‘If you stay another night, you will be able to see your father tomorrow.’
Alex dried his face and chest and wrapped the towel round his waist. ‘Nope. I’m not staying here without Mum as a referee.’
At Liverpool Street station, Alex bought a box of chocolates and a spray of carnations in cellophane and boarded a train to Essex.
There was an answering woof to the doorbell, a rustling noise, the click of a latch being drawn, then his grandmother’s round face was beaming at him. Alex stepped inside, his stomach growling at the sweet scent of baking.
‘Hi, Gran,’ he said, wrapping her in his arms. His hands met behind her back, still clutching the gifts.
She chuckled into his neck. ‘You’re early, lad.’
‘Caught the train not the coach.’ He pushed himself away. ‘For you,’ he said, holding up his offerings.
Her face was flushed with happiness. ‘For me?’ Her mouth gaped as if she’d been given a diamond bracelet. ‘Come on in, you little tinker. You shouldn’t be spending your money on me.’
Over tea and blueberry muffins, still warm from the oven, Alex told his gran about his new girlfriend. How they met in Portugal, that she still lived at home and was an accountant. His gran listened without interrupting, then put a hand on his knee,squeezing it gently. ‘And have you made up your mind what to do with yourself?’ She gave him a stern look. ‘If she’s a working lass you won’t keep her unless you get yourself sorted. She sounds much smarter than I was at her age.’
Alex reached for another muffin, contemplating his gran’s question. She was the second woman today to offer careers advice. On the train, watching the Essex countryside hurtling past, Alex had asked himself what his long-term money-making options were, then spoke to Jess, who suggested he use his degree and train as an accountant. That sounded hideous. Alex was certain he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life indoors in a suit like his father. He popped the last chunk of muffin into his mouth and, with a serious expression on his face, said, ‘Nope. Any thoughts?’
The plate was nudged closer to him. ‘Go on, love,’ she said. ‘I baked them for you. I’m not supposed to eat cake at the moment.’ She patted her tummy before picking up a muffin. ‘What about something to do with surfing? Your dad says you’re very good at that, says he’s proud of you.’
Alex did a double-take. His father wasn’t proud of anything he did.
‘Now, how long are you staying? There’s no time limit. I can make up an extra bed, your father’s not coming until tomorrow.’
Alex wiped his sticky fingers on the edge of his T-shirt. ‘Just tonight, Gran. Got to get down to Devon. I’ll leave you two in peace.’
It was Mark’s first late-night flight. He’d booked himself into seat 1D on the 22.20 flight from Faro – he was spending two whole days in London, for the price of a single tax day. He cleared security and settled into a corner table of the lounge with a beer. His phone alerted him to the gate number. There was no rush, the EasyJet app showed the inbound plane on its approach to Faro airport. Twenty minutes later he finished his beer andleft the lounge. The terminal was deserted; shutters were drawn on the Duty-Free shops, the cleaning team pushing mops and polishing counters.
There were only a few people waiting to be checked through at the gate.
Mark handed over his boarding card. He needed to be able to prove he’d arrived when he claimed, left when he said he had. He kept all Emily’s boarding cards in her tax file too, together with a receipt for something purchased past security, preferably on the plane itself.
Waiting to be processed, Mark shuddered. The gate lounge was teeming. The men mostly wore shorts, their suntanned legs enjoying a last outing. The women sported skimpy, brightly coloured sundresses, and there was an alarming number of little children for such a late flight, still fizzing with energy, darting around with little evidence of anyone claiming responsibility for them. He was handed back his documents.
‘Where do I go next?’ he asked.
‘Speedy boarding on the left, sir.’ The stewardess pointed to a queue that extended from the glass partition of the gate to the back of the lounge. ‘That’s the line, sir.’
‘But there must be fifty people there already.’
She shrugged, already moving on to the couple behind him. ‘Next passenger, please.’
Mark huffed and stuffed his passport into his overnight bag. He must warn Emily to get to the gate early when it was her turn. The speedy boarding line was beginning to move, and he jogged to join it. The queue shuffled its way towards the plane where he claimed his aisle seat at the front of the aircraft. Mark popped the latch on the locker above the front row of seats. It was full. He searched for space in the opposite one, tried the two lockers either side of the aisle behind his row. They too were packed with luggage, bags of Duty Free, and souvenirs. He finallyfound room in row six, before fighting his way back against the incoming tide of passengers.
He settled his head against the neck support, buckled up and thought back to the last time he and Emily had flown together. A first-class long-haul flight to the far east: complimentary pyjamas, glasses of champagne, and proper cutlery, crockery, and linen napkins. A flat bed, discreetly made up with a sheet, duvet, and pillows by the cabin crew while you brushed your teeth. Were those little extravagances worth the money he’d spent? This seat was a bit narrow, the armrest shared, but he could already feel his eyelids fluttering, and once asleep, did any of that matter? Not to him, but as the plane taxied to the runway, Mark was worrying if Emily would think the same way. She was adjusting to their new life better than him, but she never smiled at him anymore. He was always Mark and never boyo. He was in awe of her running the B&B, embarrassed and still couldn’t confess to messing up the hot food licence, but he must make her happier. He would call Mary when he got to London, sound her out on a little treat to buy, maybe a massage or a facial at Fortnum’s. She seemed to dote on that shop.
Mark reached Ovington Square at two in the morning. He glanced at the stairs, groaned, then propped himself against the wall and summoned the lift. Upstairs, the sight of the bed made him feel lightheaded with desire; he tore off his clothes and flopped in without brushing his teeth. Less than four hours later, the crickets woke him. He turned over and slept for another two hours. Mark staggered towards the lift shortly after eight, inhaling the comforting greasy smell of grilled sausages percolating up from the kitchen. Heaven – a cooked breakfast and no washing up. No wonder the B&B was so popular.
Svetlana strode into the dining room, plonked down a pot of coffee and a plate of cooked food. ‘You want toast?’ she asked in a tone that implied this was a criminal offence.
‘Yes. And marmalade.’
She nodded vigorously at her employer. ‘I need money, I only have fifty pounds left.’
He cut into his sausage. ‘You had a hundred when I checked last week. I’m only here one more night, then I’m going to my mother’s.’
Svetlana was standing in the doorway. ‘Alex was here. I finished the marmalade making his breakfast sandwiches.’ On her way out, she closed the door behind her a fraction more forcefully than required.
