Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton
Pru said. ‘Would you like me to do you?’
‘No thanks,’ said Connie, settling down again. ‘I want to go brown.’
‘The sun is so ageing to one’s skin. You should look after yours.’
‘I’m wearing factor 15.’
‘Not high enough.’
‘It’s Cornwall, not Africa.’
‘I’m only saying.’
‘Sorry. Look, I want to read my book, OK?’
‘I’m not stopping you.’ Pru plonked a ridiculous orange floral floppy hat on her head and lay down.
Connie waited in case her sister had anything else to say, but she stayed silent. Breathing a sigh of relief, Connie started reading again. Pru began to snore. Heaving a sigh, Connie dropped her book and closed her eyes. Within minutes she was snoring too.
When they woke up, the sun was a little lower and the tide was on its way in. They moved their towels further up the beach. As they settled, a light breeze picked up and Pru shivered. She put her robe back on.
‘Are you worried about Francis?’ Connie asked Pru. ‘He certainly isn’t looking very well.’
Pru looked at her as if she were mad.
‘No. Why should I be? He’s fine.’
‘He seemed a bit tired and distracted.’
‘What has he got to distract him?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I am telling you: nothing. He’s fine. Probably wants a bit of attention.’
‘Maybe he wants your attention.’
‘Poor Francis, not getting any sex? Is that what you’re trying to say?’
‘Yes. No. Well, yes.’
‘Francis is as little inclined as I am. It’s something that we used to do and don’t need to do any more. We’ve grown up.’
‘So, grown-ups aren’t allowed to have sex?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But Greg and I have sex.’
‘Yes. And look at Greg. He’s not exactly a grown-up, is he?’
Connie propped herself up on her elbows and looked at her sister. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
Pru squinted, shading her eyes. ‘Well, he’s still a little boy. The way he dresses, his gadgets, the car he drives, the swagger as he walks.’
‘I’d rather have a man who knows how to have fun – and, yes, sex – than a downtrodden servant.’
Pru sat very still for a moment. Then, in a dangerously neutral voice, she replied, ‘You think Francis is a downtrodden servant?’ She started to wag her forefinger in front of Connie’s face. ‘That downtrodden servant lives in a beautiful house, with a joint account he can access at any time, and a son who is happy and doing well at school, and a wife who works her backside off and brings home a considerable side of bacon. Does that sound like a downtrodden servant to you?’ She paused spitefully and added, ‘Or does it take one to know one?’
Pru settled her sunglasses over her eyes and lay back on her towel to emphasise that the conversation was closed.
Connie, smarting, settled back down too. Her sister could be such a bitch, She couldn’t help feeling worried about her brother-in-law. He was a nice man and she couldn’t bear to think of him being lonely and forced into celibacy. He wasn’t the type to have an affair, but he was attractive in his own way. Not compared to Greg, of course. Loads of her friends fancied Greg, but he had never given her cause for concern. Good job too, or she’d roast his nuts for Christmas.
‘Hi, Mum! Hi, Auntie Pru.’ The shadows of Abi and Jem fell across them. ‘Presents for you!’
The youngsters handed over two cones of whippy ice cream with chocolate flakes stuck in the top.
Connie and Pru made space for their offspring on their towels.
‘Hi, kids. What have you been up to?’
Abi started. ‘We cycled to Pendruggan – you know, the village where they’re filming that telly detective thing you like, Mum.’
‘Oh yes. Were they all there?’
‘Yeah. We had to be quiet because they were filming some dead body being found on the village green or something. We watched for about half an hour, but it was so slow and boring we decided to cycle into Trevay and have a coffee on the harbour.’ Abi, finishing her sentence with an upward lilt as if asking a question, took a lick of ice cream.
Jeremy continued, ‘Yeah, and we bumped into Big Ben. He said that a woman who says she knows our family is coming to stay in one of the holiday lets at the back of Atlantic House.’
Big Ben was a tiny man who had bought Dairy Cottage and The Byre, two of the outhouses that had originally belonged to Atlantic House. For the past few years he’d been renting them out as holiday lets.
‘Really?’ asked Connie. ‘I wonder who that is?’
‘He didn’t say. But whoever it is will be arriving on Wednesday.’
‘I hope it’s someone nice and not a terrible bore.’
Abi laughed, ‘Oh, Mum, you’re sounding more like Granny every day!’
Connie gave her daughter a friendly shove.
As Abi regained her balance, she caught sight of a man watching them.
‘Mum, that man’s staring at us.’
Connie looked over the top of her sunglasses. ‘Where?’
‘See the pink beach tent? Just to the right of that. He’s quite hench, for an old bloke. Bare chest and blue shorts. Curly hair – too long for his age. Talking to a couple of the lifeguards?’
Connie followed Abi’s directions and spotted him. She pushed her sunglasses back up her nose and nudged her sister. ‘Pru, look. See him?’
Pru was alert and as still as a pointer dog. Breathing out very slowly she replied, ‘Yes. I see him.’
They spoke together: ‘Merlin Pengelly.’
Abigail giggled. ‘Who is he?’
‘An old friend of mine,’ said Pru.
‘And mine,’ said Connie.
The women eyed each other for a moment. Pru broke the silence first.
‘Come on, Connie.’ She stood up and started to roll her towel. ‘Time we were going back.’
Connie was already up and shooshing Abi off her towel.
The man continued to watch them with a slow smile spreading across his handsome face. He waved at them.
‘Oh my God, he’s waving,’ Connie flustered.
‘He’s coming this way.’
Merlin’s brown athletic legs were carrying him towards them. Fifty metres, thirty and finally with only a couple more steps to go he stopped and raised a sunkissed eyebrow, allowing his sea-green eyes to gleam flirtatiously.
‘Connie? Pru? Is it really you?’ The two women looked uncomfortable. ‘You do remember me, don’t you?’
Pru acknowledged him and answered coolly: ‘How could we forget, Merlin.’
He leaned forward as if to kiss her cheek, but she offered her hand to shake instead. He ignored it. She felt his warm skin brush her face.
He stepped back. ‘I’d know you anywhere, Prudence Carew.’
‘Meake.’