The Holiday Home. Fern Britton

conversation slowly over the coming weeks.

      ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll probably have a little expedition down there myself this afternoon to pick up supplies – Greg loves the chilli jam they do at the deli. But thanks anyway.’

      ‘OK, see you later.’ He found the keys and his phone on the side. As he picked them up, his phone buzzed with another text. He glanced at the name of the sender. Belinda again. He put the phone in his pocket without opening the message.

      Curious, Connie decided to tease him further: ‘Aren’t you going to see who that is? Or is it your secret lover?’

      Francis was fumbling with his linen jacket. ‘School PTA round robin, I expect. Bound to be something that can wait. I don’t want to miss the fresh granary loaves at the baker’s. Tell Pru I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

      *

      He could feel the phone burning in his pocket. His heart was thumping in his chest and his breathing got faster. He hopped in the car and set off down the drive and out on to the sandy beach lane, relieved to have escaped before Connie asked any more awkward questions. Why did he feel so furtive and guilty? It wasn’t as if there was anything between them … Or was there? No, he’d done nothing to encourage her.

      A small child in jelly shoes, bucket and spade in hand, suddenly stepped out in front of him. Francis executed a perfect emergency stop and smiled at the child’s harassed mother, who shouted an obscenity at him and yanked her daughter back on to the verge.

      He had to put all thoughts of Belinda aside and concentrate. Belinda … Attractive, full-hipped and full of life. He had met her when her fourteen-year-old daughter, Emily, had joined Jeremy’s school last September. Belinda was a merry and willing new recruit to the PTA. A divorcée in her early forties, she’d made a beeline for him from the start. It wasn’t Francis’s style to strike up relationships with people; he was happiest with his family around him and the few friends Pru liked to socialise with, but there was something about Belinda that was hard to resist. She was constantly inviting him over to her place for lunch. He hadn’t taken up the invitation … yet.

      He carefully reversed into a tight space in the Higher Barton village car park and turned the engine off. Unable to resist any longer, he reached for his phone and looked at the screen. Belinda’s name was top of the list of incoming messages:

      Hi Frankie. Amazing coincidence – am coming to Cornwall Wednesday. Staying in Treviscum Bay. Anywhere near you? Emily and I would love to see you. xxxxx

      ‘Oh, shit shit shit!’ Francis said out loud. It was Sunday today. She’d be here in three days. What was he going to do? How did she know where he was? Had he told her he was coming to Treviscum Bay? Was she stalking him? How would he explain this to Pru? ‘Shit shit shit,’ he said again.

      *

      Normally, Francis liked nothing better than a trip to the shops in Higher Barton. He enjoyed renewing old acquaintances with the shopkeepers and chatting to the baker about his latest lines. Today, however, he had found it impossible to concentrate on the lengthy explanation the baker had given him about his new range of gluten-free products.

      ‘Would you like to try a loaf? It’s hard to tell the difference.’

      Francis had ended up buying four more loaves than he’d intended. He’d wondered, with more anxiety than was necessary, whether there was any room in the freezer, admonishing himself for not checking before he’d come out. He’d fretted all the way home, trying to focus on the loaves instead of contemplating what would happen when Belinda arrived.

      ‘Francis, there you are.’ Pru was lying on a comfortable lounger outside the sliding kitchen doors, on the sunny terrace.

      ‘Hello, Pru,’ Francis called over-brightly, setting down the six or seven plastic carrier bags that were cutting into his fingers. ‘Let me empty the car and I’ll make us a cup of coffee.’

      ‘Did you get my paper?’

      ‘Yes, dear!’ He gave her a beaming smile, hoping that it would cover any remnants of guilty thoughts about Belinda.

      Pru gazed at him steadily. Frowning slightly. Oh God, did she suspect? He looked back at her, unable to move.

      She spoke. ‘Well, go on then. I’m waiting.’

      ‘What for?’ He felt a squirt of fear in his stomach.

      ‘Get. My. Paper.’

      Weak with relief, he rummaged in the carrier bags: ‘Yes. Yes. Of course, darling.’

      *

      ‘What’s for lunch, Dad?’ Jeremy and Abi walked in through the sliding doors bringing sandy feet with them. Francis visibly jumped again.

      ‘Don’t creep up on me! How many times have I told you! You’ll give me a heart attack!’

      ‘OK. Chill, Dad. What’s making you so nervy today?’

      ‘Nervy?’ Francis snapped. ‘I am never nervy!’ He looked at the two pairs of sandy feet. ‘Get outside and clean those bloody feet. Both of you. This is my holiday, too, you know.’

      ‘Blimey, Dad, no need to shout.’

      ‘I am not shouting,’ shouted Francis.

      ‘Sorry, Uncle Francis. Come on, Jem.’ Abi steered her cousin outside and threw over her shoulder, ‘I’ll be back to help you lay the table in a minute, Uncle Francis.’

      Francis slowly resumed unpacking and storing the groceries, then made a start on washing the lettuce for his organic poached salmon salad. His thoughts were a mess. Should he tell Pru about Belinda? How would he introduce Belinda? How long was she planning to visit? Oh God, oh God.

      ‘Francis?’ Pru’s querulous voice made him jump yet again. He clutched his chest with a damp lettuce hand. He turned to face her. ‘Yes, darling?’

      She studied him intently, until he felt as if his mind was being read. Eventually she said, ‘Are you all right? You look very pink and glazed.’

      ‘I’m fine. Just, erm, thinking about some jobs I need to do.’

      ‘Oh, good. Would you put the dripping tap in our en-suite basin on the list? Get Greg to help. He does bugger-all when he’s here. When’s lunch?’

      ‘About ten minutes.’

      ‘Bring it up to me, would you? I’m expecting a conference call any minute.’

      ‘Yes, Pru.’ But she’d already left the room.

      Abi and Jem reappeared with clean feet and found Francis looking worse than ever.

      ‘Dad, you don’t look at all well. Sit down and I’ll make you a drink.’

      Francis did as he was told.

      Abi started to lay the table. ‘I’ll fix lunch, Uncle Francis, and Jem and I will wash up. You need a rest.’