The Long Weekend (16 page)

‘It’s not that,’ sniffed Claire.

‘Then what? Come on. Mum’s done you a stocking.’

And despite her protests, Claire found herself route-marched back to the drawing room at the Mill House, where Gerald poured her a glass of champagne and Isobel handed her a red velvet stocking filled with enticing packages. ‘I never get to buy girl things,’ she said. ‘I’m sick to death of buying aftershave and socks and things with batteries. Don’t get excited – it’s full of rubbish really.’

Claire was totally overwhelmed. Ten minutes later she was surrounded by shreds of silver gossamer paper and more presents than she knew what to do with: a beaded purse, sheepskin slippers (the floors at the Mill House were freezing in winter), lacy tights, a Jilly Cooper paperback, a bottle of Romance by Ralph Lauren . . .

‘And this is from me,’ said Gerald. It was her very own Riedel wine-tasting glass. He jumped up to open a bottle, hiding the label from her and pouring her an inch of burgundy.

‘Tell me what you think of that,’ he commanded.

Claire burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to blub. ‘I don’t feel awfully well . . .’

She fled the room, locking herself in the downstairs loo. She had to get it together, for Isobel’s sake. Isobel was behaving as if nothing in the world was the matter. How on earth did she find the strength, Claire wondered, knowing this was the last Christmas she would spend with her husband and her beloved boys?

Even in the loo, Claire couldn’t escape Isobel’s presence. The room summed her up so perfectly. It was painted a deep dusty Jaipur pink. An ancient chandelier hung from the ceiling, the droplets sparkling and spinning. The towels were thick and soft; the soap a thick creamy brick scented with lavender. She thought of her own parents’ downstairs loo. Sterile, empty. A ratty old towel that was rarely taken away to be washed. A cracked piece of supermarket soap, the lines engrained with dirt. The only sign that anyone had given any thought to decoration was an outdated calendar from the Lake District. She had no idea where it had come from. Her parents never went on holiday. Suddenly she wished she was back with them. The kitchen at home this morning had seemed so safe.

She put the lid down on the loo seat, sat down and rested her head against the wall. On the opposite wall was a photo collage, of the kind so beloved by the English middle classes. She had seen several at the houses of Nick’s friends. It was a perfect timeline of the Barneses’ life. Fat, happy babies rolling on rugs. Three tow-haired children frolicking in the garden. Cricket matches. Skiiing holidays. Parties. And always amongst them, Isobel. Beautiful, smiling, full of life and love, her eyes alive with the joy her family gave her.

Claire had never seen her own mother look like that. Carefree. Besotted. Generous of spirit. Her mother never let go. Never gave any indication that people really mattered to her.

A hard lump rose in her throat as she wondered if she would sacrifice her own mother for Isobel. It would certainly cause less grief. If you could quantify grief. She pushed the thought away, hating herself for even having it, because she knew it was selfish. Because if it was her mother who was dying, she would at least have a chance of happiness with Nick. She and her father would be sad, of course, but . . .

She didn’t want to think about it. It just wasn’t fair, to compare the effects of one person’s death with those of another, as if anyone was more important than anyone else just because they happened to have more children, or appeared more loving. And anyway, she knew her mother loved her. She just didn’t have Isobel’s flamboyance.

After five minutes, Nick knocked on the loo door.

‘Claire? Are you okay?’

She edged her way out. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what the matter is. Christmas always freaks me out a bit.’

‘And you feel guilty.’ Nick looked at her knowingly.

Claire stared back at him. Did he know something? How could he know something?

‘About what?’ she stammered.

‘About not being with your parents, of course.’

Claire rubbed her hands over her face. Her head was pounding. She shouldn’t have had so much champagne, but at the Mill House your glass just refilled itself. She thought for a moment she was going to keel over.

Nick grabbed her.

‘Maybe you should lie down.’

‘Nick,’ she blurted. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t bear it any more.’

‘What?’

She had to tell him. The burden was too enormous. She couldn’t keep it to herself a moment longer.

At that moment Isobel came out of the drawing room into the hallway.

‘Claire, darling – you look ghastly. Come with me. You need a Lemsip with honey and a double dose of vitamin C. Nick, we need some more logs on the fire. Would you?’

And before either of them knew it, Claire had been whisked off to the kitchen, where Isobel made her the prescribed Lemsip.

‘I can’t do this.’ Claire was desperate.

‘You have to.’ Isobel drizzled manuka honey from a spoon into the cup. ‘This is how it should be,’ she told Claire firmly. ‘We’re all having a lovely time. A Christmas to remember. What would be the point of blowing it all apart?’

Claire took the steaming mug.

‘How can you be so . . .?’

Cheerful. Glamorous. Unaffected. Buoyant. Carefree.

But Isobel’s answering smile was bleak.

‘Inside,’ she told Claire, ‘I’m an absolute mess. But I’ll have all the time in the world to fall apart when the moment comes.’

New Year’s Day. Claire felt sick when she thought about it. In the meantime, she had to step up to the plate. She had to match Isobel’s dauntless spirit. She drank the Lemsip, had another glass of champagne, and pasted on a smile. That night she held on to Nick in bed as tightly as she could, drenched in sweat and dread. She was going to lose him. She could feel it coming.

By New Year’s Eve, she was still streaming with cold. All day she helped with preparations for the party. She could barely look Isobel in the eye, or any of the rest of the family. Luckily she had her cold to blame for her deflated mood. She put on the thigh-skimming black lace dress Isobel had bought her, and the stretchy knee-length boots, and the chandelier earrings.

‘You look . . . incredible,’ said Nick.

She managed a wan smile. ‘You look amazing too.’ She turned away before he could see the tears in her eyes. The boys were wearing black tie; they all looked devastatingly handsome. She couldn’t bear to think how proud Isobel would feel of them all.

She managed to get through the evening somehow. There were so many people, and she kept herself busy by topping up drinks and passing round canapés. As the hands crept towards midnight and the excitement of the millennium grew, she crept into the kitchen – everyone was crowding round the clock in the hall. Prince’s ‘1999’ was playing at full blast as the mood reached fever pitch.

Claire curled herself up in the squashy armchair by the Aga. She felt almost as if Isobel had offloaded all her guilt and grief on to her, and she was carrying it round like a surrogate mother incubating a big ball of pain that was just going to grow and grow and grow. Of course, Isobel must be suffering, but it was Claire who was going to have to deal with the aftermath. Claire who would be left with the fallout, mopping up everyone else’s pain and anguish. The pain and anguish that Isobel was so deftly avoiding.

She could hear the countdown to midnight. The uproarious bellow of a roomful of people moved by the momentousness of the occasion, the dawn of a new millennium. All the optimism of a fresh year, but a thousandfold. The future was bright for them all. The slate clean. The year 2000 – a chance to start again and make a difference.

She should get up and go and join them. Nick would be looking for her. He would want to kiss her on the stroke of midnight. It should have been a perfect moment for the two of them, young and in love. But she couldn’t kiss him with the burden of the secret she carried.

She couldn’t stay in hiding either.

She opened the kitchen door and stepped into the hallway. It was crammed with guests, all watching the minute hand of the grandfather clock as it jerked to join the hour, both pointing vertically to twelve. As midnight struck, a mighty cheer rose. There was the sound of champagne corks popping, party blowers hooting, a rousing drunken chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ as people hunted for their loved ones and embraced them and streams of party-popper ribbons flew into the air.

She could see Isobel across the room. She had lost so much weight, she looked like a twelve-year-old girl. But she was beautiful nonetheless, in a silver sequinned dress. She looked as if she was having the time of her life, partying as though she hadn’t a care in the world, though Claire knew she’d spent most of the afternoon asleep to give herself the energy to get through the evening. She watched as Isobel pulled Gerald to her and kissed him, the deep kiss of a couple who meant the world to each other. Then she looked for her sons through the fray, grabbing Felix and hugging him tight, reaching out for Shrimp’s hand and drawing him towards her, all the while looking for Nick, who was looking for Claire.

She was standing in the cloakroom doorway as he grabbed her.

‘Where’ve you been?’

He scooped her up, pulling her into his arms and off her feet, kissing her as if his very life depended on it. She shut her eyes for a moment, wishing this was real, wishing their future could be the happy one they surely deserved. When she opened them, Isobel was next to her, waiting patiently for the chance to wish her son a happy New Year, and Claire stepped aside and watched as they hugged, mother and son.

And then Isobel turned to her and slid her arms around her neck, and she breathed in the smell of crushed violets.

‘This is how it should be,’ Isobel was whispering urgently into her ear. ‘This is just how it should be, Claire. Thank you.’

She felt Isobel’s lips on her cheek, dry and warm. She wanted to push her away, scream at her; scream the truth to everyone. She didn’t want to be the keeper of the secret any more. In one moment, she could share it with the entire party, spread the burden amongst the guests and be free of its malignant grip.

Yet that wouldn’t change what was going to happen. It wasn’t going to halt the dreadful disease and grant Isobel a reprieve. And in that moment Claire realised that Isobel was right. It was about damage limitation. What good would knowing the truth bring to this houseful of joyous guests, who were dancing and singing and carousing and celebrating the dawn of a new era? What right did she have to deprive Gerald, and Felix and Shrimp and Nick, of an untainted memory of this historic moment?

Nick was looking down at her. He took her face in his hands.

‘You’re crying,’ he teased her. ‘You soppy thing.’

She hadn’t realised that her eyes were brimming with tears. She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She looked at the clock.

One minute past midnight, and it was already the worst year of her life.

On New Year’s Day, she had stayed in bed, shivering under the covers, using a hangover combined with her cold as an excuse. She couldn’t bear to watch Isobel saying goodbye to Gerald and the boys, hugging them for the last time as the taxi waited outside, supposedly to take her to the airport but in reality taking her to the hospice. Instead, she had curled up in a ball under the duvet, trying to block out the awful image of Isobel’s last wave to her family as she drove away to die . . .

Now, staring at the limestone floor of the cloakroom, Claire felt sick at the memory. All the guilt and the horror had been stirred up again. But they were nothing compared to one overriding realisation.

She had thought herself healed. She had thought herself happy with Luca. She thought she’d moved on and left the memories behind her. But it was as if the intervening years had never happened. Her feelings were as strong as they ever had been. She leant her head against the wall in despair.

She was still in love with Nick.

And he was about to get married.

She had to go and find him. She had to tell him he couldn’t stay here. Either that, or she would have to leave the hotel for the duration of the weekend, but short of feigning appendicitis, that just wasn’t possible. No, Nick would have to make his apologies and make himself scarce. Then she would be able to deal with the weekend; with Luca and Monique and Trevor. Tonight’s meeting was vitally important, but with Nick under her roof, she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t operate, couldn’t converse. She needed to be on top of her game. She and Luca needed to come across as a team.

She came out of the cubicle and ran the cold tap in the sink for a moment, splashing water on to her face in the hope that it might clear her thoughts. She looked in the mirror. Her face was blank. It showed no evidence of the secrets she was hiding. She dried her face and smoothed back her, then left the cloakroom, walking steadily through the bar back to the reception area.

‘Hold the fort for me for a few minutes, would you?’ she said to Angelica.

Angelica looked up, scenting trouble.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

For a moment Claire felt tempted to confide in her again. There was something refreshingly non-judgemental about Angelica. But there wasn’t time.

‘I just need to go through some notes for tonight’s meeting,’ she told her, knowing how unconvincing she sounded.

Angelica nodded, not taken in for a second.

‘If you want to talk . . .’ she offered.

Claire nodded, with a tight smile.

‘Thanks,’ she replied, ‘but I’m fine.’

She ran up the stairs two at a time. She found Nick’s room and tapped on the door. The rest of the stags would be kept well oiled by Mitch; Luca would be busy prepping in the kitchen with Fred and Loz. She had just enough time to talk him round.

He answered the door wet from the shower, a towel round his waist and a question in his eyes.

She ran her eyes over his body, so familiar even after all this time. There was a little more definition to his shoulders, a little more breadth to his chest. She remembered how he felt without even having to touch him. Her mouth went dry.