The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip. Jenny Oliver

‘I got it wrong.’

      ‘Like hell you did,’ Wilf dragged a hand through his sweaty hair and exhaled slowly, his sigh practised over years of exasperation with his sister.

      Emily trotted barefoot over to the van where she pulled out her wheelie suitcase and thumped it on the shorn grass, ‘Yeah and also, I can’t come with you, Holly. Sorry.’ She bit her lip, ‘I’ve realised I have stuff to do, important work stuff, so I think the only way it can work is if I go with Alfonso‒’

      ‘Hang on.’ Wilf held up a hand, ‘What important work stuff?’

      Emily looked affronted, ‘Just some stuff that has come up at the office.’

      Wilf narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t believe you.’

      Emily shrugged. ‘Well that’s your prerogative. Anyway, I’ll drive with Alfonso later in the week.’

      ‘No, Emily, you can’t do this.’ Wilf shook his head. ‘I’m driving with Alfonso.’

      ‘Well it can’t be the three of us because there’s only two seats in the Ferrari,’ said Emily, concentrating intently on a strand of her blue hair.

      ‘She has a point.’ Alfonso agreed.

      Holly couldn’t quite believe this was happening. But, more than she was annoyed with Emily for getting her into this situation, she found herself increasingly irritated with Wilf. She’d spent the last three months confused, terrified, alone, frustrated, unsure ‒ yet, right now, he could barely look her in the eye. How would he have handled it? she wondered. Conference-called her at the office? Turned up on her doorstep the day the stick turned blue? Called on his mobile as he was slumped against a wall, sobbing outside the doctor’s? Course he wouldn’t. That was what she wanted to tell him, now. Pull him aside from this stupid bickering about who was driving who and say, ‘You would have panicked too. Because this is hard. So stop bloody looking at me like that!’

      She turned away and watched a couple of guys warming up on the pitch closest to her, hitting the ball back and forth, shouting jokes, their ponies tight balls of energy.

      She got out her phone and texted Annie:

      I think Emily’s set me up. She’s making it so Wilf will have to drive me to France. I don’t want to go with either of them. I wish I’d never agreed to this.

      Almost immediately, her phone bleeped back at her.

      Just go with the flow. Stress is not good for the baby. A x

      The baby.

      Her baby.

      Their baby.

      The very idea of a baby growing inside her, a baby tied to this world, to this guy, made Holly suddenly have to rest her forearm on the post next to her.

      ‘Are you OK? What’s the matter?’ Wilf was at her side in an instant. Quicker than she actually thought someone could move.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she said, slightly taken aback. ‘I just… I was hot, I think.’

      ‘Do you want some water?’ He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a bottle of Evian.

      Holly frowned. ‘Yeah, thank you.’

      ‘It’s OK.’ He unscrewed the cap and took a sip.

      When she tried to give it back, he waved it away as if she should keep it. Putting the bottle down on the bonnet of the van, Holly cleared her throat and said, to all of them, ‘Look, I don’t want to hang around and listen to all of this. I can go on my own. Wilf, you clearly don’t want to drive there with me and, to be honest, I think it would be all a bit weird, so I’m just going to go on my own and that’ll give us some time to…you know, calm down a bit. OK? Good.’ She turned and headed towards the driver’s side door. Anything to get her away from here, away from the heat and scent and closeness of Wilf standing next to her.

      The more she thought about it, the more the idea of going on her own felt like it could be a good thing. Get her to bond with the baby. She’d tried talking to it last week and had felt ridiculous so stopped. A couple of days’ journey on her own might force them into conversation.

      ‘Codswallop,’ she heard Emily say. ‘Can you imagine what Annie would say if I let you drive, pregnant and alone, to France in a bloody ice cream van. No way.’ Emily shook her head, ‘No, Wilf, you’ve got to go with her.’

      Holly paused as she opened the van door, just to check what his reaction was going to be.

      Wilf’s top lip tilted up in a half-sneer. ‘I can’t just go now.’

      Holly huffed a laugh. Emily raised her eyebrows and did a slight shake of her head. Wilf looked away, scraped his hand through his hair again, then wiped sweat off his forehead with his wrist. ‘It’s just. No. We can’t go together.’

      Holly got in the van, slammed the door and started the engine.

      Emily ran her finger along her bottom lip, drew her eyebrows together in a frown. The window of the van was open and Holly heard her say, ‘So you’d be happy to let Holly drive, pregnant ‒ with your baby I hasten to add ‒ and alone, all the way to the South of France. Go Wilfred. Very gentlemanly. Nice one.’

      As Holly was reversing out of the space, she saw Emily backing away towards the clubhouse with Alfonso, her expression one of disappointment, shaking her head at Wilf. Alfonso was looking at the grass.

      Holly was halfway down the rubbly path, passing the spectators having picnics from wicker baskets and lounging in deckchairs. She was contemplating their freedom when suddenly the passenger door swung open and Wilf jumped in. She slammed on the brakes. He was out of breath from his sprint but still frowning when he said, ‘Why are you stopping? There’s a ferry to catch.’