The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip. Jenny OliverЧитать онлайн книгу.
Wilf’s car.’
And all Holly’s inner calm and strength went straight out the window.
The drive up to the polo field seemed endless. Lining the road were people dressed in polo shirts and blazers, chatting in groups by their flash cars. Arriving in an ice cream van, Holly had never felt so conspicuous in her life. Especially when Emily got over-excited and switched on the nursery rhyme Tannoy so the whole place turned and looked at them and the van sang its way in.
‘There’s Wilf, over there…’ Emily pointed to the far field where a match had just ended. One guy was sitting astride his pony, the other was leading his by the rein. ‘And that’s Alfonso, the guy on the pony. He’s Argentinian, bloody awesome player and absolutely stunning. Just wait till we get close up.’
Holly wasn’t really listening, her blood was rushing in her ears. Wilf had looked up at the sound of the van approaching and stopped where he was. Alfonso had paused, glanced up to see what it was that had caught Wilf’s attention.
‘Pull up on the end of this row,’ Emily said, jumping down out of the van almost before it was parked. ‘Come on. Quicker we get this done, the easier it will be.’ She stopped and turned when she realised Holly hadn’t got out the van. ‘Holly. I promise, it’ll be OK.’ She walked back over to the driver’s side. ‘I shouldn’t have told him, but…’ She blew her hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s done now and I think it’s for the best. At the very least it means that you don’t have to do this on your own. I told him he had to support you. He’s loaded.’
‘I don’t want his money, Em.’ Holly put her hand to her mouth. ‘God, do you think he thinks that I want his money? I don’t want any money. Oh god, it gets worse.’
‘You’re entitled to his money, Holly. For the baby. Oh he’s coming over. Get out of the van. And flump up your hair a bit. And put your sunglasses back on because your eyes look knackered. Hey, Wilf!’ Emily waved. ‘Hi, Alfonso. Oh I love your pony, she’s so lovely. Look at you…’ Emily skipped over to the chestnut mare, rested her hand on the white star on its forehead and made faces into its big unblinking brown eyes.
Holly slipped cautiously down from the cab of the van, brushing down her jeans and then pulling her hands into the cuffs of her jumper, preparing herself almost for battle.
But the reality of it all, the bright sunshine, the lush grass and the chugging of the sprinkler, Emily jabbering on at Alfonso and his pony, Wilf’s palomino munching on a polo mint, wasn’t as she expected.
In her mind she’d had the Eastenders’ theme tune, shouting and maybe a bit of hair-pulling, death stares and ‘how dare you’s. But instead, standing in front of her was Wilf. The same guy who she’d bumped into in The Duck and Cherry pub when they all came to visit the island. The guy who’d sidled up to her all lazy confidence, a pint in one hand, the other toying with a beer mat and said, ‘Miss Somers. What a pleasure…’
Holly, who had been sitting alone while Matt went to get drinks at the bar, had leant forward, elbows rested on the little pub table and said, ‘Nice to see you, Wilf. It’s been a while since you were back on the island.’
‘Hasn’t it just?’
The last time she’d seen him was at the one and only Cherry Pie Festival about fifteen years ago. Wilf, a budding entrepreneur, had just finished boarding school and was desperate to make some cash, start his empire and never look back. Teaming up with his best mate, Alan Neil’s eldest son, Jack, quite possibly the coolest kid on the island, they’d put on what was meant to be a mellow, bijoux little festival. The plan had been to laze about on hay bales in the grounds of the manor house, dance to some local bands, eat food from cute stalls and get drunk till dawn. That all happened, except the flyers got photocopied and passed on and on until more people arrived than the island had ever seen. For Holly, Annie and Co. it was brilliant. For the residents it was less so. By 1 a.m. the police had been called and the little festival shut down. Wilf and Jack scored it a success because they’d more than doubled their money. The residents banned it from ever taking place again. Holly remembered sitting eating cherry pie in the cafe the next morning, dreamily remembering the cheeky snog she’d had with Wilf behind the band marquee. She’d left for a warm-weather training camp in Seville the next day and by the time she got back, Wilf had moved onto bigger, better things. His empire had indeed started and his face, like his sister’s, was all over the society pages of Tatler and Harper’s Bazaar. But while interviewers seemed to fixate on Emily’s single status - ignoring details about her new product launches and asking her over and over again how she felt about her almost-marriage and her doomed relationship history - Wilf just got a few lines referring to him as a bachelor business mogul or playboy restauranteur, then acres of coverage about whichever of his new restaurants was about to open.
‘I hear you’re doing OK for yourself,’ Holly had said, thrumming the pub table with her fingers, glancing up at Wilf, licking her suddenly dry lips.
‘As are you, Miss Somers. What was it at the Olympics? Bronze?’
‘Silver.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you think I’ll jump straight into bed with you.’
Wilf had laughed and said, ‘I think you’ll find you’re looking at me exactly the same way.’
Now, at the polo ground, as Holly walked further away from the safety of the ice cream van, for a second or two, when her eyes met Wilf’s, before anyone spoke, there was that same unguarded connection. He looked dishevelled and tired. His white trousers were grass-stained, his duck-egg polo shirt muddy, his hair pushed back with sweat, the tips of his cheekbones pink under his tan, the hollow around his eyes dark like he’d slept as little as Holly.
But then he glanced to his right, saw Emily and Alfonso watching them, waiting, and turned back, one eyebrow raised and said, ‘Well, if it isn’t the mother of my child.’
Holly sighed and turned away from him, running her tongue under her top teeth and fixing her stare on the ponies warming up on the practice ring. Emily said, ‘Wilf!’ And Alfonso coughed as if he had embarrassed shock caught in his throat. Then he jumped down from his pony, took a couple of strides in Holly’s direction and, hand outstretched, said, ‘Excuse my friend for his rudeness. We lost today and he doesn’t like to lose. You must be Holly? Alfonso,’ he said, one hand on his chest to indicate he was talking about himself.
‘Hi,’ Holly said, swallowing over a lump in her throat, half anger, half held in tears. ‘It’s really nice to meet you.’
‘The pleasure is absolutely all mine. You are going to France this evening, yes? I am driving over later in the week. I have never actually been to France before, can you believe it?’ He smiled and the corners of his eyes tipped up like a cat.
Holly bit down on her thumbnail and smiled, ‘It’s really beautiful, I’ve heard. From Emily.’
‘And I have heard from Wilfred.’ Alfonso turned to try and include Wilf in the conversation, but his jaw was set and he clearly wasn’t in the mood for casual chit-chat.
‘We should probably go to the clubhouse, talk privately,’ Wilf said, indicating towards the big white pavilion, its arched windows sparkling in the sunshine, beautifully topiaried pot plants lined up along the terrace and a huge viewing platform just behind it from where you could survey the entire grounds of the club.
‘I’m not sure there’s time for that,’ Emily