The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip

Holly slipped cautiously down from the cab of the van, brushing down her jeans and then pulling her hands into the cuffs of her jumper, preparing herself almost for battle.

But the reality of it all, the bright sunshine, the lush grass and the chugging of the sprinkler, Emily jabbering on at Alfonso and his pony, Wilf’s palomino munching on a polo mint, wasn’t as she expected.

In her mind she’d had the Eastenders’ theme tune, shouting and maybe a bit of hair-pulling, death stares and ‘how dare you’s. But instead, standing in front of her was Wilf. The same guy who she’d bumped into in The Duck and Cherry pub when they all came to visit the island. The guy who’d sidled up to her all lazy confidence, a pint in one hand, the other toying with a beer mat and said, ‘Miss Somers. What a pleasure…’

Holly, who had been sitting alone while Matt went to get drinks at the bar, had leant forward, elbows rested on the little pub table and said, ‘Nice to see you, Wilf. It’s been a while since you were back on the island.’

‘Hasn’t it just?’

The last time she’d seen him was at the one and only Cherry Pie Festival about fifteen years ago. Wilf, a budding entrepreneur, had just finished boarding school and was desperate to make some cash, start his empire and never look back. Teaming up with his best mate, Alan Neil’s eldest son, Jack, quite possibly the coolest kid on the island, they’d put on what was meant to be a mellow, bijoux little festival. The plan had been to laze about on hay bales in the grounds of the manor house, dance to some local bands, eat food from cute stalls and get drunk till dawn. That all happened, except the flyers got photocopied and passed on and on until more people arrived than the island had ever seen. For Holly, Annie and Co. it was brilliant. For the residents it was less so. By 1 a.m. the police had been called and the little festival shut down. Wilf and Jack scored it a success because they’d more than doubled their money. The residents banned it from ever taking place again. Holly remembered sitting eating cherry pie in the cafe the next morning, dreamily remembering the cheeky snog she’d had with Wilf behind the band marquee. She’d left for a warm-weather training camp in Seville the next day and by the time she got back, Wilf had moved onto bigger, better things. His empire had indeed started and his face, like his sister’s, was all over the society pages of Tatler and Harper’s Bazaar. But while interviewers seemed to fixate on Emily’s single status - ignoring details about her new product launches and asking her over and over again how she felt about her almost-marriage and her doomed relationship history - Wilf just got a few lines referring to him as a bachelor business mogul or playboy restauranteur, then acres of coverage about whichever of his new restaurants was about to open.

‘I hear you’re doing OK for yourself,’ Holly had said, thrumming the pub table with her fingers, glancing up at Wilf, licking her suddenly dry lips.

‘As are you, Miss Somers. What was it at the Olympics? Bronze?’

‘Silver.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you think I’ll jump straight into bed with you.’

Wilf had laughed and said, ‘I think you’ll find you’re looking at me exactly the same way.’

Now, at the polo ground, as Holly walked further away from the safety of the ice cream van, for a second or two, when her eyes met Wilf’s, before anyone spoke, there was that same unguarded connection. He looked dishevelled and tired. His white trousers were grass-stained, his duck-egg polo shirt muddy, his hair pushed back with sweat, the tips of his cheekbones pink under his tan, the hollow around his eyes dark like he’d slept as little as Holly.

But then he glanced to his right, saw Emily and Alfonso watching them, waiting, and turned back, one eyebrow raised and said, ‘Well, if it isn’t the mother of my child.’

Holly sighed and turned away from him, running her tongue under her top teeth and fixing her stare on the ponies warming up on the practice ring. Emily said, ‘Wilf!’ And Alfonso coughed as if he had embarrassed shock caught in his throat. Then he jumped down from his pony, took a couple of strides in Holly’s direction and, hand outstretched, said, ‘Excuse my friend for his rudeness. We lost today and he doesn’t like to lose. You must be Holly? Alfonso,’ he said, one hand on his chest to indicate he was talking about himself.

‘Hi,’ Holly said, swallowing over a lump in her throat, half anger, half held in tears. ‘It’s really nice to meet you.’

‘The pleasure is absolutely all mine. You are going to France this evening, yes? I am driving over later in the week. I have never actually been to France before, can you believe it?’ He smiled and the corners of his eyes tipped up like a cat.

Holly bit down on her thumbnail and smiled, ‘It’s really beautiful, I’ve heard. From Emily.’

‘And I have heard from Wilfred.’ Alfonso turned to try and include Wilf in the conversation, but his jaw was set and he clearly wasn’t in the mood for casual chit-chat.

‘We should probably go to the clubhouse, talk privately,’ Wilf said, indicating towards the big white pavilion, its arched windows sparkling in the sunshine, beautifully topiaried pot plants lined up along the terrace and a huge viewing platform just behind it from where you could survey the entire grounds of the club.

‘I’m not sure there’s time for that,’ Emily said, taking a step forward so she was standing next to Alfonso.

Wilf frowned. ‘What do you mean there’s no time? Your ferry’s not till tonight.’

‘No, actually it’s in two and half hours from Dover.’

‘What?’ Holly held her hands out wide in disbelief.

‘Yeah,’ Emily twizzled her hair around her forefinger. ‘I got it wrong.’

‘Like hell you did,’ Wilf dragged a hand through his sweaty hair and exhaled slowly, his sigh practised over years of exasperation with his sister.

Emily trotted barefoot over to the van where she pulled out her wheelie suitcase and thumped it on the shorn grass, ‘Yeah and also, I can’t come with you, Holly. Sorry.’ She bit her lip, ‘I’ve realised I have stuff to do, important work stuff, so I think the only way it can work is if I go with Alfonso‒’

‘Hang on.’ Wilf held up a hand, ‘What important work stuff?’

Emily looked affronted, ‘Just some stuff that has come up at the office.’

Wilf narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Emily shrugged. ‘Well that’s your prerogative. Anyway, I’ll drive with Alfonso later in the week.’

‘No, Emily, you can’t do this.’ Wilf shook his head. ‘I’m driving with Alfonso.’

‘Well it can’t be the three of us because there’s only two seats in the Ferrari,’ said Emily, concentrating intently on a strand of her blue hair.

‘She has a point.’ Alfonso agreed.

Holly couldn’t quite believe this was happening. But, more than she was annoyed with Emily for getting her into this situation, she found herself increasingly irritated with Wilf. She’d spent the last three months confused, terrified, alone, frustrated, unsure ‒ yet, right now, he could barely look her in the eye. How would he have handled it? she wondered. Conference-called her at the office? Turned up on her doorstep the day the stick turned blue? Called on his mobile as he was slumped against a wall, sobbing outside the doctor’s? Course he wouldn’t. That was what she wanted to tell him, now. Pull him aside from this stupid bickering about who was driving who and say, ‘You would have panicked too. Because this is hard. So stop bloody looking at me like that!’

She turned away and watched a couple of guys warming up on the pitch closest to her, hitting the ball back and forth, shouting jokes, their ponies tight balls of energy.

She got out her phone and texted Annie:

I think Emily’s set me up. She’s making it so Wilf will have to drive me to France. I don’t want to go with either of them. I wish I’d never agreed to this.

Almost immediately, her phone bleeped back at her.

Just go with the flow. Stress is not good for the baby. A x

The baby.

Her baby.

Their baby.

The very idea of a baby growing inside her, a baby tied to this world, to this guy, made Holly suddenly have to rest her forearm on the post next to her.

‘Are you OK? What’s the matter?’ Wilf was at her side in an instant. Quicker than she actually thought someone could move.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, slightly taken aback. ‘I just… I was hot, I think.’