Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton
and the atmosphere gradually thawed.
Eventually Pru spoke: ‘OK, I think that’s everything. Table laid, bolognese done. Trifle made. Just the salad to do when the kids and Greg come back. Fancy a drink, Mum? Connie?’
‘Not for me, darling. I’m going home to spruce myself up.’ Dorothy set off for The Bungalow with a parting wave.
‘Yes, please.’ Connie offered an apologetic smile to Pru. ‘I reckon we deserve a glass of something cold and white. Shall we take it outside?’
Pru laid a tray with an ice bucket and bottle of Pinot Grigio, two glasses and a bowl each of olives and cheese straws.
Carrying it out on to the terrace, she saw that Connie had plumped the cushions on the silvered wood of the ancient set of garden chairs. The lowering sun was still warm and the sea reflected its gold.
Pru raised her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
They watched the sun as it set low in the sky and looked out to the beach below to spot their surfers.
Connie could see Greg standing in the shallows, taking photos of Abi and Jem as they cruised the waves on their boards.
She took a long sip on her wine. ‘Merlin looked good, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. Very.’ Pru conceded.
Greg paddled out behind the breaking waves and waited patiently. He counted the rollers coming towards him, one, two, three … small ones gently lifted and lowered him. It was quiet. Only two other surfers, both men, were waiting with him, out in the deep. Four, five … every seventh wave was the one to look out for. Six, seven … he saw it coming. Swelling and rising to meet him. He paddled like mad with his salt-wrinkled hands and looking behind him saw the water break as it rose above him. He caught it well. Came up on to his knee, got his balance and was standing on the board and riding the foaming water towards the beach.
‘Yee-ha!’ he cried, hoping someone was witnessing his brilliance. Then something threw his balance and he was dumped in a tumble of heavy water and sand. Winded and underwater, he felt the rough sand tear at his cheek and ear. Gasping his way into fresh air he found the strength to stand and, as nonchalantly as possible, retrieve his board. He stood in the shallows catching his breath.
‘All right, Dad?’ Abi swept up beside him, still upright on her board.
He tried to regulate his heavy breathing. ‘Yeah, yeah. Fine. Did you see me? I was out in the impact zone, wanting a bit of aggro, and caught a really good tube.’
‘Dad, quit the dude talk. It’s not funny.’
‘Listen, babe, I’ve been a surfer for thirty years.’
‘Yeah. Which is why you’re a bit too old for it now. You know what the surfers call someone like you?’
‘Cool?’
‘Nope. A grey belly.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ Abi put her wet arm round his crestfallen shoulders.
‘Looked as though you took a bit of a tumble.’
‘Nah, nah. All part of the fun. Go on. Get back in. I’ve got my camera in my bag. I’ll take some action shots of you and Jem.’
‘Great! I’ll tell him. We’ll come up the beach together, OK?’
Greg waved his daughter off, envying her energy and fitness as she ran into the sea. He looked at his ‘grey belly’ and sucked his muscles in. Or at least, he tried to. It didn’t seem to make much difference. Letting them go again, he walked to their pile of belongings and found his camera.
*
By the time the surfers got back to the house, Connie and Prudence were opening a second bottle of wine on the terrace.
‘Hi,’ giggled Connie, clearly rather tiddly. ‘My sister and I deserved a little drinky. Want one?’
‘Definitely. Let me have a shower and I’ll be down.’
Greg’s legs ached as he climbed the stairs. He got to their bathroom and turned the shower on, having a quick pee in the loo while waiting for the hot water to come through. He saw himself in the mirror. He admired what he saw. He’d had a fantastically erotic call with Janie that afternoon. She’d been home alone in her Battersea mansion flat, taking a bath. God, how he’d wanted to be there with her.
With renewed vigour he jumped under the shower and almost had a heart attack. The water was icy cold. The kids must have taken the lot.
*
Supper was a quiet affair. Francis came down and managed a few spoonfuls of the spag bol. The kids went off with theirs on trays to watch a movie in the rumpus room. Connie was trying to sober up and Pru had got her laptop out and was doing some work.
Greg helped load the dishwasher then took a gin and tonic into the drawing room and settled down to have a quiet read of the paper.
The door banged open, shattering his peace, and Abi entered. ‘Daddeee?’ she wheedled, plonking herself down on the sofa next to her father.
‘Hmmm?’ He turned the page noisily and refused to look at her.
‘You know it’s my birthday in a couple of weeks?’
‘Is it? I really don’t remember.’
Abi smacked his arm. ‘Yes you do! Don’t be so mean.’
Greg rubbed his arm. ‘What do you want, you ungrateful child?’
Abi brightened. ‘A party.’
‘Well, I’m sure your mother will organise the usual.’
‘That’s the problem.’ She pouted. ‘I don’t want the usual pizza and soft drinks on the lawn, everyone collected by nine thirty. I want a proper party. On the beach. No adults.’
‘No.’
‘But, Dad …’
‘No.’
‘I’m seventeen.’
‘And?’
‘I’m almost eighteen.’
‘That maths tutor is worth his weight in gold.’
‘I’ll ask Mummy. She’ll say yes.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’
‘When she was young, she had parties on the beach, with Auntie Pru. They shared a boyfriend. We met him on the beach today.’
Greg looked at Abi. ‘What, that bloke on the beach with the long hair?’
‘Yep. Merlin.’
‘Oh good God! There’s nothing sadder than an old hippy on the pull.’
‘I thought he was rather hot … for an old man.’
‘Do I look like an old man?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, you are, like, over forty or something.’
‘Thank you again.’
‘Mummy and Auntie Pru went all mysterious about him.’
‘Did they? In what way?’
‘They went all secretive. I mean, he did look quite hot.’
‘Did Mummy say that?’
‘She didn’t have to.’ Abi smirked.