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

*

Pru watched Francis as he got himself ready for bed. She tried to see him with fresh eyes. He had strong legs and only a tiny bit of belly. His face was pleasing. His kind eyes were large and well set, his nose of average length and straight. His teeth were good and his hair, although slightly receding, was otherwise thick and cut well. Handsome? She supposed he was, but that wasn’t what had attracted her. It was the man inside that mattered. She knew they were a team. A partnership. They could rely on each other. She looked again at his familiar face.

‘Francis?’

‘Hmm?’ He was concentrating on applying athlete’s foot powder to his toes.

‘I think you have an admirer.’

He froze but managed to say, ‘Oh yes?’ in a tight voice.

‘Yes – Belinda! How funny is that!’

17 (#ulink_ebbf0ce7-802c-5516-a3ed-142a88fe591b)

The following morning found Abi, in her pyjamas, lolling on Jem’s bed.

‘Like, it’s so unfair. Mum and Dad have always paid for my birthday parties. Why won’t they pay for this one? They know I haven’t got any money.’ She sighed, twirling her hair round her finger and then picking at the split ends.

Jem was trying to sleep. He hadn’t moved since she’d come in a couple of minutes earlier. Drool had made the pillow wet under his open mouth.

She continued: ‘Where am I supposed to get a job? This is my holiday. I’m supposed to be relaxing after my ASs and building my strength for the A2s.’

‘Uh,’ Jem managed.

‘It’s so mean of them. I’ve worked hard at school and everything and I’m tired. I really need my holiday. They just don’t get it.’

Jem turned over and grunted again.

‘It’s not like I can ask people to bring their own food and drink, is it? So-o-o not cool. I’m seventeen, for crying out loud.’ She tossed the lock of hair behind her shoulder and started picking at her chipped nail polish. ‘I can’t wait to be eighteen and outta here.’

‘Uh.’

‘So what should I do?’

Jem rubbed his eye and farted.

‘Go and look for a job?’

‘Oh, you’re so gross,’ said Abi, wafting a hand under her nose. ‘And anyway, where am I supposed to look for a job?’

Jem knew she wouldn’t let him sleep any longer, so he gave in and opened his eyes. ‘We’ll go to Trevay and ask around.’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When?’

‘When you’ve left me alone so I can get up and get dressed. Go and put the kettle on and I’ll be down. Put some toast on too.’

Abi gave him a hug. ‘Thanks, Cuz.’

In the kitchen she found her father.

He smiled at her. ‘Good morning, darling daughter. You’re up early this merry morning.’

‘Stop with the sarcasm, OK.’

‘Well, it is only ten forty-five.’

‘Stop having a go at me.’ She glared at him and he continued typing one-handed on his laptop. ‘I’m, like, gonna look for a job … to pay for my birthday party, since you won’t, ’cos you’re too mean.’

‘Correction: I’d happily pay for the usual party in the garden. I’m not happy to pay for a load of drunken teenagers I don’t even know.’

‘I’ve told you I don’t want party games in the garden eating your horrible barbecue sausages. I want a proper party on the beach.’

‘Then you must pay for it.’ Greg snapped shut his computer, stood up, ruffled her fringe and went off towards the garden.

‘Arsehole,’ muttered Abi after him.

Greg reversed through the kitchen door. ‘I heard that.’ He turned to face her. ‘Tell you what – any money you manage to raise, I’ll match it. OK?’

‘Really?’ asked Abi.

‘Yes. Really. That way you’ll learn the value of hard-earned cash.’

‘I know the value of money.’ She sighed theatrically.

‘No you don’t. But you soon will, once you’ve worked eight hours for a tenner.’

*

Trevay was humming with holidaymakers, holidaymakers’ kids and holidaymakers’ dogs. It was just after midday and the cafés and takeaways were doing a roaring trade.

Jem and Abi tried to ask about casual work in three or four places, but the harassed staff simply shrugged their shoulders and either told them that there were no jobs or to come back when it was quieter.

They walked up to the Starfish Hotel but didn’t get beyond the receptionist, who directed them to the hotel website where job vacancies were advertised, but warned that there was nothing going at the moment.

They wandered limply down to the harbourfront and sat on a bench.

‘Fat lot of good that was,’ huffed Abi.

They sat and watched the boats in the harbour. Several motor yachts had strings of washing tied to the rigging, others were languishing empty, waiting for their owners.

There was a brisk trade in speedboat trips. Apprehensive children with eager dads were queuing up to take the high-speed trip around the coast, leaving exhausted-looking mums on the quay, keeping an eye on their over-packed buggies.

A bigger boat, the Puffin Boy, slowly entered the harbour and tied up, disgorging its sunburnt passengers.