‘No hurry,’ said the driver comfortably, and leaned against the car.
A little girl on roller skates passed by, eyeing Philip curiously over her ice lolly, and Philip found himself glaring resentfully back. No doubt she was on her way to the sanctuary of some cool, shady lawn. Some green and pleasant English garden. Whereas he was forced to stand out here in the blistering heat, with nothing to look forward to but a cramped ride in an un-airconditioned Ford Fiesta, followed by an even more cramped ride in a packed plane. And then what?
‘Paradise,’ Gerard had called his villa, waving a brandy glass in the air. ‘Pure Andalusian Paradise, my loves. You’ll adore it.’ But then, Gerard was a wine reviewer: words like ‘paradise’, ‘nectar’ and ‘ambrosia’ fell off his tongue all too readily. If he could describe a perfectly ordinary Habitat sofa as ‘transcendental’—and it was on record that he could—then what might this ‘Paradise’ of a villa turn out to be like?
Everyone knew how disorganized Gerard was; how thoroughly hopeless when it came to practical matters. He claimed to be DIY-dyslexic; unable even to change a plug, let alone wield a hammer. ‘What exactly is a rawl-plug?’ he would ask his assembled guests, raising his eyebrows; waiting for the roar of laughter. When one was sitting in his luxurious Holland Park flat, drinking his expensive wine, this ignorance always seemed like just another of his entertaining affectations. But what did it bode for their holiday? Visions of blocked drains and crumbling plaster began to fill Philip’s mind, and he frowned anxiously. Maybe it wasn’t too late to abandon the whole idea. For God’s sake, what did this holiday have to offer that couldn’t be accomplished just as easily—and a lot more cheaply—with a couple of day trips to Brighton and a night out at a tapas bar?
At the thought of money his heart began to thump, and he took a deep breath. But already a few wisps of suppressed panic were beginning to escape; to circle his mind looking for a place to lodge. How much were they spending on this holiday? How much would it come to, after all the outings and extras?
Not much in the grand scheme of things, he reminded himself firmly, for the hundredth time. Not much compared to other people’s extravagances. All things being equal, it was a modest, unambitious little holiday.
But for how long would all things remain equal?
A fresh spasm of fear leapt through him and he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. Trying to empty his mind of the thoughts that attacked him whenever he allowed his guard to drop. He had promised Chloe faithfully that he would try to relax this week; they’d agreed that they wouldn’t even mention it. This would be a week of escape on all levels. God knew, they needed it.
The taxi driver lit a cigarette. Philip quelled the desire to ask for one, and looked at his watch. They were still in good time for the flight, but even so …
‘Chloe?’ he called, taking a step towards the house. ‘Sam? Are you coming?’
There was a stretch of silence, during which the sun seemed to beat down on his head more strongly than ever. Then the front door opened and Sam appeared, closely followed by eight-year-old Nat. Both boys were dressed in baggy surfing shorts and wrap-around shades, and walked with the confident loose-limbed swagger of youth.
‘Awright?’ said Sam confidently to the taxi driver. ‘Awright, Dad?’
Awright?’ echoed Nat in his high-pitched treble.
Both boys dumped their bags in the boot and went to sit on the garden wall, headphones already plugged in.
‘Boys?’ said Philip. ‘Nat, Sam, could you get in the car, please?’
There was silence. Nat and Sam might as well have been on a different planet.
‘Boys?’ repeated Philip, raising his voice sharply. He met the taxi driver’s sardonic eye and quickly looked away again. ‘Get into the car!’
‘There’s no hurry,’ said Sam, shrugging.
‘Sam, we’re about to go on holiday. The plane leaves in …’ Philip tailed off and glanced unconvincingly at his watch. ‘In any case, that’s not the point.’
‘Mum isn’t here yet,’ pointed out Sam. ‘We can get in when she arrives. No hass.’ He settled calmly back on his perch and Philip stared at him for a few moments, a little impressed despite his annoyance. The truth was, he thought, Sam wasn’t being deliberately impertinent or obstructive—he merely believed his own opinion to be just as important as any adult’s. At sixteen, he considered the world to be as much his as anyone else’s. More so, perhaps.
And maybe he was right, thought Philip morosely. Maybe the world did belong to the young these days, with its computer language and teenage columnists and Internet millionaires; with its demand for speed and novelty and now. Everything was immediate, everything was online, everything was easy. And the slow, redundant humans were simply thrown out, like pieces of obsolete hardware.
A familiar gnawing began in Philip’s chest, and to distract himself, he reached into his inside jacket pocket to check the clutch of four passports. At least they hadn’t put these on computer yet, he thought savagely. These were the real thing, solid and irreplaceable. He leafed through idly, glancing at each photograph in turn. Himself—only last year, but looking about ten years younger than he did these days. Nat, aged four with huge, apprehensive eyes. Chloe, looking about sixteen, with the same blue eyes as Nat’s; the same blond wispy hair. Sam at twelve with a sunburned face, grinning insouciantly at the camera. ‘Samuel Alexander Murray’, declared the passport.
Philip paused for a moment, staring with a tweak of fondness at Sam’s irrepressible, twelve-year-old face. Samuel Alexander Murray.
S. A.M.
They’d changed his name by deed poll from Harding when he was seven, when Chloe was pregnant with Nat.
‘I don’t want my boys having different names,’ she’d said, her voice full of a hormonal weepiness. ‘I don’t want them being different. And you’re Sam’s dad now. You are.’
‘Of course I am,’ Philip had said, taking her in his arms. ‘Of course I’m his dad. I know it, and Sam knows it. But what he’s called … that’s irrelevant.’
‘I don’t care. I want it.’ Her eyes had filled with tears. ‘I really want it, Philip.’
So they’d done it. For courtesy’s sake, she had contacted Sam’s real father, who was now a professor in Cape Town, to tell him about the proposed change in Sam’s name. He had replied briefly that he really didn’t care what the child was called and could Chloe please keep her side of the bargain and not contact him again.
So they’d filled in the forms, and had Sam re-registered as Murray. And to Philip’s surprise, as superficial a change as it was, he’d found himself strangely affected by it: by a seven-year-old boy—with no blood ties to him—taking on his name. They’d even cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate. In a way, he supposed, it was the closest they’d ever come to having a wedding.
His thoughts were interrupted as the front door opened and he saw Chloe ushering her last customers out of the house—a red-faced girl in shorts and a waspish mother whose eyes met his suspiciously, then darted away again. Beside the pair of them, in her flowing cotton dress, Chloe looked cool and unruffled.
‘Think about it, Bethany,’ she was saying. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Bridges. Nice to see you again.’
There was a polite silence as the woman and her daughter walked towards their Volvo. As their car doors slammed shut, Chloe breathed out.
‘At last!’ She looked up at Philip, her eyes lit up. ‘At last! I can’t believe it’s actually here.’
‘So you still want to go,’ said Philip. He was, he realized, only half joking.
‘Idiot.’ Chloe grinned at him. ‘Let me just get my bag….’
She disappeared back into the house and Philip looked at Sam and Nat.
‘OK, you two. You can either get in the taxi now—or we can leave you behind. Your choice.’
Nat’s head jerked nervously, and he glanced at his older brother. There was a slight pause—then casually Sam stood up, shook himself down lik
e a dog and ambled round to the passenger door of the car. With a distinct air of relief, Nat followed, and buckled himself into his seat. The taxi driver switched on the engine, and a DJ’s cheery voice cut through the still air of the street.
‘Right!’ Chloe appeared at Philip’s side, slightly flushed, clutching a large wicker bag. ‘I’ve locked up, so we’re all set! Off to Spain.’
‘Great!’ said Philip, trying to muster a matching enthusiasm. ‘Off to Spain.’ Chloe looked at him.
‘Philip …’ she began, and sighed. ‘You promised you’d try to …’
‘Enjoy myself.’
‘Yes! Why not, for a change?’
There was silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Chloe, and rubbed her forehead. ‘That’s not fair. But … I really need this holiday, Philip. We both do. We need to get away from the house and … and people … and …’
‘And …’ said Philip, and stopped.
‘Yes,’ said Chloe, meeting his eyes directly. ‘That most of all. Just for a week, I don’t even want to think about it.’
An aeroplane came into earshot overhead; although they were used to living on the flight path, involuntarily they tilted their heads back to look at it.
‘You do realize the report’s due out this week,’ said Philip, staring up at the blue sky. ‘The decision will be made, one way or the other.’
‘I do,’ said Chloe. ‘And you do realize there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Except worry and obsess and give yourself several more ulcers.’ She gave a sudden frown. ‘Have you got your mobile phone on you?’
Philip hesitated, then pulled it out of his pocket. Chloe took it from him, walked up the path to the house and posted it through the letterbox.
‘I’m serious, Philip,’ she said, as she turned round. ‘I’m not letting anything spoil this holiday. Come on.’ She walked to the taxi and opened the door. ‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER TWO
The nanny was late. Amanda sat at the appointed Costa Coffee table, drumming her fingernails, sighing with impatience, and squinting every so often at the monitor.
‘You realize they’ll be boarding soon,’ she said at intervals. ‘You realize we’ll have to go. What are we supposed to do, accost every twenty-year-old girl we see on the plane and ask if she’s called Jenna?’
‘She’s sitting next to us,’ Hugh pointed out mildly. ‘It’s bound to be pretty obvious who she is.’
‘Yes, but that’s not the point,’ said Amanda twitchily. ‘The whole point was, she would meet the girls and get to know them a little bit before the flight. Then she can take care of them, and we can relax. … It was all worked out! Really, I don’t know why I—’ She stopped rigid as her mobile began to bleep. ‘God, don’t say that’s her. Don’t say she’s bloody cancelling on us, that’s all I need. Hello?’ Amanda’s face relaxed. ‘Oh, Penny. Thank God.’ Amanda swung away on her stool, putting a hand over her other ear. ‘Everything OK? Has the paint-effects girl arrived yet? Well, why not?’
Hugh took a sip of espresso and smiled at Octavia and Beatrice, who were silently making their way through a plate of biscotti.
‘Looking forward to the holiday?’ he asked. ‘Octavia?’
Octavia looked blankly at him, rubbed her nose and bit into another biscotto. Hugh cleared his throat.
‘What subject do you like at school?’ he tried, to another stony silence.
Did five-year-olds have such things as subjects? he wondered belatedly. She did go to school, he knew that much. Claremount House, $1,800 a term plus lunches, drama club and something else club. Dark green uniform.
Or dark blue. Definitely either dark green or dark blue.
‘Mr Stratton?’
Hugh looked up in surprise. A girl in scruffy jeans with dark red dreadlocked hair and a row of eyebrow rings was peering at him with narrowed eyes. In spite of himself, Hugh felt a lurch of apprehension. How on earth did this girl know his name? Was she going to ask him for money? Perhaps this was the latest scam. They found out your name from your luggage labels, followed you, waited till you were relaxed …
‘I’m Jenna.’ The girl’s face broke into a broad grin and she extended a hand. ‘Good to meet you!’
Hugh felt his throat constrict in shock.
‘You’re … Jenna?’ He was aware that his voice had come out as an incredulous squawk; thankfully Jenna didn’t seem to notice.
‘Yes! Sorry I’m late. Got caught up shopping, you know how it is.’
‘That … that’s quite all right,’ said Hugh, forcing himself to smile pleasantly at her. As though he’d been quite expecting a nanny who looked more like Swampy than Mary Pop pins. ‘Don’t you worry about it.’
Far from worrying, Jenna wasn’t even listening. She had slung her backpack onto the floor and perched on the seat between Octavia and Beatrice.
‘Hi, girls! Octavia and Beatrice, right?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Now you know what? I’ve got a problem. A bi-ig problem.’
‘What?’ said Octavia reluctantly.
‘Too many Smarties,’ said Jenna, shaking her head solemnly. ‘My backpack’s full of ’em. Think you can help me out?’
From nowhere, she produced two tubes of Smarties and handed them to the girls, who emitted small squeals of delight. At the sound, Amanda swivelled back round on her stool, still talking into her mobile phone, and stopped dead as she saw the lurid packets.
‘What—’ Her eyes fell on Jenna, taking in her dyed hair, eyebrow rings, a tattooed flower on her shoulder, Hugh suddenly noticed. ‘Who on earth—’
‘Darling,’ interrupted Hugh hastily, ‘darling—this is Jenna.’
‘Jenna?’ Amanda met his eyes disbelievingly. ‘This is … Jenna?’
‘Yes!’ said Hugh with a false heartiness. ‘So now we’re all here. Isn’t that splendid?’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Jenna, holding out her hand to Amanda.
There was a pause—then, rather gingerly, Amanda took it.
‘How do you do?’
‘I’m smashing, thanks.’ Jenna beamed. ‘Lovely girls you’ve got here. Great kids. I can always tell the good ones.’
‘Oh,’ said Amanda, taken aback. ‘Well … thank you.’ A sound from her mobile phone jolted her. ‘Oh sorry, Penny! I’ve got to go. Yes, everything’s fine. I … I think.’ She switched off her mobile phone and put it in her bag, all the while gazing at Jenna as though at a rare breed of octopus.
‘I was just telling your husband here, I got caught up in the duty-free shop,’ said Jenna, and patted her carrier bag. ‘Stocking up on the old cigarettes and booze.’
There was a sharp silence. Amanda’s eyes darted to Hugh’s; her jaw began to tighten.
‘Joke!’ said Jenna and nudged Octavia, who began to giggle.
‘Oh,’ said Amanda, disconcerted. She attempted a laugh. ‘Well, of course—’
‘Actually it was condoms, for my night off.’ Jenna nodded seriously. Then her eyes twinkled. ‘Joke!’
Hugh opened his mouth and closed it again. He didn’t dare look at Amanda.
‘So we’re off to Spain,’ continued Jenna blithely, producing a couple of lollipops for the girls. ‘I’ve never been to Spain. Is it near the sea, where we’re going?’
‘I gather the place is up in the hills,’ said Hugh. ‘We’ve never been there before.’
‘An old friend of Hugh’s has very kindly lent us his house for a week,’ said Amanda stiffly, and cleared her throat. ‘The wine reviewer, Gerard Lowe. He’s quite well known, I expect you’ve seen him on television.’
‘Can’t say I have,’ said Jenna, shrugging. ‘Mind you, I’m not really into wine. Beer’s more my drink. And tequila when I’m in the mood.’ She looked at Hugh. ‘You’ll have to watch me, mister—when the sun’s shining and I’ve got a Tequila Sunrise in my hand, I’m anyone’s.’ She unwrapped a lollipop, put it in her mouth and winked. ‘Joke!’
Hugh glanced at Amanda and stifled a smile.
In eight years of marriage, he had never seen her look at quite such a loss.
The traffic approaching the airport had been terrible: solid tailbacks of holidaymakers in cars and coaches and taxis just like theirs. As they’d sat in the chugging, fume-clogged silence, Philip had felt acid begin to churn at the lining of his stomach. Every thirty seconds he had glanced at his watch and felt another spasm of alarm. What would they do if they missed the flight? Were the tickets transferable? Would airport staff be helpful or scathing? Should he have taken out some kind of insurance against this happening?
In the event, they had arrived just in time. The Regent Airways check-in girl had quickly issued them their boarding cards and told them to proceed straight to the gate for boarding. No time to check the luggage, she’d said—they’d have to take it with them.
‘Well!’ Chloe had said as they turned away from the check-in desk. ‘That was a stroke of luck!’ She’d ruffled Nat’s hair cheerfully. ‘We didn’t want to spend our holiday at the airport, did we?’
Philip had stared at her, unable to understand how she could, already, be laughing about it. To him it hadn’t felt like a stroke of luck. It had felt like a warning. A reminder that, for all the planning in the world, one could not govern one’s own fate. That one might as well give up trying. Even now, sitting safely in his seat, clutching a complimentary orange juice, he still felt a lurking anxiety, a premonition of failure.
He clenched his glass tightly, hating himself; wanting to rid himself of the insecurities which constantly teased him. He wanted to turn back into the person he used to be; the person who was happy in his own skin. The person Chloe had fallen in love with.
‘OK?’ said Chloe, next to him, and he smiled.
‘Fine.’
‘Look at Nat.’
Philip followed Chloe’s gaze. The family had been split up into two pairs of seats, and Nat and Sam were sitting several rows in front of them. Sam was already plugged into his headphones and staring ahead as though in a trance—but Nat had clearly taken the cabin crew’s warnings to heart and was solemnly perusing the laminated safety sheet. As they watched, he looked up, glanced anxiously around the cabin—then, as he spotted the emergency exits, subsided in relief.