Inspired by my holiday I'm shamelessly taking Charles and Elsie with me and into an alternate universe. And I've got to admit I'm making it up as I go but it feels fun to be writing them again, albeit in a very different time and setting.
Apologies for any errors, I'm writing this on my tablet in bright sunshine! I hope you enjoy!
It was 9:45 a.m. Their flight was at 14:20.
She was fixing her earrings when he came into the room, he slumped down on the bed with head in hands, "Whatever's the matter?" She asked eyeing him in the mirror, "You look like you're about to be hung, not go on holiday."
"Did I tell you I have a fear of flying?"
"You said you didn't like flying, I assume you meant you get bored."
"I loathe flying, in fact multiply that, my arms feel like jelly already…"
She put down her mascara and instead went to rest her hands on his shoulders, smoothing down the collar on his shirt. "You should have said, we could have stayed in Europe – shared the driving or took the Eurostar, or even stayed right here – maybe gone down to Devon."
"England in April – it's cold and very wet." Truth be told it was their first real holiday together, discounting a couple of days in the Peak District and New Year in Edinburgh, and he hadn't wanted to dent her enthusiasm.
They'd met for lunch one Thursday (her free afternoon so no rushing back for classes) and she'd arrived annoyed at the frosty January weather and ungritted roads, and enthused about the idea of getting away at Easter for the sun. Some friend or other had been on a cruise – she knew he hated the idea of close quarters with strangers but the destination – just outside of Dubai – sounded blissful and the thought of seven days with her in a bikini by a pool seemed idyllic. So, he agreed, he let her book it all, a private villa with a beach view, and wrote her a cheque for his half.
They'd been dating just over seven months now and he was still rather amazed that she'd stuck with him. He could be a cantankerous old so-and-so, he knew that, and he had a reputation for being rather closed off and stoic when it came to relationships. His friends had pointed out for years the ridiculousness of the fact he'd had longer relationships with the books in his shop than he had with a woman.
She was everything he wasn't – kind, patient, warm, friendly. He'd known her for years of course, going on seventeen he reckoned. She'd always used his shop, he'd placed special orders for things she needed for her teaching, obscure history books, and they'd always chatted, passed the time of day. Then his mother – a rather overbearing Violet – had passed and suddenly the reins of the bookstore were his, he could do as he pleased. He was rooted so it took some time, painting the walls a fresh coat of white rather than the musty old grey had been his first step. And she'd been the one to encourage him to go for seating – a couple of armchairs perhaps, maybe a small table by the upstairs window to catch the afternoon light.
And he'd done it, because she'd suggested it.
At the time she must have been going through her divorce, but of course he wasn't to know that, but he did notice her visiting more often, sneaking in coffee and making use of the small upstairs table to sit and read in peace.
He noticed the white band around her finger when she came to pay one rainy afternoon, must be two years back now, and their fingertips had touched as she'd passed her card across. She'd looked at him then, an intense blue gaze doing something to his gut, and when he thinks on it now he wonders how he waited another year before asking her to dinner.
She's grown her hair since, is more of healthy weight – he likes her curves, the way he can rest his hands on her hips – and she seems happy, he hopes she is. Certainly her overzealous friend Beryl proclaims she is.
He's happy.
He presses his face into her stomach breathing in deeply,"I want to go, I'm looking forward to it, just not getting there."
"I'll hold your hand," she smiles sweetly.
"Ridiculous, I'm meant to be the brave man."
"What century are we in?"
He shakes his head and smiles ruefully, partly to avoid another argument about misogyny and antiquated ideas about the roles of men and women.
"The taxi will be here soon," she kisses his head, gives his shoulders a squeeze. "You'll be fine, we could call to the supermarket, get one of those rescue remedy things to calm you, and I've loaded plenty of books on your iPad…"
"Ridiculous contraption…"
She glares and he quietens, it was her Christmas gift to him, "You can read on the plane, or play the games on it."
"I think I'll rely on alcohol."
As it happens the flight is fine, a slight delay due to a sandstorm at the destination but the journey itself was smooth and uneventful. There'd been a backup of air traffic over Dubai due to the storm and the passengers has groaned when after a seven hour journey they were told they were being held in a flight pattern for at least another 30 minutes whilst awaiting a landing slot.
He'd gripped her knee then, startling her from the small television she was watching (the first live debate leading up to the election, seven leaders on one stage), and she'd yanked off her headphones, "What's the matter?"
"I may be sick."
"Do you want me to get you a bag?" She rummaged in the pack of materials stuffed into the pouch on the seat in front. "I might be sick myself, listening to Cameron's bull…"
She heard him huff in response, their politics were complete opposites, but his fingers still curled tightly around her kneecap.
"We're starting to go down," he said closing his eyes,
She glanced out of the box window,"So we are," she said dazzled by the coastline of lights below, visible as the plane tipped to the left.
"Oh god…"
She switched her attention to his face, screwed up now as he felt the movement of the plane, she rested her hand on his, tapping his fingers gently with hers. "Won't be long," she said softly. How odd, and perhaps almost sweet, that this giant of a man could be afraid of flying so. She was glad she'd paid that little extra when she'd booked and gone for two seats on their own, he needed the aisle for his legs!
"Almost there," for an odd moment she thought of Joe, the last time they'd flown together, their last holiday together. Over three years ago now, a last ditch attempt to save something that had died long ago, long before her daughter had left home, they'd clung on trying to find something to cling on to and then that terrible holiday. Littered with fights and bouts of heavy silence.
And three weeks later he moved out of their family home. He was married again now, some sour puss called Sarah, she'd come in as his assistant and was soon assisting him in more than one way. The last she'd heard they'd started turning his Dad's old farm into one of those farm produce/coffee shop establishments, Anna told her so much but she didn't like to pry. She didn't really want to know.
As the wheels touched Tarmac she felt him breathe relief, his hand turned on her knee – palm to palm with hers, and she folded her fingers with his. Yes, things were better now.
They'd expected a coach transfer to the hotel and a 80 minute journey but were instead met by a private driver and some American style jeep thing, the driver was in haste (it was almost 3am when they got to him following delays) and so the journey was considerably more frantic and nerve wracking than the flight.
She'd watched Charles doze on and off as his chin kept coming to rest on her shoulder. Then he'd wake with a jolt and take in the outline of scenery.
The lobby was empty but pristine. Swathes of cream adorned with gold, terracotta pots of tropical plants and sparkling, marbled floors. She'd taken the lead at the desk, it was booked in her name, "Elspeth Hughes and Charles Carson," she'd said a little wearily and heard Charles snort beside her, it amused him no end to tease her on her given name.
Ignoring him she signed in her details, picked up their welcome package and key cards and a young man had driven them and their luggage by golf cart to their villa.
She was desperate for the loo when they got in and disappeared into the luxurious bathroom.
"My god, it's wonderful out here," she'd heard him say as he unlocked the patio doors leading to their terrace.
The room was dimly lit by lamps and she followed the sound of the sea through the bedroom to the open doors, barefoot across the cool tiled terrace and out onto short grass.
"There may be lizards in this," she pointed out coming up behind him, drawing her cardigan around her.
"There may be, but look at our view."
She stood beside him, taking in the sound of the ocean rushing to shore not meters away from them, the smell of it, the gentle breeze, the warm air, the full moon above the water.
"You did good Elspeth, nice choice indeed, a far cry from Harrogate."
She nudged his elbow with hers, "Don't call me that,"
He drew his arm around her and pulled her into his side, "Thanks for bringing me here, I've never stayed anywhere so wonderfully decadent,"
"Neither have I, in fact I feel rather like a celebrity."
"Certainly somebody very rich."
"Yes, a teacher's salary never seemed to go too far when I had a child at home. Now, with just my little flat to keep, I seem to be doing okay," she didn't tell him she'd used money from her part of the house sale to fund the trip; nor did he tell her that his had been taken from the money his mother had left him.
"You realise it's gone four in the morning," she said, her body curling into his.
"Yes, but only one in England," he kissed her head. "Come, let's have a cup of tea and go to bed, we can unpack in the morning."
"Spoken like a true Englishman."
Next time a bit more back story I think, but I do hope you're enjoying what you've read so far. Reviews are most gratefully received! x R
