Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch

Hi Greggy,

The office is very quiet without you. Old octopus arms is bound to spend all week feeling me up whenever I am in the kitchen on my coffee run. He drops teaspoons so that he can bend down and look up my skirt to see if I’m wearing stockings and suspenders. Don’t worry. Only wear stockings when you are here.

How is it in the bosom of your family? Poor you. I can’t wait for Abigail to leave home, so you can leave too. Not long now! Then you can tell the old boot about us.

I’m getting ready to go out. My brother’s old flatmate, Adrian – remember the one just back from Afghanistan? – is taking me out to dinner. Don’t want to go, but he’s a nice guy and I’m doing my bro a favour. One for the troops!

Phone me tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it. Think of me when you go to sleep tonight.

Love you, sexy boy,

Janie xxxxxxxxxxx

Who the hell was Adrian? She’d never mentioned him before. Some upper-class twit in charge of a tank regiment with a six-pack and an inheritance to look forward to? What would she wear for this … he hesitated to say the word date.Her lingerie collection was vast and very, very cute. Greg tapped out a brief reply.

Hope you haven’t enjoyed your evening too much. Speak in the morning.

G x

He drained his brandy and went upstairs. In their bedroom he was deliberately noisy, which woke Connie up.

‘What time is it?’ she mumbled.

‘Sorry, love. Did I wake you?’ He slid into bed next to her and slipped his hand round her tummy and kissed her neck. Connie yawned.

‘I can’t sleep,’ he told her.

‘It’s because you’ve been asleep on the sofa.’ Connie’s eyes were shut tight.

‘No, it’s because I fancy my wife like mad and need to make love to her.’

‘OK.’ Connie turned on to her back. ‘Pull my nightie down when you’ve finished.’

8 (#ulink_ff1bf549-e81b-5960-a234-02da2f73c5d1)

‘Who’s Belinda?’ Pru demanded, her gimlet eye glinting under a perfectly arched eyebrow.

‘Did I say Belinda?’

‘Yes, you did.’ Pru turned to face him, both gimlet eyes fixed on him now.

‘Oh. Ha ha.’ Francis tried to laugh it off. ‘She’s, er, she’s …’ His imagination kicked in: ‘She’s the ghastly woman on the PTA. Haven’t I mentioned her? Only been at the school a year and already making waves. She wants to overturn some ideas the committee have sanctioned. I had a message from Chairman Bob on my phone earlier and it’s been on my mind.’

Pru turned back to her pillow, bored with anything to do with her son’s school and her husband’s dealings with it. ‘Oh. Poor you. Continue with the massage.’

Francis closed his eyes in a prayer of silent thanks, and tried to get some control back into his shaking hands. He reached for the massage oil. It slipped from his grasp and fell on to the cream-and-beige patterned carpet, leaking a new pattern of its own.

‘Oh crikey, Dorothy’s carpet!’ He bent to pick it up, overstretched and slid off the bed himself, knocking the bottle over again.

Pru peered at him. ‘What are you doing?’

Francis was panicking. ‘The bottle. The oil. Dorothy’s carpet.’

Pru was unperturbed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Forget about the carpet. It’s hideous anyway. Put it on the list of jobs that need doing.’

He got to his knees with the oil bottle now safely in his hand. ‘Right.’ Standing, he found the lid and carefully screwed it on to the bottle. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it.

Pru watched him as if he were mad. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to add this job to the list.’

‘Not now, you fool,’ she said, irritated. ‘It’ll wait till tomorrow. Carry on with the massage and then we can all get some sleep.’

‘Oh, I see. Right. Silly me. Massage it is.’

He resumed his position and carefully added more oil to his palms.

‘Hmmm,’ murmured Pru. ‘You are very good to do this for me, Francis. I’m lucky to have you.’

He continued in relieved silence until she started laughing, her body shaking under his hands.

‘Sorry, Pru. Is that tickling?’

‘No, no,’ she giggled. ‘For a moment there, I thought you might be having an affair.’

*

And now it was morning and he felt sick with guilt about the lie he’d told his wife, the first ever, and the affair he hadn’t even started yet. Would never start! What was he thinking? He got out of bed and observed the sleeping form of his wife. The woman who needed him. Trusted him. Relied on him. Eighteen years ago he had left his job and a good career for her. He was a well-qualified social worker. It was his true vocation. His calling. Francis had known he could make a difference to people’s lives. Then he met Pru.

He had been in a case meeting at the local council offices when she had stalked in, slammed her briefcase on the table and demanded, ‘Which one of you is the head of planning?’

She was tall, dark and handsome, and Francis had immediately fallen under her powerful spell.

His colleague told her, ‘None of us are, madam. You’re in the wrong place.’

‘You won’t get rid of me that easily. This is the planning office.’

‘No, this is Social Services. The planning department is in the building next door.’

‘I was directed up here by the idiot girl on reception.’

‘You need to leave this building and go next door.’

It took a while, but eventually she was persuaded that she had gatecrashed the wrong meeting. Picking up her briefcase, she had pointed at Francis: ‘You. Show me where the right bloody room is.’

On their way to the building next door, she’d asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Meake – Francis Meake,’ he stammered.