After the Honeymoon (18 page)

Then again, maybe it was just that common need to ‘recognise’ strangers in order to feel secure when you were away from home. He and his men had felt the same during those long six-month tours. Sometimes, the more you looked at someone, the more you thought you knew them – even when you’d never clapped eyes on them before.

Now Winston forced himself to smile; to put on what his assistant Poppy called his camera face. ‘I just wanted to say that I’m worried we got off on the wrong foot about your son and my stepdaughter. Jack seems a very nice boy.’

She was staring at him, hands on hips, waiting defensively.

‘He
is
,’ she retorted coolly.

‘I wouldn’t want him to get into trouble,’ he added.

‘Why should he be?’ Turning her back on him, she scattered more corn so that the chickens’ squawks almost drowned their conversation. ‘He didn’t do anything wrong. All the kids have motorbikes out here. It’s how they get around. If your stepdaughter isn’t allowed on one, it’s up to her to say so. My son can’t be held responsible.’

So defensive about her son! Just like Melissa over her kids. What was it about parents and children? His own father had never stood up for him and he wouldn’t have expected it.

Winston shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other, wondering how to phrase the next bit. ‘There’s something else too. It was very good of you to give up your room for us. I’m concerned that we’ve put you out.’

Her tone was softer. Friendlier. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. Sounded like it was our mistake.’

Despite her conciliatory words, Mrs Harrison was eyeing him strangely. She’d definitely recognised him. He could see that. Might as well come clean. ‘We appreciate the anonymity,’ he said crisply. ‘Thanks. It’s important to my wife that our honeymoon is as private as possible.’

Mrs Harrison raised an eyebrow in a rather imperious manner. She was possibly a little younger than he was, yet there was something about her which made him feel she had the edge. She seemed to know it too.

‘All honeymoons should be private.’

Winston found himself beginning to stutter, something he hadn’t done since school. ‘All I’m saying is that if any … if anyone should ring, asking if we are here, I’d be grateful if you could put them off.’

Another scornful look. ‘Mr King, I can assure you that I never reveal the identity of any of my guests, even if they’re famous.’ She flashed a short smile at him, leaving Winston feeling even more confused. Had she recognised him? Or was she just talking generally when she’d mentioned the ‘famous’ bit? It was hard to tell.

‘Now,’ she added with a sharp look, ‘if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I’m afraid I have work to do.’

And with that, she turned and left.

There was something about this ballsy woman that both infuriated him and yet – if he hadn’t been married – was curiously attractive. Was there a
Mr
Harrison? Surely it couldn’t be the Greek oik she was always hanging around with. (For some reason that he couldn’t put his finger on, he really didn’t like the look of the bloke.)

Winston considered this as he wandered on through the ground floor of the villa, admiring the bold watercolours on the walls, the blue and orange rugs on the stone floor and the huge white pitchers, bursting with pink flowers that he couldn’t put a name to. No, Mrs Rosie Harrison was probably one of those self-assured English divorcees, who had come over here to make a new life and take a lover. What was wrong with that?

‘Hi there.’ Entering the kitchen with its huge gleaming range and copper saucepans hanging from the ceiling, he smiled reassuringly at the boy, who was prepping the veg. Nice movement, observed Winston. The kid could certainly use a knife.

‘It’s OK. Don’t look so worried. I’ve come to apologise.’

The boy frowned. He looked a bit like a startled hedgehog with his hair ruffled up like that. When was it, wondered Winston, that young boys lost that rather sweet expression? Thirteen? Fourteen? It depended on what life had thrown at them, he supposed. For him it had been much younger. Maybe that explained why he was as he was. Independent but needy, as Nick used to say.

‘About the bike business,’ he continued, pulling up a chair next to the kid. ‘Reckon I was a bit tough on you last night. My wife too. I want to make it clear we don’t hold you responsible.’

The boy’s face cleared. ‘Really?’

‘Sure.’ Winston tried to sound casual. ‘Tell me, do you like my stepdaughter, Jack?’

The poor kid was blushing as red as the tomatoes on the wooden board in front of him.

Winston gave him a reassuring pat on the back. ‘It’s natural if you do.’ For a minute, he thought back over some of the girlfriends he’d had as a young man. There had definitely been one or two whom he would have liked to have seen more of, but it wasn’t easy when you did his kind of job.

‘The thing is,’ he went on, ‘my stepdaughter is a bit bored. So’s her brother. I was wondering if you could get them involved with your mates.’

‘Sure.’ The kid was flushing even more.

‘I don’t mean take them out on bikes. Just for some beach volleyball or whatever it is you do round here.’

Jack’s eyebrows were raised, reminding him of his mother’s steady gaze just now. ‘We do a lot of fishing. And football.’

Fishing? Great. That would really get the kids out of his hair for a good two or three hours. With any luck, he might persuade Melissa it was all right if Freddie was there as well. ‘Fantastic. Now all I need you to do is suggest it to Alice. It would look better if it came from you.’ He delved in his pocket and brought out a couple of notes.

The kid’s face tightened. ‘I felt bad about you giving me money last time, sir. I don’t take money for friendship.’

Instantly, Winston realised he’d stepped out of line. ‘Sorry. I just thought we might make some kind of regular arrangement. A boy like you could probably do with some pocket money.’

‘It’s why I help out here.’

Good honest labour. Mrs Harrison had brought him up well. ‘Sure. Sorry.’ Now it was Winston’s turn to feel like a gauche teenager. ‘So, I’ll leave it up to you, shall I? Oh, and by the way, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let Alice know that the day out suggestion came from me.’

The boy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You want me to lie?’

‘Of course not. But that yoga instructor …’

Winston was fishing here but his instinct told him he was right.

‘He didn’t really let you down, did he, Jack? You forgot to book him and you’ll be in trouble if you don’t find a replacement.’

Jack nodded reluctantly. Just as he’d thought. It was the kind of thing Winston might have done himself at that age. ‘So we have a deal then? I’ll still do your yoga, provided you entertain my stepkids.’

The boy shrugged in agreement, giving him a look that made Winston feel rather dirty. Wishing he could have put it a bit better, he turned away just as his mobile rang.

Unknown
.

Winston’s antennae, fine-tuned through years of survival, prickled. He knew it. The blonde bride had alerted the press! It would be a journalist, wanting to ask how his ‘secret honeymoon’ was going.

‘Winston King?’

The voice down the line was vaguely familiar. ‘Marvyn here. Melissa’s husband. Her
first
husband.’

This was said as though a first husband was the only real kind.

Winston stiffened, conscious that Jack was probably listening behind him. ‘Marvyn.’ He tried to sound as though it was perfectly natural for the ex-husband of his wife to call during their honeymoon. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve just been talking to my daughter and I’d like to know what the fuck you think you’re up to?’

Swiftly Winston walked out of the kitchen, past Mrs Harrison, and waited until he had some privacy. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘My daughter said that you allowed her to go out with some kid from the village on a motorbike. How bloody irresponsible is that?’

Little minx! So Alice thought she could cause trouble, did she? ‘Actually she—’

Marvyn cut in furiously. ‘Don’t make excuses, Winston. You might think you’ve got a new family but they’re mine. Don’t ever forget it.’ There was a nasty laugh at the other end. ‘Melissa’s still in love with me, you know. You’ll find that out one day. You might think you’re a big shot, Winston King. But if I were you, I’d watch your back.’

Then the line went dead. The bastard had rung off.

‘I didn’t see my husband during our honeymoon. It was 1962 and he was watching the World Cup on telly.’

Margaret, still a ‘football widow’

ROSIE

He still hadn’t recognised her! Somehow, Rosie thought he would have done by now. It was the day after she’d got back from Athens; time enough surely for him to have observed her more fully.

To have twigged.

She might be a Rosie rather than a Rosemary; her hair was shorter; she’d lost her West Country accent; and she was skinnier (ironically) after Jack than she had been before – but she wasn’t
that
different, was she?

Besides, there was no doubt now that Winston really was Charlie. After that shock encounter outside the villa, she’d raced to the office and shakily looked up the photocopy of the passport that Jack had made when the Kings had arrived (at least her son had managed to do that right).

And there it was. Charles Winston King. Clearly he was using his middle name for some reason. Just in case there was any doubt, his date of birth matched. She’d remembered it because it was the same as her mother’s: 17 March.

Get real, she tried to tell herself while making up the beds in the annexe. He was twenty-three when you knew him. How many other girls do you think he’s had since then? Is it surprising he doesn’t remember you?

In fact, she reprimanded herself fiercely while tucking in the crisp cotton sheet corners the way Cara had taught her, she ought to count her lucky stars that he
hadn’t.

Just think of the trouble it would cause! Her skin began to crawl with the implications. If Winston knew Jack was his child, he might try and get custody; might attempt to take her son back to England with him. Oh God. What a thought. Maybe she ought to see a lawyer. But there was only one on the island, and although Rosie had never needed to see him, she wasn’t sure how discreet he was. Discretion wasn’t considered a great virtue around here, where gossip was an integral part of day-to-day living. True, she could go to the mainland for legal advice, but that would mean leaving everyone again so soon after getting back; it was both impractical and risky. Winston might work out the relationship himself while she was away.

Anyway, she couldn’t abandon Jack again. Look at what had happened during just three days! She was lucky that the girl’s mother hadn’t caused more trouble about that motorbike. Jack knew he wasn’t allowed to date guests; it was why she’d had to get rid of a former waiter when he’d made off with a married woman who was staying with her husband. (They’d actually got married themselves later on, although that was another story.)

What a mess! Rosie smoothed down the white broderie anglaise duvet cover – what an irony that Winston and his bride were in
her
bed – and glanced in the mirror at her tousled blonde layers. She couldn’t help smiling wistfully at the memory of Charlie running his hands through her (then) long hair.

‘I’ll never find anyone else like you,’ he’d said … Rosie shook herself. Yeah, right. That’s why he hadn’t answered her letter all those years ago. He’d abandoned his responsibilities. Still, it was his loss. He was the one who had missed out on having a child.

Dusting down the dressing table, Rosie’s heart glowed as she thought of her son. That was true love, she reassured herself. Not the love between a man and a woman, which was as fickle as the sea: strong one minute and retreating the next.

No. A love between parent and child was always there, even if you pretended to ignore it. Even if you had a father like hers who renounced you for getting pregnant at seventeen.

Rosie began to fold Winston’s wife’s black satin nightie to put on the scented lavender pillow case. How galling that now, here she was, looking after the wife of her son’s father. Talk about complicated!

There was only one person who would understand. Rosie glanced at her watch. Gemma was sometimes free at this time. Glancing round the room once more, in case she’d missed something – unlikely, since Cara had taught her the art of perfection – Rosie made her way to the little room at the back of the annexe where she was sleeping in the emergency put-you-up bed.

This wasn’t the first time she’d had to give up her room for a guest. Business was tough at the moment, and you had to take whatever custom you could get. All the hoteliers agreed about that round here. She was lucky that both cottages were occupied: next week, only one was booked.

Sitting down on her bed, Rosie switched on her laptop. Yes! Gemma was online.

At times, Rosie couldn’t help feeling slightly jealous of her old friend. Gemma had done things the
right
way round. She had finished her A-levels, got a degree, trained as a teacher, found the man of her dreams, and now had three lively children, with a fourth due in the spring.

She was desperately hoping for a girl, although, as Rosie kept trying to tell her, there was a lot to be said for teenage boys.

Skype was ringing now – a real lifeline when you lived so far away – and Gemma’s pretty face was coming into view. ‘Rosie! I was just thinking about you.’

‘Really?’ Rosie felt a thrill going through her. The only time she ever missed the UK was when she heard her friend’s voice. It was almost like being round the corner from her again.

‘How are your new guests getting on? The ones who saw your notice on our school board. Stunning looking, aren’t they?’

Rosie’s mouth went dry.

‘Rumour has it,’ continued Gemma excitedly, her face beaming from the screen, ‘that Melissa is on her honeymoon and that she’s married this really famous fitness guru who’s on television all the time.’