A Village Affair

by Julie Houston

  ‘So, what’s happening about solicitors?’ Clare asked. ‘Did you make an appointment with that guy I suggested?’

  I frowned at Clare and shook my head slightly. This was the last thing I wanted to be discussing at my birthday celebration, but particularly in front of members of my staff and one of my pupil’s mother. ‘No, not yet. I’ve been too busy, you know that.’

  The truth was I’d totally avoided any of the next practical steps with regard to separation and divorce. I didn’t want to be divorced from Mark. I was still hoping he would come back. Paula and Clare had both urged me to protect my position re finances, the house and of course the kids, but the children were, I reckoned, old enough to make their own minds up about seeing Mark and where they wanted to live. And, in a nutshell, they didn’t want to see Mark because of what he’d done to me, and because going to stay with their father for the weekend would mean staying with Tina, too. I’d suggested they meet him for lunch – they were too old to be doing the weekend trip to the zoo thing or having a Happy Meal at McDonald’s – and, while Freya had agreed to meet up with him as long as he wasn’t with Tina, Tom just didn’t appear interested at the moment. While I knew it wasn’t very noble of me, I was secretly pleased that they both appeared to be getting on with their lives without him. And of course they wanted to live at home. With me.

  ‘A holiday then, Cassie?’ Fi wasn’t going to let it go.

  ‘Where do you suggest I go?’ I sighed.

  ‘Take your two to – oh, I don’t know – Greece or somewhere. It’ll still be warm down in the south. Crete, maybe?’

  ‘Tom’s off to Cambridge on some maths taster course and Freya is on a netball course in Newcastle.’

  ‘Well, take your mother.’

  ‘Paula?’ I was horrified at the very thought. ‘If I go off anywhere, I need her here to look after Freya once she’s home mid-week. Anyway,’ I said crossly, ‘I’m more than capable of sorting myself out.’

  ‘Do it then,’ Fi said.

  ‘I will,’ I retorted, crossly.

  And I did.

  *

  So that’s why, two days later, ridiculously early on the Saturday morning, I found myself shivering on Midhope train station awaiting the first trans-Pennine train to Manchester airport. I’d been up since 3 a.m., the taxi had tooted its arrival at three thirty, and now, at 4 a.m., I was beginning to wonder what the hell I was doing, all by myself, on the way to Mexico. I must be mad. I’d only booked it to prove to Fi and Clare that I could. I was considering creeping back home and holing up with a sun lamp and several family-sized packs of nachos when the airport train pulled up in front of me and I was on my way.

  I slept for most of the ten-hour flight to Cancún, waking only to eat a plastic lunch and watch fifteen minutes of some children’s Ninja Turtles film.

  Feeling dishevelled, and suddenly very homesick, I waited for my lone case, heaving it off the carousel with the other luggage retrievers and then headed towards the transfer coaches.

  It was raining. Warm rain, I concede, but still wet. The sort that frizzes up your hair and has you running for hair balm and a pair of GHDs. Bugger, I’d left mine on the kitchen table where’d I’d put them so as not to forget them.

  ‘I didn’t think it rained in Mexico,’ the Mancunian sitting behind me shouted to the rep, Sadie, who was just about to launch into rep-speak.

  ‘Well, not very often,’ Sadie smiled. The smile didn’t quite reach her heavily mascaraed eyes. She bent to scratch a sturdy leg beneath her American Tan tights.

  ‘It’s hurricane season,’ someone from down the back of the coach shouted. ‘What d’you expect?’

  Hurricane season? Oh shit, of course. In my excitement to get away from it all, I’d totally and utterly forgotten Hurricane Irma had hit this part of the world back in early September. No wonder there had been rooms available at such short notice. I wiped condensation from the inside of the coach window and glanced nervously out at trees bending forty-five degrees.

  ‘Hi, everybody, I’m Sadie and I’m your lady…’

  Maybe I should have gone on that Lake District coach trip after all. The weather and the rep-speak would have been no different and I could have saved a fortune and caught a train home if it all got too much. Homesickness, loneliness and a sudden longing for Tom, Freya, Granddad Norman and even Paula came over me. It’s just a week I told myself: Clare always goes off by herself and loves being able to do just what she wants to do without thinking of anyone else. I tried desperately to think of single women: pioneers, adventurers who’d not thought twice about setting off for foreign climes by themselves.

  There was Mary Kingsley, who’d gone to Africa with a small amount of luggage and collecting cases for samples, and a phrase book with such helpful phrases as ‘Get up, you lazy scamps!’ Mind you, she died of typhoid fever and never came home. And who was that woman who’d climbed Mount Coropuna in Peru and stuck a sign at the summit demanding ‘Votes For Women’? Annie Smith Peck, that was it. And then there was Gertrude Bell, who’d gone to the Alps and spent two days clinging to the rock face on a rope when she was caught in an avalanche. I shook my head in disbelief at her antics as the coach driver jumped on board and started the engine. I’d never got further than two feet up the rope in the gym at Mount View Comprehensive.

  Just a week, Cassandra Moonbeam, and you’ll be back on this coach and heading home, tanned, rested, well read and up for the rest of the term in front of you.

  ‘You need to be aware of mosquitoes,’ Sadie, our lady, was saying. ‘The Zika virus is in Mexico and October is officially the rainy season…’

  Oh, great stuff. Had I remembered my sou’wester and umbrella?

  ‘… which does mean more mosquitoes than in the summer months and you should be prepared. We can supply you with all the preparations you will need to keep yourself safe. I’ll be walking down the coach in a moment and I strongly suggest you stock up with them if you haven’t got them already. Better safe than sorry.’

  I closed my eyes, massaged my aching head, lay back in my seat and thought of England.

  *

  Three hours later and I was the last one still on the coach, every other passenger’s hotel being called in turn as we pulled into seemingly endless forecourts, the driver jumping out to drag out luggage before jumping back into the driver’s seat and setting off once again. Travel sickness was beginning to feature alongside homesickness as Sadie the rep, Jorge the coach driver and Cassandra Moonbeam, the miserable intrepid traveller, sped along wet roads to their final destination.

  A strong wind was whipping and twisting hotel signage, metal chains bashing ominously against the hotel stonework as the coach pulled out of the long drive, leaving me and my little red case alone in the wind and the rain.

  ‘Welcome, welcome. Mrs Beresford? We wondered where you were.’ A particularly attractive tall man in white uniform rushed out with an umbrella and ushered me into the reception area. ‘I think you were put on the wrong coach. Never mind, let’s get you sorted, give you a drink and take you to your room. I’m Cristiano and anything you require, you just ask.’

  ‘Is it going to rain all week?’ I asked petulantly, sounding like the whingeing Brit I invariably was.

  ‘It’s October. It might rain a little bit every day, but still warm. Better than your October weather, I would think. Now, have a drink and then I’ll find your personal concierge.’

  My what? Cristiano handed me a fruit punch and, thirsty, I downed it in one. Golly, it had a bit of a kick to it. I looked around at the reception area which, almost deserted at this time of day, was light and airy and filled with both the traditional rattan-type Caribbean furniture as well as luxurious cream sofas stuffed with cushions. I couldn’t resist: I sank into one and closed my eyes. The drink must have been stronger than I thought.

  I could spend the week here, I reckoned. One of these sofas, more of that fruit punch and a good book and I wouldn’t care about the rain…
/>   ‘Hola? Mrs Beresford?’

  I jumped guiltily, realising I’d nodded off, and tried to get to my feet, but the cushions sucked me back into their depths like quicksand, my arms and legs encased in travel-crumpled clothes flailing like some rudely disturbed insect.

  ‘Mrs Beresford, I am Julio, your personal concierge. Would you like a hand?’ Julio reached down for me and pulled me to my feet. ‘You have had a long journey. You are very tired.’ He smiled. ‘You need lunch…’

  ‘Lunch? I think I had that around eight hours ago, watching Ninja Turtles.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I think I’m a bit jet-lagged. I thought it was bedtime.’

  Julio smiled. ‘You can go to bed if you want. Or you can go and eat. There is always somewhere to eat. At any time of day,’ he added proudly. ‘Now, I am here for you all week. I take you to your room now? You’re OK to do that?’

  I rubbed my eyes. They felt gritty and, when I caught sight of myself in one of the huge mirrors that lined the reception walls, I was glad there were no other guests around. My hair, with the long journey, rain and humidity, was a rather luxurious bird’s nest; the trousers and warm jacket I’d chosen to combat the cold of an English October morning were creased and crumpled and my face pale. I looked old, knackered and very, very provincial.

  Two tall, incredibly slim girls walked past wearing, despite the rain, emerald-green bikinis only just concealing tanned, lithe bodies under matching transparent cover-ups.

  I wanted to go home.

  Julio led the way and I followed, back out into the warm rain towards a motorised buggy. ‘There’s always one available for you, if you don’t want to walk,’ he said solicitously.

  Oh God, did I look so knackered? I looked around for my trusty little red case. Had I left it on the coach?

  ‘My case…?’

  ‘In your room, waiting for you, Mrs Beresford.’ He smiled, seeing my panic. ‘All will be well. I think you are very stressed, no? You’ve been having a hard time in the UK? Well, we are here for you. But…’ he sighed, ‘your travel company has overbooked. You were very last minute. I’m afraid your room is no longer available.’

  ‘What? Well, that’s all I damned well need. I knew it was all too good to be true.’ I burst into tears. ‘I should have gone to Blackpool,’ I blubbed. ‘Hot and cold water in every room, a view of the sea and free entry up the Tower…’

  ‘Lo siento. Sorry, sorry. I am so sorry, Mrs Beresford.’ Julio looked aghast. ‘I tease you. The room you booked and paid for is not there. So, we upgrade you to our very best suite. Here we are, look…’

  The buggy came to a stop, skidding slightly in a puddle of warm rainwater. Julio took my arm, manoeuvring me round the puddle and gently moving me forward. I reckon if he’d had a cloak he’d have whipped it off and laid it down for me to walk over à la Walter Raleigh. He pressed me forward through the gardens, which I began to realise were the most beautiful I’d ever seen, the heady scent of rain-washed exotic flowers overpowering all my other senses as I stopped briefly to breathe it all in.

  ‘Come.’ Having unintentionally upset me, Julio was obviously desperate to make amends. He took a little navy-blue key card with ‘Premier Suite’ emblazoned in gold on it, opened the door and led me in.

  ‘Here we are, Mrs Beresford. I think this make you feel better. Yes?’

  I took in the huge king-sized bed, the pile of fluffy white towels, the enormous en-suite bathroom with walk-in shower, white robes and slippers. I gazed out of the window at the sea directly below, at the bottle of champagne, cold in its bucket of ice and the bowl of exotic fresh fruit.

  I didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

  ‘OK, now? All is well?’ Julio beamed.

  I burst into tears once more.

  21

  Heaven, I’m in Heaven…

  I don’t think I realised quite just how the events of the last two months had affected me. I had put everything into my new job: up before six most mornings to sort out my own kids with their breakfast and other daily needs before arriving at school at seven to deal with other people’s. And then not going to bed much before midnight as I sorted admin I had to bring home with me. Many a night I’d fallen asleep at the computer, glasses falling off my nose, head lurching towards the keyboard, mouth dribbling as I struggled with some new government directive I’d need to pass on to the staff the following day. It had only been eight weeks since Mark had left me for Tina and yet it seemed like a lifetime ago. That other me: the contented – let’s face it, smug – teacher in her white middle-class oasis of pointy cushions and Dettoxed kitchen and bathrooms, totally sure of her man and with her well-behaved, well-brought up kids, was almost totally gone. I needed to take a good long look at myself to see what was left.

  I didn’t leave my hotel room for the rest of that first day. By the time Julio had departed, leaving instructions on how to find the all-inclusive restaurants, bars and wellness spa – which I promptly forgot – it was mid-afternoon. It was still pouring down outside, rain lashing against my balcony window, the wind howling such a gale that I quickly closed it again when I attempted to get a better look at my view. I texted the kids, Paula, Clare and Fi to tell them all I’d arrived, found a socket to recharge my phone, and then decided to switch it off for some total peace and quiet. After stripping off my grubby travelling clothes, I kicked them into a corner and, with the huge Jacuzzi filling up nicely, opened the bottle of champagne.

  I lowered myself into the bubbles, drank half a glass of fizz and then, lying back, took stock of my good luck, suddenly finding a big daft smile on my face. The last-minute room I’d grabbed had been a standard pool view, all-inclusive and more than adequate for my week of doing nothing. This upgrade was an absolute bonus.

  By early evening I’d unpacked, polished off another couple of glasses of champagne, investigated the mini bar and ordered food from room service. I didn’t quite feel up to making my way down to one of the restaurants, sitting by myself, nose in Kindle, while other diners tried to work out why I was there alone, or attempted to make conversation with me. Besides, I was enjoying the very unusual situation of my being all alone: no one at all in the world really knowing exactly where I was. Apart from Julio, of course. I was beginning to feel a little embarrassed, ashamed even, of my tears and rants about Blackpool and its bloody Tower. I began to giggle as I recalled Julio’s face, and poured myself more champagne.

  I switched my phone back on and it immediately started barking the arrival of texts. I really must get Tom to change its tone to something more fitting, I mused idly. One in the morning, back in the UK: I did hope neither Freya nor Tom was still awake in their respective Newcastle and Cambridge beds. The texts had been sent earlier and both kids said they’d arrived, the food and weather were dreadful, but Freya had already scored a number of goals during training and Tom had cracked some maths code before anyone else on his course. What clever children I had. I could never work out where Tom’s maths ability had come from, although Granddad Norman had said he’d been a bit of a hotshot with trigonometry during his advanced training as a conscript at the beginning of the war, before being sent over to France.

  Reassured that my kids were safe and happy, I felt the champagne, wonderful food and jet lag beginning to work their magic and I was just falling asleep once more when the barking dog announced another text. Cursing that I’d not switched the phone off, I reached for it and squinted in the dark at the message.

  I’ve just heard you’ve gone to Mexico all by yourself. Not like you!! Keep yourself safe, Cass, and watch out for strange men. Wish I was there with you. Mark

  What? I sat up in bed and read and reread the text. What was Mark trying to say? Was he missing me? Did he want to come back home? I had to switch on the light and get out of bed to calm myself, my heart doing a samba in my chest.

  It was another couple of hours before I eventually slept.

  *

  I was awoken by a cac
ophony of birdsong outside my window. At least I think it was birdsong: the calling was so loud, so insistent it could have been cicadas, or even monkeys. You wouldn’t get this in Blackpool, I told myself happily.

  It was only 6 a.m. and still dark outside, but it sounded as if the whole forest was coming alive. It had stopped raining completely and, apart from a few dark clouds on the horizon, the sky was clear. In front of me the sea was calm, as far as I could hear. I hugged myself in delight: I was both beside the sea and actually on the edge of the Mexican rain forest. Wrapping one of the huge towelling robes around myself, I went further out onto the balcony, sitting down on one of the sun loungers just to take it all in. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers and wet foliage. I gazed for a long time, fascinated, as the dark sky lightened into pink, which then morphed into oranges and then reds while the sea itself, reflecting every carmine shade, seemed to be on fire.

  I finally allowed myself to revisit Mark’s text. Was I feeling so wonderfully alive because of the message implied in the words? Mark wished he were here with me. Presumably not with Tina, then. Unless he was after a threesome, the pillock. Ha! What would Serpentina think of that?

  With the early morning sunshine now warm on my whole body, I made my way down to a beach bar for breakfast. Mark would have loved the full range of cooked breakfast, I thought wistfully, filling his plate with the scrambled eggs and bacon – his favourite Sunday morning treat after a week at work – and relishing the good, strong coffee. After ordering food, I took out my phone and, unable to resist, read and reread the text message he’d sent the night before. What did he mean? Should I text him back and say I also wished he was here in Mexico with me? I did seem to recall, in my previous life as a smug married duo, being in hotels with Mark and, seeing what I assumed to be sad singletons, nose in a newspaper or book propped up against the salt and pepper, feeling ever so slightly superior. Oh, sod it, I thought. My single status had nothing to do with anyone else. I looked around almost defiantly, slathered butter and jam onto a flaky, buttery croissant and opened my Kindle.