Marcie let go of my hand and ran straight past him. She squealed at the top of her voice. ‘Mummy!’
A harried looking woman in her early thirties, wearing the holiday travelling uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and flat shoes scooped Marcie up in her arms. ‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’ she said, ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
‘I thought you’d gone without me!’ said Marcie burying her snotty and tear stained face in her mother’s hair.
‘Never,’ said her mother.
‘A horrid man tried to take me away, but the Princess and her friend saved me.’ The colour drained from her mother’s face.
‘It was only the security guard,’ I said quickly. ‘He wasn’t exactly good with kids. I’m Bella and this is Marcus. We found Marcie.’
The mother held out her hand. ‘Oh, I can’t thank you enough. I was worried out of my mind. It’s so boring for them waiting for the flight that they can’t sit still. We’re off to meet my husband in Spain. He’s out there on business. I’ve got her little brother with me too …’ She trailed off, and pushed her hair out of her face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m rambling. It’s the relief. I’m very grateful to you both. Do you have children?’ She glanced between us. ‘No,’ I said, ‘We’re not …’
‘Ready yet,’ interrupted Marcus.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll make great parents. I really can’t thank you enough, but we have to run for our flight.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Have a wonderful holiday, Princess Marcie.’
Marcie kept waving at us over her mother’s shoulder as she was carried briskly across the foyer. ‘I don’t think her mother will be letting go of her for some time,’ said Marcus. ‘By the way I hope you didn’t mind?’
‘Mind?’ I said blankly.
‘That I let her think we were a couple?’ I thought she’d been through enough without us giving her long explanations.’
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I didn’t think you meant anything with it.’ I was suddenly aware of a vague, ridiculous feeling of disappointment.
‘Not that …’ began Marcus. ‘I know it’s awkward, but …’
‘Yes?’ I said hopefully.
‘Darling, where have you been?’ A tall, willowy ice-blonde in a flowing, but obviously well-tailored pale blue silk trouser suit swept down on Marcus and planted a kiss on his cheek. She was thirty-five or more, but her skin glowed with the unnatural youthfulness that came from extremely expensive products. ‘I had to get my own bloody luggage out of the taxi. There’s no such thing as good service nowadays.
‘Hello, Melinda,’ said Marcus. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted me to wait outside for you. You are rather late, you know.’
‘Sweetie, you’re lucky I am here at all,’ said Melinda. Her voice had an edge that could cut glass. ‘This whole stupid holiday is your idea. Who are you?’
This was said quite suddenly to me. ‘This is Bella Frost,’ said Marcus.
Melinda looked me up and down with her piercing blue eyes as if she was judging at Crufts. ‘Really, Marcus,’ she said.
Unfortunately the ground hadn’t opened up under my feet, so with as much dignity as I could muster, I said ‘I have to run for my flight.’
‘You do that,’ said Melinda. ‘Bye.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Marcus.
Melinda cut him off. ‘Marcus, a word.’
I scurried off towards the gate. I could feel my face blazing with embarrassment. Why did the gorgeous men always have such awful wives? Why did they all have wives at all? There had been no mistaking the propritorial way that Melinda had marked Marcus with that kiss. It couldn’t have been clearer if she had torn open her blouse and beat her tattoo on her doubtless handmade bra. I had thought for a moment that he had been suggesting… but no, Marcus didn’t strike me as the two-timing type. I must have misread the signals as usual. Like I’d misread Lewis all those years.
I dumped my carry-on bag on the desk and offered my ticket. ‘Closed,’ said the girl behind the desk.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The flight is closed.’ I stood rooted to the spot. ‘You’ve missed it.’
Of course I knew people missed flights. They did it in the movies all the time, but not in real life. ‘I’ve never missed a flight,’ I said.
‘Congratulations,’ said the girl. ‘You’ve done it now.’
‘Can I get on the next flight?’
‘I have no idea. You’ll need to go back to the outer desk and rebook,’ she paused. ‘You’ll need to pay too.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not the airline’s fault if you can’t tell the time.’
‘Is everyone who works in this airport so bloody rude?’ I said.
‘Madam, if you don’t step away from the desk I will have to call Security.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I snapped. ‘We’ve already met.’
I made my way back slowly to the lobby. I was on the wrong side of Security. I had no idea what to do. I hadn’t wanted to go with Julie, but now with the prospect of a holiday in the sun ripped away from me I found I did desperately want to do anything, go anywhere, but back to the tissues and ice-cream. Perhaps I could find a bargain flight going somewhere. I could always sleep on the beach, couldn’t I?
No, I couldn’t. I wasn’t the adventurous type. Even my fantasies took place in rooms with beige walls. No, I was going to have to go home and suck it up. Get on with my life, selling my flat, and coming to terms with the fact I’d been engaged to a serial cheater for years.
I finally got someone, after much explanation, to let me back through to the airport side. It was a teeming with life and excitement. Everyone else’s life and excitement. Through the windows I could see it was raining. The thought of standing in the rain at the airport waiting for a taxi to take me home to the flat that was no longer mine on what would have been my wedding day was too much. I diverted to the coffee shop. It was going to take a hell of a big latte to get me back on my feet.
There, sitting in a booth with his head in his hands, was Marcus. He was alone. I hesitated, but dammit I hadn’t even said goodbye properly. As Marcie would have told me real princesses don’t slink off. Besides I hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘You OK?’
Marcus looked up. His face registered surprise or shock, I wasn’t sure which. ‘Melinda’s stormed off.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. Why I had I thought this was a good idea?
‘Yeah, well, she can be like that. She’s an actress. You might have seen her on telly?’
I shook my head and tried to think of something to say, something that would let me leave with dignity.
‘Yeah, she’s not half as famous as she thinks she is,’ he said bitterly.
‘I hope this wasn’t my fault?’
‘Why would it be your fault?"
‘Well, you know, finding us talking together when you should have been helping her …’
‘Melinda can carry her own bloody luggage,’ he paused. ‘Oh, Lord, did you think she was my girlfriend?’
‘She certainly wasn’t your mother,’ I said with more acidity than I had intended. Lewis had left scars.
Marcus laughed at that. ‘No, she’s my sister. She dyes her hair for the telly.’
Which is when I saw the resemblance. The colour of those eyes, something about the mouth. Except on Marcus the features looked a whole lot better.
‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘please. I take it you’ve missed your flight?’
I nodded.
‘Me too,’ he hesitated, ‘but I still have my reservations for two single rooms.’
‘Where?’
‘Rome. Melinda wanted the beach, but I wanted some culture. I should have known she’d cry off. She’s practically allergic to it.’
‘I was going to go to Venice for my honeymoon.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m not,’ I said and sat down. My heart did I little flip, but I pushed on. ‘Shall we both get fresh co
ffee? And discuss what you are going to do about your reservations.’
Marcus’ face split into a wide grin. ‘That sounds like a very good idea.’
‘I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in years,’ I said. ‘I think we should have cappuccino, don’t you?’
‘Here or in Rome?’ said Marcus.
‘Both,’ I said.
So we did.
Dancing Naked on the Lawn
Grace Wynne-Jones
It seems like just another Sunday afternoon. Edmund, my husband, is watching golf on the telly, and I’m reading one of those expensive women’s glossies. The kind that pretends to be full of fads and fashion but is, in fact, full of sophisticated smut.
‘Mahuto really knows how to please a woman,’ I read. ‘We make love on the beach. Of course I miss my grandchildren – but it’s worth every penny.’ Accompanying this declaration is the smug photo of Madge, a forty-seven-year-old divorcee from Scunthorpe, with her virile toy boy. The article is about middle-aged women finding attentive young partners in an exotic location.
I look up at Edmund’s solid middle-aged features and feel the familiar surge of panic. Is this to be it then? Another Sunday afternoon sacrificed to men fretting over tiny white balls – while other women frolic shamelessly in the sun.
Edmund groans at the screen and I see that Tiger Woods … Tiger … that’s quite a name … is stuck in a bunker. ‘Can he do it? Can he? Yes! A splash to the green for a birdie,’ drones the golf commentator, who sounds like he’s been drinking Night Nurse.
So Tiger has soared out of his bunker. But I’m still in mine. And it will take more than a sand wedge to get me out.
‘Edmund,’ I say. ‘Edmund, let’s turn off the telly. Let’s go to Portmarnock and make love on the beach. It’s all the rage these days – you should read this article. Don’t worry, I’ll set the timer for the casserole so dinner won’t be delayed.’
After twenty years of marriage Edmund knows when to be hard of hearing. He’s in his protected golf world and immune from my hysteria. I can’t say I blame him. He’s a dentist. We met because I’d dislodged a filling eating a liquorice toffee. Callard & Bowser changed my life.
Edmund does not really listen to me any more. I think this for the umpteenth time that Sunday afternoon as I stare at his impassive face. If he loved me, I think, if he loved me, surely he’d notice that I’m going gaga.
Actually gaga is a bit of an exaggeration. Now Aunt Hilda, she’s gone a bit gaga. She thinks the staff in her nursing home are stealing her buttons. But then she is in her nineties and paranoia can liven up life considerably. That and Demis Roussos screeching, ‘Forever And Ever’ every afternoon in her bedroom. He drowns out Live at Three in the television lounge next door.
You see Aunt Hilda doesn’t just want to be live at three, she want to be live – that is alive – at four, five, six, and seven too – in fact all the hours God gives her. It drives people crazy.
‘Aunt Hilda thinks that the nurses are stealing her buttons,’ I say to Edmund in an ad break.
‘Poor old bird. We must take her out for a drive someday soon,’ he says kindly. Edmund is kind, in his way. Then he goes into the kitchen and brings back a slice of ginger cake. I knew he was going to get a slice of ginger cake. Just like I know now, without watching, that he’s got a bit of Flora on the side of the plate and he’s going to spread it on the cake and then cut it, carefully, into four slices. I also know that he’ll squidge each slice up a bit before he places it carefully in his mouth. I can’t bear to look.
‘I must say,’ I continue, carefully enough, ‘I must say Aunt Hilda’s buttons do seem to disappear at an alarming rate.’ But the golf has started again and there’s absolutely no point pursuing that conundrum. So instead I begin to tear up The Observer.
Now before you jump to conclusions, I have an explanation. The teacher in my evening art class has set us an assignment. He wants us to copy paintings by the great masters – only we are not to use paint. No. No, we are to use bits of torn-up newspaper – the black, white, and grey bits only, mind you – none of the colour ads for cars and personal computers. We’re to stick them down on the page with glue. This exercise will force us to simplify and learn about shape and tone, he says. It’ll teach us how to really look – how to see the essentials.
The painting I’ve been given to copy – from a postcard of course – is Pietro della Vecchia’s Cupid and Venus.
Apparently Venus is pissed off with Cupid because, being young and overly enthusiastic, he’s aiming his bow at the wrong people. Venus is confiscating Cupid’s bow from him until he learns sense. My newspaper collage version of this masterpiece looks like a flattened nest. The kind my son’s hamster used to rustle up without any art training at all.
I look down at my collage again and, wonder of wonders, I can just about make out the bow – if I turn the thing sideways and squint. Maybe I am learning something about observation after all. I look around the room. Did I really choose this wallpaper? I realise with a shock that I do not like the sofa and I dare not even ask myself about the man sitting on it. Suddenly I know this is not just another Sunday afternoon. Suddenly I know I have to get out of this room before I am driven to a desperate deed.
‘Edmund,’ I say, calmly enough, ‘I think I may take Aunt Hilda for a drive this afternoon.’
He looks over at me in his crumpled Sunday afternoon way and says, ‘If you wait a little while I’ll come with you.’
‘No, Edmund,’ I say. ‘You stay here and watch your golf. I’ll be fine.’ I can see he’s relieved just by looking at the back of his head.
I immediately get into the car and drive quickly to the nursing home. On the way I hope that Aunt Hilda isn’t dead. The matron answers the door. I’m relieved to see she’s looking angry.
‘Your aunt went to the village again in her negligee.’ She always has some new scandal for me when I visit. ‘The negligee with no buttons down the front. We found her in the hairdressers. Thank the Lord someone had lent her a coat. She was having a perm and a pink tint. She can hardly walk, even with the frame. What if she’d fallen? What if a car had knocked her down?’
I go to Aunt Hilda’s room. She’s sitting on a leather chair staring intently at nothing. ‘Hello, Aunt Hilda, your perm looks very posh,’ I call out gaily. There’s something about this place that forces my voice up an octave.
‘Who’s that? Do I know you?’ she replies querulously, peering semi-sightlessly in my direction.
‘It’s me, Jessica,’ I say. ‘I’d like to take you for a little drive.’
‘Don’t you have exams?’ She’s taken to time-traveling lately and obviously thinks I’m an undergraduate. ‘No, Aunt, I don’t have exams today. Let’s go for a drive.’
Aunt’s hands flutter on her lap as though grasping the news.
The dual carriageway is quite crowded. Aunt Hilda doesn’t say a word. She sits happily gripping at her handbag and peering out of the window. Not that she can see much – her eyesight is nearly gone. I turn on the radio and a pop song explodes into our ears. My son Bruce is eighteen and frequently borrows the car. Glancing fearfully at Aunt Hilda, I lunge towards the volume switch and nearly career into a minibus full of boy scouts. They stick their tongues out at me through the back window. ‘Leave it on, dear. It’s lively,’ says Aunt. And so I do.
It’s amazing the way music can change one’s mood. Suddenly it doesn’t seem like I’m taking my aged aunt on a sedate Sunday drive towards tea and scones. I’m tapping my fingers to the beat on the steering wheel and feeling footloose.
Then I feel Aunt Hilda nudging my elbow. She’s sticking a crumpled packet under my nose. ‘Your favourites,’ she says, ‘go on, take one.’
Chewing grimly on my liquorice toffee, I look for the signpost to the Peacehaven Hotel. I take the next turning anyway and suddenly we’re on a quiet windy road framed by a long stone wall. The road is not familiar, but I press on with a strange determination.
<
br /> ‘I’d like you to travel,’ says Aunt as I stop to let some cows pass. ‘Too many young people settle down early these days. Get out. Live a bit, and then get married and have children.’
‘Yes, Aunt,’ I say as the cows plod by, udders full, snorting at the window. ‘Find a nice man, a good man – someone who understands your moods.’
‘My moods?’ Aunt is obviously in a plain-speaking mood herself.
‘Yes. Your moods. You have a wild side, Jessica. Anyone who marries you will have to accept that.’
It’s rather interesting being eighteen again. Aunt is quite perspicacious when she time-travels, though she can be unnerving too. She’s getting into her stride now. ‘Take Aaron for example,’ she announces.
I look at her surprised. ‘What about Aaron?’
‘Well, he’s a nice young man. Interesting. And patient too.’
I probe further, far from flattered. ‘And I need to find somebody who’s patient?’
She’s thinking hard. ‘Well, you do have a tendency to get discontented. Even as a toddler you used to tear picture books to smithereens every time you got bored.’
I don’t want to continue this conversation. I don’t want to talk about picture books or Aaron. That’s all in the past, forgotten. Aunt Hilda is wrong, Aaron was not my type. He wanted to live in the country for a start, and I’m a city bird. And he was a sculptor and painter so I’d have been slopping round in open-toed sandals trying to make ends meet. I press my foot down further on the accelerator, determined not to think about him. I’ll know where I am soon, I think. Any moment I’ll see a familiar landmark and it will all fall into place.
Then we reach a broader road with a huge lake, still and strange in the distance, and I can’t fool myself any longer. ‘I’m lost, Aunt,’ I say. ‘I’m completely lost.’
‘Nonsense!’ says Aunt robustly. ‘We’ve been to this hotel dozens of times.’
I don’t contradict her and say that familiarity does not necessarily mean close acquaintance. I don’t say you can drive down a road fifty times and one day miss the turning. I don’t say you can look one day at your life – really look – and feel like you have landed on Mars. Instead I say, ‘If we find another tea place first let’s go in there. You know, one of those places with chairs outside, and honey and scones.’
Holiday Fling Page 11