on the door.
‘Enter,’ Pru called.
The door opened quietly and the slightly anxious face of her husband, Francis, appeared.
‘Hello, darling. You look marvellous.’ He took an appreciative sniff of the room. ‘Lovely smell. What is it, Esther?’
‘Ylang-ylang, geranium and sandalwood. It’s very good on ageing skin.’
Beneath her perfectly styled, short and sleek brown hair, Pru’s face stiffened, and her blue eyes took on a look that could only be described as icy. Francis hurriedly said, ‘Well, that’ll be lovely when my wife needs it.’ He turned to Pru: ‘Jeremy and I are ready when you are. I’ve packed the car and I’ve got some sushi for the journey.’
‘In the cool box?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there fuel in the tank?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give me ten minutes. Oh, and remind Jeremy that once we start there’s no stopping. I want to be there in under four hours.’
‘Righto.’
Francis went downstairs, confident that he hadn’t forgotten anything.
Exactly ten minutes later, having sent the Aveda beautician packing, Pru swept out of the house to find her sixteen-year-old son already in the back seat, iPod headphones stuffed in his ears, and her husband waiting to shut the front door.
‘Is the alarm primed?’
‘Yes.’ Francis nodded.
‘Are the window locks checked?’
‘Yes, Pru. All sorted.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
Pru walked to the driver’s side and got in. The keys were not in the ignition. Francis heard her tut of annoyance and, realising his mistake, hurriedly pulled the keys from his pocket and handed them over. ‘Sorry, darling.’
Pru checked her face in the wing mirror and started the engine.
‘My skin isn’t getting old, is it, Francis?’
‘Good lord, no.’ Francis smiled at her.
‘I didn’t think so.’
She slammed the gear stick into drive and pulled away in a spray of gravel before either son or husband had done their seat belts up.
*
Connie was aware that she was clenching her jaw. Her shoulders were up round her neck and her hands were in tight fists on her lap.
‘Can’t you drive any faster? This is a motorway. You can do eighty without getting stopped. The police accept that.’
‘No, Connie. The limit is seventy and that’s what I shall stick to. I’ve got nine points already. If I get stopped again, they’ll throw the book at me. Can you imagine what your father would say? The expenses I put in for chauffeured cars last time I got banned were horrendous.’
Connie bit her lip and looked out of the window to distract herself. They were passing the exit for Bristol Parkway station. The junction for the M5 wasn’t far. Another half an hour and they’d be at Taunton Deane Services. She could have done with a loo stop and a Costa coffee, but she was determined to arrive at Atlantic House ahead of Pru. This year the best bedroom was going to be hers.
She knew that she was behaving stupidly. This happened every year, and every year she got angry with herself for getting sucked into yet another silly, juvenile spat with Pru. Most of the time, Connie was a normal person: loving mum, good wife, someone who knew how to enjoy herself with friends and who appreciated her luck in life. But at the prospect of getting within ten feet of Pru, Connie started acting like a whiney, jealous teenager. It was infuriating that after all these years she was still letting Pru get to her, but her sister’s competitive streak, combined with her superior attitude, was too much to bear. God only knew how Francis and dear Jeremy managed to put up with the woman. Connie was convinced that it was only thanks to Francis that Jem had turned out to be such a well-adjusted kid. Mind you, neither he nor Abi were kids any more; Abi’s seventeenth birthday was fast approaching, and she would be taking her A-levels next year and choosing a university. For a moment Connie allowed herself to wonder what Archie would have been doing now. Even after all these years it was hard to think about the little boy she had miscarried four months before she fell pregnant with Abi. Pru hadn’t attended his funeral; she’d been in New York on business. And she’d changed the subject whenever Connie mentioned him, closing the door on that heartbreaking grief.
Connie looked at her watch and was horrified to see the time.
Hearing her muttering under her breath, Greg glanced her way. ‘Can’t you just let your sister have the room she wants? She inevitably gets it anyway.’
‘Exactly my point. She always gets Mummy and Daddy’s old bedroom. It’s warmer, bigger and has the best view from upstairs. She knows it’s my turn this year yet she always wangles her way in. You and I deserve that room for a change.’
‘Does it really matter? You’ll be asleep anyway – you won’t see the view. Besides, we get her old bedroom, the blue room.’
‘The blue room that was meant for me and that she took!’
‘Darling, that was almost a quarter of a century ago.’
‘Quite! She had the best room all those years, now I want Mummy and Daddy’s room. I like to go to sleep to the sound of the sea, and wake up to the sunshine. And anyway, the blue room is so dated and dingy. Why should I have Pru’s cast-offs?’
Greg, who’d speeded up to overtake a horse box, pulled back into the inside lane and slowed down. An elderly Vauxhall with several young lads in it overtook him.
‘What did you do that for?’
‘What?’
‘Let those yobs through.’
‘They weren’t yobs. And if they had been, what would be the point of upsetting them and risking them ramming me off the road?’
Connie sighed in frustration and looked again at her watch.
*
Francis tried to look as relaxed as possible, though he couldn’t stop himself casting nervous glances at the speedometer as the needle hovered over 110 mph. His legs were getting numb where they were jammed in the footwell against the cool box.
It made him nervous when Pru drove this way. Understandably. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that at least they would all die together.
This annual race between the sisters for the best room in Atlantic House was a mystery to him. All the rooms were lovely. A bit dated and faded perhaps, but that was part of the charm of the place.
He resisted the desire to brace himself and grip the armrests as Pru advanced aggressively, then braked hard, a few feet from the rear wheels of an innocent Renault Scenic with three bicycles strapped to its roof and a back window full of teddies and a potty.
‘Get out of the way, you moron!’ she hissed, rapidly tugging the stalk that flashed her headlights. ‘Use your mirrors and you’ll see me.’
The Renault resolutely stayed where it was: in the outside lane and pottering along at a reasonable seventy-five miles per hour.
‘Right,’ said Pru, and suddenly swerved to the left then accelerated hard, undertaking the smaller car and blasting her horn as she did so.
The driver and wife stared in astonishment at this madwoman rushing past them in a blur. She swung the steering wheel to the right and, causing them to brake, pulled out in front of them.
‘Ha! That’s better.’
Francis was aware he hadn’t taken a breath for a few seconds and took a quick gasp.