Old Girls on Deck

Chapter One

‘Denny, I have the most exciting news. I’m getting married!’

I put my tea down on the worktop and stared blankly into the far distance for a second. But of course I knew that voice, I recognised that chuckle. It was just the message that confused me for a moment.

‘Juliette!’ I said at last. ‘Did you really say you’re getting married?’

She laughed again. I could almost imagine my sister – well, stepsister if I was being accurate – with her feet up on her leopard-print sofa, a gin and tonic in one hand. My much-married mother had left both chaos and the two of us in her wake when she ran off with her fourth husband.

‘Yes, me! Married!’ Juliette said. ‘Isn’t it amazing? You have to be there. I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘Married to Matthew,’ I said, ‘just to be sure I’m up to speed?’

You never really knew with Juliette. In the past, she had been a first-class flirt, which meant the man of the moment might be consigned to history the next.

‘Of course I’m getting married to Matthew, you twit! You know how lovely he is, despite the tweeds and the shooting stick. And the bristly moustache. There are only two men on the planet with a moustache who are attractive, in my opinion, and Matthew is one of them.’

‘And who is the other?’

‘Tom Selleck, of course.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Well, this is incredibly exciting,’ I said, ‘when did this happen?’

Juliette gave a little squeak of delight. ‘Last night. I know we make an odd couple, but oh, Denny, I’m so happy!’

‘You sound it,’ I said, smiling. ‘And when is the big day? Are you off to Vegas? Or a beach in the Caribbean? Oooh, you need to be careful, it’s hurricane season there in the summer, but you might get lucky and avoid them.’

‘Don’t be daft. This is me and sensible Matthew, not me and some random celebrity with too many tattoos and a drug habit. We’re hoping to book a day in June, because he’s heard the church has had a cancellation. There are benefits to being the church warden. Lucky for us, eh? Although not so lucky for the local farmer whose fiancée stayed on in Brixham after her hen weekend. Who knew trawler captains could be so gosh darned attractive? But that’s not the only reason I’m ringing. I’m already planning a hen weekend. Well, a hen week, actually. More like a hen ten days. Let’s just call it a hen holiday. Last night, as soon as I said yes, I started looking through the internet and this morning I have found the most glorious villa to rent on Mallorca. Sea views, a pool and level walking distance to restaurants. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms. My treat. And I want you to be there. You have to be there. You’re one of my closest relations left now. Do you realise we are now the older generation? The ones who normally get stuck on the boring table at weddings talking about our ailments? Well, that’s not going to happen this time, I’ll make sure of that. It wouldn’t be the same without you there. Do say yes.’

Juliette rambled on for a while, telling me about the villa on the Mallorcan coast, the date, the first ten days in April, and the flight possibilities. She wanted to fly from Birmingham, which was incredibly convenient and anything that avoids a trip to Luton or Stanstead is a plus in my opinion.

I had to admit that her enthusiasm was infectious, but also a bit unsettling. All the years we had both been – for various reasons – effectively single, we’d been able to commiserate with each other about the various men with whom we had been in and out of relationships. Now she was moving on, to a new place which I couldn’t really understand. Of course I was happy for her, but even so, I felt a bit – well – left out, I suppose.

I gave myself a mental slap for my rather selfish thoughts, and focused back in on what she was saying.

‘And we will each have our own bedroom, and from the pictures on the website there isn’t a dud one with bunk beds, a box of Lego under the bed and a loo in the cupboard that doesn’t flush properly. Villa Gloriosa is right in the middle of the cutest little fishing village. Cobbled streets, ancient church, boats, sea views, the lot.’

‘It does sound wonderful,’ I said when she stopped to draw breath.

I hadn’t done anything exciting for months and the winter seemed to be going on forever. This sounded like a terrific opportunity for some fun before Juliette dived back in to married life.

‘I’ll send you the link,’ Juliette said. I could hear her fingers tapping away on her laptop and a moment later there was a corresponding ping from my inbox.

‘Oh, my goodness. It looks fantastic! Who else is coming?’

‘The other Old Ducks, of course. You’re old enough to be invested into the order now you’re sixty. And Kim and Sophia will want to be there. Anita would too but I know she is off with one of her dance groups on a tour of Scotland. It’s been booked for months. She has two new dresses, she said they needed their own suitcase, the skirts are so full. We are going to have such fun.’

I looked out of the window at the winter rain, which seemed to have been falling for days, if not weeks. I really needed to go out and get some milk, my tea consumption was rising to epic volumes now that I had retired. I had eaten my last KitKat yesterday too. Perhaps I needed to restock. And perhaps have some proper food instead of just snacking. Actually cook a meal. But then it always seemed too much of an effort, spending hours chopping vegetables and stirring and messing about in the kitchen just for me. And then it never looked like the illustration on the packet, so what was the point?

‘So take a look at the details, I’m going to contact the others next, and force them to come. It’s a shame Anita is away, but I know Kim will be up for it. She’s a great laugh. Do you remember her? The maths teacher. Both of her kids are still trying to move back in with her, and she’s talking about changing the locks yet again. What she really needs is a moat and drawbridge, but you can’t really do that in Kidderminster, you’d never get planning permission. And Sophia – you haven’t met her, have you? She lives on Rhodes with the handsomest man. She met him there. Wouldn’t it be nice if you met someone in Mallorca? A gorgeous Spanish noble, or a backpacking billionaire?’

‘I don’t think I want to,’ I said.

Juliette chuckled. ‘Take my word for it, that’s when it always happens. When you’re not looking for someone. Look at me, I met Matthew in the queue for the ice cream van at the village fete. The old biddies around here will be livid when word gets around we are engaged, I can’t wait to tell them. It’s quite possible the parish councillors will explode with fury when Matthew books the church. And when the banns are read there will be newsletters and false teeth all over the place.’

I laughed. ‘Troublemaker.’

‘You know me. So you’ll come?’

‘Oooh, I don’t know,’ I teased, ‘let me have a look at my diary.’

‘That shouldn’t take long,’ Juliette scoffed.

No, she was right, it wouldn’t. I had retired just before Christmas, my department head made me an offer no one would have refused, and I had somehow gone from being frantically busy with meetings and appointments to a desert wasteland of empty weeks.

Of course, at first it had been great, to wake up when I felt like it. Go out or stay in when it suited me. Not have to stress about deadlines or other people’s inability to send coherent emails. But now, a few months in, I was beginning to feel I needed something more to fill my days. I’d spent decades, my whole working life, being sensible and disciplined. Suddenly, if I was honest, I was beginning to feel a bit rudderless. Yes, I was happy, but I was beginning to realise there’s only so much satisfaction that can be gained from pleasing oneself all the time.

I went back to the conversation.

‘I can cancel the trip to Cannes for the film festival if I have to, and the Buckingham Palace tea party…’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Of course I’m kidding,’ I laughed. The excitement was beginning to grow as I took the news in properly. ‘Congratulations! I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Married!’

‘Then you’re definitely coming,’ Juliette said. ‘Good, because if she found out there was a spare place, my daughter would be angling to come, if nothing else so she could get a week away from the twins. Or worse than that, she might want the twins to come too. Much as I love Melissa and her kids, and I do sympathise with her problems with potty training, I don’t think it would be the same with them there. But then she was nearly forty when the twins were born. Perhaps she doesn’t have the energy I did at twenty-two when I had her? I will send you over all the details when I get them. Flights and that sort of thing. We could travel together. And you’d better make sure your passport is up to date. I’m going to start a WhatsApp group for us as soon as I hear from the others. Right, I must go. I have a hundred phone calls to make. Perhaps that’s a slight exaggeration. Speak soon! I’m so excited!’

With a last happy squeak, Juliette rang off and my house suddenly seemed very quiet and peaceful again. Perhaps too quiet.

I sat with my mouth open for a few moments, taking in the news. So my stepsister was, after all these years, taking the plunge into marriage again.

That was a surprise. Gary, her first husband, had been a disaster; handsome, charismatic, untrustworthy, unfaithful, and ultimately unlikeable. Enough to put anyone off a second attempt. He had left her with a daughter ten years after they had married and gone off to find everlasting love with his secretary. And after that fell apart, some other poor woman with more money than sense. I’d lost track of him. Although I did occasionally see him on Facebook, showing off about something.

It had reinforced my subconscious belief that marriage didn’t work, had probably never been a good idea and definitely wasn’t for me. I had been wise to avoid it.

So there I was at sixty, retired, reasonably healthy, just about financially secure, and looking for the next chapter in my life. I needed to find a new challenge. Or perhaps discover a new skill? Maybe take up a hobby? I had no idea what that would be.

I’d become so immersed in work that I hadn’t had time for hobbies. And I hadn’t had a proper, getting-on-a-plane holiday for ages. I hadn’t had a satisfactory relationship for years.

I’d enjoyed being retired at first, I’d even tidied the airing cupboard, and the drawer in my desk with all the cables and adaptors. Well, I had wrapped them into coils and shoved them all back in because everyone knows the minute you throw one away it’s the one you need. But I had to admit the novelty of not going to work was beginning to wear off. I needed to do something different.

I suddenly had the awful feeling that something was happening to me. I was starting to behave and live and think like an old person. Eating the same meals all the time, wearing the same clothes each week. And in my head, I wasn’t old at all. I was just the same me as I had always been.

Perhaps I would think about all this in Mallorca. I hugged myself with excitement. A real break from routine, with Juliette and her friends, in the sunshine. I hadn’t been abroad for ages; not since the disastrous trip to Texas with Hal. If I was going to be looking around somewhere new, I’d rather it wasn’t in one hundred degrees of heat with someone complaining about the humidity affecting his hair.

Perhaps this time I would be able to relax and enjoy myself. If Juliette was there, we were bound to have some fun.

I Googled the little town where we would be staying. There were pictures of cute cafés and restaurants. Wine bars with twinkling lights. Music and friendly locals smiling at the camera, who would show us where the best markets were. And I’d heard all about their last trip to Rhodes. Hopefully Juliette wouldn’t get arrested this time.

My mother had married her third husband – Juliette’s father – when I was twelve and Juliette was sixteen. So I went from being an only child to the kid who hung around her, getting in the way and being annoying. I’d been brilliant at that – Juliette had locked me in the garage at least twice when she couldn’t put up with me any longer – but I couldn’t imagine how that particular talent might be useful during my retirement.

Juliette had liked classical music, and I preferred T Rex and David Bowie. By the time Juliette went to university to study music, we had learned to at least tolerate each other. She was always the cool, talented one, with loads of friends in colourful clothes who lolled around in Juliette’s room or smoked out of the window, talking about composers I’d never heard of.

I was the school kid with lank, mousy hair and spots, who never quite got to grips with fashion. The four-year age gap between us seemed to gradually widen into an unbridgeable crevasse. And she was on the other, more interesting side with boyfriends and tales of all-night parties and people growing pot on their windowsills.

But then as soon as she had got her degree, Juliette was pregnant and married to Gary and all her vivacity seemed to drain out of her. I, meanwhile, was off to university to study politics and economics, and unexpectedly I was the one with possibilities ahead of me.

By then, our parents’ marriage was foundering – predictably, because my mother needed more excitement and male approval than Juliette’s father – or, let’s be honest, any man – was able to provide – and two years later they were divorced. But funnily enough, that was when Juliette and I became real friends.

Perhaps she had at last been able to see me as an adult, with a character and ideas and a life of my own, not just an annoying stepsister who borrowed her clothes without asking. Who had rifled through her make-up, spritzed myself with her Aqua Manda perfume and fused her heated rollers, hoping to transform myself into Farrah Fawcett.

When her fifteen-year-old daughter Melissa went on her first school trip to Florence, I’d taken Juliette away for a weekend in Paris as a treat. I’d been busy and quite successful by then and was rising through the ranks of the government department where I worked.

‘It’s all right for you, working in a building filled with men. I think I’m going to be on my own forever,’ Juliette pouted as we shared a bottle of wine at a café with a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower.

That day had been bright and warm, and the air was filled with the particular scent and excitement that was Paris in the spring. It hadn’t seemed the day for sadness or pessimism.

I thought about some of the men I worked with. They all seemed rather pedestrian for someone as extrovert as Juliette, and most of them wore the same suits every day which predictably held the faint whiff of body odour.

‘Trust me, the men I work with are not a deep dating pool. Jules, you are thirty-seven. Not one hundred and seven,’ I’d said. ‘You’re bright, funny, clever, and good company. And you look terrific.’

She perked up a little. ‘That’s the cosmetic surgery, there’s nothing like bridgework and a boob job to lift your spirits. I’m thinking of getting a face lift when I’m fifty. Anyway, I’ve not met anyone yet. No one halfway decent, anyway,’ she’d replied. ‘Are you still working on obscure papers for the government? Are you sure you haven’t got any nice, single friends you could introduce me to?’

I’d thought about it. My own dating history was pretty unsatisfactory, and I’d never dated a co-worker. Alasdair from Health and Safety had asked me out once, he was reasonably attractive in a Clark Kent-meets-mad-scientist sort of way, but all he ever talked about was pie charts and he liked to do an annual analysis of his year using details he had logged in his diary. The largest slices of that particular pie seemed to be work and dental flossing. I suppose he did have quite good teeth.

Back then, I didn’t seem to have the time or the will to commit to anyone. Perhaps it was seeing my mother’s example? Perhaps realising how Juliette’s life had changed once she married and had a child had put me off?

Once, long ago, there had been someone I’d loved, so I knew I was capable of love, I knew what that felt like, but not since then. The magic had never happened again.

I sighed. ‘Not really. Most of the men I meet are off the market or desperately unattractive. Unless you are looking for a man with good dental hygiene. And look at me, I’m thirty-three and no significant other. There are worse things in life, you know. I can do what I like without asking permission or treading carefully around someone or listening to the details of their various allergies and ailments. And so can you. I don’t have to worry about babysitters or playdates. I can afford to live a comfortable life doing a job I enjoy. And I’m hoping for a promotion soon. There’s plenty of time for all the rest of it.’

‘You always were the brainy one,’ Juliette sighed. ‘I just wish I had more to think about recently than my daughter’s GCSEs. The only management I do these days is trying to find her PE kit on a Sunday evening. It’s usually screwed up in a ball at the bottom of her bag with a rotting apple core.’

‘So what happened to the last boyfriend? I thought you were quite keen on him.’

‘Joe? I was till I found out he was still married.’ She ticked off the names on her fingers as she spoke. ‘Martin was selfish, Charlie was a player, Ben was tight-fisted. I could go on.’

I topped up her wine glass. ‘You’ll find someone. A man who is single, polite, generous, and fun. Who makes you laugh.’

‘Yes, but when?’

Well, she did find him in Matthew, but she had to wait quite a long time. She’d been sixty-three. And I had been fifty-nine when she started talking about a retired lieutenant colonel she had met at the village fete, and I had still been resolutely single. And now she was getting married, and we were off to Mallorca to celebrate.

There’s something marvellous about getting onto a plane in the rain and getting off in the sunshine. It’s like a little additional bonus.

Palma airport was bright, light, and spotlessly clean with seemingly endless corridors and very interesting shops selling sparkly sunglasses and unusual sweets. There were people everywhere in huge numbers, trailing through to departures while we looked for baggage reclaim, which, judging by the length of the corridors ahead of us, was probably in Madrid.

We got through passport control, security and customs without incident and finally collected our luggage. All we had to do now was meet up with the other Old Ducks.

I knew quite a bit about them. Juliette was the instigator, and Kim and Anita, her university friends, were founder members. The three of them had drifted in and out of my life over the years. Kind, fun-loving women with their own problems and challenges. The friendship that had bound them together had deepened into something more. A support group, I suppose, a safety net when the world let them down. But contrary to expectations, the older they got, the more fun they seemed to have.

I had friends of my own, of course I did, but I could tell there was something special about the Old Ducks. They were positive, encouraging, and – remembering a Christmas party a few years ago when the three of them had got together at Juliette’s house – very noisy. My own life had seemed very quiet and rather pedestrian in comparison.

And then, not long ago, they had gone to Rhodes and met up with Sophia from Oxford, who had been recovering from some relationship disaster, and after a rocky start, she had joined them. Now I supposed I was indeed old enough to be an Old Duck. Did I have the energy? Was I interesting enough for them to accept me? It would be fun, I was sure of that, but would I fit in?

Kim had been visiting a friend in Bristol, and should have flown in an hour before us. Sophia would be arriving in a couple of days. She was delayed by a family wedding on Rhodes she needed to attend.

After a few minutes, Juliette – conspicuous in her yellow dress and gold Birkenstocks – reapplied her coral lipstick and scanned the crowds of people.

There were families, a gang of young men in Chelsea football shirts shoving each other and drinking lager at the bar, several hen parties in the usual pink sashes and learner plates hooting with laughter, and a crocodile of older couples who were the only ones who seemed to know what they were doing as they forged through towards the exits with grim expressions. I watched as they all filed onto a coach with Redditch Gnome Appreciation Club on the front and allowed myself a few minutes to wonder what they would be talking about. Suddenly Juliette gave a little yelp of excitement.

‘There she is! I can see her!’

A woman of about our vintage came towards us, dragging a case behind her. Then she stopped as she dropped a bag of pick-and-mix, which scattered all over the floor.

The next few minutes were taken up with hugging and exclamations about how well everyone was looking. Meanwhile a resigned-looking young man rolled his eyes at us and hoovered up the dropped sweets with a sweeper cart.

I had first met Kim many years ago. She had liked cheesecloth shirts, patchouli oil, Dr Martens boots and maxi skirts. I remembered tales of their adventures at university, particularly when Kim had somehow managed to hoist the Dean’s university gown up a flagpole, which had seemed absolutely thrilling to a teenager who was still neck deep in exams and revision. But that day I didn’t immediately recognise her.

Now we were all in our sixties. Kim was comfortably shod and dressed for the sunshine in a voluminous blue dress, a scarf trailing around her neck and a chunky metal necklace.

‘This can’t be Denny?’ she said. ‘Golly, you’re glamorous. You make me feel quite dowdy in comparison!’

I was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, so I didn’t feel particularly glamorous. Kim was already delving in a capacious handbag for her phone.

‘Selfie!’ she shouted, and the three of us clustered together, putting on big, static grins.

‘No, wait!’ Juliette said, and she unzipped her cabin bag and started rummaging around. ‘Here, put these on.’

She pulled out three canvas bucket hats. Bright yellow and patterned with cartoon ducks.

‘These are our Ducks-on-tour hats. I’ve got one for Sophia too. They must be worn at all times.’

‘At least we will know where everyone is,’ Kim said approvingly.

Laughing, we pulled them on, and Juliette fussed at them, pulling the brims up or down before she allowed us to take our selfie.

‘Now then, there should be a travel rep here somewhere,’ Juliette said. ‘I hope so, anyway, otherwise we won’t know where to go.’

Kim pointed to someone next to a help desk wearing a bright green dress and doing the ‘walking about not really doing anything’ stroll, presumably while she waited for people like us to find her.

‘That’s her, isn’t it? Vista Villas?’

We grabbed our cases and trundled over to where the young blonde woman who had impeccably manicured nails and bright pink lipstick was standing, fidgeting, with a clipboard in her hand and an anxious expression on her face.

Juliette took charge. ‘We’ve just arrived, the Juliette Davies party.’

The young blonde woman blinked a bit at our matching hats and then leafed through a few sheets on her clipboard and ticked something off. Her face relaxed into a lovely smile.

‘Welcome to Mallorca! I’m Stacey, your Vista Villas rep. You’ve booked Villa Gloriosa, doesn’t that sound lovely? And it is, it’s new to us this year, I went to have a peek the other day. Just gorgeous. The groceries you ordered should be there, let me know if there’s any problem. And you’re next door to Villa Espléndida. There’s going to be a party of four in there too, but I’m sure they won’t be any bother. Some old people… birdwatchers I think they are. We get a lot of those, especially at this time of year. They won’t give you any trouble.’

We all smiled and nodded, and Stacey smiled and nodded back.

‘So my travel agent told me apparently I am too old to be trusted with a hire car, so we have booked a transfer taxi. Where do we find that?’ Juliette asked.

Stacey flicked through her clipboard again, a frown darkening her brow.

‘In the car park, but I sometimes think Palma airport has a car park the size of France. Luckily it’s not too busy today, as you can see.’

We looked out of the window, where dozens of coaches, cars and minibuses were lined up in orderly rows. Lines of passengers were standing hopefully, clutching their bags and grabbing their children as they wandered off. If that wasn’t busy, I wouldn’t like to have seen it when it was.

Stacey looked up at last with a bright smile. ‘Out there and turn right. Or is it left? No, it’s definitely right. It’s only my second season here with Vista Villas and it’s a bit confusing sometimes. You’re booked with Carlos; he has a silver people carrier. This is his registration number. He should be standing by his car holding up a card with your name on it. I’m told he’s very good, he’ll look after you. Although I’d hardly tell you if he was a psychopath or an axe murderer just out of prison, would I?’

She laughed merrily and ticked something else off her list.

Kim and I frowned at each other.

‘Come on then, girls,’ Juliette said cheerfully, ‘let’s go and find Carlos the not-axe-murderer.’

Carlos, who was easily small enough for us to overpower if he had taken a nasty turn, helped us into his car with our luggage and we left the airport. We turned up lots of slip roads and joined busy highways at speed. There was a rosary and the picture of a fierce-looking woman we took to be Carlos’s wife hanging from his rear-view mirror, which jangled as we hurtled around roundabouts.

‘Look at those cactus plants! And there are mountains,’ Kim said. ‘I didn’t know there would be mountains. I don’t know why, I thought it would be flat.’

I pushed my hat to the back of my head and pressed my nose to the car window, admiring the scenery, which was fantastic. Already I was feeling we were going to enjoy ourselves.

‘Those are the sort of mountains Sharpe would have fought in, aren’t they? Do you remember Sean Bean fighting the French, or the Spanish? Or both at once, I can’t remember. Hanging off a crag by his fingertips with a rifle in one hand.’

‘Wasn’t he wonderful,’ Juliette sighed, ‘and there would be a bandit, with baggy red trousers and fierce moustaches and a bandolero, laden down with bullets, hiding out in the mountains. And he would capture Sharpe and snarl at him through narrowed eyes. Dondé es el gato?’

‘Oooh, that sounds thrilling,’ Kim said, ‘what does that mean?’

‘Where is the cat,’ Juliette admitted, ‘it’s the only Spanish I can remember, which after a ten-week course in the village hall is a bit useless.’

We all laughed, and Carlos took a wary glance at us in his rear-view mirror. I turned to look at my companions and felt a sudden burst of optimism. I think I had already laughed more that day than I had for ages. It was almost intoxicating.

Forty minutes later, we reached a roundabout which had been decorated with a huge metal sculpture of a plane, negotiated a few narrow streets and at last swung into a short driveway.

Carlos, who didn’t like to do less than fifty miles an hour, perhaps because he was keen to get us to our destination and stop the incessant noise, not the least of which was Kim’s laugh, skidded to a dusty halt on the gravel, startling a black and white cat out of its morning nap.

The villa was indeed glorious, very modern, with huge glass windows and polished stone floors. Despite the fact that we were all old enough to know better, we hurried around like children to investigate all the rooms, exclaiming at the size of the television, the views over the Mediterranean from the upstairs rooms, the lovely turquoise pool, the big bedrooms, and well-equipped bathrooms.

For the first time in ages, I felt that thrill of excitement that goes with having an adventure. Seeing something new with the anticipation of some good company and fun. Where no one who knew me as Ms Denise Lambert from the contracts division would appear and dump a pile of folders on my desk or raise their eyebrows if they saw me in a swimming costume. Not that I ever wore a swimming costume to work, I think if I had a couple of them would have fainted.

It didn’t take long to sort out which bedrooms we would take, because they were each equally lovely. Except for the master suite, with a white four-poster bed and whirlpool bath, which Juliette nabbed. It seemed only fair, after all, she was the bride.

I was in one of the other rooms with a view of the sea, Kim had a room overlooking the back of the house, where there was a garden and the pool.

‘I’m so relieved to have an en suite,’ Kim said happily. ‘I’m a bit funny about sharing a bathroom these days. At home, I have to jostle for space with Gemma’s make-up and Simon’s shaving stuff, which they leave there in case they need to crash at my place. It can get very depressing. They are both in their thirties, and I still seem to spend most of my time putting their clutter away.’

Later, watching Juliette darting around the huge kitchen, opening all the cupboard doors and drawers, pulling things out of the boxes of groceries on the worktop, it seemed as though the years had slipped away. I could still remember her as the vivacious, positive young woman she had been when we had been growing up together.

‘Bottle opener, that’s what I need to find. Please don’t tell me there isn’t one? Ah!’

Juliette held up a bottle opener triumphantly and then started peeling the foil off a bottle of red wine.

‘It’s eleven-thirty,’ Kim said doubtfully.

Juliette gave her a look as she heaved the cork out of the bottle.

‘Now look, Kim, during the week my body is a temple. At the weekends and on holiday it’s a student union, with a sticky floor. With a punk band playing.’

‘Fair enough. I’m going outside for a cig,’ Kim said. ‘I’ve got withdrawal symptoms.’

‘I thought you’d given up?’ Juliette yelled after her.

‘I’ve cut down,’ Kim shouted back, pulling the patio doors open.

A breath of warm air came into the room, bringing with it the scent of the sea and the sound of some small birds twittering in the bushes.

I abandoned my ideas of unpacking, logged my phone on to the internet and followed Kim out into the sunshine. It was a gorgeous, warm spring day, which after the dreary weeks of winter in England was absolutely marvellous. Perhaps it was possible to think more clearly when the weather was good. There’s nothing like slightly damp shoes and a dripping raincoat to depress the spirits.

I checked the weather app on my phone, eight degrees and raining in Birmingham. Twenty-one degrees and sunny here. Marvellous. Sorry, Birmingham.

There were a few trees around the pool, which had been savagely pollarded at some point, but which were now sending out green shoots, the promise of new beginnings. It seemed symbolic. I needed a few green shoots in my life too. To open up my world, to think new thoughts, to take a few chances.

Kim lit a cigarette and took a deep, satisfied drag at it. She held out the packet towards me with an enquiring eye and I shook my head.

‘Filthy habit, I know. And expensive. I remember when it was seventy pence for a pack. Ah, that’s better. I will give up soon, just at the moment, well. It’s no secret I’m a bit stressed. This holiday is absolutely what I need.’

‘This is great, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘So peaceful and the villa is lovely.’

Kim nodded. ‘I think we should all go for a swim, get in the holiday mood. I hope I can still get my cossie on. I’ve been doing a lot of comfort eating, but I’ve realised cake is no comfort in the long run, is it? I’m still stressed and a bit fatter.’

I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sun.

‘I remember you when you were a kid,’ Kim said at last, ‘you used to be like a string bean. Skinny little legs, we were all so jealous of you.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Were you? I was so jealous of you lot. You were all doing exciting things, going to university, having boyfriends, talking about going to discos.’

Kim laughed. ‘We did have a good time all those years ago. But since then, we’ve all had our problems. Friendship is what counts in the end. Everyone bangs on about the importance of romantic love, but the affection and support of good friends is just as significant. I don’t know what I would have done recently without the Old Ducks. Stewart did the dirty on me, left me for some trollop, and just as I was getting over all that, my kids keep trying to move back in with me. They say it’s to look after me, which is a joke because the only kitchen gadget they know how to use is a microwave and they wouldn’t think of cleaning it. I even got them their own flat share and that’s worked for a while. But then two weeks ago Simon split up with his girlfriend again, for good this time, and worse than that, Gemma lost her job. I know what could happen, they’d revert to behaving like teenagers, a pile of shoes at the bottom of the stairs, nothing in the fridge except empty cartons, and they would spend all their cash on fancy phones and clubbing and then complain they can’t afford their own place any more. Never mind, tell me all about yourself. I only get snippets from Jools.’

‘I’ve just taken early retirement, never married, no kids.’

Suddenly it felt a bit pathetic to be able to sum up my life in one short sentence.

Kim nodded. ‘So that’s why you don’t have any wrinkles. My therapist told me that wrinkles go where smiles have been, and I said to her, well, I don’t remember ever being that happy.’

She stubbed out her cigarette in a bucket of sand by the door and dusted her hands together.

‘Anyway, I’m back up to speed now. I’m going to go upstairs and unpack. Coming?’

‘In a minute,’ I said, ‘there’s no rush. I’m enjoying this.’

I sat down on one of the sunbeds, which were neatly lined up by the side of the pool. They were very comfortable, with thick yellow cushions and white fringing. How lovely to have that sort of thing in one’s garden. In England there would have to be a continual to and fro of taking the cushions in when it rained, checking the weather forecast and putting them back out again.

I put my feet up, rested my head back and closed my eyes again. I took a few deep breaths. Out with that cold English air, and in with the warm Spanish sunshine. It felt very pleasant indeed.

I thought about Juliette and her daughter and her granddaughters, Kim and her problems with her adult children, and for a moment I felt almost unsettled. I only had myself to think about. Which in a way was good, but possibly it wasn’t. The worries, the emotional rollercoaster, the complicated plotting of parenthood, all of that had passed me by. Maybe after all I had missed something.

I don’t think I had realised how frazzled I had been in the last few months. And I couldn’t blame the pressures of work any more, just the difficulty in getting to grips with my new life, of not going to work any longer, not darting out of bed at six-thirty and battling with rush-hour traffic. I was having to create a new sort of pattern to each day, one which I wasn’t always embracing very successfully if I was honest. In fact, on several occasions I had analysed my feelings and realised I was bored.

Instead, I’d filled my time with other things. Keeping on top of the laundry, painting the bathroom twice because the first colour I chose was too dark, making the effort to cook proper meals very occasionally, reading, more time being on my own.

I suppose this was what my mother had implied when she said that one day I would regret not marrying and having a family. This segment of my life when I didn’t have a companion, grown-up children, at my age perhaps grandchildren. But as I had always said in answer to her criticism, I was not childless, I was child-free. And relationships were no guarantee of anything. If anyone knew that, then she did.

Of course not, she had said, if you want a guarantee, buy a toaster.

I heard the door to the villa next door open and the quiet sounds of other people on their patio, separated from ours by a medium-sized hedge and a white gate. Presumably for when one party rented both villas.

Perhaps these were the group of old people Stacey had mentioned. The birdwatchers.

‘Nice pool,’ a male voice said, ‘we could have a dip later.’

‘I need a drink first, me old mucker. Let’s break out the lager. Has Vince got all the duty-free in from the car?’

‘Think so.’

‘I’ll go and look.’

I wondered who they were and what duty-free they had bought. We should have bought some too, but we hadn’t bothered. We had been too busy reading announcement boards and looking at the dinky little airport specials in the make-up departments.

I carried on doing my slow, controlled breathing.

Four-part breath, my yoga teacher had called it. Not that I had been for years, but it was one of the few things I remembered. I had quickly realised that Downward Dog and I would never be friends. I felt my mind relax. I should go in and unpack, but this was so pleasant, to be lying here in the sunshine without a care in the world. Knowing that in the villa there were other people I could talk to. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Hold it.

I was startled out of my restful trance by a male voice.

‘Good God. Denny? Is that you?’

I gasped, opened my eyes and jerked round, looking around to see who had spoken and nearly falling off the sunbed in the process.

I could see the head and shoulders of a man standing on the other side of the white gate; tall, close-cropped grey hair, a suggestion of designer stubble.

Who the…?

‘Denny. It is you. I can’t believe it!’

I stared at him for several seconds, my mind ferreting about to remember who he was. Not someone from work, there hadn’t been anyone there half as attractive as this man. And I certainly didn’t know any birdwatchers.

I swung my legs off the sunbed and sat up.

He laughed. The laugh was familiar, deep, and warm. It couldn’t be?

‘It’s me, Denny. Bruno.’

I looked at him, my mouth open with shock.

Yes, I did know him. Of course I did. Bruno Browning. I hadn’t seen him for nearly forty years. We had been to university together.

The memories came flooding back. He’d had an English father who had abandoned the family when Bruno was thirteen, and a Spanish mother who was hugely protective of her only son.

We’d taken trips together. We’d gone camping on the Gower one summer. He’d liked curry nights at the student union, he drank beer and occasionally whisky. He’d been the only one of us with a car, an old blue Morris Traveller called Janet. He’d broken down driving us to Stratford-upon-Avon one weekend and we had spent four hours on the side of the road waiting for someone to come and rescue us.

Bruno had rubbed Ambre Solaire into my back, trimmed my fringe when it was too long and I’d had a sprained wrist.

Bruno Browning had broken my heart.