‘I’ll explain tomorrow,’ I said.
‘No, you’ll tell me now. You’re to come home and we can talk about whatever it is right now.’
‘No. Sorry. Um, good night, Ant,’ I said, as lightly as I could manage. And then I ended the call.
My phone rang again immediately, and as not answering it made me feel sick, I switched it off, only to discover that made me feel even worse.
So I switched it back on and no sooner had I typed the code to unlock it than it began to ring all over again.
‘Ant!’ I said, on answering. ‘Can’t you just . . . chill . . . or something? Can’t I just have—’
‘Chill?’ he spat. ‘You’re telling me to chill?’
‘I just need a few hours on my own. I just . . .’
‘What?’ he said. ‘You just what?’
‘I can’t be under the same roof as that woman. Not this evening.’
‘If by that woman you mean my mother,’ Ant said, ‘she doesn’t want to be here either. In fact, she wants to go home.’
‘Home?’ I said. ‘What do you mean, home?’
‘Apparently it’s going to piss down all week, anyway. Starting tomorrow, so . . .’
‘Look, we can talk about it in the morning,’ I said. ‘We can look at the weather and decide what to do.’
‘I’m not angry or anything,’ Ant said. ‘I promise. Just come back.’
‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’ve paid anyway, so . . .’
‘The girls need you,’ he said. ‘They’re worried.’
‘Then reassure them,’ I told him. ‘You know they don’t need to be worried, so reassure them.’
‘Only I don’t know anything, do I?’ Ant said. ‘Not with you behaving like a lunatic.’
‘Ant,’ I said. ‘Just give me a break, OK?’ It was one of his favourite phrases. ‘One night alone. Is that really too much to ask?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s too much to ask.’
‘Well, tough. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘I’m not OK with this,’ he said.
‘I can hear that.’
‘This is bullshit, Heather, and you know it. This is absolute bullshit, and if you don’t—’
That’s when I hung up on him again. And it’s when I switched my phone off for good.
I stayed there for another hour, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath again. But I felt stressed and nauseous and miserable. Whatever I’d hoped for, it wasn’t this.
I was just wondering if it wouldn’t be better to return and face the music when there was a timid knock on the door.
‘That’s it,’ I heard a woman’s voice say. ‘Knock harder.’
I opened the door to find Sarah beaming up at me from the hallway. Behind her stood the adolescent I’d seen earlier.
‘She wanted to surprise you,’ she explained.
‘Daddy says to tell you to come down,’ Sarah said with precision. ‘He says the car’s all packed and we’re ready to go. And he’s on yellow double lines.’
‘Gosh,’ I said, crouching down and forcing a reassuring smile for my daughter. ‘Is he here?’
She nodded. ‘Gran and Lucy are in the car. Gran says we have to go home now, but Lucy wants to go to the beach.’
‘OK . . .’ I said.
‘Do we have to go home?’
I sighed and mentally sieved through all the possibilities, working out various knock-on scenarios. And then I scooped her up in my arms and wrinkled my nose as I said, ‘Yeah, I’m afraid we do, honey. But we’ll do something nice at home instead, OK?’
She nodded reluctantly. ‘Will we be able to go to a funfair?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe we can.’
‘OK then,’ she conceded. ‘Is that where you’ve been all day?’ she asked, pointing over my shoulder.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I came here for a snooze.’
‘Can I see?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You can help me gather my things.’
No one spoke for the first half an hour of the drive, and eventually Ant switched on the radio, which was a relief. Marge sat up front, stony-faced, though perhaps no more so than usual, while the girls slept either side of me. To avoid interaction, I pretended to have fallen asleep, and a few hours into the journey my anger cooled enough for it to really happen.
When I woke up, we were already in Broadstairs, and Ant was lifting Marge’s bag from the back of the car. Cool night air was rushing in.
‘God, what time is it?’ I asked, over my shoulder.
‘It’s half eleven,’ he replied. ‘Go back to sleep. We’ll be home soon.’
He never did ask me what had happened that lunchtime, and by the next morning I didn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it, ever again.
But I suspected Marge had told Ant something, or he’d pieced his own version together from clues, because he certainly seemed more tolerant than usual of my aversion to his mother.
According to the TV, the weather was indeed far worse down in Devon than in Kent, so we felt blessed whenever the sun came out, and managed to make the most of our holiday-at-home, taking the girls, as promised, to Dreamland, and even managing two full days on the beach.
The only oblique reference to the whole drama came the following spring when Ant asked me if I thought he should reserve Beach Cottage again, ‘or not’.
‘Not,’ I replied, with conviction. It was unusual that he should even seek my opinion, so I assumed he’d been expecting my reply. He certainly didn’t seem surprised.
‘Mum thought maybe Cornwall . . .’ he started, but seeing my expression, his voice faded. ‘OK. Where then?’ he asked.
‘Here’s just fine,’ I told him. ‘As long as it’s just the four of us.’
‘Oh . . . OK,’ he said. Again, it wasn’t the reaction I would have expected.
By May, I was regretting my decision. I spent all day, every day, in Chislet, after all, and the idea of spending the two weeks of Ant’s holidays cooped up with him there was even less attractive than my normal day-to-day solitude.
But Devon had left a nasty taste in my mouth – actually, more of a physical aversion – and I was terrified that Marge would worm her way into any trip that we
