The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip (Cherry Pie Island - Book 2) (3 page)

‘Why not?’

‘Oh
please
.’

‘I could tell him for you.’ Emily shrugged and got her phone out of her pocket.

‘Don’t you dare!’

Emily laughed as Holly tried to snatch it from her. ‘So come to France, then! Please. It’ll make my mum love me and she’s been in a filthy mood since that whole Rolling Stones nightclub paparazzi incident. And you can tell Wilf all softly, softly in lovely warm South of France-esque surroundings. Pleeeease.’ Emily held her hands together and stared at Holly with her big blue eyes. ‘If nothing else, do it for the money.’

‘The money would be useful, Holly,’ Annie added.

Holly looked up at the van, at the blue and white striped awning and the inside patterned with tiny blue forget-me-nots. She wondered what Enid would have told her to do. Enid was always about straight-up honesty. Except Annie had found a government letter in the café clean-up addressed to Enid about a guy injured in the war. A guy who wasn’t Enid’s husband. So maybe she wasn’t so honest after all.

She thought back to when she was an angry fourteen year old. Holly remembered sitting on the fridges in the van, eating a 99 with chocolate sauce. It was just after her mum had left. Ran off with one of the men she cleaned for. They’d apparently been having an affair for two years. Two years Holly and her dad’s life with her had been a lie.

Two years.

She remembered a conversation she’d had with Enid, who had subtly stepped into the void left by her mother. She was there keeping watch, always just checking…

‘
Coach Billy says you haven’t been training for two weeks,’ Enid had said while serving a little boy a lemonade lolly
.

‘Why is he telling you?’

‘Well, if he tells your dad he knows he’ll probably take it a bit too seriously. And if he tells you, he knows he’ll get some smart-arse response. So, seeing as I have to put up with you every afternoon, not really working—’ She’d turned to look at her. ‘Am I paying you to sit on the fridge? Or to clean the fridge?’

‘Clean the fridge,’ Holly had said, crunching on the cone of her 99
.

‘Well clean the bloody fridge. Jesus Christ, girl. Your mother has a lot to answer for.’ Enid pulled a couple of 99 cones for a group of school kids and then wiped her hands and took a swig of her Coke. ‘You make your own future, Holly. Don’t let your mother’s mistakes mess up yours. You’re a good little rower and you could go far. I want to be cheering for you at the Olympics, not watching you getting stoned round the back of the playground like the kids I’ve seen you messing about with. Go and find Annie, be nice to Emily
‒
she’s not all bad
‒
and get back in a boat. OK? You have potential. Yes?’

Holly slid off the fridge top and went and got the Mr Muscle
.

‘Yes?’ she said again
.

Holly stared down at Enid’s orange flip flops. ‘Maybe.’

‘For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been afraid of anything. Don’t start now.’

Back in the present, Holly looked from Emily to Annie and back again. Emily was watching her, all big eyes and nodding. Annie’s eyes were narrowed, clearly unsure which way it might go.

‘OK. OK.’ Holly nodded, and Emily clapped her hands together. ‘It’s not a bad idea. I know I have to tell him, and yes, this could be a good way of doing it.’

‘Awesome,’ Emily said, standing back to admire the van. ‘The ferry leaves tomorrow evening.’

Chapter Three

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

We need to talk. Emily says you’re pregnant and it’s my baby.

I’m playing polo tomorrow. Come by the club on the way to your ferry.

Were you ever going to tell me?

W

Chapter Four

‘Jesus, you told him?’ Holly was waiting by the ice cream van, hopping from one leg to the other, waiting for Emily to turn up. As soon as she could see her at the end of the road, she shouted the question at her.

‘It slipped out,’ Emily called back. She was walking slowly in high wedge mules and skin-tight black Capri pants.

‘It slipped out?’ Holly held her arms out either side of her. ‘You only had to keep it in for an evening! How did it slip out?’

Emily got to the van slightly out of breath, ‘Oh I don’t know, I was excited. I didn’t think you’d ever tell him.’

‘Oh man, Emily, now he hates me. He thinks I was never going to tell him.’

‘No, he doesn’t hate you.’ She bit down on her slick red bottom lip, ‘He just maybe isn’t quite sure, you know? Needs maybe calming down a bit.’

Holly raised her eyebrows, aghast.

Emily looked sheepish, ‘It didn’t go quite how I thought it would. But I think it’ll be OK. You've got all of France to talk about it.’

‘Shit!’ Holly hit the side of the van.

‘You look really tired.’ Emily pulled her sunglasses off and stared at her.

‘That’s because I didn’t really sleep last night! Oh god, Emily. Why do you do this to me?’

‘It’s fine.’ She waved her hand. ‘Oh look, there’s Annie. Hey, Annie, do you want to come to France with us? I’m worried that Holly might kill me. I need a chaperone.’

Annie was holding in a smile as she appeared with a big shopping bag that she handed to Holly, ‘I made you both some travelling sustenance. Thought it might help.’ She made a face at Holly, half sympathetic, half encouraging.

‘Is there pie?’ Emily asked, tottering over to peer in the Sainsbury’s bag. ‘Ooh there is, and what’s this, a Thermos. Well done, Annie. It’s like a proper road trip.’ She glanced at Holly. ‘Oh come on, smile, talk to me. You can’t ignore me the whole way. We’ve got a twelve-hour drive ahead of us. So I messed up. I think it’ll be a good thing in the end. Look, we swing by the polo, we sort it out, we meet up in France in a couple of days when he’s calmed down.’ Emily glanced at Annie who nodded enthusiastically at Holly.

Holly rolled her eyes. ‘Fine,’ she said, trying not to look across the river at the boat club and the white froth of cherry trees behind it, trying not to feel that she was driving away from everything she knew and everywhere she felt safe. ‘Let’s go, let’s get this over with. Thanks for the food, Annie,’ she said, pulling herself up into the driver’s seat and picking her sunglasses up off the dash. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘Good luck, Hols. It’ll be OK. Just think that you’re doing it for the baby.’ Annie crossed her arms in front of her and smiled.

Holly blew out a breath and nodded, covering her eyes with her aviators.

Emily went sheepishly round to the passenger side. ‘Bye, Annie,’ she whispered. ‘Wish
me
luck.’

Annie scrunched up her face in sympathy, ‘Good luck, Em. Email me…’ she called as Holly started the engine. ‘Keep me updated. I want to know everything.’

They drove pretty much in silence. Emily, who clearly had a hangover from all the champagne at the regatta and didn’t want any more tellings off, wrapped her scarf round her head, put her bare feet up on the dashboard and went to sleep against the passenger side window.

Holly had been practising a technique from a stress-management talk given to the GB team at one of their international training camps. At the start of a race they’d been taught to think of a time they felt strongest and a time they felt calmest. The aim being to channel those feelings instead of the sick-making, hand-shaking pre-race nerves. Which were similar to how she felt now. Morning sickness was nothing compared to her current nausea. A couple of Rich Tea biscuits would not make this go away. Instead she thought of her strong time. She used to use a memory of winning her first-ever race, crossing the finish line and seeing her dad cheering and waving his arms triumphant. Now she needed something else, something less physical strength and more emotional.

She thought of kneeling down next to her dad’s chair in the living room when she was back from university and saying,
‘You have to tell Mum she can’t come back. Dad, she’s using you. She’s using us. She comes back and then she leaves, can’t you see that? You have to tell her that she can’t come back this time. You
have
to.’
All the while thinking, let her beg to stay, please let her beg to stay and say that she’s changed. Please let her surprise us. Please let it be different.

She thought of her dad taking a deep breath, shaking his head and leaving the room. Her thinking that it would be the same. That once again her mum would come back for six months or so and then break their hearts again. That all the courage it had taken for her to tell her dad to make this change was for nothing.

Until she looked out the window the next morning and her mum was getting into a black cab. And her dad was watching from the porch. And Holly felt this shuddering sense of relief that it was over.

She had waited on the stairs for her dad to shut the front door and when he’d seen her he’d come to sit down next to her, the paisley carpet under their feet, put his arm around her shoulders, kissed her hair and said,
‘Thank you.’

That was her feeling of strength.

That was the courage that flooded through her veins.

And the calm? The calm was the mornings on the river. Always the same. In winter the sheets of ice would crack and float like sculptures, in spring the cherries would flower and the river would flood and burst its banks, in summer the cygnets would grow into big, fat swans and in autumn the leaves would paint the sky red like a bonfire. Every morning she would take her boat out, she would row up to the weir and back, past the willow dipping its leaves tentatively in the chilly water, past the pub, closed and shuttered up, under the bridge where she’d lie back and look up and see the moss growing on the wooden slats. The river would always smell the same, a sharp tang that infused her skin, her clothes, her life. And as her boat floated in the stream, she would watch the water as it eddied and flowed and the waves danced in the rising sunlight.

That was calm.

Two minutes later, Emily woke up, all groggy and complaining of a crick in her neck. And as she yawned and stretched her arms and the van rounded a bend, ahead of them a huge white and maroon sign for the polo club, she peered forward and said, ‘We’re here. That’s Wilf’s car.’

And all Holly’s inner calm and strength went straight out the window.

Chapter Five

The drive up to the polo field seemed endless. Lining the road were people dressed in polo shirts and blazers, chatting in groups by their flash cars. Arriving in an ice cream van, Holly had never felt so conspicuous in her life. Especially when Emily got over-excited and switched on the nursery rhyme Tannoy so the whole place turned and looked at them and the van sang its way in.

‘There’s Wilf, over there…’ Emily pointed to the far field where a match had just ended. One guy was sitting astride his pony, the other was leading his by the rein. ‘And that’s Alfonso, the guy on the pony. He’s Argentinian, bloody awesome player and absolutely stunning. Just wait till we get close up.’

Holly wasn’t really listening, her blood was rushing in her ears. Wilf had looked up at the sound of the van approaching and stopped where he was. Alfonso had paused, glanced up to see what it was that had caught Wilf’s attention.

‘Pull up on the end of this row,’ Emily said, jumping down out of the van almost before it was parked. ‘Come on. Quicker we get this done, the easier it will be.’ She stopped and turned when she realised Holly hadn’t got out the van. ‘Holly. I promise, it’ll be OK.’ She walked back over to the driver’s side. ‘I shouldn’t have told him, but…’ She blew her hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s done now and I think it’s for the best. At the very least it means that you don’t have to do this on your own. I told him he had to support you. He’s loaded.’

‘I don’t want his money, Em.’ Holly put her hand to her mouth. ‘God, do you think he thinks that I want his money? I don’t want any money. Oh god, it gets worse.’

‘You’re entitled to his money, Holly. For the baby. Oh he’s coming over. Get out of the van. And flump up your hair a bit. And put your sunglasses back on because your eyes look knackered. Hey, Wilf!’ Emily waved. ‘Hi, Alfonso. Oh I love your pony, she’s so lovely. Look at you…’ Emily skipped over to the chestnut mare, rested her hand on the white star on its forehead and made faces into its big unblinking brown eyes.

Holly slipped cautiously down from the cab of the van, brushing down her jeans and then pulling her hands into the cuffs of her jumper, preparing herself almost for battle.

But the reality of it all, the bright sunshine, the lush grass and the chugging of the sprinkler, Emily jabbering on at Alfonso and his pony, Wilf’s palomino munching on a polo mint, wasn’t as she expected.

In her mind she’d had the
Eastenders
’ theme tune, shouting and maybe a bit of hair-pulling, death stares and ‘how dare you’s. But instead, standing in front of her was Wilf. The same guy who she’d bumped into in The Duck and Cherry pub when they all came to visit the island. The guy who’d sidled up to her all lazy confidence, a pint in one hand, the other toying with a beer mat and said,
‘Miss Somers. What a pleasure…’

Holly, who had been sitting alone while Matt went to get drinks at the bar, had leant forward, elbows rested on the little pub table and said,
‘Nice to see you, Wilf. It’s been a while since you were back on the island.’

‘Hasn’t it just?’

The last time she’d seen him was at the one and only Cherry Pie Festival about fifteen years ago. Wilf, a budding entrepreneur, had just finished boarding school and was desperate to make some cash, start his empire and never look back. Teaming up with his best mate, Alan Neil’s eldest son, Jack, quite possibly the coolest kid on the island, they’d put on what was meant to be a mellow, bijoux little festival. The plan had been to laze about on hay bales in the grounds of the manor house, dance to some local bands, eat food from cute stalls and get drunk till dawn. That all happened, except the flyers got photocopied and passed on and on until more people arrived than the island had ever seen. For Holly, Annie and Co. it was brilliant. For the residents it was less so. By 1 a.m. the police had been called and the little festival shut down. Wilf and Jack scored it a success because they’d more than doubled their money. The residents banned it from ever taking place again. Holly remembered sitting eating cherry pie in the cafe the next morning, dreamily remembering the cheeky snog she’d had with Wilf behind the band marquee. She’d left for a warm-weather training camp in Seville the next day and by the time she got back, Wilf had moved onto bigger, better things. His empire had indeed started and his face, like his sister’s, was all over the society pages of
Tatler
and
Harper
’
s Bazaar
. But while interviewers seemed to fixate on Emily’s single status - ignoring details about her new product launches and asking her over and over again how she felt about her almost-marriage and her doomed relationship history - Wilf just got a few lines referring to him as a bachelor business mogul or playboy restauranteur, then acres of coverage about whichever of his new restaurants was about to open.