A Proper Family Holiday (8 page)

‘Camels are very intelligent creatures,’ he said.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Chelsea. She was too busy catching up on the emails that had come in while she was flying to ask exactly how camels showed their vast intelligence.

A text came through.

We’re having a walk around the town, said her mother, but we’ll try to be at the hotel when you arrive.

‘Try?’ Chelsea snorted. After all the effort she had made to come on this stupid trip. Using a whole week of her precious holiday time?

‘You got a boyfriend?’ the taxi driver asked, catching her eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘I show you the town if you like.’ The taxi driver had no front teeth.

When at last the taxi pulled up at the resort, Chelsea’s first instinct was to say, ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ but she knew, with a sinking heart, that there was no mistake. The terrible pictures on the hotel’s website had actually been rather flattering. Chelsea paid the taxi driver, declined to give him her phone number in exchange for a five per cent discount and stood on the pavement, surveying her home for the week ahead. What a dump. She looked up and down the street. Amusement arcades. Fast-food shops. A restaurant across the street promised chips with everything. Chelsea was only glad that her colleagues from the magazine couldn’t see her now.

‘I am in hell,’ Chelsea whispered to herself as, taking a deep breath, she stepped into the lobby of the Hotel Volcan.

Chapter Nine

Ronnie

Ronnie was the only adult member of the Benson clan to be in the hotel at that moment. The rest of the family had gone to explore the town, but Jack wanted to stay by the pool and somebody had to keep an eye on him.

‘Come in the pool with me, Mummy,’ Jack begged, but Ronnie was staying resolutely on dry land. She was, as Jack reminded her in an attempt to win her round to his point of view, already wearing her swimsuit, but Ronnie kept a sarong firmly tied round her waist and refused to budge from her sunlounger. She did not feel like stripping off, despite the fact that the mercury must be nudging forty degrees.

Ronnie hadn’t felt much like stripping off in a long time. Not since Jack was born. When she had Sophie, the weight just fell off and she was soon back into her pre-pregnancy clothes, but with Jack, it had been different. Ronnie was a teenager when she became pregnant with Sophie. Her body was ready to be stretched beyond anything she might have imagined possible and yet spring straight back into shape within a fortnight. She was eight years older when she conceived Jack. Her life had changed so much in the meantime. When you had a small child and no money, there was little to do but stay home and comfort-eat. Two children and no money? More of the same. Much, much more.

As a result, one of the things Ronnie had been dreading most about this holiday was having to wear a bathing suit in the vicinity of her stick-thin younger sister. That said, Chelsea hadn’t always been the skinny one. When the sisters were children, Chelsea had been as soft and round as a Cabbage Patch doll. She’d hated sport, preferring instead to stay inside and read. When puberty came, Ronnie had quickly developed a model figure. A tiny hand-span waist complemented her new breasts, while Chelsea had continued to be, well, a little bit lumpen into her teenage years. There was one especially embarrassing moment when a neighbour who had heard that one of the Benson girls was pregnant had collared Chelsea on her way back from school and asked how many more months she had to go before the baby was born. There were tears when Chelsea got home that afternoon.

The situation reversed quite dramatically when Chelsea went off to university in London. Away from home and their mother’s carb-heavy cooking for the first time, Chelsea had transformed herself. While the average fresher put on half a stone in the first year, Chelsea had done the exact opposite. The year in France her language degree required had brought about the final polish. When she got back from twelve months in Grenoble, no trace of the dumpy little girl who’d begged to borrow Ronnie’s clothes remained. Ronnie doubted very much that Chelsea would ever covet any of her clothes again. She certainly wouldn’t covet Ronnie’s body-control swimsuit, which seemed to be exercising about as much control over her body as a sleeping bag might have done. That was the other thing Ronnie was dreading: Chelsea’s designer wardrobe.

Since Chelsea had been working on
Society
magazine, she’d been dressed like an oligarch’s missus. Ronnie remembered when Chelsea turned up at Jack’s third birthday party wearing a black Chanel jacket with her designer jeans. Genuine Chanel. Everything about it breathed quality, from the real horn buttons to the delicate little chain that weighted down the hem at the back. Anyone with half a brain could tell the difference between the Zara knock-offs all the girls in Coventry were wearing that year and this piece of authentic fashion art. While wearing it, Chelsea hadn’t let her nephew or his preschool friends come anywhere near her for fear of their sticky little fingers. Eventually, unable to bear the tension any longer, Chelsea took the jacket off and put it in Ronnie’s bedroom for safe keeping. Unfortunately, Fishy the cat, who had also been put in the bedroom to protect her from Jack and his marauding pals, made a bed of it, her claws pulling threads in the pristine camellia-embossed silk lining as she scrunched the fabric together to make it more comfortable. Chelsea had not seen the funny side.

Then there were the handbags. At the barbecue where they had last seen each other, Chelsea had been toting a real Louis Vuitton. Ronnie had looked it up on the Internet a couple of days later. Even second hand on eBay, those bags cost more than Ronnie earned in half a year. What would Chelsea think of Ronnie’s beach bag, which had come free with a magazine several years before?

Then there were the shoes. Chelsea had a real pair of Louboutins long before the Wags even knew they wanted them. When both sisters were visiting their parents one Christmas – before they fell out, back when Chelsea still couldn’t believe her luck that she’d landed a magazine job at all – Chelsea had let Ronnie try on her red-soled treasures. (Shoe size was the one size they still had in common.) Chelsea looked so nervous when Ronnie got her feet in them, as though the delicate stiletto heels might break under her weight, that any potential sisterly-bonding joy of the moment was extinguished in a puff of self-loathing. Ronnie kicked the petrol-blue patent shoes off seconds later, claiming they pinched her toes.

Though once upon a time they had made plans for a fabulous future together, Chelsea’s figure, her clothes and her lifestyle were a million light years away from anything Ronnie could aspire to now. Chelsea wore Chanel and Prada and Louboutins, and went to cocktail parties where supermodels rubbed shoulders with movie stars. Her day job was to interview celebrities and review five-star spa resorts. Even Chelsea’s voice had changed when she moved away from Coventry; these days, she had the polished vowels of a girl who’d spent her formative years at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, rather than the local comprehensive she and Ronnie had actually attended. She’d once joked that her colleagues assumed she was called Chelsea because she had been born in the smart London borough, and Ronnie could tell she was proud to have convinced them. There was no trace of the Midlands left in Chelsea’s accent any more. There was no trace of Benson left …

Jacqui insisted that Ronnie and Chelsea would always have a special bond as sisters, but Ronnie had come to think that had they not been related, they would not have naturally become friends. Not these days. They moved in different circles. Different worlds.

‘Mummy! Watch me!’

Jack broke into Ronnie’s thoughts by demanding her attention for a half-dive into the pool, which basically involved pointing his hands above his head before jumping in feet first as usual. Ronnie felt her heart leap as her son sprang into the air before she could say, ‘Make sure it’s deep enough!’ Her heart stayed in her throat until Jack came up spluttering. When he could take a breath again, he gave his mother a huge grin.

‘How was that?’ he asked.

‘Just like Tom Daley,’ Ronnie assured him. ‘You’ll be in the next Olympic team.’

Jack climbed out of the pool for another attempt. He was so happy. Why was it so hard to hang on to childish confidence and enthusiasm? If children knew what being an adult was like, they wouldn’t bother to grow up at all.

A text arrived on Ronnie’s phone. It was Chelsea.

Ronnie steeled herself for a meeting with the sister she hadn’t seen in over two years.

Chapter Ten

Chelsea

It was not the kind of welcome Chelsea had hoped for. Having imagined the whole family being there to greet her, she was disappointed to find just Ronnie and Jack in the advance party. Ronnie didn’t seem exactly overjoyed to see her either. Having perceptibly stiffened in Chelsea’s air-kissing embrace – ‘You’ve gone very media’ – she gave Chelsea the usual once-over and immediately commented on her luggage.

‘I bet that’s the first time they’ve had Louis Vuitton on easyJet.’

‘And how are you?’ asked Chelsea, to make a point.

‘All right,’ said Ronnie. ‘You remember your nephew, Jack.’

‘Of course I remember my nephew.’

‘Well, it’s been a long time.’

Jack was hiding behind his mother’s legs. Though he had talked about nothing but the imminent arrival of his aunt for the past twenty-four hours, now that she was here, he was suddenly shy.

‘Hello, Jack.’

Chelsea had forgotten how cute her nephew was, with his big eyes and white-blond hair. It was a shame that Ronnie had given him a thuggish buzz cut and he was dressed in a Coventry FC T-shirt four sizes too big for him. Chelsea bobbed down to greet him. She stuck out her hand. Jack stared at it.

‘How are you?’ Chelsea asked.

‘Shaking hands is a bit posh for him,’ Ronnie suggested. ‘He’s not a London child.’

First reference to ‘fancy London ways’: approximately ten seconds in.

‘A hug, then?’ Chelsea suggested. ‘Have you got a hug for your auntie?’

Jack tucked himself further behind his mother. His eyes were wide, as though he had never seen anything quite so exotic as his aunt before and the sight of her had rendered him speechless. When Chelsea told him she’d brought him a teddy bear (a last-minute airport purchase to make up for missing his birthday), he actually covered his eyes to lessen the intensity. Chelsea straightened up. She wasn’t in the mood to try to coax Jack out from hiding. All she wanted was a shower and a nap. It felt like she’d been travelling for a week.

‘He’ll get used to you,’ said Ronnie.

‘Sure. Where’s everybody else?’ Chelsea asked.

‘They’re exploring the town,’ said Ronnie. ‘Except for Granddad Bill. He’s in the bar.’

‘I’ll see him later,’ said Chelsea. She wasn’t especially looking forward to seeing how far he’d declined in the two years since she’d last seen him and felt that a moment or two in her room first would make it easier. ‘Have you got my room key?’

Ronnie handed it over.

‘Thanks,’ said Chelsea. ‘I guess I’ll see you later.’

‘OK,’ said Ronnie. ‘We’ll be by the main pool.’

That was that. It had not been as painful as Chelsea had expected or as warm as she had hoped. Ronnie turned round to go. Chelsea picked up her bag and headed in the opposite direction, for the lift. Before she got that far, however, she was almost knocked off her feet by a low-flying missile. Jack had decided he would give his aunt a hug of welcome after all. He wrapped himself round her legs and looked up at her in adoration. Chelsea closed her eyes and sighed inwardly as he buried his pool-damp head in her skirt. Blackcurrant juice and now wet hair. Perfect. Just perfect. Why didn’t people keep children on leads?

‘I’m really happy you’re here, Auntie Chelsea,’ Jack told her with great sincerity. ‘Now that you’re here, I’ve got someone to play with.’

Not if I can help it, thought Chelsea, as she peeled Jack off her thighs. After the plane ride over, she had resolved to steer well clear of the under-tens. ‘Better catch up with your mum,’ was what she said out loud.

At last, twenty-four hours later than planned, Chelsea pushed open the door to her hotel room. First impression: bad. It was small, cheaply furnished and smelly. The ensuite bathroom was a former cupboard that had been hastily converted into a ‘wet room’. The toilet roll had unravelled and was soaking up the dampness greedily. Whoever invented wet rooms should be shot, Chelsea observed. In a wet room.

Next, Chelsea examined a painting of a sad-eyed donkey on the wall between the twin beds. Less ‘Conran’ than ‘car-boot sale’. There was no balcony. No proper view.

She opened the wardrobe. There were just three coat hangers, left behind by previous guests. Chelsea had to hang her favourite summer dress – a white smocked affair by Chloé – from a plastic hanger that bore the legend ‘6–7 years’. She opened a drawer to find a space for her underwear, but quickly thought better of it as a musty aroma billowed out. Even if she wasn’t going to be getting any action, she didn’t want her lingerie to smell as though it belonged in a museum.

Having given up on unpacking her case, Chelsea observed the twin beds with their thin, well-worn sheets and scratchy-looking blankets. Bed bugs, was the first thought that sprang to mind here. There were already faint firework splatters of red on the walls where several dozen mosquitoes must have met their deaths in seasons past. Chelsea pulled back the covers of the bed that looked less lumpy. She moved quickly, dreading what might lie beneath.

Oh, it was awful. The pillow had the look of the Turin Shroud about it, stained by the sweat and dribble of heaven only knew how many hotel guests over the years. The thought of having to put her head on it made Chelsea shiver with misery. What was she doing here? Why hadn’t she just said she was too busy at work to spare a week? God knows she really
was
too busy at work. Oh well. There was not much she could do about it now.

At the very least, Chelsea had consoled herself when she bowed to the inevitable and agreed to this trip, she could get a bit of a suntan. Though she had embraced the fashion for alabaster-pale skin over the winter months – it was rare for Chelsea to feel naturally fashionable – she could not quite bring herself to stay deathly white for the whole summer. Not when she was still carrying six pounds more than she thought she ought to be.