Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton
dad to Abi, who adored him, and he had never strayed in the twenty years they’d been married. Of course, it wasn’t all sweetness and light, she reflected. There were weeks on end when she didn’t see Greg. He worked too hard and was always away on business, selling Carew games to the rest of the world. She knew she should be grateful; Abi went to a brilliant school and they had never wanted for anything, but there were times when she resented having to hold the fort. All those nights out without her husband, feeling like a spare part. Parents’ evenings alone, school plays alone …
She pushed these thoughts from her mind. Connie pitied the wives of the men who’d been on the Berlin weekend. Life was good – wasn’t it?
*
Next door in the master bedroom, a fully dressed Francis was astride a shirtless Pru.
‘Gently, Francis. Careful.’ Pru’s voice was muffled in her pillow as Francis massaged her back.
‘Sorry, Pru. I had no idea your back was so bad. Why didn’t you tell me? I shouldn’t have let you drive.’
‘We’d never have got here.’
‘I know, but I like to look after you and Jeremy, you know that. That was the deal we made when your career took off and we decided that I should stay at home.’
‘Yes, darling. And very good you are too. So good, I think my back feels a lot better.’
Francis got the message and climbed off her.
Pru stood up and did a few stretches. ‘Yes, I think you’ve worked a miracle. Get me a nice G and T, and then you can make a start on supper. We don’t want Connie’s fish finger feast on the first night.’
*
‘I hope your mum makes supper tonight.’ Jeremy was lying across Abi’s bed. ‘I’m really hungry. I only had, like, freakin’ sushi in the car.’
Abi laughed and threw a pillow at her cousin’s head. ‘We had Marks and Sparks sandwiches and crisps.’ She stood sideways to the dressing-table mirror and sucked her tummy in. ‘Jem, d’you think I’m getting fat?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t even look.’
‘I don’t need to. You look the same as usual.’
‘Maybe I should go on a diet.’
‘I don’t like skinny women.’
‘So I’m not skinny?’
Jeremy picked up the pillow and threw it back at Abi.
‘Shut your face. Don’t get so paranoid.’
‘Gran said I had puppy fat.’
‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, man. At Christmas my mate Sean thought you were hot.’
‘The one with the teeth?’
‘There’s nothin’ wrong with his teeth. Anyway, his mum’s got him braces now.’
Abi mimed putting two fingers down her throat and made a retching noise. ‘Lovely.’
‘That’s harsh.’ Jem laughed. ‘He’s a good mate.’
Francis’s voice trilled up the stairs: ‘Dinner, all. Come and get it.’
‘Shit,’ said Jeremy. ‘Dad’s got to the kitchen first. Bloody buckwheat and quorn again.’
*
Dorothy and Henry had come over from their bungalow next door to join the two families for supper. Dorothy was rummaging in the fridge, looking for the magnum of champagne that she’d won in the Lifeboat raffle.
‘Henry!’ She turned, brandishing the bottle.
‘Yes, my darling?’
‘Make yourself useful and open this. I’ll get the glasses.’
‘They’re on the table already, Dorothy.’ Francis indicated with his chin as he poured boiling water on to a bowl of couscous.
Dorothy was waspish. ‘Dear Francis, you’re a wonder! How lucky Pru is to have you. Tell me, what have you knocked up for our gastronomic delight tonight?’ Privately, she thought he was too much of a softie. She preferred men to be men and wasn’t in favour of all this ‘new man’ business.
Francis smiled, Dorothy’s sarcasm sailing over his head. There was nothing he liked better than cooking a meal for the family.
‘Oh, you know me. Something wholesome, nutritious and delicious, I promise.’
Dorothy turned away from Francis and looked wryly at Henry, who stifled a snigger, disguising it as a cough, before saying, ‘Right, old girl. Glasses ready? She’s about to blow.’ And with that the champagne cork came away smoothly in his gnarled but experienced hands.
‘Hey, Poppa.’ Abi entered the kitchen and gave her beloved grandfather an affectionate hug. ‘Got a glass for me?’
‘Ah! Ha-ha! There you are, my favourite granddaughter.’ He poured her a fizzing glassful.
‘I’m your only granddaughter, Poppa!’
‘Well, let me look at you.’ Abi did a little twirl. ‘My goodness, you are a beauty. So tall and so slim. You remind me of Granny when I first met her.’
Dorothy, who had impatiently wrestled the bottle from Henry’s hands and was now pouring herself a glass, looked up. ‘Yes, but I had an eighteen-inch waist.’
‘So you did. So you did,’ Henry replied. Then, winking at Abi, he added, ‘Mind you, in those days they knew how to make a good corset.’
Jeremy had joined them and gladly took the glass his grandmother offered him.
‘See, Abi! You don’t need to go on a diet.’
Connie caught this last comment as she arrived with a satisfied-looking Greg. ‘Abi! You are perfect as you are! You certainly do not need to lose weight.’
Abi looked sheepish. ‘Granny said I did.’
Connie turned to her mother. ‘Mummy, I don’t ever want to hear you say anything like that again. You always went on about my weight when I was Abi’s age, and it’s so hurtful.’
‘Not my weight,’ said Pru, gliding into the room with no sign of a limp. ‘I’ve always had trouble putting weight on.’
Connie retaliated swiftly, ‘Yes. Just a pity your ego couldn’t be put on a diet too.’
Henry looked at his daughters sternly. ‘Stop that this minute. And Dorothy, keep your opinions to yourself.’
Dorothy, looking pious, said, ‘I won’t say another word.’
‘Good.’
There followed a strained tension that only very close families recognise.
‘Well …’ Francis put down his champagne flute. ‘Who’s ready for aubergine and haloumi bake, tagine of chickpeas and herb-laced couscous?’
*
There was a surprising amount of food left over.
‘That was delicious, Uncle Francis. I feel fully vegetable and pulsed up,’ said Abi, taking her half-eaten plate to the bin.
Jem jumped up and did the same. ‘That was top, Dad. Thanks. Do any of you mind if Abi and I leave the table and watch telly in the rumpus room?’
‘That’s fine,’ said Henry. ‘I want to talk business with Greg anyway.’
‘Great,’ said Greg, topping up his and Henry’s glasses with the remains of the bottle.
‘Let’s go to The Bungalow.’ Henry took Greg’s arm, adding in a lower voice: ‘We might catch a bit of the cricket