here, Winston had noticed things that he hadn’t done before. Alice and Freddie weren’t the only ones to leave the fridge door open, or take a bite out of the cheese before putting it back, or store goodness knows how many mugs in their room, or leave lights on after they went out. Jack was just the same. Had he been too hard on his stepkids?
He also felt aggrieved when Melissa told Jack off for any of the above. She seemed to be stricter on his son than she was on her own kids, and it wasn’t fair.
Just as it wasn’t fair that Rosie’s father should be racist towards his own grandson. Still, Winston told himself as the rain began to fall gently on the windscreen, he’d sorted that one out, hadn’t he?
He hadn’t told anyone that he was driving down to see Rosie’s father. It had been his intention to tear a strip off the old man, but it hadn’t quite worked out that way.
Instead, Rosie’s father had welcomed him in with open arms. It had been the first time, since the damning Globe piece, that fame had worked in his favour.
‘I miss your programme,’ the old man had said after he’d invited him in. ‘Like I said, the skinny kid doesn’t compare to you.’
Winston had been determined to be polite but firm. ‘You seem very keen on making judgments, Mr …’
‘Call me Derek. Sit down, will you? Cup of char?’
‘No thanks.’ Winston remained standing to give himself the advantage, looking down at Rosie’s dad, who had slumped down, stick by his side, on a chair that had seen better days. ‘I’m here about my son. You upset him, you know.’
The old man nodded. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt the lad. Didn’t mean anything. You’ve got to understand that it’s different for my generation. We say it as it is.’ He squinted up at Winston. ‘The lad is coffee-coloured, just like you.’
‘Maybe.’ Winston was struggling to retain his composure. ‘But that’s no reason to call him a bastard, is it?’
The old man shrugged. ‘That’s what we called it in my day, though I accept I should have held my tongue a bit more.’ He glanced over at a tortoiseshell-framed black-and-white photograph of a pretty woman, looking sedately out of the frame. She was wearing a dress that reminded Winston of photographs showing his own mother in the Sixties. ‘My wife always used to say that.’
Winston glimpsed an opportunity. ‘What do you think your wife would say if she was here now?’
The old man sniffed, looking out through his grimy lace-curtained windows as if avoiding Winston’s eyes. ‘She might welcome the lad in, I suppose. My wife loved kids.’ There was another sniff. ‘Would have liked more, we would have, but we only got the one.’
‘Then shouldn’t you treasure Rosie?’ Winston sat down opposite Derek, taking in the old man’s mottled purple hands. ‘Your family’s come back to you, Derek. Given you a second chance. Don’t you want to take it?’
The old man’s eyes grew watery. Winston held his breath. ‘Could do,’ he finally admitted gruffly. ‘If the lad comes round again, I’ll see him.’ He snorted. ‘But don’t push him into it, mind. He’s got to visit of his own accord. If he really cares, he’ll give me a second chance too.’
Now, as Winston took a left towards the airport, he wondered if he’d been right to obey the old man’s edict. He’d heard, through Jack, that Rosie visited her father regularly but his son still refused to go down. It was stalemate. As Nick used to say, when describing her own difficult mother and sister, if you can’t make peace at home, it’s no wonder that we can’t make peace in the rest of the world.
In fact, perhaps he ought to …
‘Are we here?’ Rosie’s voice broke into his thoughts. She didn’t sound sleepy. Maybe she was one of those people who was able to wake up just like that with a snap. He was the same.
Greco, he suspected, was one of those lazy, stretch-in-the-bed yawners who would make love first thing, seeing it as a natural part of his morning routine like coffee and shaving.
‘Almost. Where did he tell you to go?’
‘Immigration.’ Rosie’s voice faltered. ‘Goodness knows where that is. Suppose we’ll have to ask when we get there. Did you get hold of your lawyer?’
‘Yes.’ Winston kept his eye on the road. Rufus’s father had handled his grandmother’s affairs. It was Rufus who had advised him not to respond to the Globe series in the summer. ‘Leave it alone and they’ll find another story,’ he had said.
He’d been right.
‘He’s meeting us there,’ Winston told Rosie as he headed for the short stay car park.
She nodded gratefully. ‘Will he be awfully expensive?’
Yes, but there was no need for her to know that. He’d let her down enough in the past. This was one way he might be able to make up for it. ‘Don’t worry about that. Not at the moment.’
Helping Rosie out of the car, Winston glanced at the text messages on his mobile. Rufus was already waiting. Jack was back at home. Nothing from Melissa.
Briefly he placed his hand in the small of Rosie’s back to steer her. Instantly, an unexpected bolt of energy shot through him.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, trying to sound normal. ‘We’ll sort this.’
Despite his words, Winston soon found that the situation was much graver than he had feared. Greco was seated in a small, plain room without windows in front of a metal-legged table on which were five wooden figures, beautifully carved. Next to him was Rufus, and on the other side, a thick-set bulldog of a policeman with a tape recorder beside him.
‘Have you seen these figures before?’ The policeman fixed a relentless gaze on Rosie. She nodded. ‘Greco makes them. He sold similar designs to various shops when we were on a trip to Athens recently.’
Greco was nodding enthusiastically. Yet he looked tired and Winston noticed that his hair was slightly greasy and that he was shivering in his thin white cotton tee-shirt. Not such a lothario now, he thought with satisfaction.
‘You see,’ he was saying. ‘I told you. They are just ornaments that I make from driftwood on the beach.’
Carefully, the policeman picked one up and removed a tiny loose panel in the back. Rosie and Winston gasped as the man then pulled out a small packet of white powder. ‘They also seem to have another use,’ he snapped.
Greco spread his brown hands out on the table. ‘I do not make this hole. I tell you, I sell these figures to the French couple who stay on the island last summer. When they leave, they give them back and ask me to post them because they cannot fit in their luggage. I forget so they ring again. I plan a surprise trip to my friend Rosie so they ask me to bring the figures with me at the same time.’
‘A surprise trip?’ repeated the policeman suspiciously.
‘That ees what I say.’ Greco jerked his head in Rosie’s direction before scowling at Winston. ‘I wish to see that she is happy.’
The policeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘This French couple. Were they meant to meet you?’
‘Yes.’ Greco was nodding again
. ‘At Arrivals. But they are not here. I tell you the truth, I promise.’
Suddenly, Winston had a memory of a light flashing from the bungalow where the French couple had stayed.
‘Officer,’ he began.
‘Superintendent, actually.’
‘Apologies.’ He tried again. ‘I was in Greece last summer and I recall a French couple. They acted very strangely.’
‘Yes,’ Rosie cut in. ‘They kept themselves to themselves and …’
She blushed furiously.
‘Go on,’ said the superintendent.
‘And they weren’t shy about showing their affection outside,’ she added.
Alfresco sex, Winston almost added. He’d seen them himself. Quite disturbing, actually.
‘To divert attention perhaps?’ suggested Rufus sharply. ‘Do you have any photographs of them by any chance?’
Greco shook his head.
‘Wait!’ Rosie spoke up. ‘I have. On my phone. It was during one of the evening barbecues. Look.’
She handed her mobile over. The superintendent’s eyes flickered. Then he handed her a file.
‘Recognise any of these?’ he asked.
Winston watched her turn the pages, breathing in her perfume. Fragments of a sixteen-year-old memory he didn’t even know he still possessed suddenly came back to him. Her smell … her touch …
Rosie stopped. ‘That’s her! I think.’
Winston nodded.
The super glanced at the picture on the phone and the one in the book. ‘And that’s the man,’ added Rosie, turning over another page.
‘Does this mean I am free?’ asked Greco, tossing his head. ‘I tell you I am innocent.’
‘Not yet.’ The super’s eyes grew steely. ‘There are still several unanswered questions, such as why this couple failed to turn up at the airport – if indeed, there was any such arrangement. Meanwhile, you’re not going anywhere.’
Greco shot Rosie a desperate look. ‘Can you not do something?’
‘We can apply for bail in the morning,’ said Rufus.
Rosie reached for Greco’s hand. As she did so, Winston felt a knot in his stomach. ‘So he has to stay in a cell overnight?’
After the Honeymoon Page 34