Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton
for a roofer in the parish magazine?’ Greg felt the arrow of her sarcasm fully pierce his ego.
Francis spoke, ‘Pru, be fair, it wasn’t Greg’s fault. We were trying to help.’
‘And you’ve been left with a severe laceration to the cornea. You have been very lucky, Francis. Very lucky indeed.’ Pru swept her hands through her short dark hair and looked at Connie, who was trying to figure out how to work the carpet-shampoo machine.
‘There’s nothing else for it, Connie. You and I will have to take the maintenance work while the men look after the children and the cooking.’
*
The following days saw Connie and Pru working from dawn till dusk, cleaning the house. Woodwork was washed, curtains and windows cleaned, every nook and cranny vacuumed and dusted. From time to time Dorothy would pop in to annoy them. One morning, while the girls were shampooing the stair carpet, Dorothy called up to them from the hall:
‘Whatever you do, don’t touch this chandelier. It needs professional cleaning.’
Connie turned off the machine and gritted her teeth. ‘Mum, all it needs is a quick rub with some wet wipes to get it sparkling again. We don’t need to spend a fortune on a professional cleaner.’
‘Wet wipes?’ Dorothy pointed indignantly at the chandelier above her head. ‘That’s Venetian glass, I’ll have you know.’
‘Yes, we do know, Mum. We were there when you bought it, remember?’ grumbled Pru, recalling the oppressive heat of an Italian August. She and Connie had pleaded to go on a gondola ride, but Dorothy had insisted on dragging them around the glass factories of Murano instead. Visiting the furnaces had been like stepping into an inferno. She shuddered at the memory.
Dorothy sniffed. ‘In that case, you’ll remember how much money Daddy paid for it. The chandelier must be cleaned professionally.’
‘OK, whatever you say,’ sighed Connie. ‘Who do you use? I’ll give them a ring.’
‘I have never had it cleaned,’ Dorothy replied breezily. ‘I’ll have a look on Daddy’s computer web net thing. You can find anyone on there, you know.’
Pru and Connie smiled fondly at their mother. ‘Yes. We do know.’
‘Right. Well. I’ll go and do that now then.’
‘OK, Mum,’ the girls chorused.
As soon as she had gone, Connie said to Pru, ‘Pass me the wet wipes.’
*
While the girls did their chores, Greg and Francis kept their heads down and tried to run the domestic side of things as smoothly as they could. The kitchen became their domain. Francis was in his element, taking charge of all the cooking.
‘What do you fancy for supper tonight, Greg?’ he asked. ‘How about some lobsters?’
‘Where will you get them from, old man?’
‘Down in Trevay at the fish market.’
‘And how do you propose to get there when neither of us can drive?’ Seeing his brother-in-law’s shoulders slump in defeat, Greg tried to make amends for his sharp tone. ‘I know. Give me a moment and I’ll sort you out a taxi.’
Minutes later he was back, smiling broadly. ‘Francis, your chariot awaits! Be at the front door in five. Belinda said she’ll be only too happy to have you to herself for a couple of hours.’
Francis blanched. ‘No – no need. I’ll call the mini-cab place in town. Go and tell her no.’
They heard the front door creak open and Belinda’s voice calling, ‘Yoo-hoo.’
‘Too late!’ Greg gathered up Francis’s horseshoe-shaped leather purse and a bundle of jute sustainable shopping bags, and in a low voice said, ‘Come on, old man, give yourself a treat. Take her out for lunch.’
‘But Pru and Connie – what will they think? I’m supposed to be fixing their lunch,’ Francis whimpered.
‘I’ll cover for you.’ Greg dropped his voice further still. ‘Strictly entre nous, I’m expecting a call from Janie shortly, so I could do with the privacy.’ He pushed Francis out into the hall. ‘Ah, Belinda! This is so very kind of you,’ he gushed, propelling them both towards the front door. ‘Francis says he’s going to treat you to lunch as a thank you. Off you go now. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Ha ha ha. Bye!’
As he slammed the front door shut behind them, the phone in his pocket began to vibrate.
*
Belinda insisted on taking Francis’s arm and helping him into her 2CV. In the footwell, his feet rested on several cardboard coffee mugs and a carpet of chocolate-bar wrappers.
‘Sorry about the mess. It’s Emily and her mates. I haven’t had time to clean it out. Now, let me just do up your seat belt.’
Francis sat, helpless as a toddler, as she leaned across him, smothering his face with her magnificent breasts. He breathed in her musky, sun-warmed smell. She really was extremely attractive. As she clicked his seat belt into place and moved back out of the car, he flicked his one good eye nervously up towards the windows of the house. Thank goodness Pru and Connie were cleaning the bedrooms on the other side this morning.
Belinda eased her sun-tanned flesh into the driver’s seat and started the engine. She laid her hand on his knee and patted it. ‘How’s your poor eye today?’
‘A little better, I think. The doc says the patch can come off in a day or two.’
‘That’s good.’ She smiled at him. ‘Pity, though: you look very dashing with a patch.’
She gave him a wink and started up the engine. ‘Trevay here we come!’
Although the day was sunny, there was a cool breeze as the 2CV, its soft-top rolled down and its engine chugging away like a sewing-machine motor, carried them into Trevay. Holidaymakers were strolling along the streets, oblivious to traffic, stopping and starting as they wished, licking ice creams and window-shopping. The main car park was full, but Francis directed her to a sneaky space – one of the few not covered in double yellow lines – behind the main street. They were lucky. It was empty.
Belinda was delighted. ‘Frankie, you clever man!’ And she leaned over and planted a warm kiss on his cheek. Gathering up a couple of his jute bags from the back seat, she said, ‘Right – where’s this fish market?’
Ambling arm in arm with Belinda as they made their way to the fish market was a revelation to Francis. Pru had never taken his arm; on the one occasion he had taken hers, she had shrugged him off. Belinda’s arm was comforting in its fleshiness. Her chubby wrists and tanned fingers made him feel powerful and … well, male. As they walked he found himself smiling at strangers and enjoying the sound of Belinda’s inconsequential but amusing chatter. Her golden curls kept blowing across her face and on to her lips. He didn’t hear much of what she said. He didn’t need to. He felt happy. Naughty, but happy.
Together they chose six lobsters, which the fishmonger packed into a polystyrene cool box.
At the trendy food market next door they got asparagus, new potatoes, lemons and – for home-made mayonnaise – eggs and good olive oil.
‘Look at those raspberries! My favourite!’ cooed Belinda.
‘Do you like Eton Mess?’ asked Francis, carried away by her foodie enthusiasm.
‘Who doesn’t?’ She smiled at him, twinkling her blue eyes.
‘Right. I’ll make meringues with the egg whites left over from the mayonnaise.’
‘Are you inviting me to supper, Francis Meake?’
Francis took a grip on his destiny. ‘Yes, I am. You and Emily. Come and have dinner with the family. Pru