Mum and Dad

If it’s true that ultimately we all end up like our parents, I hope I end up like my dad. To the outside world he is the archetypal hen-pecked husband but behind that mild-mannered exterior there is a man who knows exactly how to manoeuvre my cake-snaffling mother. If he were in a political thriller, he’d be the Svengali who ensures the right people get to power. The Caravan Club is a case in point. They don’t actually own a caravan.

They did own a motorhome for many years and we used to join them for lots of great family holidays while Zoe was growing up. When she reached the age where she preferred Barcelona to Bognor, they joined a club and began touring the UK with other abandoned grandparents. On one trip, they were pitched up in the grounds of a magnificent country house hotel and the weather was just appalling. Mum complained that she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep with the rain battering down on the metal roof and while she was nattering with one of the other motorhomers, Dad, stealth-like, went off to ask about a room in the hotel. As everyone else got ready to leave the bar and trudge back through the mud to their vehicles, Dad revealed that they’d be staying indoors. Mum was delighted; I can just imagine the gloating: ‘Oh he spoils me. I’d much rather be in the motorhome but I can’t say no now, can I?’

Mum would never let him sell the motorhome as she enjoyed the trips out and meeting the other club members. However, over the course of the next couple of years, Dad pulled his hotel room trick a few times. Then he sold the big motorhome for a smaller version – which Mum thought was too cramped, so this led to even more nights in a hotel – and eventually Dad sold that one and bought an old Jaguar, which was ultimately what he wanted anyway. They’re still members because Dad runs the weekly quiz team; Mum keeps telling people that they still love caravanning and ‘when it’s warm enough’ they’ll stop using the hotels.

Of course it’s never warm enough unless it’s too warm, but this is equally uncomfortable in a motorhome. Over the years, many of the other husbands have persuaded their wives down the same route so effectively it’s now a caravan group that swapped its vans for classic cars. They all have a preference for life’s luxuries and that’s why it’s worth my while being here tonight.

Mum has been desperate for me to do this talk. ‘Now that you’ve been in the paper, people keep asking about you,’ she tells me.

The local rag is international stardom in my mother’s eyes. So I deliver my well-practised performance and have an anecdote for everyone I’m introduced to. I’m so happy to have done something for them.

I didn’t want to come here first, I wanted to come along as a successful entrepreneur not one struggling to make ends meet and begging for business, but they don’t know that yet. Mum holds court amidst the women who are telling her she ‘must be very proud’, while Dad does his Svengali bit and introduces me to the people who might make the bookings.

‘I love the sound of New York,’ one of the members tells me, ‘but is there anything else interesting before then?’

I hadn’t expected to be asked and stutter a bit before offering, ‘There might be some extra availability on our Monaco trip.’

‘Monaco,’ my Mum has overheard. ‘Oh how wonderful, royalty, yachts...’

‘Casinos,’ adds someone else.

‘The Grand Prix Circuit,’ adds another.

I could kick myself; why didn’t I think? They’re classic car enthusiasts for goodness’ sake.

‘Do you think you might have availability for us?’ asks Dad seizing the moment.

‘I’ll check as soon as I get back, but I’ll need you all to confirm immediately.’

They all promise to do so and I know that with these bookings, we’re going to break even now, perhaps even make a tiny profit. The relief must show on my face.

‘If you ever need a little bit of help in these first few months, you can come to us, you know that don’t you?’ Dad has his arm round me as I leave the meeting.

‘I know that Dad, but some things you need to do yourself,’ I say.

He nods and kisses me on the forehead. ‘The women in this family, you’re all stubborn to the core.’

With the Caravan Club bookings on top of our concerted efforts in the store, I don’t have to go to make up the numbers, but I fancied this one from the start and in my magic wand list, I said that I wanted my new career to be fun. So I book myself on to the Monaco trip too.

Should I invite Ed? I imagine strolling arm in arm along the promenade each evening; we’d be wearing delicate chiffon (me) and crisp linen (him). As much as I’d love some company, it seems a bit presumptuous to ask a man to the south of France – especially as I’d be asking him to buy himself a ticket and sleep in a room on his own. So now I visualise myself, still in chiffon, strolling on my own but not alone; I gaze wistfully over the Mediterranean and read Ed’s text over again:

MISSING YOU, HURRY BACK X.

BEEP-BEEP

A real text drags me from the dream; and it actually is from Ed – spooky.

LOOKS LIKE A LOVELY NIGHT, FANCY TRIP TO THE COAST AND CHIPS ON PROM?

I don’t think I’ll wear chiffon for this one.

* * *

Living in Manchester, I miss the coast, but if you make the effort, it’s less than an hour away. We’ve come to Crosby to see Antony Gormley’s Another Place, hundreds of bronze figures that line the beach. They stare out to sea and seem to be walking out, looking out for distant lands. I love this installation and always imagine that one day, they’ll run free. We leave them to it and head for a fish and chip shop.

‘Thank you for bringing me to this exclusive restaurant,’ I say.

‘My pleasure, thank you for paying for this wonderful meal.’ Ed scrunches up his chip wrapper and lobs it into the bin first shot; he’s disproportionately pleased with this.

‘Well you paid for the last one so it seems only fair. Anyway, I’m celebrating tonight. Our Monaco trip is sold out thanks to my parents and their Caravan Club.’

‘I’ll have to get my lot booking something before you’ve sold everything,’ he says.

‘Oh I’d always find a little something for you,’ I smile.

We get up and walk until the sun starts setting; then without speaking we turn towards the sea. Together we watch that great glimmering globe melting into the horizon, already starting to wake someone up on the other side of the world. The evening turns chilly; it’s the perfect moment for Ed to drape his jacket around me but he doesn’t.

‘Best get going,’ he says, rubbing my arms as if I’m a schoolchild on a rugby pitch.

Men should watch more Richard Curtis – really they should.