Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton

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      She stamped on the brake and shouted back: ‘I’m doing you a favour, you stupid man. I don’t want Abi to have a bloody boat for her birthday, but I have brought you here because you have a broken arm and I’m trying to be nice! OK?’

      A youngish man in faded red cotton shorts with a navy blue jumper was coming towards them. They both immediately plastered on their best fake smiles.

      Connie got out. ‘Hello! You must be Peter. I’m Mrs Wilson and this –’ she waved vaguely to where Greg was struggling to get out of the car – ‘is my husband.’

      ‘Nice to meet you.’ Peter shook her hand and that of the advancing Greg. ‘I’ve got a super little boat for you. Perfect for your daughter. Come and have a look.’

      The small grey RIB was bobbing gaily on the water. Peter handed Connie and then Greg into it.

      ‘You sit here in the front seat, Mrs Wilson and your husband and I will sit behind the console while I take her out.’

      The men discussed torque and trim and engines and stuff while Connie enjoyed her comfortable seat and view of Falmouth from the water.

      ‘Why’s it called a rib?’ she ventured.

      Greg tutted and said impatiently, ‘Rigid Inflatable Boat. It’s got a rigid hull and blow-up sides. I thought you’d know that.’

      Peter added more kindly, ‘Many people ask the same question, don’t worry. It makes the boat very light and easy to handle.’

      ‘What happens if you get a puncture?’ asked Connie.

      ‘You have to be careful of barnacles and such, but you can get it fixed.’

      Connie would have liked to ask more, but Greg was monopolising Peter’s attention again.

      Later, as they left the sales office with their invoice and a promise that the boat would be delivered in time for Abi’s birthday, Greg was buoyant.

      ‘What a little corker we’ve got there. Perfect for the family.’

      ‘It’s Abi’s, not the family’s,’ said Connie, opening the door for Greg and helping him in.

      ‘Of course it’s Abi’s,’ he snapped. ‘But while she’s at uni it’ll need to be taken out and used.’ He fixed his seat belt in place. ‘Great name, though, eh? Am I genius or what?’

      ‘It’s OK,’ said Connie, starting up the engine.

      ‘OK? It’s genius. Abi’s Gale – she’ll love it.’

      *

      ‘What shall we get for Abi’s birthday?’ Dorothy asked Henry over a lunchtime prawn sandwich in their local pub.

      ‘Money. That’s what she wants.’

      ‘Too boring. I’d like to give her some jewellery. It’s a custom for grandmothers to pass their engagement rings to their granddaughters.’

      Henry ignored this and continued eating.

      ‘If I had an engagement ring to give. Or a wedding ring,’ needled Dorothy.

      ‘Good God, woman. You are my wife. There has never been anyone can hold a candle to you.’

      Dorothy rounded on him. ‘Oh, I’m your wife, am I?’

      Henry put his hand to his forehead and winced. ‘You know what I mean. In every sense that matters, you are my wife.’

      ‘Except in the sense that really matters.’

      Henry tilted his head towards the nearby tables that were filled with lunchtime diners.

      ‘Dorothy, lower your voice. Do you want the whole pub to hear? This isn’t the time or the place.’

      ‘When exactly would be a good time for you, Henry? It’s been more than forty years and you still haven’t told me when would be a good time. You never want to talk about it. I’ve had enough – and I don’t care who bloody well knows about it!’

      Henry raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Darling. Why all this now? Let’s finish lunch and then I promise we will talk about this later.’

      Eyes brimming with tears, Dorothy pushed aside her plate. ‘I’m not hungry any more.’ She picked up her bag and got to her feet. ‘You may not want to discuss it, Henry, but the fact remains: I am not and never have been your wife. Susan is your wife.’

      Henry watched helplessly as she stood and fumbled with her handbag. Finding her sunglasses, she did her best to make a dignified exit.

       23

      ‘I can’t believe our baby is going to be seventeen in two days’ time, can you?’ Connie was sitting in bed, completing her nightly routine of creaming her feet and hands. She was rubbing vigorously at her cuticles as Greg sat on the bed and lifted his legs under the covers.

      ‘No. I can’t. Where did the time go? We’re lucky that she’s got this far without doing anything illegal.’

      ‘That we know of,’ said Connie, screwing the lid back on to the hand-cream tube.

      ‘Well, she hasn’t got a boyfriend, so we know she’s still innocent in that sense.’

      Connie gave a quiet laugh.

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Greg.

      ‘Nothing.’ She turned to face him. ‘But teenage girls are very good at having private lives that remain private.’

      ‘I would know if she’d been up to anything. I could tell just by looking at her,’ said Greg smugly.

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘OK.’ Connie reached for the bedside light and turned it off. ‘Good night.’

      ‘Good night.’

      In the darkness, with the house settling around them and the dull shush of the unsleeping sea outside their bedroom window, Greg began to worry about Abi and her purity. Connie, on the other hand, smiled a secret smile and closed her eyes, reliving once again her own seventeenth birthday.

      She’d been alone in the house – she couldn’t remember why – when there was a knock at the front door. She opened it to find Merlin leaning casually against the porch wall, looking very desirable.

      ‘Hey, birthday princess. I hear you’ve got the key to the door today?’

      ‘Not quite,’ Connie had giggled. ‘I’m only seventeen.’

      ‘Shame – I was going to take you for your first legal СКАЧАТЬ