Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern BrittonЧитать онлайн книгу.
she had such a great night with this chap that she’s not in the office yet.’
Greg looked glum. ‘Wouldn’t that be marvellous for her.’
‘I’m sure it’ll all work out.’ Francis’s mobile started to ring. His thoughts still occupied with Greg’s problem, he answered without looking at caller ID.
‘Hello, Francis Meake.’ Suddenly, his face took on a slight flush. ‘Hello, Belinda … yes … yes … That’s right. Treviscum Bay … We’re Atlantic House … yes, what a coincidence … TODAY? … I thought you were coming on Wednesday … A last-minute cancellation … lunchtime … yes, Dairy Cottage is right next door to us … yes … quite a coincidence … OK … see you later … bye.’
Greg watched Francis place the phone on the table as if it were a grenade with the pin missing.
‘Are you all right, old man?’ he asked.
Francis picked up his coffee cup but his hand was shaking so much he had to put it down.
Greg tried again, ‘Who’s Belinda?’
Pru strode into the kitchen.
‘A mother at Jeremy’s school. On the PTA.’ She stopped when she saw Francis’s ashen face. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
Francis looked up from where he sat, into his wife’s perceptive eyes. He blurted, ‘It’s Belinda. She’s rented Dairy Cottage. She’s arriving with her daughter today.’
Pru looked quizzical ‘Ah, Big Ben told the kids that someone we knew was coming down. I thought it was Wednesday.’
‘Big Ben had a cancellation.’ Francis looked as if he were in shock; which of course he was.
Pru gave him a funny look, then said, ‘Well, you don’t have to have anything to do with her.’
‘I, er, no … at least … that is, she may want to talk to me about, er, school things.’
‘That’s OK. It’ll keep you busy. Is her husband coming down, too?
‘She’s divorced.’
‘Better still! We’ll never see her. She’ll be out looking for a holiday romance.’ She rubbed Francis’s shoulder. ‘Now, how about you get me some of your granola and blueberries?’
Francis gladly did as he was told, but a feeling of impending doom settled over him like a fog over the moors.
Francis had done the washing up, ironing and vacuuming and was wondering whether he should change the sheets. Physical activity, and cleaning in particular, was a good distraction. He had always liked cleaning; it helped focus his mind.
He wished he was alone in the house, but the threat of showers was keeping everyone indoors.
Pru was in their room talking loudly on her mobile. She’d waved him out when he’d attempted to spray stain remover on the oil-marked carpet.
As he walked back out on to the landing he could see the kids mowing the lawn. Or rather, Jem was driving the ride-on machine, another of Henry’s gadgets, and Abi was sitting huddled in her hoodie, reading a magazine.
Downstairs, Connie was littering up the kitchen with her mother and father. Henry had bought himself an iPad while on the trip to see staddle stones in Lostwithiel. He didn’t have a clue how it worked so Connie, not exactly a high-tech whizz herself, was attempting to get it up and running.
‘Don’t keep touching the screen, Henry, you’ll put fingerprints all over it,’ said Dorothy.
‘Mummy, you’re supposed to touch the screen, that’s why it’s called touch screen,’ said Connie irritably, trying to make sense of the instructions.
Dorothy was getting bored and impatient.
‘Why did you buy the thing, you silly man?’
Henry frowned at her. ‘Why don’t you go and decide where to put your bloody staddle stones and leave me and Connie to sort this out.’
Dorothy was huffy. ‘It’s starting to rain.’
‘Well, make some coffee then. Francis has washed the machine out,’ said Connie.
Francis heard this and was dismayed. He took pride in cleaning out the coffee machine and really enjoyed making the first pot with a sparkling appliance. It was clearly not to be. Gathering up the hoover and his trug of polishes and dusters, he put his bum to the drawing-room door and pushed it open.
Greg was lolling on the sofa, squashing the newly plumped cushions. He was on his mobile. He signalled Francis to sit down and be quiet. ‘I’m glad you had a good time … of course I’m not jealous … So what’s Adrian like? … Is he? … Does he? … Did he? … Sounds a lot of fun … What did you wear? … What time did he drop you off? … That’s late, you must be tired this morning … Mmmm … yeah … It’s OK here … Yeah, having a great time … Connie’s really brown, nice tan marks … Not jealous, are you? … ha ha ha … OK, you’d better answer it … Speak later … Same to you … bye, bye.’ He hung up. ‘Janie,’ he explained.
‘Ah,’ said Francis. ‘How did the date go?’
Greg put a fingertip in his mouth and started to bite the nail. ‘Too bloody well.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
Greg stopped chewing and gave a half-hearted smile. ‘Yeah, sure it’s good. For her. But not for my mate. I mean, he really likes her.’
‘But he’s married.’
‘Sometimes, it’s not enough to have one woman in your life.’
Francis thought of Belinda and coloured. ‘Hmmm.’
They sat in silence for a bit before Greg said, ‘If my friend left his wife for her, it would cause a hell of a stink.’
‘Divorces are never easy.’
‘No.’
‘Does he have children?’
‘Yes. It would be horrible for Abi.’
‘Abi? That’s a coincidence. Same name as your daughter.’
A look of fear fled through Greg’s eyes. Then he laughed, ‘Oh! I see what you mean! Never thought of that. Ha! Abi! Yep. Popular name and all that. Anyway …’ He slapped his hands on his knees, stood up and beamed at Francis. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Weren’t you looking for me?’
‘No. I want to vacuum round.’
‘Oh, right, right. I’ll get out of your way then.’
He patted Francis on the shoulder and walked out. Francis looked at the squashed cushions on the sofa and replumped them.
The phone rang twice and the postman knocked once. Each interruption sent Francis’s heart a message to stop beating for a second. Belinda had said she was arriving at lunchtime.
One bathroom left to do. What time was lunchtime? Twelve? One? Two? Oh God, this waiting was purgatory.
By two thirty there was still no sign of Belinda. Connie’s lunch, of shop-bought Scotch eggs, bagged lettuce and plastic-potted potato salad, would have played havoc with Francis’s digestion at the best of times, but today it was impossible for him to even sit at the table. The synthetic smell of cheap salad cream was the last straw.
‘Nothing for me, thank you, Connie. I had a big breakfast. I’m going to get some fresh air. Do excuse me.’
He