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

‘But he’s married.’

‘Sometimes, it’s not enough to have one woman in your life.’

Francis thought of Belinda and coloured. ‘Hmmm.’

They sat in silence for a bit before Greg said, ‘If my friend left his wife for her, it would cause a hell of a stink.’

‘Divorces are never easy.’

‘No.’

‘Does he have children?’

‘Yes. It would be horrible for Abi.’

‘Abi? That’s a coincidence. Same name as your daughter.’

A look of fear fled through Greg’s eyes. Then he laughed, ‘Oh! I see what you mean! Never thought of that. Ha! Abi! Yep. Popular name and all that. Anyway …’ He slapped his hands on his knees, stood up and beamed at Francis. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Weren’t you looking for me?’

‘No. I want to vacuum round.’

‘Oh, right, right. I’ll get out of your way then.’

He patted Francis on the shoulder and walked out. Francis looked at the squashed cushions on the sofa and replumped them.

The phone rang twice and the postman knocked once. Each interruption sent Francis’s heart a message to stop beating for a second. Belinda had said she was arriving at lunchtime.

One bathroom left to do. What time was lunchtime? Twelve? One? Two? Oh God, this waiting was purgatory.

By two thirty there was still no sign of Belinda. Connie’s lunch, of shop-bought Scotch eggs, bagged lettuce and plastic-potted potato salad, would have played havoc with Francis’s digestion at the best of times, but today it was impossible for him to even sit at the table. The synthetic smell of cheap salad cream was the last straw.

‘Nothing for me, thank you, Connie. I had a big breakfast. I’m going to get some fresh air. Do excuse me.’

He went to the front door and stepped out into the watery sunshine. The clouds were parting at last. He sat on the stone bench, underneath a beautiful overhanging apple tree with low-lying, thick branches. He had overheard Henry saying to Dorothy only yesterday that they should get the tree surgeon in to trim it back. Francis liked the seclusion that it afforded him. The garden really was amazing. An Albertine rose bush bloomed lusciously nearby. He drew in great breaths of salty air, full of the aroma of freshly mown grass. His nerves were giving him nausea. He closed his eyes, hoping it would pass.

‘Frankie! Look at you sitting among the apples and roses. Just like Romeo waiting for Juliet!’ His eyes snapped open. Belinda was coming towards him. Francis jumped up so quickly at the sound of her voice that he forgot about the branches that were dangerously close overhead. As he stood, his skull took an almighty crack from a particularly thick branch.

‘Argh, Jesus!!’ Francis clutched at his head and then, looking up, he saw Belinda heading towards him. The bump on his head had obviously been a nasty one; as he took his hand away from his skull he saw blood on his fingers. Nausea welled within him. Belinda, who had looked quite normal to begin with, suddenly seemed crystal sharp, almost as if he were watching Henry’s HD television, then her outline grew smudged and wonky as if in a dream. Her ample bosoms were dancing like dandelion heads in a soft breeze. Her voice was coming and going in waves of sound he couldn’t make out. Closer and closer she got to him, her mouth moving and her arms outstretched. So close was she now that the light of the sun was dimmed, while the ground beneath him rose up and tipped his stone seat to the left. Her lips were almost on his own. Then darkness came.

Later he was aware of a softness beneath his horizontal body. He heard voices talking quietly nearby.

Belinda first: ‘I saw him sitting there, probably waiting for me, bless him. Then he hit his head on one of those branches and was out cold.’

Greg’s voice: ‘My dear, what a terrible shock for you. Let me get you a brandy.’

Belinda again: ‘Don’t mind if I do. I feel a bit shaky.’

Greg: ‘And I’ll join you, naturally. I’d never let a lady drink on her own.’

He heard footsteps on the front porch, then Pru’s voice: ‘Francis! For God’s sake, get up. You’ll get damp through lying on the grass like that.’

Belinda: ‘He’s had a nasty knock. This gentleman helped me get him flat. Frankie’s bumped his head on the stone, look.’

Pru’s voice now; loud and close in his ear: ‘Francis! Get up.’

Belinda: ‘He’s hurt. We’ve called an ambulance.’

Pru’s voice, cold: ‘Who are you?’

Pru was scanning the woman in front of her. She was on the pretty side – if overweight could be pretty – and overtly girly and feminine. Pru felt rather sorry for her.

‘My name’s Belinda. I work with Frankie.’

‘Ah! Belinda. My name is Pru and I am married to Frankie.’ She corrected herself: ‘Francis.’

Belinda: ‘How do you do.’

Greg again: ‘Here, get this brandy down.’

Pru: ‘Francis doesn’t like brandy.’

Greg: ‘Oh, he does. But only when you’re not around. Besides, this is for Belinda and me.’

Somewhere above the sound of talk and seagulls Francis could hear a siren. The ambulance, he supposed, as he drifted off back into darkness.

*

The hospital discharged him a few hours later, when they were quite sure the bump on his head was nothing serious. They gave him a leaflet to read on watching out for signs of concussion, a box of paracetamol and advised bed rest.

‘Bed rest! He seems perfectly fine,’ interjected Pru as the doctor tended to her husband.

‘Your blood pressure is a little high, Mr Meake. Are you under a lot of stress?’

‘My husband is not stressed or anxious. If anyone is, it’s me. My masseur says she’s never felt such tense and knotted shoulders as mine.’

The doctor ignored her and spoke to Francis.

‘What about your diet? You’re a bit underweight.’

‘His diet would make Gwyneth Paltrow look as if she’s been on the Hobnobs!’ answered Pru, as though Francis were a small child unable to answer for himself.

The doctor admonished her: ‘Please, Mrs Meake, let your husband answer.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Francis.