Holiday At Home

I wasn’t a tourist, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy myself!

GEMMA, I have something I need to tell you.” Rob takes my hands and I can see anxiety in every feature of his face. Little nauseous pulses pound in my stomach.

“Don’t tell me: you’ve forgotten to pack the fig rolls,” I quip, wanting the moment to go away.

He gives a little laugh but his eyes are sad. I stare down Harry’s Hill towards the woods we have just walked through and wish it didn’t matter so much.

But it always does in the end, doesn’t it? If you care for someone, you make yourself vulnerable, and I swore I wouldn’t do that again. But here I am and, unreasonable as it may be, I’m blaming my mum.

“Why don’t you be a tourist here?” she’d said weeks ago when I sat drinking coffee at her kitchen table.

It was the end of July and I’d finally flopped, every muscle, memory cell and morsel of patience stretched to its limit in the countdown to end of term.

It’s a feeling about which any teacher can tell you. And when it comes, you feel like a balloon with all the air expelled.

“At least with Michael I always had a holiday to look forward to.” I groaned. “Two weeks of Mediterranean sun.”

“Surely you wouldn’t wish him back?” Mum’s face creased in concern.

“Of course not. It was completely right that we broke up. You know how much happier I’ve been since. It’s just –” I shrugged. “When it comes to holidays, everywhere seems populated by double rooms.”

“Why don’t you give it a try round here, then?” Mum was insistent. “Your dad and I have had some great days out since he retired.”

I refrained from saying that my idea of a great day out was probably not the same as hers, because that would have been mean.