A Proper Family Holiday (5 page)

Chelsea picked up the pad and pencil that had been thoughtfully provided by the hotel and began to write a wish list of all the things she hoped to achieve this year. A promotion would be a great start. She definitely deserved one. A move to the fashion department would be even better.

Lately, Chelsea felt like she’d been living at the
Society
building, covering for one colleague after another as pretty much the whole office went on maternity leave. Not only was she having to work crazy hours, Chelsea was practically bankrupt from all the baby showers. She was sick of cooing at flat-headed newborns, while listening to the patronising prattle of the new mothers who insisted that it wasn’t fully possible to be a woman until you’d forced something the size of a grapefruit out through your nether regions. Something, Chelsea observed, the average battery hen did several times a day without complaint or expectation of beatification. Chelsea was especially sensitive to being patronised by parents, having received the ‘you just can’t understand’ speech for the first time when she was only fifteen and a half from her seventeen-year-old sister. Trust Ronnie to spin having been too stupid to take the Pill properly into a vaulting achievement.

Anyway, it was time that Davina and the Mothers’ Union at
Society
magazine recognised Chelsea’s contribution to keeping the magazine going while they spent six months decorating paint-your-own-pottery plates with baby footprints. Once she got the promotion, she’d move out of her poky little flat into something that fit better with her image as someone who wrote for such a glossy mag. At the same time, she’d start taking better care of herself physically. She needed to get fitter. She’d sign up for Pilates again. She’d go out more, with people other than Serena and Carola, who were as toxically single as she was. She needed to widen her social circle. The only events she got invited to outside work these days were sodding baby showers.

So … Get a promotion. Get fit. Get some new friends. Chelsea wrote out her ambitions and outlined small steps for achieving them, just as she’d encouraged her readers in that three-page article. She could do it. In a year’s time, she could be a different woman. A happy woman. And all in time for her thirty-first birthday.

For about an hour, Chelsea kept herself reasonably optimistic with the thought of everything she could do over the next twelve months or so, but when it came down to it, her wish list was not so very different from the wish lists she had been writing for the past five years. And realistically, she knew she would probably write the exact same list again in another year’s time. One thing she knew for certain was that her wish list would not contain the words ‘holiday in Lanzarote with my parents’.

It wasn’t that Chelsea didn’t love her family; it was just that she found it increasingly difficult to be around them for any length of time. The unease she felt when she was with them had been growing in tiny increments since she first left Coventry to go to university in London. When she came back home for Christmas, after her first term there, her parents had made fun of her ‘new posh accent’. Ronnie had commented meanly about her new look. It had continued in the same vein for years, so that now whenever she saw any of the Bensons, Chelsea would count the minutes until they made a comment along the lines of ‘I bet they don’t do things like that in London.’ Chelsea just wished she could believe that the teasing was good-natured and not some sort of rebuke. She wished she thought her family was proud of her.

She looked at her watch. Her sister would have landed by now. She could imagine the scene of jubilation at the cheap hotel their mother had probably found on Teletext. She could almost hear what Ronnie would say about her missing her flight to their mum and dad, who had flown out the day before. Ronnie, who was always right even when she got everything wrong. Ronnie, the golden child. Not even her getting pregnant in the middle of her A-levels had drawn their parents’ disapproval. She’d always been their favourite.

Ronnie texted: We’re here. Mum’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. You are actually coming tomorrow, right?

Chelsea replied, Unless I can arrange a bomb scare. Then she lay back on the suspiciously shiny coverlet and prayed for a strike by air-traffic control.

Chapter Six

Ronnie

By the time she and her family arrived at the Hotel Volcan, Ronnie was just about ready to collapse. She had not slept much the night before. Unlike Chelsea, Ronnie had way too much at stake to sleep through her alarm.

It was only when they finally arrived at the bright white-painted hotel that Ronnie could relax. Actually, forget it. She couldn’t relax even then. There were still rooms to find and cases to unpack. Her mother, Jacqui, and father, Dave, were waiting for them by the main pool (there were three), having saved four extra sunloungers. They had the room keys. Jacqui said she had opened all the windows to air the rooms.

‘Thank God you’re here. Hanging on to these sunloungers was like defending the Normandy beaches,’ said Dave. ‘This whole resort is full of Germans.’

Sophie drew breath sharply. Born more than half a century after the end of the Second World War, she was well drilled in political correctness and made it clear without saying a word that she found her grandfather’s xenophobic humour embarrassing. Sophie found an awful lot of things embarrassing. It was a condition of being a fifteen-year-old girl. Her pain was almost visible as Jacqui gave her a squeeze and commented on how ‘big’ she was getting.

‘Big?’ Sophie was horrified.

‘Your grandma means “tall”,’ Ronnie chipped in quickly.

‘Tall? Yes. Tall. Of course I meant tall. That’s exactly what I meant,’ said Jacqui. ‘You’re turning into a real beanpole.’

Sophie shook her head. She didn’t actually say ‘lame’ in response to her grandmother’s embarrassment, but Ronnie heard it all the same.

‘Am I getting tall too?’ asked Jack, pulling himself up to his full height. Unlike his sister, Jack couldn’t wait for his grandmother to sweep him into her arms. Ronnie smiled at Jack’s unselfconscious delight as Jacqui blew a raspberry on his neck.

‘Where’s Bill?’ Ronnie asked.

Jacqui jerked a thumb towards the bar. Granddad Bill, Ronnie’s grandfather and the family patriarch, was inside in the shade. Jacqui explained that she and Dave had found him a nice spot beneath the wide-screen TV, which was permanently tuned to Sky Sports, and instructed the barman to make sure he was kept well lubricated. But not
too
well lubricated.

Ronnie found Granddad Bill exactly where Jacqui said she’d left him. He was wearing a Coventry City football shirt, a pair of ancient Bermuda shorts, which showcased his knobbly knees to perfection, and his carpet slippers, which were dark red velvet with a gold-embroidered crest. Very regal if totally inappropriate, not to mention at least twenty years old and with soles full of holes. Still, he refused to wear anything else on his feet these days.

‘All right, Granddad?’ Ronnie pressed a kiss to his cheek, which was as dry and papery as an autumn leaf. ‘You OK in here on your own in the dark?’

‘I’ve got an armchair, I’ve got a bottle of beer, and I’m watching lovely young women play beach volleyball on Sky. I’ve won the bloody lottery,’ said Bill.

Ronnie laughed. Her grandfather was having a good day.

‘I’ve won the bloody lottery’ was Bill’s catchphrase. Two Christmases ago, while staying at Ronnie’s house for a family celebration, Bill had fallen out of bed and been unable to get back up from the floor. When Mark went in to help and asked whether he was all right, Bill had said, ‘I’ve won the bloody lottery. What do you think?’ He’d actually broken a rib. Ronnie was glad to hear him use the phrase in altogether better circumstances.

Jack wheeled into the bar. He was followed by his sister at her usual emo shuffle. Ronnie shook her head indulgently as she watched her son’s chaotic approach. Why walk in a straight line when instead you could skip and skitter and bounce off every piece of furniture you passed, was Jack’s philosophy. He was already wielding an ice lolly, and a big orange stain spread across the front of his T-shirt like a paintballing wound.

‘Jack! That shirt was clean on,’ Ronnie sighed. He’d spilt Coke over the shirt he’d been wearing on the flight. Ronnie had made him change on the resort bus so that he’d look his best for his grandma. What a waste of time that turned out to be.

Jack didn’t care what he looked like. Now he was dripping melting orange ice over his great-grandfather. Jack was so free with his hugs. Bill was delighted to receive one. Sophie, meanwhile, muttered her hellos and made it clear she wanted to go upstairs asap. There was nothing more embarrassing than being seen in the company of a great-granddad. It was almost as bad as being seen with your parents. The previous Christmas, Mark had bought Sophie a knitted balaclava so she could still go shopping with her mum and dad without being recognised by her peers. Needless to say, Sophie had not seen the joke. Maybe if the balaclava had come from Hollister …

Fortunately, Jack was soon listening, rapt, as Bill explained the rules of the game on the screen, leaving Ronnie and Sophie free to find their family’s rooms and decant the contents of their four suitcases into the wardrobes. The main room – the one that Ronnie would share with Mark – had a balcony overlooking the hotel’s largest pool and the beach, just a few feet beyond. Ronnie stepped out and took a look at the view. It was exactly as she had imagined. The sea shimmered on the horizon like a sheet of blue silk shot through with silver thread. The air was soft and warm and scented with exotic flowers. It was Ronnie’s idea of heaven, this place. A week of warmth and relaxation at the edge of a bright blue swimming pool. A simple white-painted bedroom. The rustle of palm leaves in the wind. No cooking, no cleaning, no school run and no work. Well, there would always be work for Ronnie. She looked down at the poolside, where Mark was already cracking open a beer as he reclined on one of Dave’s fiercely defended sunloungers. Mark seemed to think suitcases packed and unpacked themselves by magic. Ronnie stepped back inside and asked Sophie to help her carry the two smaller cases next door.

‘Hold on,’ said Sophie. ‘Why do we need both these cases in here? Are you telling me I’m sharing with my brother?’

‘Where else is he going to sleep?’

‘You told me I wouldn’t have to share with Jack.’

‘I never told you that,’ said Ronnie.

‘Dad did,’ Sophie insisted. ‘When you said I couldn’t go to Berlin, which, by the way, has totally ruined my life, he said that to make up for it, I would definitely have my
own
room in Lanzarote. Sharing with Jack is not the same as having my own room. Duh.’

‘I know, sweetheart, but Grandma and Granddad have paid for this trip and—’

‘You could have given them some extra money. Or Jack could go in with you. Why can’t he go in with you?’

‘Sophie, you’re just being difficult. Take this bag. You’re sharing with your brother. Like you did in Cornwall.’

‘Yeah, and that was terrible. It was like sharing a room with a chimpanzee.’

‘You’re only going to be sleeping in here. You don’t have to spend all day with him.’

‘I did last year.’

It was unfortunate that the weather in Cornwall the previous summer had meant there was little to do but stay in their tiny rented cottage all day long, playing Connect Four and Pictionary until a fight broke out.

‘Sophie, I don’t know what I can do about it,’ Ronnie pleaded. ‘We’ve only got two rooms.’

‘You don’t understand me. You make no effort to understand me. First, you stop me from going to Berlin. The only other person who didn’t go to Berlin was Shelley Tibbetts, by the way …’ Sophie’s lip curled in disgust as she named the least popular girl in her school year, a poor girl who had such outrageous BO that even some of the teachers gossiped about her. ‘And now you’re going to force me to share with my brother and he’ll see me in my bra and he’ll tell his school friends all about it.’

Ronnie closed her eyes. ‘He’s six, Sophie. Jack’s not going to talk about your bra to anybody. He still thinks babies are delivered by Amazon.’ That was Mark’s joke.

Sophie wasn’t listening. ‘You treat me like I’m still a child, but I’m not. I’m nearly sixteen years old, for God’s sake. I need my independence.’

‘All right, all right, I’ll see what I can do.’

What could she do? In desperation Ronnie called reception and asked for a collapsible bed to put in the corner of the room she and Mark would be sleeping in. It wasn’t as though they were planning to have a load of hot sex anyway. Ronnie got no joy from the receptionist, though. This being the school holiday season, the hotel was full and every spare bed had already been pressed into use. Sophie would have to share.

‘You’re ruining my life,’ was Sophie’s measured response again. She refused to utter a further word to her mother while they unpacked the suitcases.

When Ronnie and Sophie finally got back outside, Sophie stormed to the low wall that surrounded the hotel complex and sat there looking out to sea in grand dudgeon. She refused even to join her family for lunch. Some holiday this was turning out to be. They’d been in the resort for less than two hours and already Ronnie’s daughter wasn’t speaking to her. And then Chelsea texted in response to Ronnie’s question about her flight: ‘Unless I can arrange a bomb scare.’ What was that supposed to mean? Could she make it any more obvious that she didn’t want to come?

The day didn’t get much better. Sophie managed to sulk for the best part of six hours without a break. She didn’t even change out of her black skinny jeans, despite the blazing sunshine. Jack, meanwhile, would not stop asking when Auntie Chelsea was going to arrive. It was ‘Auntie Chelsea this, Auntie Chelsea that’ all the long afternoon. And of course Mark got right into the holiday spirit by tucking into the beers as though it was New Year’s Eve. By the time the family had finished dinner, with Sophie refusing to eat anything except three chips and Jack having a choking fit when he tried to emulate his father downing a pint by knocking back his own overly large glass of fake Coca-Cola, Ronnie was almost ready to go back to Coventry.