anything for this year. Simon had been reluctant to commit to our usual two weeks in France. He said he was getting bored of it. Now I knew he wasn’t just bored of France. He was bored of his entire life. He’d been gone for six weeks now – which equated to 294 blow jobs by my reckoning. That probably made things a bit less boring for him.
For me, it had been a torment of tedium combined with near paralysing anxiety. Six weeks of yo-yoing between ‘I can do this’ and utter desperation. Six weeks of total loneliness. Six weeks of watching mindless TV and doing household chores and wearing false smiles; my heart leaping every time the phone rang or the door was opened. Just in case he’d come home. Of worrying about the kids and worrying about me and worrying about a future I couldn’t quite get a hold of.
Six weeks of total crap, in all honesty.
Maybe, I thought, I needed a holiday too.
Ollie had told me his dad and Monika were heading off to Ibiza for a week. Clubbing in San Antonio. The thought of Simon waving his forty-one-year-old hands in the air and blowing a fluorescent whistle at a beachfront rave was one of the few things that had made me crack a smile in recent days. A lesser woman than I would hope he’d overdose on E and get trampled to death by a tranny in platform heels.
The door pinged as I wandered in, and I sat down, plonking the cookie box on the seat next to me. My new life-partner.
‘How can I help you today?’ said the sales assistant, who had ‘Nikki’ printed on her name badge. Nikki had disconcertingly huge bleached-blond hair, and skin that looked like it had been marinated overnight in a vat of Bisto.
‘I’m looking for a holiday,’ I replied. ‘I’m not quite sure what, but something special. We all need a really special holiday. So knock yourself out, Nikki – anywhere in the world, anything at all. Money,’ I added, safe in the knowledge that I still had access to Simon’s credit card, ‘is no object.’
‘Well, that’s the kind of challenge we thrive on in the travel consultancy business!’ she said, keeping a straight face. I was about to laugh but then I realised she meant it.
Her fingers started to fly over her keyboard, her face frowning in concentration. She was murmuring to herself as she worked; a steady subconscious flow that sounded something along the lines of ‘Yes! No! All booked up! No availability there…maybe…possibly…Ebola virus outbreak…border control…diamond mines…mosquito nets…’
‘Stop!’ I said, leaning over the desk to break her concentration. I had visions of ending up on a camel-back tour of Alaska or blue-tailed-skink-watching in Cameroon.
‘When I said anything, what I actually mean is a holiday with a beach. A swimming pool. Cocktails. Possibly the opportunity to do “Macarena”-style Euro-pop dances with waiters in restaurants. Lots of activities for the kids. Other teenagers, but nobody too scary who might teach them how to use flick knives or get one of them pregnant. And somewhere I can get a tan just like yours.’
Her face froze like a teak mask, clearly unhappy at this dull change of direction.
‘Well, my tan comes from the Boots in Summertown, but I presume you’re looking for somewhere a bit further afield than that?’
Suitably chastised for my lack of adventurous spirit, I watched her manicured nails go back into overdrive. Occasionally she paused to ask me a question, like how old the kids were (easy), if they liked water sports (um…possibly) and if I was into tennis (yes, if it involves watching men in tight white shorts at Wimbledon).
After what felt like a lifetime of waiting and watching, she finally looked up from her screen, a brilliant smile breaking out on her face. She had great teeth too – I wondered if they were from Boots as well but didn’t dare ask.
‘I’ve got it. It’s in Turkey, and there are just two interconnecting rooms left. Very nice, exclusive resort – lots of planned activities for young people, like sailing, windsurfing, water-skiing, as well as for adults. Tennis lessons. Golf if you want it. Beauty treatments, spa. If you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit tired – I think this is just what you need. A perfect holiday.’
She was right. I was tired. And more than a bit…A perfect holiday.
Now, that sounded even better than another cookie.
‘You mean to tell me there’s no fucking hairdryer in this dump?’ said Lucy, stalking round our rooms as though she’d just been stranded on a landfill site and told to lick old tins of cat food for tea. ‘You told me there would be!’
‘I’m sure there is, somewhere, Luce, I’ll look later…’ I answered, puffing a bit as I dragged the suitcases through the door. Ollie followed, hefting the biggest case into the corner and kicking it straight.
‘I’ve got a solution, Lucy,’ he said. ‘When you’ve washed your hair, go down to the kitchens and stick your bloody head in the microwave.’
He accompanied this with a mime of a skull exploding.
‘Ha-fucking-ha,’ she said, falling backwards on to the bed and declaring she was exhausted.
I sat next to her, glancing around – two interconnecting rooms, one with a double bed for me, and the other with two singles for Lucy and Ollie. An en-suite for each, with walk-in showers big enough to live in. Whitewashed walls, wrought-iron headboards, pretty blue bedspreads, and views over a sparkling turquoise bay. All of which would be worth nothing if Lucy didn’t find a hairdryer soon.
As I leaned down to unzip my case, I realised that either my ears were still dodgy from the flight, or the luggage was buzzing. I walked up closer to it, straining my ears to listen, telling the kids to shut up.
‘This case is buzzing…’ I said, cautiously flipping over the name tag with one finger. Mr and Mrs Smith of Solihull, it read. Which was odd, as I was expecting it to say Mrs Summers of Oxford. I said as much out loud, and Lucy instantly snapped out of her catatonia.
‘You picked up the wrong case, you fucking idiots!’ she declared, jumping up with more energy than she’d shown in the last year and dashing to her own luggage to inspect it. ‘But that’s okay! Phew! It doesn’t matter, panic over – at least you got mine right!’
‘And mine,’ added Ollie after checking. ‘Looks like it’s just you with the buzzing luggage, Mum. Should we call the bomb squad or something?’
‘It’s probably just one of Mum’s vibrators – imagine them giving an armed escort to a Rampant Rabbit!’ sniggered Lucy, loving every moment now she knew her straighteners were safe.
‘I do not own a vibrator!’ I snapped back, prodding the case with my toes to see if the buzzing stopped, ‘although maybe I’ll buy one when I get back, seeing as your dad has opted out of active service on that front, and I’m not quite dead yet!’
Silence from both offspring at that comment – a double-whammy reminder of the fact that not only had their father left, but their mother had sexual needs. Guaranteed killer.
I
