After the Honeymoon (9 page)

Hardly knowing what she was doing, Rosie found herself nodding. As though in slow motion, she made her way to the room next door. Greco was waiting for her, naked from the waist upwards. She’d often seen him like that before, of course, on the beach while dragging in his boat from a morning’s work.

But she’d never before felt him. Never experienced the warmth of his body as he drew her to him, wrapping his arms around her.

‘I don’t go in for one-night stands,’ she began.

His hands were moving as though they had been there before. ‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘Nor do I, any more.’

Then he stood away from her for a second, his eyes locking with hers. ‘I won’t ever hurt you, Rosie. I give you my word.’

His mouth was bearing down on hers now, making her heart beat wildly. Oh my God, thought Rosie, this man could kiss! It was like being taken into another world, one that she had never glimpsed before. What was she doing? If she did this, they could never be friends again …

But then his hands began to unbutton her shirt and as his palm closed around her right breast, Rosie Harrison knew she was lost.

After her appointments, they went for an evening walk, his imprint still inside her. His hand held hers firmly. It felt good, even though it was crazy. When they got back, it would be so awkward! Still, if you couldn’t get to your mid-thirties without going off the rails once or twice, it would be a pretty boring life, wouldn’t it?

Rosie shivered. Who was she kidding? If only she could be the kind of woman who could dismiss the two hours they’d spent together before she’d had to reluctantly get dressed for business. But when you’d shared the kind of intimacy they just had, it was hard to forget it.

‘You want a paper?’ asked Greco smoothly as they stopped by a stall on the street. ‘Or a magazine? Look, they do some English ones.’

Briefly, she was distracted. Rosie had always been a sucker for the glossies. Gemma was the same; sometimes she sent her copies of their favourite magazine,
Charisma
, even though the postage from England was more than the cover price.

Then she caught sight of something.

‘You like this?’ Greco handed her the latest edition of the
Daily Express
with a large photograph of a man holding up a pair of weights. ‘This man has muscles,’ he said lightly. ‘But not like mine.’ He squeezed her bottom meaningfully. ‘I hope you agree.’

But Rosie was staring at the picture with a strange flutter in her chest.

Winston King, former Marine and the nation’s keep-fit darling, has got married in secret! His bride is a make-up artist and a divorced mother of two whom he met while filming. They are thought to be holidaying in the Maldives at a secret location.

Rosie stole another look. There was something about the man that reminded her of Charlie, though he was fuller in the face, with more lines around his eyes. It could be his older brother, if he’d had one – although Charlie had been an only child, like her. Maybe she was just imagining it. Of course, it had been a long time ago. Even so, at night, when she couldn’t sleep, she saw her first and (until just now)
only
boyfriend’s face so clearly that she might as well have had a photograph of him next to her bed.

‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Greco, noticing her expression. ‘From television, that is?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Rosie’s mouth was dry. Buying the paper and stuffing it into her bag, she hurried on ahead of him, stepping into the road and narrowly avoiding a car. Suddenly she needed to put space between herself and this man whom she’d foolishly allowed to come too close. ‘Sorry,’ she called out over her shoulder, ‘I’ve got one more appointment. See you back at the hotel, OK?’

Honeymoons were only taken by wealthy people until the 1930s, when it became more commonplace. During Victorian times, the whole family often accompanied the happy couple during a month-long, post-wedding tour, frequently in Europe.

EMMA

Emma’s jaw had been dropping ever since they had left the dusty road leading from the tiny airport and headed out into the countryside. All around them were clusters of trees – olive trees, the driver told them with a delightful toothy grin – with white houses slotted in between. Some were really posh-looking, with pools at the side. Others were more run-down, with goats tethered in adjoining fields.

But wherever you looked, there was always the sea, sparkling at her. ‘This ees coastal route,’ added the driver, noticing her expression in his mirror, which was festooned with pictures of saints and a silver crucifix on a beaded chain. ‘Very beautiful, yes?’

Beautiful? It was stunning, although she wished he wouldn’t take his eyes off the road to look at her in the mirror like that, especially with these hairpin bends. She needed to stay alive to bring up the children.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ she said, breathlessly turning to Tom. Only then did she notice how pale he looked. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Not great, to be honest.’ He hung onto the back of the driver’s seat in the absence of a seat belt. ‘These roads are really turning my stomach.’

That was odd. Tom wasn’t normally car sick. It was usually Gawain. Suddenly Emma had a vision of their son’s white little face, when they’d driven down to Margate last year. Oh dear. She’d forgotten to tell Mum not to take him on any trips. It wasn’t just that he might be sick. What if they had an accident? Mum wasn’t a very confident driver.

Suddenly the view outside didn’t seem so wonderful after all. ‘I think I’ve got some travel sickness pills in my bag,’ she said, rooting around. ‘They’re for children but they might help. Yes. Here they are.’

Her husband looked at her plaintively. ‘Got any water?’

‘No.’ She swallowed back her irritation. Why was it that men could be so childish when they were under the weather? How on earth would they cope with periods or childbirth? ‘Can’t you swallow them without? They’re not very big.’

Dutifully, he did as he was told, just as the driver screeched to a halt. ‘We are here,’ he announced triumphantly.

Emma gasped. The villa was like something out of one of the children’s fairy-tale books! For a start, it was built on a slope, set into a hill, which gave it a really sweet charm all of its own. The first floor jutted out slightly and there was a terrace wrapped round the side with parasols fluttering over the tables. It was white, just like many of the houses they’d already passed, but there was a brilliant purple and scarlet plant winding its way up from a huge tub by the front door. The sign outside had a flamboyant rose, below the name.

Villa Rosa.

It was perfect. At least, it would be if the children were here too. But as they weren’t, she’d make the best of it. Maybe Bernie and Mum were right. She had to put Tom first, just for the next week. After all, they were here now. She might as well enjoy it.

‘Come on,’ she said excitedly, helping her husband out of the car. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve had a bit of a lie-down.’

Emma had hardly been able to believe her eyes when the boy had led her to what he called ‘the cottage’. It was a mini version of the villa, except this one was on one level. If only Mum were here to see this! Staggered, she tried to take it all in. Whitewashed walls; purple plants around the door; deep-blue and scarlet rugs over the flagstoned floor; a squashy, sunset-yellow sofa next to a coffee table laden with magazines; an enormous bed with a high wooden headboard and a turquoise and cream patchwork quilt, which looked invitingly snug. But best of all, a stunning view to the sea outside. In fact, they were virtually on the beach! The kids would have loved it. She would have brought a bucket and spade and they could have set to, making a sandcastle.

‘How are you?’ she asked, sitting down next to the bed with a plastic bag at the ready, just in case. It had been so embarrassing when Tom had thrown up. Then there had been that awkward argument between the other couple and the young lad at reception.

The bald West Indian man, who looked so familiar, hadn’t seemed too happy. Even though Emma felt a bit guilty that they didn’t have a cottage, she also couldn’t help feeling grateful that it wasn’t them.

‘Do you think you’re going to be sick again?’ she asked, turning back to Tom. It wasn’t that she was unsympathetic. It was just that she didn’t want him to ruin the beautiful carpet. If they’d been at home, she’d have had the sick bowl out, the one she kept specifically for the kids when they were poorly.

Tom nodded wanly. ‘Maybe.’

‘Hopefully the tablets will work soon,’ she told him. But inside, she was feeling nauseous too. Nerves, Emma told herself. It wasn’t just the worry of leaving the children. It was the fact that ‘It’ was done. That they were married. Was it her imagination, or had their relationship already changed? Tom seemed to be relying on
her
now.

How ironic that she had left two children at home, only to acquire another!

No, she reprimanded herself sharply. To love and to cherish through sickness and health. Wasn’t that what they’d said only yesterday in church? But when Tom still didn’t feel any better by lunchtime, a selfish part of her began to feel a tiny bit cheated. It looked so lovely out there, but with Tom ill, how could she abandon him and enjoy it?

Never had Emma seen a sea with a colour like that. Such a deep, deep blue with light dancing off it like fairies carrying sparklers. So close. She could get there in a couple of minutes, just by walking out of the door and down the sandy slope. It was very private, the boy had told them when he’d pointed everything out.

‘I’ll be all right, love,’ said Tom, turning over with his face to the wall. ‘Honestly. You go and ring the kids. Check they’re all right. You might get a better reception on the beach.’

‘Sure?’ she asked hopefully, unpacking her faded sundresses and noticing, to her dismay, that toothpaste had leaked onto them. She’d have to wear that old pair of shorts she’d thrown in at the last moment. Pity, too, that she hadn’t brought some fake tan. Still, with any luck, her horribly white legs might get brown before too long. Especially if they got some sun right now.

Kicking off her flip-flops, Emma walked barefoot over the sand. It was all so beautiful, with the waves lapping hypnotically at her feet and that glorious sun – how she loved the heat!

But it was also horribly quiet and empty without the kids. If they’d been here, thought Emma, undoing the button on her too-tight shorts (must try to lose some weight!), she’d be holding little Willow in her arms and making sure that Gawain didn’t rush into the water without his water wings.

Motherhood gave her a job. A purpose. Now, as Emma switched her phone on, she was beginning to wonder what she was going to do with herself for a week, especially if Tom was off-colour.

Yes! You could get reception here. It would be horribly expensive but it would be worth it, just to hear the children’s voices.

‘Mum? It’s me. Em.’ She felt a shot of excitement at actually getting through. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Not really.’ There was the sound of grizzling in the background.

‘What’s wrong?’ As she spoke, Emma jumped out of the way of the next wave before the phone got wet.

Mum’s voice was weak. ‘Loads of people have been sick, including me. Did Willow and Gawain have those chicken vol-au-vents?’

Her mind raced. ‘No. They hate chicken. But Tom’s been sick too. Why?’

‘Looks like they might have been off.’

Was that why Tom was ill? ‘How serious is it?’

‘The doctor’s told us to give it three to five days.’

That didn’t sound good. ‘Shall we come home?’ she asked, wondering whether the plane would even allow Tom on board if he was being sick.

‘Don’t be daft. I can manage, and Bernie said she’d help out a bit. Luckily, she’s just started a no-protein diet so she’s all right.
Gawain!
I’ve told you once already! Stop sucking Willow’s dummy. You’re a big boy now. And blow that nose of yours. It’s all snotty again.’

He’s not very good at blowing, Emma was about to say, but Mum cut in before she could get a word in. ‘Now you just leave the kids to me and concentrate on your husband. Make sure he has plenty of water to drink and nothing fancy to eat. Just dry toast. By the way, did you know your son’s been hiding his crusts in the toy box?
Gawain, I said no!
’

Emma’s heart sank. It sounded like chaos at home.

‘Still,’ her mum added, ‘we might get some money back. I’ve left a message on the caterer’s answerphone, telling her just what we think.’

You had no right without talking to me first, Emma wanted to say. The caterer was a friend of Bernie’s who’d done them a discount as it was. But that was Mum all over, always thinking she knew best.

‘Can I talk to the children?’

‘Better not. Might unsettle them. No, Gawain. No chocolate right now. Maybe later.’

Emma felt as though her chest was being pulled like a long elastic band down the phone. Perhaps Mum was right. Willow was too young, and it might upset her son to hear her voice: he still couldn’t work out how someone could be at the other end of the phone without his being able to see them.

‘I’ll ring again tomorrow, Mum. Hope you feel better soon. And thanks once more. I really appreciate it.’

Walking back up to the cottage, making footprints in the sand (how Gawain would have enjoyed doing that with his little feet!), she peeped in through the bedroom door. Tom was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly. She’d have to wait until he woke, to find out about the chicken.

Meanwhile, perhaps she could just sit outside the cottage on one of the blue-and-white-striped loungers. Or test out the hammock that was strung between two trees near the beach. She could tie her hair back – it was too warm, to wear it loose – slap on that coconut sun cream which Bernie had recommended and lose herself in Katie Fforde’s latest, stamped inside with
Corrywood Library
and protected by its clear plastic covering. Every Saturday morning, she and Tom took the children down to the library for the under-fives storytelling session. There she went again! Always thinking about the children.