Caravan Park
"He's in the next caravan. Her kids are at the kids' club. She knocks asking to borrow milk. Comes back for sugar. Comes back for him."
Haven Holidays is not glamorous.
Static caravans in rows, an entertainment complex that's seen better days, and a pool that's more piss than chlorine. But it's cheap, it's a week off work, and it's got a decent chippy.
I'm here alone—needed to get away, didn't have anywhere else to go—in a caravan that smells like damp and Febreze.
First morning, there's a knock at the door.
"Sorry to bother you, love. You got any milk?"
She's standing there in a dressing gown, holding an empty mug. She's maybe thirty-eight, forty—hard to tell through the tiredness. Bleached hair, no makeup, massive body that the dressing gown does nothing to hide.
"Uh, yeah. Hang on."
I grab the milk from the tiny fridge. When I turn back, she's leaning in the doorway.
"Lifesaver. I'm Denise. Caravan two spots down."
"Tyler."
"Nice to meet you, Tyler." She takes the milk, lets her fingers brush mine. "Here on your own?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Me and the kids. They're at kids' club all day." She smiles, something knowing in it. "Gets boring on my own. Maybe I'll come borrow something else later."
She comes back at noon for sugar.
By now she's dressed—leggings, vest top, flip-flops—and I can see more of her. She's big. Properly big. Tits that strain her top, belly that curves proud, arse that wobbles when she walks.
"Sorry to keep bothering you."
"It's fine."
"Must get lonely, being here by yourself." She's inside the caravan now, didn't ask permission. "What brings a young lad like you to Haven on his own?"
"Breakup. Needed space."
"Ah." She nods like she understands. "I'm divorced. Two years now. It gets easier."
"Does it?"
"Sometimes." She's closer now. "Sometimes you just need... distraction."
"Denise—"
"I'm not being subtle, am I?" She laughs, doesn't step back. "Sorry. Been on my own too long. Forgot how to flirt properly."
"That was flirting?"
"My version of it." She looks at me—really looks. "You're fit. Too fit for this place. And I'm... well, you can see what I am."
"I can see fine."
"Yeah?" Her eyebrow goes up. "And what do you see?"
I should say something polite. Something neutral.
"I see a fit woman who's too scared to make a proper move."
Her smile sharpens.
"Cheeky bastard."
She kisses me.
She tastes like cheap instant coffee and something sweeter.
Her body is soft, warm, pressing against me in the tiny caravan kitchen. Her dressing gown is back—she changed again for this, I realise—and it falls open easily.
"The bedroom," she breathes. "Such as it is."
We barely fit on the tiny bed.
Denise's body is a revelation.
Massive tits that spill across her chest. Belly that's soft and round. Hips that flare wide, thighs that could smother. She's not shy about it—years of marriage and kids have worn away the self-consciousness.
"Well?" She spreads her legs. "Gonna look all day or—"
I bury my face between her thighs and make her forget the question.
She comes twice before she pulls me up.
"Fuck me. Please. Been so long—"
I slide into her slowly, watching her face. She's wet, ready, gasping at every inch.
"Yes—oh God—"
The caravan rocks with every thrust. Someone's definitely going to hear. I don't care.
"Harder—come on—I can take it—"
She comes again, clenching around me, and I follow her over the edge.
After, we lie tangled in the tiny bed.
"Kids' club ends at five," she says, tracing patterns on my chest. "That's three more hours."
"Three hours?"
"We could go again." She grins. "If you're up for it."
"Give me ten minutes."
"Lightweight." But she's cuddling against me, satisfied. "Tomorrow they've got a day trip. All day."
"All day?"
"All day."
The week becomes a blur.
Every day, Denise's kids go to club or activities or trips. Every day, she knocks on my door asking to borrow something. Every day, we end up in bed—or the shower, or against the kitchen counter.
"This was supposed to be a family holiday," she laughs on the last night.
"Seems like it became something else."
"Something better." She kisses me. "I'm in Birmingham. You?"
"Nottingham."
"Not far."
"Not far at all."
A month later, I drive to Birmingham for the weekend.
Her kids are at their dad's. Her flat is small but warm. Her bed is bigger than the caravan.
"Told my mates I met someone on holiday," she says, curled up against me. "They asked if you were from Spain or something exotic."
"Haven isn't exotic."
"You are." She kisses my shoulder. "To me."
It shouldn't work.
She's fifteen years older with two kids and baggage. I'm twenty-five with nothing sorted.
But when she knocks on my door—figuratively now, usually a text—I always answer.
Some holidays never really end.
This is one of them.