The Lemon Grove Read Online Free Page A

look fantastic.’ Emma pulls away, still eyeing her askance. Jenn takes no notice, claps her hands together. ‘So, honey. Where are you hiding him? Where’s your man?’
    ‘Inside. Unpacking.’ Her tone is glacial.
    ‘Oh. Okay. So. Lunch? How about a Spanish omelette?’
    ‘Tortilla. It’s called tortilla.’ Emma seems to enjoy enunciating precisely; torrh-tee-ya , she says.
    Again, Jenn squashes the impulse to rise to the barb, counters it instead with an extra shot of jollity.
    ‘I can chop up some tomatoes and those jalapeños you love, instead of the onions, if you want?’
    Emma tunes out, turns round to face the villa where Gregory is wheeling a suitcase across the terrace. Without turning back round she murmurs, ‘Thanks. But we ate on the plane.’
    Did they have an argument? Is that it? Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of the week?
    ‘Come on. I’ll help you unpack.’
    Emma removes her sunglasses; little, sullen dents appear in her chin. She looks close to tears.
    ‘Emma?’
    ‘Don’t act like you don’t know!’
    ‘What? Did you and Dad have a quibble, honey?’
    ‘You knew we were on our way! You had loads of time to … to prepare yourself! Do you know how that made me look?’
    And now Jenn understands. ‘Honey – I’m sorry. Really. I fell asleep.’
    Emma turns her head right round and holds it there.Eventually she brings it back, she juts out her jaw, her top lip trembling.
    ‘Lying there … like that. It’s not what you should be doing at your age. Do you know what you look like?’
    No; but she can guess. Emma thinks she looks unseemly; ropey; cheap. Emma is very near quivering with pique. Jenn can feel it coming. She focuses on her book on the ground; calmly picks it up. Turns it over as though considering it for the first time. But, when it comes it is worse, it is much worse than any of those jibes.
    ‘You look common. Really, really common.’
    Unable to staunch the tears, Emma flounces off down the path.
    Jenn does not attempt to call her back. She needs a glass of wine. She picks up her towel, wraps it around her waist; and, barefoot, hot-treads the flagstones back to the villa.
    She doesn’t want to go inside. She stops at the standpipe, runs the tap, and realises at once that it’s this that she’s been dreading. Not the arrival of the boy, nor yet the relinquishing of her Me time with Emma’s father. For the past week she’s been living in ever-tightening anticipation of the continual treading on eggshells, the constant adjusting to the weather-vane of Emma’s moods. It’s been like this for the last two years, sincetheir daughter turned thirteen, but Jenn hoped that falling in love, properly, for the first time, might give Emma a different perspective, encourage her to think beyond the confines of her own selfish needs. Maybe Greg is right: maybe she should cut her some slack. Maybe she has cut her too much; tried too hard. Jenn laughs bitterly and scoops a handful of water to her dry lips. She snaps off the tap. She can admit it to herself, now – she’s scared; scared of the tension Emma’s mere presence can bring, even to a place as idyllic as this.
    She steps away from the standpipe and becomes aware of a figure in one of the upstairs windows, looking down at her. She puts her hand to her eyebrows to block the hard light shafting down, but there’s no one there.

    Greg is in the kitchen, tearing hunks from a baguette. Jenn can tell from the slight resistance of the flesh that the dough is fresh, still warm. She pulls a piece off for herself, chews it slowly, the aroma and the soft, moist feel of it making her reach for seconds almost straight away.
    She swallows the bread, clears her throat. ‘Emma’s mad at me.’
    ‘Oh really? How come?’ he says.
    He smiles with half of his mouth.
    ‘Don’t!’ she snaps. She is in no mood for levity. ‘You could have warned me.’
    ‘How? By beeping the horn?’
    He leans forward and kisses the top