Hunt for swimwear. Discover that my sole swimsuit has been quietly decaying to the point of almost total transparency at the bottom of a drawer. Which means a replacement must be bought.
Order new swimsuit online, opting for next-day delivery. Pray that it fits.
Do nails (hands & feet).
ENGAGE CORE!!!
Leave what I hope is an extremely clear voice note on Dad’s GP’s message service, giving my father’s full name and date of birth.It’s about his repeat prescription. Can you please take Citrolax off the list? He’s never needed it and, uh, he’s quite agitated that every month there’s a big box of it and— The message cuts off with a piercing tone, and I’m loath to go through all the options again.
Panic that I should take a present to Suki’s cabin. But what? Aided by Jamie’s keen eye, I scour the charity shops in our lunch break (that’s one thing Sandybanks has an abundance of), homing in on a wicker hamper in perfect condition.Is this enough?I wonder as I fill it with treats from the posher reaches of our local supermarket. When we had lunch that day Suki was all, ‘Let’s have champagne!’ I know better than to bring Blossom Hill. But are the wines I’ve chosen classy enough for her group?
Picturing these women – gorgeous and glamorous with ‘places’ dotted around the globe – I panic some more and add a bottle of champagne.
Pack a bag. I can’t help remembering how different it felt, to be deciding what to take to Paris – so thrilling! This time Frank seems to be taking zero interest in the fact that I’m going away.
And so, by the time Friday comes, I explain to Frank that I’ll be eating later up at the cabin, and can he knock together something for himself?
‘Of course,’ he says. I leave him pondering the options as I carry my bag and the hamper to the front door.
Finally, he seems to take notice of what’s happening. ‘Have a nice time then,’ he says lightly. As if I’m going to Pilates and not for a weekend away with a woman I barely know, yet with whom we are about to become entwined – forever – by Eddie and Lyla’s child.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
He leans in the kitchen doorway, observing me in an oddly detached way. ‘Think it’s going to be all right then?’
‘I hope so.’ I pause, trying to read his expression. ‘Why, d’you think it’s mad that I’m going?’
‘No, no. Yougo,’ he says with unnecessary force.
I frown. ‘Frank, is something wrong?’
‘No,’ he says, with emphasis. Then: ‘I just think it might be a bit awkward, y’know?’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, with all this pretence about Eddie and Lyla being a proper couple, or whatever—’
‘I’m sure that won’t come up,’ I say. Infuriatingly, he only shrugs, as if he doesn’t care one way or other. ‘Bye then,’ I add.
‘Bye.’ No coming towards me for a hug. He just standsthere, arms folded, like another time recently when he’d fished out a cluster of bra underwires and my long-lost back door key from the bowels of our washing machine. Helpfully, he’d set out the whole lot on the worktop, like museum exhibits, for me to see.
What did he want me to do? Apologise for the wires breaking free from my bras? As an act, it seemed terribly petty. I couldn’t help thinking, what’s happened to the man who moved hundreds of miles to be with me, because my mum was terminally ill?Of course I’d come,he told me, holding me close.Did you honestly think I wouldn’t?
Frank was always a little crazy and impetuous but I knew he loved me. I could depend on that. Yet since Paris he hasn’t touched me once. He’s certainly not been ‘put off’ by my hairy legs or even those bristly knees. These days my entire body could be swathed in luxuriant fur and I doubt he’d notice.
I turn towards the door and finally, he moves. ‘D’you want a hand with that?’
With the hamper, he means. ‘No, no, I’m fine.’
‘Carly, let me carry that,’ he says. But clearly it’s more sensible of me to shun his help, and to struggle to open the front door while gripping the hamper and my overstuffed weekend bag. ‘Give me that!’ he commands, trying to take the hamper off me.
‘Frank, I’m fine!’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s too heavy—’
‘I can manage!’ I snap. Am I turning into Dad now, angrily shunning offers of help? Frank grabs for the wicker handle, and as I tug it away the hamper slips from my grip.
‘Hey!’ he shouts as it tumbles to the floor, the lid flying open and cheeses and crackers and chocolates scattering and bottles clanging. At least the wine bottles don’t smash. But the champagne bottle does, shooting liquid and shards of glass all over the hall floor.
