“Call me Jess,” said the girl after releasing his hand. “And he’s Antoni with an i.”
Behind her, the boy craned awkwardly over her shoulder to shake hands.
“Antoni Kaminski. Dad’s Polish. Food smells amazing. In case you needed to ask, neither of us have any food allergies and we’ll eat anything. Lots of anything. Am I rooming with you?” he asked Trevor.
“No, there’s plenty of space,” said Cheryl. She had taken her seat back at the table, having played her part. “We all have our own rooms. I’ve put Jessica on the top floor, up the central staircase to the right, and you’re on the ground floor, directly below. Oh, and my mum’s the cook. But you can call her Mrs M.”
“I can show you to your rooms,” said Trevor. “Anything else you need to know?”
“What’s the Wi-Fi password?” asked Antoni.
Of all the questions he could have asked, that one caught Trevor unaware. He’d forgotten to ask Rudy if the place had Wi-Fi. When he stared over at Cheryl for help, she merely shrugged and shook her head.
“Uh,” said Trevor, passing on the shrug, “I’m not sure we have Wi-Fi.”
“What?” said Antoni, horrified, his mouth dropping open as though Trevor had just told him they had no indoor toilets.
“Yes, we do,” said Mrs M, coming to the rescue, a small piece of paper in her hand. “Rudy made sure the router was working and left this with me. The network is Stratham4G, and he wrote the password up on the kitchen blackboard. It’s all gobbledegook to me. Just a series of number and letters.”
Rudy hadn’t said anything to him, but there, as Mrs M had said, in a neat script were chalked the words ‘WIFI Password (case sensitive): B1gluvG@ynoH8’.
Included beneath was his WhatsApp handle—RudyMKing—and a mobile number in case of emergencies. When Trevor turned back to Antoni, the young guy had visibly deflated with relief.
“Does that mean we’re not going to see you for the rest of the holiday? Except at mealtimes?” asked Jessica, glaring up at him, her hands on her hips.
Even though he could tell she was half-joking, Trevor understood. Something about Antoni screamed awkward introvert, someone who would happily hole himself up in his room. Maybe he had some sword-wielding, fantasy role-playing buddies he needed to keep in touch with to ensure the survival of the human race.
“What? No!” Antoni said, taken aback. “I have a marketing proposal to get out by Wednesday. And I need to get into the system at work for research materials.”
“Honestly, he works all the time,” Jessica said with a huff.
Okay, thought Trevor, so I need to reel in the stereotyping critic in my head.
“While Ms Wilkinson swans off on holiday to Tenerife for Christmas. Do you think she’s working? Yuh, I don’t think so. Getting a tan, more like.”
“Wilkinson?” asked Trevor in all innocence.
“Your friend. Hannah Wilkinson? The one who pushed us to come on this holiday.”
“Hannah’s gone to Tenerife?” asked Cheryl, plucking the glass away from her mouth, the flare in her eyes nothing short of molten. Trevor had been on the receiving end of that look once or twice.
“Jess,” hissed Antoni to the back of her head. “You weren’t supposed to say anything.”
“Oops,” said Jessica, a hand held over her mouth. “Sorry. My bad. Forgot you two used to be an item. Think it was a last-minute thing, if that helps.”
“They were an item until two days ago,” added Mrs M, slamming the Aga door closed. At least Jessica had the decency to look embarrassed at her admission.
“I really am sorry,” she said for Trevor’s benefit, while Mrs M went over to comfort Cheryl.
“Think I’d better show you to your rooms,” said Trevor, wanting to give Mrs M space to console Cheryl and time to vent.
Twenty minutes later, after getting Jess and Antoni settled and demonstrating the features of their rooms that Rudy had shown him, he returned to the kitchen. As he approached from the hallway, he spied Johnny and Frank standing shoulder to shoulder, arms folded, glaring at the front entrance as though a wild animal had happened across the threshold. Cheryl and Mrs M were nowhere to be seen. Only as he entered did he spot the cause of the men’s hostility.
Karl.
Beneath the permanent seriousness etched on his face, he still looked good, if a little tense and tired around the eyes. When he turned and saw Trevor, his features softened. His wild, shaggy brown hair and dark eyes had always captivated Trevor, even when they had disagreed with each other. Now sporting a trim beard, Karl had also tamed and styled his hair, and lost some weight. Togged out in his old tan leather bomber jacket and denim jeans, Karl had cultivated a hot but casual look befitting a GQ model. Not that Trevor could tell him, but he no longer had the rough edges of the male Beat Generation authors he loved so much, and right now wouldn’t have looked out of place in a boy band line-up.
“Everyone, this is Rosemary,” said Karl, stepping to one side. Trevor could tell by the way his ex-husband’s eyes flitted from one face to another that he was anxious, but in true Karl style, he stuck out his chin in defiance. “But she prefers plain Mary.”
