Australia and you go on the cruise?’ Dad said. ‘Well, it’s a thought.’
‘No, you twit, I mean if we can’t go …’ She paused and raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, I suppose so. We might be able to keep some food in the house for longer than a week too.’
‘Simon, come into the garden for a moment,’ she said. ‘Bring your coffee.’
I had another chocolate and looked at my watch; it was half past four and Jerry and India would be leaving soon, God willing. I watched my sister and her fiancé trying to guess the flavours of the chocolates with their eyes closed and making the other one promise not to trick them with the coffee one.
Jerry would drive them home in his groovy car, to their hip, blonde-wood apartment, and unload their ill-gotten gains before India went to have a long soak in the bath, surrounded by Diptyque candles, and he spent the evening playing on his Xbox. You wouldn’t think a hotshot barrister would waste his time doing that, would you? Not that Jerry looked like a hotshot barrister; he was tall, thin and pale, with leather elbow patches on his tweed jacket. I wondered what India could possibly see in him at first, but I had to admit he was extremely funny, very successful, and besotted with her in a way that resulted in extravagant presents and compliments. Who wouldn’t like that?
When they got engaged last year they’d started out wanting a small, cute wedding with a few friends and family. Now it had grown into something Prince Harry might have envied, in a country house hotel with a complete year’s flower produce from The Netherlands, gauze bags of almonds and embossed scrolls. God knew what it was costing.
I hadn’t a clue what I was going to do for the hen weekend. India wouldn’t co-operate and I was sick of thinking about it. I was a bit off that sort of thing at the moment anyway, thanks to Ryan. Bouquets for the mothers, the honeymoon wardrobe, four or five tiers for the cake? Not to mention the three flower girls I was supposed to keep under control while necking back as much champagne as possible. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t planning to cop off with the best man. The best man was Jerry’s cousin Mark, who was delightful, gay, and would probably have done a better job of styling the event than any wedding planner ever could.
‘So that’s settled then,’ Mum said.
We all looked up as they came back in from the garden and India took the opportunity to wedge a chocolate into Jerry’s mouth. He spluttered in disgust and spat it into a paper napkin with a plaintive cry of ‘Bunny, you promised!’
Bunny?
‘What’s settled?’
Mum sat down and tapped on her coffee cup with a spoon.
‘Dad and I have come up with a solution to this holiday problem. We’re going to let you go instead.’
Mum sat back beaming, waiting for our reaction.
‘Jerry and me? To Australia?’ India said, her eyes widening with excitement.
Over my dead body.
‘No, the other one,’ Dad said.
‘Well, I’m not going to Australia with Jerry,’ I said.
Mum tutted. ‘You girls can be dense sometimes. You and India can go on the cruise.’
I had a moment’s wild excitement at the prospect of a break from what I had been doing for the last few months: sulking in the granny annexe at the end of my parents’ garden after that nightmare weekend when my boyfriend, Ryan, and I had broken up and my flatmate, Karen, decided it was the perfect time to go off and find herself in Sri Lanka.
But then work had been so busy recently and showed no signs of easing up, what with showing builders round dilapidated renovation projects or cajoling fussy metropolitan couples who, without exception, thought they wanted country kitchens, wood burners and gardens big enough to keep chickens. They didn’t. I mean, have you smelled a chicken house?
I hadn’t had a holiday for ages. You honestly couldn’t count that trip to Paris last year, when it rained every day and Ryan and I spent the whole time arguing about where to go. Recently I’d been spending most of my time at the office, so this could be the perfect chance for a break, sunshine and perhaps a few cocktails.
This idea was then replaced by the mental image of a boat filled with elderly people, shuffling around a wave-lashed deck on their Zimmer frames.
And finally I registered the utter horror that would be going on holiday with my sister.
Since the engagement we hadn’t been particularly good friends, despite what India thought – she seemed pretty oblivious to everything these days. I suppose somewhere deep down I still had affection for her, but nothing I could dredge up on a day-to-day basis.
India looked at Jerry and then at me. From her expression she seemed to be thinking much the same.
‘You’ll love it. And who knows, Alexa might find herself a nice chap to bring to the wedding. You can treat it as your hen weekend, although it’s longer than a weekend, obviously. A hen holiday,’ Mum announced proudly, seeming to think it was all settled. She’d been doing this a lot recently – every time she heard us squabbling she would produce a plan to reconcile us and consider it a job well done. Not this time … I wasn’t five any more.
‘How long?’
‘Twelve days.’
‘What! We can’t both take twelve days off!’ I said.
India’s gaze flicked hopefully between Dad and me. ‘Can’t we?’
Considering it was only August and India had already taken two days out of next year’s holiday allowance, I thought it was pretty unlikely.
But Dad had it all worked out. ‘I’ll get Charlie Smith-Rivers from the Exeter office to pop in.’
‘But twelve days?’ I said, thinking how much I hated Charlie Smith-Rivers, who always swanned around pretending he knew more than everyone else in the room. And nothing was ever in the right place when he left.
Twelve consecutive days with India. I hadn’t spent much time with her outside of work for ages and I was barely managing to get through this lunch as it was.
‘Well, that’s how long the cruise is.’
‘Where are we going?’ India said.
‘You fly in to New York. Then board the Reine de France, sail up the East Coast to Halifax and then back to Southampton across the Atlantic.’ Mum read out the itinerary from her phone.
‘Wow,’ India breathed, her blue eyes wide.
The mental image of the elderly Zimmer walkers faded and was replaced by one of glamorous, fur-swathed Hollywood stars, politicians and Princess Margaret complete with cigarette holder. It was quite possible, too, that Noël Coward would be playing the piano in one of the cocktail lounges. I didn’t know why but I seemed to have slipped back several decades.
‘That’s really generous,’ I said, trying to concentrate on something other than absolute panic at being on board a ship, in the middle of the ocean,
