The Long Weekend (17 page)

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘I can’t do this,’ she said, and felt hot tears well up. ‘You have to go . . . I’m sorry. I can’t deal with it.’

Nick stood there for a moment, saying nothing.

‘I know,’ he said eventually. ‘I should have gone straight away.’ He wrapped the towel more tightly round himself and stepped back. ‘I’ll pack my stuff. Tell the guys there’s a crisis at work or something . . .’

But he didn’t move. They stood staring at each other. Claire felt foolish; like a hysterical teenager laying down terms and conditions. Surely at her age she should be able to deal with this graciously. She was ruining what should be the happiest time of Nick’s life because she could only think about herself. She needed to grow up. Apart from anything, the stag weekend was going to be good business. If she drove Nick away, the rest of them might disband; tomorrow night’s dinner might be cancelled. They could ill afford to lose that money. And it wouldn’t look good in front of Trevor and Monique.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just . . .’

What was she supposed to say? How could she explain to him how she felt? That the feelings were just as raw as they had been the day they had last seen each other? That all she wanted to do was touch him? That she was insanely jealous?

‘Difficult,’ she managed finally. The word sounded so insufficient.

‘I know.’ He looked at her. Didn’t move.

Claire managed a smile. She shouldn’t have come up here. She should have let it lie and carried on regardless. She took a deep breath; drew herself up. She could do this. Banishing Nick would turn his appearance into a bigger deal than it should be. A classic case of making a mountain out of a molehill. Claire had always prided herself on not being a drama queen.

‘Ignore me.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Of course you don’t have to go. I don’t want to spoil things for you. You’d better get dressed. Your friends have got a bit of a head start down there.’

She turned to go.

‘Claire!’ She felt his hand on her shoulder. She turned back. He took her by the arm, still holding on to his towel with the other hand.

If he hadn’t touched her, she would have been okay. She would have gone back downstairs, charmed her guests, prepared for dinner. But in one fluid movement she found herself in his arms, the two of them moving back into the room, the door closing, his towel falling to the floor.

She pressed her lips frenziedly against his damp skin. They fell on to one of the single beds as he pushed up her dress. There was no refinement. There was no protest, either. Nothing could stop them. No conscience, no fear of being caught, no self-preservation, no guilt.

It was madness. It was destiny. It was wrong. It was so right. If the world stopped after this, it wouldn’t matter.

It was as if they had never been apart. His hair felt the same as it slipped through her fingers. His chest was broader, his arms stronger, but she would have known him anywhere. Her hip bones fitted against his as they had always done. He belonged inside her. She could feel herself losing herself in him, that moment when she felt weightless, as if she was all spirit and no substance.

She felt tears on her face and then realised that they were his. Their hearts were pounding arrhythmically; their breathing gradually slowed and synchronised.

‘Oh,’ said Claire softly, and there were a million different emotions in just that one word. Awe, surprise, trepidation, appreciation, anguish. Nick peeled himself away from her and lay beside her. Their hands found each other and their fingers entwined. What now? They only had seconds to decide. It wouldn’t be long before one of the other stags barged into the room, or someone began to look for Claire.

‘I’m going back on Sunday night,’ said Nick. ‘If you want to come with me, I’ll cancel the wedding.’

Claire didn’t reply. There wasn’t anything to discuss. They each knew exactly what they had to lose and to gain. She rolled off the bed and picked up her clothes. Her limbs disappeared into the garments as quickly as they had been peeled off only minutes ago. She stood over him, gathering her hair back up into its clip. Her throat felt tight with longing, even though her heart hadn’t yet subsided to its normal rate from their coupling.

He sat up and went to take her in his arms again, but she put out her hand to stop him.

‘Don’t.’ Her voice was low. A warning.

She smoothed down her clothes, looked at him. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug of uncertainty.

‘We already know there isn’t always a happy ending,’ she told him.

He looked at her.

‘Is that a no?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

She bent over him, took his face in her hands and kissed him.

‘I have to go.’

‘It’s okay. I understand.’ He stared out of the window for a moment. ‘Do you want me to leave? Would it be easier if I left?’

She hesitated. It would be so much easier.

‘No,’ she answered.

‘It’s up to you. To decide what to do. Because I’ve already made my decision.’

She nodded.

‘I know.’

Two seconds later she had crossed the room and walked out of the door. It shut with a click.

Angelica was behind the reception desk having a fight with the printer, trying to print out the evening’s menus, when she felt a pair of warm hands on her waist.

She turned round with a yelp and found herself looking straight into Luca’s eyes.

‘You shouldn’t do that to people!’

‘I couldn’t resist.’ He gave her a grin.

She held up the crumpled bits of paper.

‘Bloody printer chewed everything up again.’

Luca took the paper off her and chucked it in the bin. ‘We’ll get a new one.’ His eyes flickered around. ‘Where’s Claire?’

Angelica tensed. She was pretty certain Claire had been banking on Luca staying in the kitchen for a while.

‘I think she’s gone up to change,’ she told him.

‘I was going to do the same thing myself.’ Luca took off his bandanna. ‘I’ve got Fred and Loz on the case. Big evening for us tonight.’

Angelica thought quickly. What if Claire was still embroiled with the stag bloke?

‘Luca . . .’ she began, just as he was about to walk off.

He turned.

‘Yeah?’

‘Claire . . . told me what might be happening. About the London hotel. With the Parfitts.’

‘Did she?’ Luca frowned.

Maybe she shouldn’t have told him that. But what the hell – it was better than him catching Claire doing something she shouldn’t be.

‘I just wondered . . . what it would mean. For here. For . . . well, for me, actually.’

Luca walked back towards her. He was so close. He looked at her with a concerned smile.

‘You’re not worried, are you?’

Angelica nodded. Her heart was thumping. Whether it was fear on Claire’s behalf or because of Luca’s presence, she couldn’t be sure. He was putting a hand on her shoulder.

‘Claire and I value you extremely highly. If anything comes of this venture – which I hope it will – then whatever decisions we make will be done in consultation with you. You’re a very important member of our team.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We’re not just going to abandon ship. Claire and I will probably take it in turns to stay down here, while the other one is up in London.’

She met his gaze. His expression was deadpan, but his meaning was perfectly clear.

‘Oh,’ she said, and managed a dimpled smirk. Anything to keep his attention on her and stop him going upstairs. She shouldn’t be encouraging him. It was totally inappropriate. And it was only fuelling her ridiculous fantasy crush. Everything inside Angelica told her Luca was bad news. She would only be a toy to him. She would only get hurt.

‘Although thinking about it,’ he continued, ‘there may well be an opportunity for you in London. We’re going to need a team we can trust. And I don’t suppose you want to be stuck in Pennfleet for the rest of your life?’

Angelica realised it hadn’t occurred to her for a moment that they might need her in London. But of course, it was a possibility. She’d been loyal and faithful and a hard worker. She had promise. Why wouldn’t they utilise her in their new venture?

London, she thought. The idea made her throat tight with longing. She imagined herself with a little apartment, maybe sharing with some other staff from the hotel. She saw herself trip-trapping along a London street, swinging a carrier bag from a top department store. A solvent, single girl-about-town.

Her and Luca in a cocktail bar.

Dream on, Angelica, she told herself. Where exactly did Dill fit into this picture? Don’t even go there.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Fingers crossed that the deal comes off, then.’

‘Indeed.’

He was holding her gaze. She didn’t know what to do next. Angelica was usually a cool customer, but Luca always made her feel flustered and unsure of herself.

Thankfully, Claire came down the stairs before she could think of a response.

‘I thought you were dressing for dinner,’ said Luca.

‘No.’ Claire looked puzzled, then caught Angelica’s eye. ‘Well, yes – but you know how it is. I got waylaid.’

Luca nodded.

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘I know exactly how it is. I got waylaid myself.’

He flashed Angelica one last wicked smile before turning back to Claire.

‘We should go and get ready. I’ve booked the table for half eight, but we need to chat things through. Make sure we’re both singing from the same song sheet.’

Claire nodded. ‘Why don’t you go first? Have a shower. I’ll have a bath after you.’

Luca loped across the hall and up the stairs. Angelica and Claire watched him go, then looked at each other.

Neither of them said anything. It was all too complicated.

Nick lay on the bed, listening to the silence of the room.

He should get up. He should get dressed. He should bound downstairs and buy the next round; get drunk with his friends. But he felt poleaxed. As incapable of movement or decision as he had been the day of his mother’s death. As the day he had realised that Claire had betrayed him.

Of course they’d all believed Isobel’s cover story: that she was going to Lanzarote to recuperate from her virus. She was entirely convincing. And of course they didn’t find it strange that they didn’t hear from her much – Sally’s villa in Lanzarote didn’t have a phone, she told them. She’d called twice, sounding distant, blaming the bad line in the phone box in Teguise. They soon found out she’d phoned from the hospice, from the bed she was dying in, when the nurse had called them three weeks into January to say she had passed away.

They were devastated, the four of them. Utterly bewildered and shell-shocked, none of them able to come to terms with what Isobel had done. Gerald was bereft, incapable of making a decision, and the three boys tried to pull together and organise things. It was Claire who’d been their saving grace. Claire who kept the house running, dealt with the undertaker, liaised with the vicar. She was a tower of strength to them. She knew instinctively the right thing to do about everything, and she was there for them twenty-four hours a day, holding them, hugging them, cooking for them, turning visitors away or letting them in, depending on who they were. She arranged flowers, hymns, orders of service, announcements. She made casseroles and forced them to eat. She marched Gerald to the doctor and got him pills to help him sleep. She spoke to Shrimp’s housemaster, contacted the major clients at Melchior Barnes to put them in the picture, got in touch with the solicitor.

Nick clung to her warmth at night. He felt adrift, furious with himself for not knowing what to do and how to behave, unable to communicate with his father, all of them locked into their grief so deeply that they couldn’t function. He just couldn’t imagine life without Isobel. Her absence had already halted the momentum in the house. She was their anchor. Without her they were directionless, none of them strong enough to take charge. Thank God, at least, for Claire. He felt guilty that they were leaning on her so heavily, but she seemed to cope, even though the cold that she’d had at Christmas had gone on to her chest and she couldn’t get rid of it. They all needed her. She had stepped into Isobel’s shoes so valiantly, without question.

And then, three days before the funeral, he realised why.

They were in the kitchen, having a debate about something trivial – whether to have music on when people came back to the house afterwards – and Claire said, ‘Yes, she wanted music.’

Nick looked at her. ‘She
wanted
music?’

‘Yes,’ replied Claire.

‘Surely you mean “would have wanted”?’

There was a pause. A long, long pause before Claire gave a little laugh and said, ‘Yes. Would have wanted.’

And in that moment, Nick realised that Claire had known all along. That she had been in on the subterfuge. She’d been groomed for this role. She was prepared. She knew exactly what Isobel wanted. She’d been primed to look after them.

He stood up from the table, shaking.

‘You knew.’

Claire couldn’t look at him. ‘Knew what?’

‘You knew where Mum was.’ He took a step towards her. ‘Admit it, Claire. She got you onside, didn’t she? You were her bloody accomplice. I can see it now. That’s exactly how Mum worked . . .’

The tears streaming down Claire’s face told him all he needed to know.

‘Get out,’ he told her. ‘Get out of this house and don’t get any ideas about coming to the funeral. You’ve betrayed me, and Dad . . . all of us. How could you?’

‘She made me promise,’ sobbed Claire. ‘And maybe she was right. What good would knowing have done? It wouldn’t have stopped her dying.’

Nick could hear his father coming in through the front door.

‘Tell that to Dad,’ he told Claire. ‘Stand there and justify what you’ve done. See if he agrees.’

Claire stared at him, appalled. Then she picked up her bag. She turned to him.

‘I did it because I loved her. I love all of you. And because I thought it was the right thing.’

And before he could stop her, she ran out through the French windows and across the lawn. As Gerald walked into the kitchen, he could see her disappearing over the bridge and out of sight.