A Proper Family Holiday (7 page)

‘You could play in the swimming pool again,’ Jacqui suggested.

‘Maybe Auntie Chelsea will play with me when she comes.’

‘
If
she comes,’ said Ronnie, momentarily distracted from concern for her daughter by disdain for her sister.

‘Chelsea will be here,’ said Jacqui.

Sophie returned to the table. Her eyes were still glistening with rage and upset. She sniffed theatrically.

‘Your great-granddad is very sorry,’ Ronnie prompted.

‘Am I?’ asked Granddad Bill.

‘Of course you are.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart.’

Sophie grunted her acceptance of his apology.

‘Anyway, we all know this is much closer to a representation of Sophie’s chest,’ Mark interrupted. He held two grapefruit halves up to his own man-boobs.

Sophie was gone again.

‘This time,
you’re
getting her back here,’ Ronnie told Mark. ‘For pity’s sake. Try to have some sensitivity.’ She turned to Jacqui. ‘You see what I have to deal with, Mum? I haven’t got two children, I’ve got three, and Mark is the worst of the lot. My life is a warzone with added cooking and ironing and cleaning. Chelsea is so right not to bother with men and kids.’

If only Chelsea wasn’t bothered about getting herself a man. As it was, the arrival of her row-mate on the plane to Arrecife had thrown her into something of a spin. Every time she tried to sneak a look at him, she caught him sneaking a look back at her. Was something happening between them? Something like chemistry?

The take-off was relatively smooth. Lily, happily installed in the window seat, gave a running commentary on what she could see below as the plane reached its cruising height.

‘Is that our house, Daddy? Is that our house? Is that our house, Daddy? Is that it? Is that our house?’

Lily’s dad turned to Chelsea and shrugged apologetically as his daughter chuntered on. Chelsea smiled to let him know she was absolutely charmed by his darling child just as she was ready to be charmed by him. Assuming he was alone. The seat-belt signs had been switched off but Lily’s mother hadn’t yet appeared to check on her, which was what Chelsea had thought might happen.

‘Sorry,’ said Lily’s father. ‘About the chatter. I know you’re trying to read.’

‘That’s OK.’

Chelsea half-closed the cover of her book to indicate that she might actually be happy to be interrupted.

‘Oh, Malcolm Gladwell,’ Lily’s dad observed. ‘I’ve been meaning to read that one too. It’s supposed to be great.’

Chelsea was very glad she had hidden away her self-help book.

‘Have you read his other stuff?’

‘I read
Blink
,’ Chelsea told him. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her any questions about it. She couldn’t remember a word.

‘How about that one about success? What was it called?’

Chelsea didn’t know.

Fortunately, before Chelsea could show her ignorance, Lily interrupted, demanding a book of her own. Her father dug into his rucksack and handed over a book of fairy tales. With Lily taken care of, he turned straight back to Chelsea. Chelsea tucked her hair behind her ear in a manner her ex, Colin, had once pronounced ‘adorable’. Perhaps she would get her flirtation after all.

‘I’m Adam,’ he said, extending his hand.

‘Chelsea.’

‘Like the football team,’ Adam grinned. ‘Was your dad a fan?’

‘Ha! No,’ said Chelsea. ‘Mum chose my name because she liked the sound of it. Dad’s more of a rugby man. He played when he was younger.’

‘I used to play too,’ said Adam. ‘Haven’t for years. As you can probably tell.’ He pantomimed a bloated stomach.

No, thought Chelsea. You look pretty fit to me. Very fit indeed. She felt herself begin to grow warm in the cheeks and looked at her book cover so he couldn’t see her blushing. She racked her brains for something clever to say next but Lily saved her the trouble.

‘Daddy, stop talking to that lady and read this book to me.’

‘Duty calls.’

Adam excused himself and started reading to his daughter.

Though she opened the Gladwell again, even after such a brief exchange, Chelsea wasn’t really in the mood to concentrate on social science. Instead, she listened to Adam reading aloud from the tale of the Three Little Pigs. He was very good at it. He put plenty of character into the voices of the hapless piggies and their lupine nemesis. Chelsea had the idea that he was making an extra effort for her benefit.

She wondered what Adam’s own story was. Was Lily’s mother somewhere else on the plane and just taking advantage of the break from her daughter? Or was he travelling alone? If so, why? Divorced? Separated? Because he had been flirting with her, hadn’t he, when he talked about sharing the arm-rest and drew attention to his rugby player’s physique? How to find out the real situation? Chelsea longed for Lily to get tired of her father’s reading so she could get to know more.

Eventually the pigs worked out the value of building in brick and the story ended. Lily busied herself with colouring in the accompanying illustration using a packet of crayons retrieved from the cavernous rucksack.

‘I always travel with crayons,’ Adam explained. ‘I can’t tell you the number of times a packet of crayons has literally saved my life.’

Chelsea nodded. ‘I can imagine.’ She was thrilled to have Adam’s attention again. Thank you, Crayola.

‘So, what do you like to read apart from Gladwell?’ Adam asked.

Chelsea cast her mind back over the last five books she’d bought:
Why Men Love Bitches
,
He’s Just Not Into You
,
Make Every Man Want You
,
Men Who Can’t Love
and
From Booty Call to Bride
. Her colleague Serena had recommended that particular one to help Chelsea understand why her confirmed-bachelor ex should have changed his mind about marriage so quickly when he met the model. But the last thing Chelsea wanted was for Adam to know about her self-help habit, so she told him, ‘I bought the new Alex Marwood at the airport.’

‘Love those books. Really chilling.’

‘And I loved Hilary Mantel.’

‘
Wolf Hall
,’ Adam agreed. ‘Excellent novel.’

Chelsea hadn’t ever cracked the spine on her copy, but why did Adam need to know? This was going well. Really well. Chelsea didn’t think she’d had such an easy conversation with a man she actually liked the look of since she first met Colin. And they were flying to the same island. She was so pleased with the thought that she even smiled at the steward when he clipped her elbow with his trolley.

Adam continued. ‘Reading is massively important to me.’

‘Oh, me too,’ said Chelsea. ‘Me too.’

‘You can tell such a lot about a person from their bookshelves.’

‘You’re absolutely right.’

‘A shelf full of self-help is definitely a bad sign.’

‘Indeed,’ Chelsea nodded, as she thought of her shelves at home.

‘I really love being able to discuss a good book with friends. I know that might seem nerdy.’

‘Not at all.’

With such a lovely face, Adam could be excused any amount of nerdiness. Chelsea wondered if she could download some crib-notes on
Wolf Hall
when they got to the island, just in case she bumped into him again. Just in case he asked to see her. Maybe she should just throw caution to the wind and ask to see him? Chelsea’s imagination raced ahead. She thought of that fabulous blue lagoon she’d seen on the Internet. Now that would be the perfect spot to share a passionate kiss. Assuming Adam was travelling alone with his daughter, of course. Surely he wouldn’t be making conversation like this if he wasn’t…

But while Chelsea nodded enthusiastically and did her best to look charming and charmed as Adam extolled the virtues of Lionel Shriver, Lily was getting restless.

About halfway through the flight, and long after the catering trolleys had been stowed, Lily insisted she needed another drink. Chelsea patiently stood in the aisle while Adam rifled in the overhead locker for the bag that contained the juice he’d bought after security. She took the opportunity to admire his back view, which was every bit as good as the front. At last Adam found the drink and sat back down. As he fitted a straw into the carton of blackcurrant juice, Chelsea sat down too, smiling at Lily as she did so. Lily narrowed her eyes in return. Then Adam handed the carton to Lily, who squeezed it as she took possession of it so that a fountain of sticky black juice escaped the straw and arched right over her father to land with a splatter on Chelsea’s Malcolm Gladwell book, from where it dripped onto the lap of the dress she had borrowed from the fashion cupboard.

‘Shit!’ Chelsea tried to get to her feet, only to be foiled by her seatbelt, which she always wore when sitting down on a plane.

‘That lady swore!’ Lily pointed out.

As far as Chelsea was concerned, there was every reason to. There was a bright purple puddle in the middle of her borrowed dress’s skirt. Much flustered dabbing of paper towels and apologising by Adam followed. The book seemed relatively unscathed, but God knew what would become of the sundress.

‘It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,’ said Chelsea, when Adam’s impulsively offered to buy her a new one. She was certain he had no idea he was offering to replace a dress that would cost more than a car when it hit the shops the following summer. She batted away his hands, sure that he was only spreading the mess with the wet-wipes he had pulled from his jacket pocket. ‘It can be dry-cleaned.’

‘I’ll pay for that, then,’ Adam insisted. He fished £20 out of his wallet. ‘Will this cover it?’

‘No. Really. Don’t worry about it. It’s OK. Accidents happen.’

Chelsea pushed the money away. The juice spill was an accident. She knew she should be more laid-back about it, especially if she wanted to continue the good work she’d been doing with Adam so far. But she wouldn’t have been surprised if that child had squeezed the juice carton deliberately. Chelsea did a bit more cursing as she flapped her skirt about in an attempt to dry it off a little. In the window seat, Lily was wide-eyed.

‘She keeps on swearing.’

‘I can understand why,’ said Adam. He attempted another conciliatory smile. ‘It’s not OK, is it? That dress was new.’

Chelsea assured him once again that accidents happen, but also knew that her face when she looked at Lily did not quite match the levity of her pronouncement.

‘I’m scared of that lady,’ said Lily suddenly, pointing an accusatory finger.

Chelsea gave a stiff grin.

‘She’s frightening me!’ Lily continued.

‘Lily,’ said Adam. ‘Just sit still and be quiet, please. You’ve caused enough trouble already.’ He turned to Chelsea. ‘I am so, so sorry. I usually take a sip out of the carton first to make sure that doesn’t happen, but–’

‘It’s OK,’ said Chelsea.

‘She scared me,’ Lily insisted from her seat by the window. ‘She looked at me like a witch.’

‘Lily,’ Adam laughed but without much conviction. ‘Please don’t be silly.’

Within seconds, Lily was howling as though Chelsea had pinched her. As Adam employed every trick in the book to quieten his daughter down – even going so far as to stick two crayons up his nose, which seemed risky – it became clear that there was no chance that he and Chelsea would resume their conversation. Chelsea escaped to the loo to examine the borrowed dress for damage. She couldn’t see much in the fluorescent light but she feared the worst.

Alone in the cubicle, Chelsea knuckled her forehead in frustration. She might have known her one chance at a flirtation in months would end in sticky disaster. But cruel fate wasn’t quite finished with her yet.

At last the flight landed. Chelsea got to her feet to grab her handbag from the overhead locker as soon as the seatbelt lights were switched off. Adam jumped up too and practically wrestled the bag from her hands in an attempt to be chivalrous. As he did so, the unzippered bag went flying and the contents of Chelsea’s hand luggage spewed half-way down the aisle. Adam picked up Chelsea’s copy of
From Booty Call to Bride
and handed it back to her. But not without taking a quizzical look first. Self help. A very bad sign.

‘Research,’ she said. ‘I work for a women’s magazine.’

Adam nodded but he didn’t look convinced.

That was it, Chelsea told herself. The flirtation was officially done. She stuffed the book back into her bag.

Lily waved Chelsea off.

According to Jacqui, Chelsea should wait for the hotel bus to take her to the resort – a free transfer was included in the price of the holiday. But after such a fraught ending to the flight, there was no way Chelsea was going to wait around while the tour rep did ten head counts, got a different number every time and had to make a tannoy announcement for a pair of pensioners lost in baggage reclaim. Chelsea was going to take a taxi. Her shins were still sticky with blackcurrant juice, despite her having tried to wipe them clean with her ridiculously expensive Chanel eye make-up remover pads. The dress, too, needed to go straight to a dry-cleaner.

Oh, the dress. As she stood in the taxi queue, Chelsea was able to examine the skirt of the Mebus extravaganza more closely. Thankfully, the dress had a pattern, so the stain wasn’t as obvious as it might have been had the fabric been plain, but Chelsea knew there was no way she would be able to sneak it back into the fashion cupboard as though nothing had happened. Apart from anything else, the spillage had left Chelsea smelling like some cheap bath foam: sweet and cloying as a jelly baby. She was actually starting to attract flies. And it was so hot in this place! Chelsea felt her make-up melting. Please let the cab have air-conditioning.

Chelsea texted her mother and sister as the taxi with
no
air-conditioning sped towards Playa Brava. The countryside rolled past in a relentless ribbon of dust, punctuated by the odd low white house and what seemed like hundreds of petrol stations. They passed a field where a group of forlorn-looking camels waited to be loaded with tourists after the
Lawrence of Arabia
experience. According to the taxi driver, who simply would not shut up, a camel ride was on every visitor to Lanzarote’s list of ‘must-dos’.