Page 11 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure

Mary felt her face flush and grabbed the hem of her top to tug the fabric over her tummy.

It was the first time in months that Conor had commented on anything Mary wore.

There was nothing she’d like more than to be tummy-tucked, groomed, and dressed in a smart suit and at the cut and thrust of their business.

But instead, she shook her head. She was about to tell him that if he had to look after four highly demanding children, each a whirlwind who left chaos in their wake, he wouldn’t have time to worry about a slowly expanding waistline.

But before she could reply, Conor was all over the kids, covering them with kisses and telling them to be good and work hard at school that day.

He left the kitchen before their sticky fingers could stain his immaculate suit.

Mary stared at Conor’s retreating back.

She hadn’t mentioned the shirt incident from the previous day, and with the evidence washed away, she wondered if she’d imagined it.

Mary’s gnawing sense of doubt about her husband’s fidelity niggled at her, and despite her search for signs of betrayal, she knew that Conor was too busy with his job.

Had she asked him, he would probably have explained away the scent, saying it had occurred accidentally, exchanged in a friendly embrace with a co-worker.

Mary felt that her own inadequacy had fuelled her paranoia.

She’d let her weight increase, and it was her own fault if Conor didn’t pay any attention to the often-fraught mum she’d become.

God, how she missed her former working life!

Tightening her fists, Mary followed Conor through the house.

He stepped back as he opened the front door, almost colliding with her.

To his surprise, Roisin stood on the doorstep.

‘Good morning, Mr Murphy,’ Roisin beamed. ‘I didn’t expect to bump into you again so soon?’ She raised a pencilled eyebrow.

Conor gave Roisin a curt nod and then turned to Mary. ‘Goodbye, darling,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your day.’

As Mary drove her vehicle through the gates of Kindale Golf and Wellness Retreat, she wondered what Roisin had meant about meeting Conor ‘so soon’.

He always left the house before Roisin’s arrival.

Still, Mary reasoned as she parked and reached for her gym bag, Roisin was probably working at a property Conor was selling, and their paths had crossed there.

Mary held an umbrella, battling against a strong gust and rods of steely rain.

As her trainers crunched across the gravel, she wished she still worked in the office with Conor, in the business he’d started and encouraged her to join.

Mary missed the magic of negotiating sales and dealing with the public.

But four children had put paid to that. She had been an integral part of the early days when they were establishing the fledgling business, setting up systems and charming clients, building trust. Murphy’s Auctioneers had soon become an essential and popular agency in the area, and Conor and Mary were a glamorous young couple on everyone’s party invitation list. These days, Mary couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a night out together on the town.

The clear glass doors of the retreat glided back, and Mary was greeted by a subtle blend of essential oils that filled the air like a gentle caress.

How tempting it would be to book a massage and escape from her everyday life for an hour to ease the tension out of her muscles.

But, remembering Conor’s comment, Mary deposited her damp umbrella, patted her stomach, and headed for the torture chamber – otherwise known as the gym.

As she reached the changing room, her phone began to ring. Hoping Conor had changed his mind and invited her to the dinner that evening, Mary tore into her bag to grab her mobile.

‘Hello?’ she said and held the phone to her ear.

‘DEAR GOD, MARY, were you in on it too?’ an angry voice bellowed, without any introduction or courtesies.

‘Hello… Mungo?’ Mary frowned. What on earth was Mungo banging on about? ‘What’s wrong? You sound upset.’

‘UPSET?’ Mungo yelled. ‘I’m absolutely furious.’

‘Calm down,’ Mary said, looking around for a quiet corner to take the call. Perching on a bench at the far end of the changing room, Mary gripped the phone. ‘Now, what’s happened?’

‘It’s Dad,’ Mungo stated. ‘The old fool has set off in the camper and is in Portsmouth with the dog, waiting to board a ferry to Spain. Did you know?’

‘I had no idea.’ Mary’s eyes were wide, and she began to punch the air without realising her actions. So, he’d done it. Her dad was off on an exciting adventure! ‘Well, I don’t see what’s so wrong with that,’ she replied.

‘WHAT?’ Mungo was shouting now. ‘He’s driving thousands of miles in a vintage vehicle that should have been put out to grass years ago! For heaven’s sake, Mary, Dad’s never even been abroad!’

Mary could sense Mungo’s exasperation. ‘I’m sure he’s very organised,’ she said. ‘I can’t for one moment think that he’d attempt such a journey without planning and discussing it with Arthur.’

‘Not just Arthur,’ Mungo sneered. ‘Jake must have had a hand in this too.’

Mary visualised her brother tapping his desk with tense fingers as he worked out how to get to the bottom of things. Her nephew needed to take cover. Mungo was bound to suss Jake out.

‘He’s only doing what Mum would have wanted him to do,’ Mary said. ‘Don’t you remember that they’d planned a holiday to Spain?’

‘Via an airplane and a creditable taxi service, not at the wheel of a vehicle held together with duct tape and dreams. He was talking like a robot when I spoke to him.’ Mungo’s voice was tight with frustration.

‘Ah, he’ll be getting used to the settings on his phone,’ Mary nodded.

But as Mary made herself comfortable for the duration of Mungo’s rant, she had no doubt that Atticus, Arthur, and Jake had carefully planned the trip.

It amused her to think of the trio entrenching themselves in the barn.

While sorting out Winnie’s engine, Jake would have shown Atticus the wonders of the internet, and Mary knew that it would have opened her father’s eyes to endless possibilities.

At last! He was regaining his life.

Mungo was deliberating his issues with Atticus and the business, arguing that their father had now admitted he had simply given in to all the changes he’d instigated.

Mary rolled her eyes. She decided she’d had enough.

If Mungo couldn’t be happy about the situation, he must learn to live with it.

Right now, she had far more critical things to consider than Atticus sipping sangria in the sunshine and making new friends.

She had to make inroads on her waistline and regain the shape she enjoyed when she married Conor.

‘Mungo, I have to go,’ Mary said. ‘Perhaps we can discuss this again when you’ve had time to think about things.’

‘But you can’t…’ Mungo stuttered.

Oh yes, I can! Mary thought, and with a polite goodbye, she disconnected the call.