The Perfect Escape: Romantic short stories to relax with

‘You have to say, “I am King Wishalot. What are your wishes?” Do you want me to write it down for you?’

Jim suppressed a grin. ‘No, I think I’ll manage, Daisy. I am King Wishalot. What are your wishes?’

‘Well done, Daddy!’ Elsie applauded him, the suddenness of it bringing unexpected tears to Jim’s eyes. He was glad he had decided to wear his sunglasses this afternoon. He gave a little bow, revelling in the beaming smiles of the three most precious people in his life.

*

Once, his daughters had brought joy to Moria, too. When Daisy was born, Moira’s every waking hour had been filled with the thrill of caring for her new baby. Even though they agreed to take turns for night feeds, Moira almost always appeared at her husband’s side in the small hours of the morning, her hand resting on his shoulder as they gazed at their firstborn child.

‘I can’t believe we made her,’ she would whisper, her breath warm as a summer zephyr setting his pulse racing despite the gnawing ache of tiredness in his body. This was all Jim had ever wanted from the first day he set eyes on the woman he would one day call his wife. In that moment, he had known without doubt that anything was possible when this woman was by his side.

Growing up with an absent father and a fiercely independent mother, Jim had promised himself that when his opportunity for fatherhood came, he would be the most committed, loving father he could be. All the things he had yearned so much for during his childhood he pursued as a father, first for Daisy, then Guin and, finally, Elsie. His initial fear that he may have inherited his own father’s lack of paternal instinct vanished the second he laid eyes on the tiny pink form of his first daughter; from then on, fatherhood fitted him perfectly.

‘You’re a natural,’ his mother marvelled, watching her son cradling his daughter on their first visit to her home. ‘Oh Jim, it makes me so proud to see it!’

Flo had been right about that, too. Being a father was what Jim Maynard was created for – of that he was convinced. He never once questioned the commitment, the long hours, the trials of teething and terrible twos. Nappies and snot and vomit were never insurmountable challenges; neither were long-running squabbles as three growing, headstrong girls vied for supremacy in the seaside townhouse. Because for each messy, headache-inducing negative there were a hundred positives: long weekend afternoons spent on Brighton beach, throwing stones into the sea and consuming ice creams with sticky enthusiasm; magical bedtime stories shared under makeshift Bedouin bedspread tents; feeding the ducks with bullet-hard chunks of bread made the day before by three pairs of little hands in the family kitchen; and the constant surprise of childlike creativity bursting out across the house – paintings and drawings pinned to the walls and stuck on the fridge, epic drama productions in the dining room and back garden, and snippets of song floating down the wooden staircases. Jim loved it all; but most of all he loved the free spirit of his girls – unfettered by convention, or expectation. He hoped they would always maintain this, always be free to be their own person in a world ruled by labels and boxes.

He understood the importance of their freedom because it was part of who he was. From an early age, Jim had dreamed of travelling the world – a dream encouraged by his mother despite the disapproving remarks of his maternal grandparents, who hailed from an era when every man knew his place and accepted it without question. Growing up in the brave new world of the early fifties, with a convention-defying mother who refused to remarry when her good-for-nothing first husband abandoned his family, Jim knew that his life would be lived differently – that anything was possible. His uncle Sidney, an officer in the merchant navy, presented him with an illuminated globe from one of his distant travels and Jim would lay awake late at night plotting imaginary expeditions to exotic locations. India was a favourite destination even then – and as he entered his teens and Britain entered the Swinging Sixties, he became increasingly drawn to the culture, music and mysticism of that great country.

Several of his friends were already there, and the brightly coloured postcards they sent back to him urged the young Jim to make haste and join them. They spoke of a land filled with colour and spectacle: where every shade was a hundred times brighter and every flavour magnified. While Jim worked extra hours in his father’s furniture store and gardened for older people in his street, he dreamed of walking India’s streets, taking in every experience the country could offer him. For as long as he could remember, India had signified adventure, promise and freedom: but more than that, he sensed that he would become a different person for having been there. India was to be the making of him. As soon as he had saved enough money, he had headed for Goa, staying for a month in Vasco da Gama before venturing further afield.

It was while travelling in Râjasthân that he first met Moira. He had arranged to meet an old school friend in Udaipur – a beautiful city surrounded by water, known as ‘the Venice of India’ – but his train from Jaipur was delayed for five hours, so that the sun was already beginning to set when he arrived in the city. Walking through streets bathed in the rose-gold glow of early evening sunlight, Jim made his way towards the small hostel where his friend was staying. The city was a multisensory assault of noise, heat, colour and scent, at once exotic and familiar, and Jim was swept away by the raw beauty of it all.

When he reached his destination he was surprised to discover not a backstreet apartment block but an imposing dusky pink palace, its carved balustrades and gothic arched windows a faded reminder of its former British Empire days. Hibiscus-framed stone steps led up to the main entrance, through a crumbling archway towards a small courtyard garden with a bubbling stone fountain at the building’s centre. And there, dressed in a long white shirt, jeans and sandals, her head swathed in a cool white scarf, was Moira O’Shaughnessy.

Jim had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life – even the city that had beguiled him so completely since his arrival seemed to dim in comparison. In the middle of the chaos of Udaipur, Moira appeared as a vision of calm – poised, contained. As Jim gazed at her it was as if coolness emanated from her, like a frosted glass of iced water in the midst of the Râjasthâni heat. For some time, he didn’t know what to do. Should he approach her? Say something? His mouth was dry and words had all but deserted him, yet his head was awash with thoughts. Eventually, he was rescued by the familiar voice of Ray, his friend, calling from the third floor balcony overlooking the garden. As Jim raised his head to greet him, Moira looked up, too, and when his eyes returned to her he saw she was smiling at him.

‘I didn’t know you were expecting company, Ray,’ she said as Jim’s friend appeared beside them in the garden.

‘Surprising though it may be, Moira, I do actually have friends in this world apart from you,’ Ray grinned back and for an awful moment Jim feared that they were a couple. ‘Better get the formal introductions done then, hadn’t we? Jim Maynard, may I present the wonderful young actress Moira O’Shaughnessy. Moira’s here “finding herself” before embarking on her glittering showbiz career, isn’t that right?’

‘You’re the only drama queen in this palace, Ray,’ she scolded him, holding out her slender hand to Jim. When he took it, he was surprised at how warm it was. A gust of hot breeze shuddered through the Malati blooms which dripped large white, jasmine-shaped flowers like pearls from trails along the balconies overhead, sending a waft of clove scent towards Jim and Moira as their hands touched for the first time. From that day to this, Jim would always associate the smell of cloves with her – his breath catching in his throat whenever he used the spice in food he cooked at home for his young family.

At Ray’s invitation, Jim stayed in Udaipur for three weeks, initially exploring the city with his friend but increasingly venturing out with Moira. Ray, sensing the growing attraction between them, made his excuses and left them alone – a kindness which would later be repaid when Jim made him best man at his wedding. On the last night of his stay, sitting hand-in-hand with Moira at sunset on the banks of Lake Pichola, surrounded by ancient palaces, temples and hills, Jim found the courage to kiss her. In the midst of such history, it was as if they were outside of time itself – caught up in a magical world where nothing else mattered except the touch of their lips. He knew he was in love – and Moira felt it, too. Swept up in a tide of emotion, she refused to let him leave alone and, the next day, Ray waved off not one but two of his friends at Udaipur station.

They returned to England together, Moira surprising her mother by moving back home to Shoreham-by-Sea after several years of living in London.

‘I need to be near him,’ she had insisted, despite Mrs O’Shaughnessy’s insistence that she continue to pursue her career in the capital. ‘I love him, Ma. I’m going to marry him.’

While Jim’s mother had privately voiced her concerns about the suitability of her son’s wife-to-be, she became supportive of the young couple as soon as she could see their determination to marry. Moira’s mother, on the other hand, made no secret of her feelings on the matter.

‘He’ll hold you back,’ she warned her daughter, in full earshot of Jim. ‘You’re destined for greater things than keeping home for him. I didn’t raise you to be ordinary, Moira Abigail. I raised you to be a star.’

‘I can still act in London and live in Brighton,’ Moira argued, gripping Jim’s arm as if it were a lifebuoy. ‘Jim doesn’t want me to surrender my career. This is what I want, Ma.’

Never pacified, Mrs O’Shaughnessy maintained her objections, taking every possible opportunity to remind Jim of his unsuitability for her acting protégé daughter. Moira paid no attention, but Jim – despite appearances – found her disapproval painful. In later years, when he was alone, her words of dissent would plague him: had she been right? Had he stifled the promise of the woman he loved?

*

The rich tang of bubbling curry rose through the townhouse to meet the laughter of the Maynard sisters as Jim opened the front door and ushered his mother inside.

‘How are the three tornadoes?’ she grinned, hanging her handbag on the carved wooden balustrade and glancing up the stairs.

‘Overexcited,’ Jim replied over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘We had another of Daisy’s theatrical masterpieces this afternoon.’

‘Another one? Well, well, that young lady’s becoming positively prolific. I’m sorry I missed it.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve a feeling they’re planning an evening performance.’ Jim smiled to himself as he stirred the spicy sweet potato and lentil dahl, savouring the Indian spice-infused steam. Somehow the house itself seemed to relax whenever Grandma Flo arrived. In the three years since Moira’s departure he had come to a new understanding of how special his mother was. She had been a constant support, picking up Moira’s discarded baton and running with it – a selfless act of devotion to both him and his girls that he would forever be grateful for. In the early days of his sudden single-fatherhood, Flo had practically moved in; cooking meals, cleaning the house and running around after three very confused children while Jim stared vacantly at the seemingly irreparable shards of his life that surrounded him. She had never once complained, always present and tirelessly attentive, making sense of the chaos of a home and life that had become alien to her son. Little by little, her patient persistence paid off, gently coaxing Jim back into the world he was so reluctant to face.

He thanked her, of course – over and over again – but even this evening as he prepared the meal, he felt as if it would never be enough to express what his mother’s involvement meant to him.

He gave the saucepan a final stir, poured a cup of Assam tea from the kingfisher-blue teapot and rummaged in a drawer for knives and forks. ‘Right, dinner’s almost ready. I’ll just set the table and then call the girls down.’ To his surprise, when he entered the dining room, Jim found Flo holding his wedding album.

‘I really don’t understand why you still have this,’ she said.

‘It’s there if the girls want to see it,’ he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the fistful of cutlery he carried to avoid seeing what he knew his mother’s stare contained. ‘They have a right to know.’

‘They’re still too young to understand, thank heavens. I’ve held my tongue through all of this, but honestly, Jim! That woman makes a mockery of you, leaves you on your own with three young children and you still can’t be angry with her. I swear if she walked back into this house today you would carry on as though nothing had happened.’ She accepted the cup of tea from him, but her darkened expression remained.

Jim had heard it a million times before, but now was not the day to challenge his mother. She was entitled to her view as much as anyone, but he didn’t have to agree with her. It was nobody’s business what he truly thought or felt – and his right alone to keep it hidden. ‘Would you mind setting the table for me, Mum? Oh, and while I remember, after dinner you must have one of the biscuits Daisy made at school, or else we’ll never hear the end of it.’

‘Grandma Flo!’ Guin’s excited squeal heralded the noisy arrival of three very excited children as they burst into the room. Jim whisked the teacup away from his mother’s hands seconds before her arms were filled with blonde-headed invaders, catching her thankful grin as he did so.

‘Now, now, calm down lovelies! Stop wriggling for a moment and let me look at you. Girls, I do believe your father has been stretching you again.’

‘No he hasn’t,’ Daisy giggled. ‘We’re just growing. Look!’ She broke free of her grandmother’s embrace and pointed to the highest of a vertical row of pencil marks on the wall by the dining room door. ‘That’s how tall I am now!’

Guin and Elsie followed suit, excitedly chatting at once about their new heights, although Elsie couldn’t quite remember which one was hers, pointing at several in her haste to be part of the impromptu show-and-tell.

‘Gracious, isn’t that something? I can see you’re eating your greens then.’

‘Trees!’ Elsie yelled. ‘Daddy gives me green trees for my tea and they make me grow big.’

‘Broccoli,’ Jim explained, seeing Grandma Flo’s confusion. ‘I learned early on with Elsie that she wouldn’t eat it unless we called it green trees.’

His mother’s eyes glistened with pride. ‘You’re a natural, James. A wonderful father …’ The sadness in her expression completed the sentence as a moment of understanding passed between them.

Jim nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Grandma, have you seen the pretty dress book?’ Guin asked, and Flo and Jim turned to see – too late – the wedding album in her small hands.

Swallowing hard, Grandma Flo unpacked her calmest smile. ‘Yes, I have, darling.’

Daisy and Elsie were crowding around the photograph album now, causing Jim to look away as a sharp shard of pain pierced him. Instinctively, his mother reached out and took his hand, her eyes never once leaving her grandchildren.

‘Daddy looks so handsome,’ Guin said, stroking the cellophane that covered the photographs on the open page.

‘And what about the lady in the pretty dress?’ Grandma Flo asked, her expression steady. ‘Do you know who she is?’