Romantic Association - Truly, Madly, Deeply

‘Darling, I want to take the whole family on holiday. Jenny said the other day they couldn’t afford to go away this year and I suddenly thought what fun it would be to get together.’ She glanced at him and then went on. ‘It would be good for the grandchildren to spend quality time with each other.’

Rather to her surprise he didn’t grunt when she said ‘quality time’. Instead, he nodded. ‘And we pay for it all?’

‘Yes,’ Isobel said firmly. The children would never give up their holiday allowance to go to Cornwall if they had to pay.

‘OK,’ he said, and went back to his scale model of the Cutty Sark .

Isobel went back to the house, half annoyed that he hadn’t said, ‘But I wanted to take you to Antibes,’ and delighted that he’d agreed to her plan.

Her husband’s early retirement had been a bit disappointing. She’d imagined lovely days out and meals in pubs now they had time to be with each other but mostly he made models. And nowadays, if she asked him if she looked all right, he always said ‘fine’ but never glanced in her direction.

Her three children, two sons and a daughter, all married or with partners, were all keen on the idea of a paid-for holiday in a luxury holiday home. ‘Lovely to have built-in baby-sitters,’ said one son. ‘Good to have time to catch up with the sibs,’ said another.

Isobel made the booking. Now she would live the dream. She would become charismatic, beautiful, in spite of her nearly sixty years. She wouldn’t just be ‘good old Mum’.

What she hadn’t envisaged when she’d been searching for the perfect house was the amount of cooking and washing up a family holiday with grandchildren entailed –all in a kitchen a lot less well organised than her own. It was not so much ‘living the dream’ as ‘living the washing up’. What had seemed such a good idea in January, when she booked the house, now seemed a terrible idea. As for her transformation into the heroine of one of those books, she felt more like the faithful family housekeeper than her employer.

The men all loved cooking –that wasn’t a problem –except they used every implement in the house and while they sloshed water around quite a bit, they somehow never actually cleared up. Considering they had cooked this seemed sort of OK, but it was the same when she cooked. Her husband wiped half washed saucepans with clean tea towels, which meant very soon none of the tea towels were clean.

She realised sadly that she was not a matriarch, she was a woman who was a member of a book group, shopped in Waitrose and had to travel with her own pillows. And while, during the holiday at least, she had some trappings of the Yummy Mummy –the pale marks on the shoulder of every garment, the faint odour of sour milk, and Babybels loose in her handbag ready to feed a hungry toddler at a moment’s notice –she didn’t feel remotely yummy. And she didn’t even have a wicked past to look back on either. She’d married young, had children and stayed married. Her life was completely free of delicious memories of past loves. What had always seemed something to be admired now seemed plain boring.

At least the holiday was going well. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Days on the beach with the children, with Grandpa willing to go rock pooling, buy ice creams and carry small children for miles. And later, meals cooked and served at the huge table with ample quantities of wine. Yet somehow she still found herself doing most of the donkeywork. Everyone was happy to fill the dishwasher but no one wanted to empty it, carrying the clean things to a cupboard across the kitchen. It was a job Isobel hated too but still found herself doing it several times a day.

One morning, when she’d got up early to do the washing up that the men had sworn they’d do, she went on strike halfway through. She made herself a cup of tea and took the visitors’ book out onto the terrace. The sun was shining and no one else was up. She felt entitled to a few moments not looking after people. These moments were hers.

Earlier, when they’d first arrived at the house and were reading the instructions to the Aga and the telephone number of the woman who ‘did’ plus the way to the nearest beach, which was several miles through traffic-filled lanes, Isobel had looked at the visitors’ book. In it had been a name she’d recognised. A man she’d known briefly and rather fancied –Leo Stark –had obviously stayed at the same house with his family. They’d both been married when they met but she was fairly sure there’d been some sort of spark.

On impulse she went to find her phone and emailed him. After all, there were no other ways she could rebel that wouldn’t impinge unpleasantly on someone else. This was a little private thing that would go no further.

‘Dear Leo, I’m sure you won’t remember me, Isobel Dunbar, but we met at the McCreadys’ once. We’re staying in the house where you stayed last year. Such a coincidence, I had to get in touch.’

Feeling very slightly naughty, and so cheered up, she went back into the house to finish the clearing she had abandoned.

Very much to her surprise she had a reply from Leo. She sneaked a look, feeling wonderfully teenage, while supervising the two-year-old’s porridge consumption.

‘Isobel! Of course I remember you! How could I forget? And by an amazing coincidence we’re down here too! Do you think you could manage a lunch? Not the whole family, just us?’

She was so shocked and delighted she couldn’t even think of replying. She just held her glorious –and guilty –secret to herself. She whizzed through the chores and even made up some batter for pancakes for breakfast. She almost ran down the lane to the little shop that stocked everything a holidaymaker might require and was open almost continuously. She panted back up the hill clutching croissants and maple syrup.

‘Mum!’ said her daughter, a plump baby on her hip. ‘You didn’t get any nappies while you were in the shop, did you? We’re nearly out.’

‘Sorry, darling, I didn’t know about the nappies and just thought it would be fun to have pancakes.’ The adrenalin shot of the email protected her from resentment. ‘Now, shall I take Immi so you can start frying?’

All day she was superwoman. She packed a picnic of homemade pizzas and sent the whole lot off to the beach. ‘I’ll meet you at lunchtime. There are just a few things I want to do here!’ she said, as she waved them off.

Then she ran to her phone. ‘It’s as if I have a lover!’ she told herself, slightly breathless, as she switched it on. The thought of having a lover was like being submerged by a huge wave and then being lifted up by the same wave. She couldn’t decide if the feeling of exhilaration matched the feeling of utter doom. It was while she was feeling ridiculously happy she wrote a quick reply: ‘That should be possible. When did you have in mind? Not today,’she added hurriedly.

She doubted if Leo had had to tidy the kitchen, go shopping and make pancakes –not to mention the picnic –in order to have a few moments to send an email, but was very pleased to hear the ping of a reply while she was clearing up sodden towels from the shower. It was him. He mentioned a pub in a little village a reassuring distance from the house: ‘Tomorrow any good? We’re going back at the end of the week.’

‘Lovely,’ she wrote back, not giving herself time to think further. If she passed up this opportunity it wouldn’t happen and she’d regret it for ever. ‘One o’clock?’

Feeling as guilty as if she had made a pact with the devil, Isobel made her way to the beach, bringing chilled bottles, extra cardies and some sunscreen with her.