After the Honeymoon (2 page)

Only someone who’d seen their family break up would understand that.

Tom had started to talk marriage when they’d gone to Paris to celebrate her eighteenth. The hotel had turned out to be more skanky than swanky, and although she’d pretended not to be unnerved by the ‘ladies of the night’ who’d hung around the street outside, Emma had reached out for Tom’s hand for comfort.

He’d felt awkward as well. To compensate for their unfamiliar surroundings and narrow bed with sheets that bore stains from the previous occupants, they’d had way too much to drink. Perhaps it was that which had made her forgetful.

Of course, she could have gone and got the morning after pill when they’d got back, but something inside her made her stop. After all, she’d always loved babies.

Anyway, it wasn’t as though she had a proper career. She’d always dreamed of being a teacher, but then Dad had gone off, putting an end to any kind of wild aspirations like that so she’d had to leave school and get a job in a supermarket to help pay the bills.

The reality of what she’d done hit home six weeks after the Paris weekend. Tom had been much calmer than she had when they’d stared at the blue line on the pregnancy testing kit. ‘I want to do the right thing by you,’ he’d declared. ‘Let’s get married.’

Married? The right thing? Emma looked at this man with his open, honest face, greasy navy overalls from the garage where he worked, the premature bald patch in the middle of his head and those round glasses which kept misting up at the most inopportune of times. Shouldn’t he be talking about passion and wanting to grow old together? Besides, he knew what she thought about marriage after Mum and Dad.

Maybe she could delay him for a bit; put it off so it didn’t seem so important. It was a baby she wanted – not a wedding.

‘I don’t want to be four months gone when I walk down the aisle,’ she had pointed out. ‘It will look as though you’ve
had
to marry me.’

But from the minute that Gawain was born (she’d always loved that name ever since discovering his story in English class), Tom had started banging on about weddings again. ‘I want a big do,’ he had declared. ‘Nothing can be too good for my beautiful girl.’

Emma, completely smitten and overcome with a love she had never thought possible for this crinkly, wet baby in her arms, with his shock of red hair (just like Tom’s), dismissed his words. Weddings were the last thing on her mind.

As for ‘beautiful girl’, that was ridiculous! Emma had never considered herself to be a looker. At five foot three, she was just too short to carry off the extra half stone which had plagued her all through her teenage years and which now, thanks to post-baby weight, had crept up to one and a half. Tom, who was stocky himself, declared he liked her ‘cuddly’ but she knew he was just being kind. If Emma had been forced to name her best points, it would be her hair and what Bernie called her ‘sympathetic, smiley face’.

‘Let’s think about getting married when we’ve settled down a bit,’ she’d pleaded to Tom. ‘There’s enough to do at the moment as it is.’

And so there was. But Emma loved every minute of being a mum. She hadn’t realised how much they’d needed their son to make them feel complete, but Tom
still
wouldn’t give up on the marriage thing. ‘Why bother?’ she’d retort. ‘It’s so expensive and takes up so much time. Why can’t we just stay as we are?’

Tom’s face had instantly made her feel guilty. ‘Don’t you want to commit to me? Think you can find someone better, do you?’

‘No, of course not, but …’

They’d been sitting on the sofa enjoying some rare couple time while Mum was out on one of her dates-that-went-nowhere.

‘No buts,’ he said, kissing the top of her head. ‘We owe it to our son to tidy things up.’

Tidy things up? It didn’t seem a very romantic way of putting it. But unable to find any more arguments, save a nagging uncertainty that she couldn’t put a name to, Emma promised to look up some venues, even though they were completely out of their reach financially.

In a way it had been a relief when she’d found out that she was expecting again, just as Gawain began to toddle. Of course it meant money would be even tighter, but having another baby was important for her son. She’d always longed to have a brother or sister herself.

When Willow – a name she’d found in a poetry book – was born, she felt as though nothing could make her happier. A daughter! A little girl, with her brother’s trademark red hair, whom she could go shopping with. Talk to. Confide in. It made Emma glow with pleasure to know that she had provided a lifelong friend for her son. They would love each other, she knew it – even though Gawain had already ripped up his favourite picture book on being introduced to his new sister.

But over the next few weeks and then months, Tom began to show a side of himself that she had only occasionally got glimpses of before. He started speaking shortly; behaving like someone who didn’t want to talk very much or have a great deal to do with her.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked one night.

She’d expected Tom to say nothing, that she was imagining it. But then he’d given her a look that made her chest contract. A cold fear crawled over her. He’d found someone else. Just like Dad …

‘I’m not happy,’ he said slowly.

‘Who is it?’ she managed to say, her throat strangled.

Tom frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Emma could hardly get the words out.

Then his face cleared. ‘You think I’ve got someone else? Don’t be daft, Em. Though if I didn’t know you better, I might wonder if
you
had someone.’ He took her hands, getting down on one knee on the carpet they’d bought on credit last month. ‘I’m not happy because I want to get married, and you don’t. If you really loved me, Em, you’d say yes.’

She hesitated. Only for a second, but it was enough.

‘Come on, Em,’ he persisted. ‘You know it makes sense. My darling Emma.’ He was still kneeling in front of her, blocking the television screen. ‘I’ve asked you before but I’m doing it again. Will you do me the honour of being my wife?’

Just at that moment, there was a shout from the bedroom. ‘Mum?
Mum!
’

‘You see,’ said Tom exultantly. ‘Our son wants us to get married.’ He squeezed her hand, trying to stop her as she leaped to her feet to check Gawain was all right. ‘We owe it to our children, Em. We owe it to them to provide a stable life with married parents.’

But we can do that without being married, she wanted to say. Yet she could still taste the fear of a few minutes ago when she’d thought he was going to finish with her. Maybe, if this was so important to Tom, she should go along with it.

‘Mrs Walker, Mrs Walker! I’ve finished!’

The shrill little voice cut into her thoughts, bringing Emma back to the present. It was the poppet from Year One with buck teeth and glasses. Every day, the child insisted on sitting on her own, away from the other girls who were all chatting away like gossipy old women at the small red plastic tables and chairs. Poor little mite!

‘Finished?’ she repeated, kneeling down next to her. ‘I don’t think so. Look, if we move this piece of pasta next to this slice of tomato, it makes a face, doesn’t it? Try eating the nose. That’s right! What’s that like?’

The little girl put her head to one side, considering. ‘OK.’

Getting children to eat was a bit like horse whispering. You had to get them to think it was their idea. ‘Now, how about taking a little nibble out of pasta man’s ear?’

Somehow, Emma succeeded in encouraging the child to almost finish the plate and felt a little thrill of satisfaction.

How she loved her job! It had been Bernie who’d suggested she went for it when Gawain had started pre-school next door. Bernie was already working there herself, and she’d pointed out the notice, pinned on the board where they queued up to drop off and pick up the children. ‘It’s quite hard work but we have a laugh,’ Bernie had assured her.

It had been a lifesaver. The supermarket hadn’t wanted her any more when she’d tried to cut her hours down after Willow was born and she needed to do
somethin
g, especially with the mortgage. She and Tom had been saving up for years for their own place; after all, they couldn’t live with Mum for ever.

Then, six months ago, they’d actually got one of those special deals with a housing association. It wasn’t a big place: just two small bedrooms, a galley kitchen where you rubbed shoulders, an L-shaped lounge and a garden just big enough for Gawain to ride his trike.

As Tom said, it might swallow up most of their monthly incomings, but at least they had a place of their own. Much as she loved her mum, it hadn’t been great, sharing a kitchen and bathroom. And, as she’d tried to reassure her mother, they were only round the corner.

Even so, the mortgage meant Tom had to do overtime at the garage. The dinner lady job helped a bit, but the best thing about it, to be honest, was that she hadn’t so much found a job as discovered a vocation.

‘See you’ve worked your magic again,’ remarked Bernie when she left her place at the kitchen counter to help Emma and the other two mealtime assistants clear up while the children shot off to the playground, accompanied by the duty leaders. ‘Little Miss Buck Teeth almost cleared her plate. That’s a first.’

Emma didn’t care for expressions like ‘buck teeth’. Her own had a funny little gap in the middle; Tom declared it ‘endearing’ but she hated it. That was something she’d have liked to have had fixed before the wedding, even though it was impossible. For a start it was too expensive. And secondly, there was only a week to go.

‘Have you got a second?’ asked Bernie as Emma reached for her cardi to go home. ‘Only the girls and I wanted to have a bit of a word.’

Her friend led her through to the back of the kitchen where the dishwasher was buzzing merrily. The surfaces were spotless and the smell of antiseptic just about took away the smell of sausages and broccoli. Emma’s stomach was beginning to rumble. All she wanted was to collect Gawain and Willow and get back home for a crispbread and cottage cheese – part of the pre-wedding diet she’d been on for months now but which still hadn’t made much difference.

Nor had the famous Winston King’s breakfast television workout, which she’d tried to do while dishing out breakfast at the same time.

‘We’ve got a little present for you,’ said Bernie excitedly, handing her a white envelope. ‘It’s not just from the girls. The teachers contributed too. In fact, it was Gemma Balls’ idea.’

How kind, thought Emma as she ripped open the envelope. It was typical of Gemma Balls to organise a collection. She was so nice. And bright too. Exactly the kind of person that Emma admired. Even now, she still felt a bit cheated when she thought about her old dreams of being a teacher.

She pulled out the piece of card from the envelope. It didn’t look like an ordinary voucher for Boots or Marks & Spencer. This one had a picture of a beautiful little house with red and purple flowers growing up the outside with a stunning blue sky behind and a beach running down to the sea.

One week at the Villa Rosa in private cottage
, said the lettering below.
Breakfast and dinner included.

There was a photograph too of a pretty blonde woman, standing on a balcony holding a glass of wine.
Co-owner Rosie Harrison will look after your every need.

Emma looked up at Bernie. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s a honeymoon!’ Her friend’s eyes were sparkling with the excitement of giving someone something really nice. ‘I knew you didn’t have one planned. That was why I was trying to get you on the wrong track earlier when I asked if you were going away.’

Emma was still trying to take this in. ‘But the children …’

‘We’ve got it sorted. Your mum’s going to have Willow and Gawain.’ Bernie was almost jumping up and down now like the little boy in Year Three who went hyper at the whiff of an additive. ‘We talked to Tom about it first, of course, and he thought it was a great idea. He also confirmed you had a passport. See? We’ve thought of everything.’

He should have told her first, Emma thought. This wasn’t the sort of thing you could spring on someone. A cold feeling of panic wrapped itself round her chest. She’d never left Willow and Gawain before. How could she do so now? ‘Your mum will cope,’ said Bernie as if reading her mind. ‘It will do you and Tom good to go away together. He said you’ve never once had a break without the children.’

True. But that was because she’d become as dependent on them as they had on her.

‘Honeymoons are so expensive,’ she blurted.

Bernie looked smug. ‘That’s the beauty of it. The villa belongs to a friend of Gemma Balls who lives in Greece. The school secretary gave me the number.’ She glanced at the picture. ‘Posh, isn’t it?’

Her eyes sparkled as though she was going herself. ‘You’re going to love it, Em! You’ve got your own cottage that’s in the grounds, and in the evening, the owner cooks a meal on this gorgeous terrace overlooking olive trees so everyone can eat together if they want.’ She gave Emma a knowing wink. ‘Or they can have a bit of privacy, if you get what I mean.’

There was a silence during which Emma tried to think of the right words. Greece? Abroad? She’d never flown before: when she and Tom had gone to Paris, it had been on Eurostar. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’ asked one of the other meal assistants sharply.

Swiftly she tried to gather herself. They’d all saved up for this. Gone without. Just for her. It was incredibly kind of them.

‘I’m stunned.’ Quickly she hugged Bernie and then the other two. ‘It’s an
amazing
present. Thank you
so
much.’

WINSTON

Everything was planned, his assistant Poppy had assured him. Yes. Privacy was top priority. Details had already been ‘leaked’ to the press about the wedding taking place in Antigua or the Maldives, depending on which gossip column you read. Photographers were, even as they spoke, frantically booking rooms at local hotels in a bid to get the best spot.