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‘For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been afraid of anything. Don’t start now.’
Back in the present, Holly looked from Emily to Annie and back again. Emily was watching her, all big eyes and nodding. Annie’s eyes were narrowed, clearly unsure which way it might go.
‘OK. OK.’ Holly nodded, and Emily clapped her hands together. ‘It’s not a bad idea. I know I have to tell him, and yes, this could be a good way of doing it.’
‘Awesome,’ Emily said, standing back to admire the van. ‘The ferry leaves tomorrow evening.’
Chapter Three (#u8f1ceb95-f703-5eb5-9cc1-efb50bbbd010)
From: WilfredHunterBrown@gmail.com
To: HollySomers22@gmail.com
We need to talk. Emily says you’re pregnant and it’s my baby.
I’m playing polo tomorrow. Come by the club on the way to your ferry.
Were you ever going to tell me?
W
Chapter Four (#u8f1ceb95-f703-5eb5-9cc1-efb50bbbd010)
‘Jesus, you told him?’ Holly was waiting by the ice cream van, hopping from one leg to the other, waiting for Emily to turn up. As soon as she could see her at the end of the road, she shouted the question at her.
‘It slipped out,’ Emily called back. She was walking slowly in high wedge mules and skin-tight black Capri pants.
‘It slipped out?’ Holly held her arms out either side of her. ‘You only had to keep it in for an evening! How did it slip out?’
Emily got to the van slightly out of breath, ‘Oh I don’t know, I was excited. I didn’t think you’d ever tell him.’
‘Oh man, Emily, now he hates me. He thinks I was never going to tell him.’
‘No, he doesn’t hate you.’ She bit down on her slick red bottom lip, ‘He just maybe isn’t quite sure, you know? Needs maybe calming down a bit.’
Holly raised her eyebrows, aghast.
Emily looked sheepish, ‘It didn’t go quite how I thought it would. But I think it’ll be OK. You've got all of France to talk about it.’
‘Shit!’ Holly hit the side of the van.
‘You look really tired.’ Emily pulled her sunglasses off and stared at her.
‘That’s because I didn’t really sleep last night! Oh god, Emily. Why do you do this to me?’
‘It’s fine.’ She waved her hand. ‘Oh look, there’s Annie. Hey, Annie, do you want to come to France with us? I’m worried that Holly might kill me. I need a chaperone.’
Annie was holding in a smile as she appeared with a big shopping bag that she handed to Holly, ‘I made you both some travelling sustenance. Thought it might help.’ She made a face at Holly, half sympathetic, half encouraging.
‘Is there pie?’ Emily asked, tottering over to peer in the Sainsbury’s bag. ‘Ooh there is, and what’s this, a Thermos. Well done, Annie. It’s like a proper road trip.’ She glanced at Holly. ‘Oh come on, smile, talk to me. You can’t ignore me the whole way. We’ve got a twelve-hour drive ahead of us. So I messed up. I think it’ll be a good thing in the end. Look, we swing by the polo, we sort it out, we meet up in France in a couple of days when he’s calmed down.’ Emily glanced at Annie who nodded enthusiastically at Holly.
Holly rolled her eyes. ‘Fine,’ she said, trying not to look across the river at the boat club and the white froth of cherry trees behind it, trying not to feel that she was driving away from everything she knew and everywhere she felt safe. ‘Let’s go, let’s get this over with. Thanks for the food, Annie,’ she said, pulling herself up into the driver’s seat and picking her sunglasses up off the dash. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck, Hols. It’ll be OK. Just think that you’re doing it for the baby.’ Annie crossed her arms in front of her and smiled.
Holly blew out a breath and nodded, covering her eyes with her aviators.
Emily went sheepishly round to the passenger side. ‘Bye, Annie,’ she whispered. ‘Wish me luck.’
Annie scrunched up her face in sympathy, ‘Good luck, Em. Email me…’ she called as Holly started the engine. ‘Keep me updated. I want to know everything.’
They drove pretty much in silence. Emily, who clearly had a hangover from all the champagne at the regatta and didn’t want any more tellings off, wrapped her scarf round her head, put her bare feet up on the dashboard and went to sleep against the passenger side window.
Holly had been practising a technique from a stress-management talk given to the GB team at one of their international training camps. At the start of a race they’d been taught to think of a time they felt strongest and a time they felt calmest. The aim being to channel those feelings instead of the sick-making, hand-shaking pre-race nerves. Which were similar to how she felt now. Morning sickness was nothing compared to her current nausea. A couple of Rich Tea biscuits would not make this go away. Instead she thought of her strong time. She used to use a memory of winning her first-ever race, crossing the finish line and seeing her dad cheering and waving his arms triumphant. Now she needed something else, something less physical strength and more emotional.
She thought of kneeling down next to her dad’s chair in the living room when she was back from university and saying, ‘You have to tell Mum she can’t come back. Dad, she’s using you. She’s using us. She comes back and then she leaves, can’t you see that? You have to tell her that she can’t come back this time. You have to.’ All the while thinking, let her beg to stay, please let her beg to stay and say that she’s changed. Please let her surprise us. Please let it be different.
She thought of her dad taking a deep breath, shaking his head and leaving the room. Her thinking that it would be the same. That once again her mum would come back for six months or so and then break their hearts again. That all the courage it had taken for her to tell her dad to make this change was for nothing.
Until she looked out the window the next morning and her mum was getting into a black cab. And her dad was watching from the porch. And Holly felt this shuddering sense of relief that it was over.
She had waited on the stairs for her dad to shut the front door and when he’d seen her he’d come to sit down next to her, the paisley carpet under their feet, put his arm around her shoulders, kissed her hair and said, ‘Thank you.’
That was her feeling of strength.
That was the courage that flooded through her veins.
And the calm? The calm was the mornings on the river. Always the same. In winter the sheets of ice would crack and float like sculptures, in spring the cherries would flower and the river would flood and burst its banks, in summer the cygnets would grow into big, fat swans and in autumn the leaves would paint the sky red like a bonfire. Every morning she would take her boat out, she would row up to the weir and back, past the willow dipping its leaves tentatively in the chilly water, past the pub, closed and shuttered up, under the bridge where she’d lie back and look up and see the moss growing on the wooden slats. The river would always smell the same, a sharp tang that infused her skin, her clothes, her life. And as her boat floated in the stream, she would watch the water as it eddied and flowed and the waves danced in the rising sunlight.
That was calm.
Two minutes later, Emily woke up, all groggy and complaining of a crick in her neck. And as she yawned and stretched her arms and the van rounded a bend, ahead of them a huge white and maroon sign for the polo club, she peered forward and said, ‘We’re here. That’s Wilf’s car.’
And all Holly’s inner calm and strength went straight out the window.
Chapter Five (#u8f1ceb95-f703-5eb5-9cc1-efb50bbbd010)
The drive up to the polo field seemed endless. Lining the road were people dressed in polo shirts and blazers, chatting in groups by their flash cars. Arriving in an ice cream van, Holly had never felt so conspicuous in her life. Especially when Emily got over-excited and switched on the nursery rhyme Tannoy so the whole place turned and looked at them and the van sang its way in.
‘There’s Wilf, over there…’ Emily pointed to the far field where a match had just ended. One guy was sitting astride his pony, the other was leading his by the rein. ‘And that’s Alfonso, the guy on the pony. He’s Argentinian, bloody awesome player and absolutely stunning. Just wait till we get close up.’
Holly wasn’t really listening, her blood was rushing in her ears. Wilf had looked up at the sound of the van approaching and stopped where he was. Alfonso had paused, glanced up to see what it was that had caught Wilf’s attention.
‘Pull up on the end of this row,’ Emily said, jumping down out of the van almost before it was parked. ‘Come on. Quicker we get this done, the easier it will be.’ She stopped and turned when she realised Holly hadn’t got out the van. ‘Holly. I promise, it’ll be OK.’ She walked back over to the driver’s side. ‘I shouldn’t have told him, but…’ She blew her hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s done now and I think it’s for the best. At the very least it means that you don’t have to do this on your own. I told him he had to support you. He’s loaded.’
‘I don’t want his money, Em.’ Holly put her hand to her mouth. ‘God, do you think he thinks that I want his money? I don’t want any money. Oh god, it gets worse.’
‘You’re entitled to his money, Holly. For the baby. Oh he’s coming over. Get out of the van. And flump up your hair a bit. And put your sunglasses back on because your eyes look knackered. Hey, Wilf!’ Emily waved. ‘Hi, Alfonso. Oh I love your pony, she’s so lovely. Look at you…’ Emily skipped over to the chestnut mare, rested her hand on the white star on its forehead and made faces into its big unblinking brown eyes.
Holly slipped cautiously down from the cab of the van, brushing down her jeans and then pulling her hands into the cuffs of her jumper, preparing herself almost for battle.
But the reality of it all, the bright sunshine, the lush grass and the chugging of the sprinkler, Emily jabbering on at Alfonso and his pony, Wilf’s palomino munching on a polo mint, wasn’t as she expected.
In her mind she’d had the Eastenders’ theme tune, shouting and maybe a bit of hair-pulling, death stares and ‘how dare you’s. But instead, standing in front of her was Wilf. The same guy who she’d bumped into in The Duck and Cherry pub when they all came to visit the island. The guy who’d sidled up to her all lazy confidence, a pint in one hand, the other toying with a beer mat and said, ‘Miss Somers. What a pleasure…’
Holly, who had been sitting alone while Matt went to get drinks at the bar, had leant forward, elbows rested on the little pub table and said, ‘Nice to see you, Wilf. It’s been a while since you were back on the island.’
‘Hasn’t it just?’
The last time she’d seen him was at the one and only Cherry Pie Festival about fifteen years ago. Wilf, a budding entrepreneur, had just finished boarding school and was desperate to make some cash, start his empire and never look back. Teaming up with his best mate, Alan Neil’s eldest son, Jack, quite possibly the coolest kid on the island, they’d put on what was meant to be a mellow, bijoux little festival. The plan had been to laze about on hay bales in the grounds of the manor house, dance to some local bands, eat food from cute stalls and get drunk till dawn. That all happened, except the flyers got photocopied and passed on and on until more people arrived than the island had ever seen. For Holly, Annie and Co. it was brilliant. For the residents it was less so. By 1 a.m. the police had been called and the little festival shut down. Wilf and Jack scored it a success because they’d more than doubled their money. The residents banned it from ever taking place again. Holly remembered sitting eating cherry pie in the cafe the next morning, dreamily remembering the cheeky snog she’d had with Wilf behind the band marquee. She’d left for a warm-weather training camp in Seville the next day and by the time she got back, Wilf had moved onto bigger, better things. His empire had indeed started and his face, like his sister’s, was all over the society pages of Tatler and Harper’s Bazaar. But while interviewers seemed to fixate on Emily’s single status - ignoring details about her new product launches and asking her over and over again how she felt about her almost-marriage and her doomed relationship history - Wilf just got a few lines referring to him as a bachelor business mogul or playboy restauranteur, then acres of coverage about whichever of his new restaurants was about to open.
‘I hear you’re doing OK for yourself,’ Holly had said, thrumming the pub table with her fingers, glancing up at Wilf, licking her suddenly dry lips.
‘As are you, Miss Somers. What was it at the Olympics? Bronze?’
‘Silver.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you think I’ll jump straight into bed with you.’
Wilf had laughed and said, ‘I think you’ll find you’re looking at me exactly the same way.’
Now, at the polo ground, as Holly walked further away from the safety of the ice cream van, for a second or two, when her eyes met Wilf’s, before anyone spoke, there was that same unguarded connection. He looked dishevelled and tired. His white trousers were grass-stained, his duck-egg polo shirt muddy, his hair pushed back with sweat, the tips of his cheekbones pink under his tan, the hollow around his eyes dark like he’d slept as little as Holly.
But then he glanced to his right, saw Emily and Alfonso watching them, waiting, and turned back, one eyebrow raised and said, ‘Well, if it isn’t the mother of my child.’
Holly sighed and turned away from him, running her tongue under her top teeth and fixing her stare on the ponies warming up on the practice ring. Emily said, ‘Wilf!’ And Alfonso coughed as if he had embarrassed shock caught in his throat. Then he jumped down from his pony, took a couple of strides in Holly’s direction and, hand outstretched, said, ‘Excuse my friend for his rudeness. We lost today and he doesn’t like to lose. You must be Holly? Alfonso,’ he said, one hand on his chest to indicate he was talking about himself.
‘Hi,’ Holly said, swallowing over a lump in her throat, half anger, half held in tears. ‘It’s really nice to meet you.’
‘The pleasure is absolutely all mine. You are going to France this evening, yes? I am driving over later in the week. I have never actually been to France before, can you believe it?’ He smiled and the corners of his eyes tipped up like a cat.
Holly bit down on her thumbnail and smiled, ‘It’s really beautiful, I’ve heard. From Emily.’
‘And I have heard from Wilfred.’ Alfonso turned to try and include Wilf in the conversation, but his jaw was set and he clearly wasn’t in the mood for casual chit-chat.
‘We should probably go to the clubhouse, talk privately,’ Wilf said, indicating towards the big white pavilion, its arched windows sparkling in the sunshine, beautifully topiaried pot plants lined up along the terrace and a huge viewing platform just behind it from where you could survey the entire grounds of the club.
‘I’m not sure there’s time for that,’ Emily said, taking a step forward so she was standing next to Alfonso.
Wilf frowned. ‘What do you mean there’s no time? Your ferry’s not till tonight.’
‘No, actually it’s in two and half hours from Dover.’
‘What?’ Holly held her hands out wide in disbelief.
‘Yeah,’ Emily twizzled her hair around her forefinger. ‘I got it wrong.’
‘Like hell you did,’ Wilf dragged a hand through his sweaty hair and exhaled slowly, his sigh practised over years of exasperation with his sister.
Emily trotted barefoot over to the van where she pulled out her wheelie suitcase and thumped it on the shorn grass, ‘Yeah and also, I can’t come with you, Holly. Sorry.’ She bit her lip, ‘I’ve realised I have stuff to do, important work stuff, so I think the only way it can work is if I go with Alfonso‒’
‘Hang on.’ Wilf held up a hand, ‘What important work stuff?’
Emily looked affronted, ‘Just some stuff that has come up at the office.’
Wilf narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Emily shrugged. ‘Well that’s your prerogative. Anyway, I’ll drive with Alfonso later in the week.’
‘No, Emily, you can’t do this.’ Wilf shook his head. ‘I’m driving with Alfonso.’
‘Well it can’t be the three of us because there’s only two seats in the Ferrari,’ said Emily, concentrating intently on a strand of her blue hair.
‘She has a point.’ Alfonso agreed.
Holly couldn’t quite believe this was happening. But, more than she was annoyed with Emily for getting her into this situation, she found herself increasingly irritated with Wilf. She’d spent the last three months confused, terrified, alone, frustrated, unsure ‒ yet, right now, he could barely look her in the eye. How would he have handled it? she wondered. Conference-called her at the office? Turned up on her doorstep the day the stick turned blue? Called on his mobile as he was slumped against a wall, sobbing outside the doctor’s? Course he wouldn’t. That was what she wanted to tell him, now. Pull him aside from this stupid bickering about who was driving who and say, ‘You would have panicked too. Because this is hard. So stop bloody looking at me like that!’
She turned away and watched a couple of guys warming up on the pitch closest to her, hitting the ball back and forth, shouting jokes, their ponies tight balls of energy.
She got out her phone and texted Annie:
I think Emily’s set me up. She’s making it so Wilf will have to drive me to France. I don’t want to go with either of them. I wish I’d never agreed to this.
Almost immediately, her phone bleeped back at her.
Just go with the flow. Stress is not good for the baby. A x
The baby.
Her baby.
Their baby.
The very idea of a baby growing inside her, a baby tied to this world, to this guy, made Holly suddenly have to rest her forearm on the post next to her.
‘Are you OK? What’s the matter?’ Wilf was at her side in an instant. Quicker than she actually thought someone could move.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, slightly taken aback. ‘I just… I was hot, I think.’
