Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch

‘It’s going to be a hot one today,’ he said, loud enough for her to hear. ‘Things could get rather steamy.’

He allowed himself a glance in Belinda’s direction. She was holding a towel over her breasts flirtatiously. ‘One can only hope,’ she replied, then raised her eyebrows and grinned before turning her back on him and walking towards Dairy Cottage, wobbling her dimpled, bikini’d bottom to great effect.

Suddenly the front door of Atlantic House was thrown open and the sound of raised voices filled the air. As Merlin turned to the source of the noise, Belinda crept back out into the garden and concealed herself behind the dividing hedge so she could watch and listen.

Greg was marching towards Merlin. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve turned the stopcock off, but it’s like the bloody Poseidon Adventure in there.’

Merlin looked bemused. ‘What’s happened, G, mate?’

‘Don’t you “G mate” me. The whole house could have flooded, thanks to your incompetence.’

‘You should have called.’

Pru had rushed out now and was squaring up to Merlin. ‘I did, you moron. Don’t you answer your phone?’

‘Terrible coverage round here. Sometimes I don’t get my messages for a week or more.’ He smiled ruefully and started to roll a cigarette. ‘Why don’t we all calm down and I’ll take a look at the damage.’

Pru looked daggers at him and gave a kind of guttural growling sound before turning tail and storming into the house.

Like the figures in a weather house, as she went in, Connie came out. She launched into a tirade aimed at Greg.

‘Greg, we are not spending a penny on this house. Not a penny, or we’ll be paying for Miss High and Mighty and Little Lord Fauntleroy’s future home and seeing no return on our investment.’

‘All I did was what you bloody asked me to do. “Find a plumber,” you said. So I did.’

‘I didn’t mean Merlin Pengelly,’ Connie hurled at him.

Pru had come out of the house again, brandishing a mop and bucket. She rounded on Connie.

‘How dare you call me Miss High and Mighty. And my son is nothing like Little Lord Fauntleroy.’

‘Actually, I was describing your poor henpecked husband,’ screeched Connie.

‘Girls, girls, that is below the belt,’ said Greg. ‘Connie, darling, apologise.’

‘I will not apologise, and thank you so much for backing me up as a husband should,’ Connie replied sarcastically. ‘Furthermore, don’t you “darling” me, you thoughtless ape.’

As Connie was clearly losing control of herself, Pru attempted to claim the moral high ground.

‘Greg, dear, please try to keep your wife under control. She’s always had these temper tantrums. It’s so pathetic.’

Connie rounded on her. ‘You’re the pathetic one. Pretending you have a bad back, getting Francis to do all the dirty work for you, sucking up to Mum and Dad to steal my inheritance.’

As the girls continued venting grievances they’d been storing for decades, Francis appeared on the doorstep with two full buckets of soapy water.

Standing stock-still, listening to the unusually colourful language being employed by his wife and sister-in-law, he looked to Greg for help. Greg shrugged his shoulders.

‘Come on, old man. Leave them to it. This has been brewing all week.’

‘We can’t just leave them.’ Francis put the buckets down and went towards Pru. His timing meant that he walked straight into her hand as she raised it to slap Connie. ‘Ow.’ He fell to the grass on his knees, stunned.

Belinda could take no more. Francis needed her. In seconds she was in their garden and had drenched both women with one of the buckets of water. Before they had a chance to recover, she pushed Connie towards Greg and Pru towards Francis. Standing with her hands on her hips, she gave the sorry-looking, sopping-wet group a disappointed stare. ‘Do you want your kids to hear you airing your dirty laundry in public? Now shake hands, the pair of you.’

The sisters looked at each other with undisguised aggression. Had they been cats, their tails would have been lashing the air.

‘I said, shake hands,’ growled Belinda.

The men let their women go and the sisters managed the briefest of hand contact.

‘Good,’ said Belinda. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it? Now, I don’t want to hear another word from either of you.’

She turned towards the men. ‘And what are you gormless chumps gawking at? Never seen a woman break up an argument before?’

Merlin took a long draw on his cigarette. Francis stared at his feet, his cheeks colouring. Greg gave a suggestive laugh and said, ‘Oh, many times, Belinda. But never topless.’

*

An hour later and a composed Belinda had showered and was pouring herself a deserved glass of perfectly chilled white wine in the kitchen of Dairy Cottage.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Hi, kids. Come in.’

‘Hi, Mum,’ said Emily. ‘Can Abi and Jem come in too?’

‘Absolutely. More the merrier.’ Belinda kissed them all and directed them to the parlour. ‘What’ll you have to drink, Jem? Abi? Glass of wine?’

‘Yes, please,’ said a hopeful Emily.

‘Not you,’ replied her mother.

Grabbing a couple of extra wine glasses, the chilled bottle, a family bag of Twiglets, and a tin of Coke for Emily, she settled down with the kids.

‘What you been up to today?’

Emily, her mouth full of Twiglets, told her mother all the places that Jem and Abi had taken her to during their walk to the village. ‘I got a tattoo, look.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her T-shirt and at the top of her arm was a small mermaid coloured in pink and green with a dusting of glitter over it.

Belinda played the game. ‘Is it a real one?’

‘Don’t be daft – you have to be eighteen.’

‘How long does that one last then?’

‘A week.’

‘It’s very cool.’

‘Yeah. And afterwards we got ice creams and went and sat on the beach, then we had a swim and went rock-pooling.’