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

‘Well, Francis, I’m indebted to you for helping me when I made a complete fool of myself. Let me take you for a drink by way of thanks. I hope you drink Scotch?’ She didn’t give him time to answer. ‘I’ll collect you from the car park at five thirty.’

Within three weeks, to the astonishment of their respective friends and family, she had proposed and he had accepted. He loved the fact that, under her confident exterior, lay a woman who needed him. In return she loved him for his loyalty and gentleness. Here was a man who would never hurt her already wounded heart.

A month later, he had worked out his notice and set about finding a home for the pair of them. His final pay cheque was just enough to pay the deposit on the engagement ring Pru had chosen for herself. She paid the balance.

Her work as a commercial property surveyor was arduous and sounded very complicated. She had a good business brain, like her father and grandfather before her, but had no desire to get into the toy market: ‘I had enough of board games when I was growing up,’ she once told him. ‘I prefer to work in the real world.’

She was a partner in her firm and very well respected. She worked long hours all over the country, but her goal was to open a New York office and grab some of the big bucks. It had taken her only five years to achieve that dream. Five years after that, she opened a Hong Kong office.

Their wedding was plain and simple. The bride wore trousers. Her parents were happy for her but concerned for Francis’s welfare.

‘She’ll eat him alive,’ whispered Dorothy in the registrar’s office.

Henry patted her knee and whispered, ‘She’s got what every working woman dreams of: a wife! Besides, I think he will be good for her. Pru needs someone steady.’

They married early on a Monday morning in order to be sure of catching the afternoon flight to New York. Pru had several meetings lined up and rather than rearrange them, she’d decided to combine business with pleasure. When they returned on Thursday morning, it was to their four-bedroom, faux Georgian townhouse in Greenwich. Well, Francis returned to it. Pru went straight to the office to report on the business she’d secured in America.

Francis revelled in his new role.

Every night he would cook something healthy and delicious for his wonderful, powerful wife. Sometimes she’d come home late, but always with flowers or a scented candle, and always he forgave her. Sexually, he was inexperienced, but Pru enjoyed taking the lead in bed. They were both thrilled when Jeremy was conceived.

Pregnancy didn’t suit Pru. She worked till her waters broke and was back at her desk within five days of the birth. Francis adored being a father. He was a natural. Night feeds, nappies, projectile vomiting – all were constant sources of fascination for him.

He set up his own daily timetable. Up before Pru to prepare her breakfast and wave her off. The mornings were devoted to Jem and housework. The afternoons walking the pram to the shops. He loved taking Jem out in his pram. All the young mums cooed over the baby and marvelled at Francis’s maternal skills.

‘Your wife’s so lucky. My husband has never so much as changed a nappy,’ was a constant refrain.

It was around this time that their sex life started to dwindle, though. Francis would be too tired after a long day with the baby and Pru felt she had done her bit in providing a healthy son. Nothing was ever discussed; with the passage of time the subject was simply forgotten.

Francis had put all of this aside and barely acknowledged any sense of frustration – until Belinda came along.

Belinda touched something in him, there was no denying it. Francis could not admit even to himself that it was his loneliness that made him susceptible to her charms. He wasn’t naturally gregarious or outgoing; all he’d ever craved was a family of his own. His mother had died when he was young, and his father, a GP, had employed a series of nannies and housekeepers to look after him. Though he hadn’t been neglected, he had missed out on a truly happy childhood. Much as he liked the Carew family gathering in Cornwall each year, he yearned to cram Pru and Jem into a camper van and travel all over Europe, seeing the sights. He could imagine them picnicking in the Dolomites or waking up next to Vesuvius. At the same time he envied the mums at the school gates, who spent their summer holidays in caravans near the seaside or took family day-trips to Alton Towers. He could never imagine Pru doing anything so ‘ordinary’, though he was sure Jem would have loved it.

Francis had always got along with the mums (and some of the dads) of Jem’s playmates and school friends. He had been a regular at the Baby Times Coffee Morning Club, enjoying the discussions on breast-feeding versus bottle, postnatal depression and the relationship between parent and child. And he was chatty with the mothers at the school gates and in the PTA. But none of them had ever shown the slightest interest in him. Until Belinda.

She had turned up the previous year, at the beginning of September. It was the first sitting of the PTA after the summer holidays. Francis could still remember the moment Chairman Bob had announced: ‘Before we get down to the business of the day, I’d like to welcome a newcomer. This is Belinda …’

The PTA members had duly craned their necks for a glimpse of the voluptuous woman at the end of the table. She was wearing a psychedelic orange-and-pink kaftan. Her curly blonde hair was piled loosely on top of her head. Dangly earrings framed her chubby cheeks and as she smiled and gave them a little wave, bracelets jangled on her wrists.

‘Hello, everybody.’

Several male eyes had wandered to her delightful cleavage and remained there, transfixed.

Bob had continued: ‘Belinda’s daughter, Emily, has joined us for year nine. Is she fourteen this year, Belinda?’

‘Yes. That’s right. A little Piscean to my Scorpio.’

Somewhat bemused by this, Bob had ploughed on, ‘Belinda is very keen to help with admin and organising our fundraisers.’

‘Actually, I have an idea for a Halloween quiz night,’ she’d volunteered.

The dreaded Mrs Dredey, PTA stalwart, had interjected, ‘Well, we usually do a harvest supper, and we can’t do two fundraisers in one term. There wouldn’t be the support.’

‘Nonetheless, we’ll make a note of the suggestion. Fresh ideas always welcome,’ Bob had beamed, bending to his notepad to scribble: Belinda Halloween. He’d sat up again, ‘Now, I think it’d be a good idea if we all introduced ourselves round the table. You first, Mrs Dredey.’ Each of them had given their names in turn. Francis had been last: ‘My name’s Francis Meake. Welcome.’

Belinda had rewarded him with her twinkling smile. Since that night, she had made it her mission to sit next to him at meetings, pulling her chair as close to his as possible so that he could feel the heat emanating from her. She would bend low, delving in the handbag at her feet for a notepad and pen, all the while displaying her plumply rounded breasts for his benefit.

When tea and biscuits arrived, she would lean across him, tickling his cheek with her curly blonde hair and leaving wafts of her musky perfume in the air around him. While the committee embroiled themselves in some lengthy dispute over the roster for putting out the stackable chairs in the school hall and then putting them away again afterwards, she would put her lips to his ear and whisper little jokes about Chairman Bob and Mrs Dredey. Despite himself, Francis had found her intensely exciting. He loved being in her company. She had a saucy wit that made him laugh and she was interested in him – something he’d never encountered in a woman before. Soon he’d found himself telling her about all sorts of things, including Pru and the Carew family. She was easy company. Once, when he’d had an hour to kill between their PTA meeting and a trip to the dentist, Belinda had made a suggestion: ‘Why don’t you come to lunch at mine, Frankie? We’ve got two hours before we have to collect the kids, and I’ve got half a bottle of red and some asparagus quiche that needs eating up.’

‘Ah, very kind of you, but no,’ he’d said, with more determination than he’d felt. ‘I’d better not risk a ticking off from the dental hygienist!’

She had looked at him sadly, pouting a little. ‘Shame. Some other time, perhaps? There are so many things I’d like to talk to you about.’ She’d stepped closer, smiling, and dropped her voice an octave: ‘None of them involving flossing!’ Her rosy apple cheeks had moved up towards her eyes, making them twinkle.

He’d swallowed hard and a drop of saliva went down the wrong way. He had started to cough, and then couldn’t stop, gasping for breath and choking.

Immediately she’d whipped behind him, one arm round his waist while the other thumped a point between his shoulder blades. He had felt her warm bosoms jostling his back. She’d thumped a couple more times and eventually he had stopped spluttering and begun to take deep breaths of fresh air. She’d let him go and walked round to face him.

‘Better?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

She’d put her hands on his shoulders and kissed both his cheeks. ‘My pleasure.’ She’d winked at him. ‘Bye, Frankie. You owe me a lunch now!’

He had watched as she’d undulated towards her ancient, bright pink Citroën 2CV. It had a soft top and a hand-painted daisy on the driver’s door. She’d got in, causing the suspension to rock, and then driven away, one hand waving through the open roof.

He’d returned her wave, unsettled by her casual intimacy. The arm round his waist. The kiss …

And that was when the inappropriate thoughts about her had started.

And she’d be here on Wednesday. Shit shit shit.

*

Down in the kitchen the early morning sun was streaming through the open French windows. Greg was sitting at the table, working on his laptop. He jumped when he heard Francis’s footsteps and quickly shut the laptop lid.

‘Oh, Francis. It’s only you.’ He relaxed and opened the computer again. ‘Pour me a coffee while you’re up?’

‘Sure.’ Francis was used to taking orders. ‘What are you working on?’

‘Oh, just some stuff in the office. My secretary doesn’t seem to understand I’m on holiday!’ Greg rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue.

Francis carried two steaming coffees to the table and gave one to Greg. ‘Glad I don’t have that kind of responsibility. What’s the problem?’

‘Well …’ Greg felt the need to share a little of his guilty secret, ‘It’s not so much work. It’s my secretary. She’s fallen in love with a man at work. A married man.’

Francis tutted.

Greg continued: ‘And I’ve turned into a bit of a shoulder for her to cry on.’