The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip (Cherry Pie Island - Book 2) by Jenny Oliver Page B
Authors: Jenny Oliver
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once and Enid had replied,
‘Your mother is a fool.’
Which had been strangely reassuring in its simplicity.
Wilf had carried on talking as Holly had been flying ahead, mapping out the future.
‘…so we have a room for the night, but there’s only one room with one bed which I don’t think Mummy will be very happy about but there’s not really anything that Daddy can do about it because some joker insisted that we stop in a town that had a conference on.’
Holly frowned. ‘Where are you going to sleep?’ she asked.
‘Oh come on, Holly. I think we’re old enough to be able to share a bed.’ Wilf sat up and stretched his arms out along the back of the bench.
‘I don’t think so. Look where it got us last time,’ she said and Wilf laughed.
‘I remember it being pretty enjoyable,’ he said and Holly rolled her eyes. Wilf laughed again as he stood up, ‘Come on, I promise I’ll be the perfect gentleman.’
‘You’d better be,’ she said, and swiped his arm away when he tried to guide her forward with his hand on the small of her back.
They walked side by side through the town, past restaurants that smelt of garlicky moules frites and bars with TV screens in the corner showing the football. Kids sat on stone stoops out the front of their houses and parents were chatting in the street. They turned right up a dark alleyway, walking towards a yellow awning that read: Hotel d’Europe 1*. The door had a scarlet curtain with stained gold fringing and the carpet was all swirly shades of red, brown and orange. When Holly looked at Wilf, he looked back at her a bit guiltily. At the desk inside was a man wearing a stained grey shirt and boxer shorts. Behind him was a curtain and behind that a bed, a TV and a fan and he’d clearly already settled himself in for the night.
He handed Wilf a key with a grunt and went back to the TV.
Holly was so knackered that the prospect of a bed made her ignore the peeling wallpaper, the cracks in the ceiling, the broken glass in the picture frame and what looked like a mousetrap at the side of the stairs.
Their room was on the top floor in the eaves. Wilf had to duck to unlock it.
They both stood on the threshold for a moment longer than necessary, staring in at the teeny-weeny attic room that smelt of mothballs and cabbage soup and the iron-framed bed with prison-blue sheets.
‘There’s no window,’ Holly whispered.
Wilf strode forward as if it was all just dandy. He opened the cupboard and had a peer in, then looked around the rest of the room, confused. ‘There’s no bathroom.’
‘Seriously?’ Holly really needed a pee. ‘Where is it?’
Wilf shrugged and went back out into the corridor and came back a minute later. ‘It’s two floors down,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Holly.’
She pressed her hands into her eyes and shook her head, ‘That’s OK. It’s a room. It has a bed. It’s fine.’ But when she said fine her voice hitched and she knew she wouldn’t make it to the bathroom before she started crying.
‘Oh god, Holly, I’m really sorry.’ Wilf stood awkwardly across the room from her.
‘It’s fine, I promise. I’m just tired.’ She held up a hand to show she was OK and then rooted around in her pocket for a tissue.
‘Here, I’ve got one.’ He handed her a crumpled scrap of tissue. ‘It doesn’t look great but I promise it’s clean.’
She sort of laughed through the snot and tears and tiredness.
‘Shit, I’m really sorry. I want to give you a hug but I don’t want you to think I’m trying anything on. Can I give you a hug?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, blowing her nose.
Wilf took a couple of tentative steps forward and Holly stayed where she was, then he put his arms round her, one hand across her shoulders, the other round her waist and held her sort of close but not completely.
She could smell him, the same him that she’d smelt when they were in bed together. Warm and heady, the cotton of his T-shirt soft
‘Your mother is a fool.’
Which had been strangely reassuring in its simplicity.
Wilf had carried on talking as Holly had been flying ahead, mapping out the future.
‘…so we have a room for the night, but there’s only one room with one bed which I don’t think Mummy will be very happy about but there’s not really anything that Daddy can do about it because some joker insisted that we stop in a town that had a conference on.’
Holly frowned. ‘Where are you going to sleep?’ she asked.
‘Oh come on, Holly. I think we’re old enough to be able to share a bed.’ Wilf sat up and stretched his arms out along the back of the bench.
‘I don’t think so. Look where it got us last time,’ she said and Wilf laughed.
‘I remember it being pretty enjoyable,’ he said and Holly rolled her eyes. Wilf laughed again as he stood up, ‘Come on, I promise I’ll be the perfect gentleman.’
‘You’d better be,’ she said, and swiped his arm away when he tried to guide her forward with his hand on the small of her back.
They walked side by side through the town, past restaurants that smelt of garlicky moules frites and bars with TV screens in the corner showing the football. Kids sat on stone stoops out the front of their houses and parents were chatting in the street. They turned right up a dark alleyway, walking towards a yellow awning that read: Hotel d’Europe 1*. The door had a scarlet curtain with stained gold fringing and the carpet was all swirly shades of red, brown and orange. When Holly looked at Wilf, he looked back at her a bit guiltily. At the desk inside was a man wearing a stained grey shirt and boxer shorts. Behind him was a curtain and behind that a bed, a TV and a fan and he’d clearly already settled himself in for the night.
He handed Wilf a key with a grunt and went back to the TV.
Holly was so knackered that the prospect of a bed made her ignore the peeling wallpaper, the cracks in the ceiling, the broken glass in the picture frame and what looked like a mousetrap at the side of the stairs.
Their room was on the top floor in the eaves. Wilf had to duck to unlock it.
They both stood on the threshold for a moment longer than necessary, staring in at the teeny-weeny attic room that smelt of mothballs and cabbage soup and the iron-framed bed with prison-blue sheets.
‘There’s no window,’ Holly whispered.
Wilf strode forward as if it was all just dandy. He opened the cupboard and had a peer in, then looked around the rest of the room, confused. ‘There’s no bathroom.’
‘Seriously?’ Holly really needed a pee. ‘Where is it?’
Wilf shrugged and went back out into the corridor and came back a minute later. ‘It’s two floors down,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Holly.’
She pressed her hands into her eyes and shook her head, ‘That’s OK. It’s a room. It has a bed. It’s fine.’ But when she said fine her voice hitched and she knew she wouldn’t make it to the bathroom before she started crying.
‘Oh god, Holly, I’m really sorry.’ Wilf stood awkwardly across the room from her.
‘It’s fine, I promise. I’m just tired.’ She held up a hand to show she was OK and then rooted around in her pocket for a tissue.
‘Here, I’ve got one.’ He handed her a crumpled scrap of tissue. ‘It doesn’t look great but I promise it’s clean.’
She sort of laughed through the snot and tears and tiredness.
‘Shit, I’m really sorry. I want to give you a hug but I don’t want you to think I’m trying anything on. Can I give you a hug?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, blowing her nose.
Wilf took a couple of tentative steps forward and Holly stayed where she was, then he put his arms round her, one hand across her shoulders, the other round her waist and held her sort of close but not completely.
She could smell him, the same him that she’d smelt when they were in bed together. Warm and heady, the cotton of his T-shirt soft
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