The Long Weekend (19 page)

If she couldn’t heal herself in Sausalito, Claire realised as soon as she arrived, there was no hope for her. The house was stunning: a waterside haven overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge filled with light, and she threw herself into the relaxed Californian lifestyle. She slotted straight into the family, because of course she
was
family. The children were easy and biddable, and life adopted a gentle rhythm: walks along the park trails, cycle rides, messing about in the boat the family kept moored in the bustling harbour. It was a million miles from Mimsbury. And if, occasionally, she felt tempted to scrawl a postcard to Nick, she managed to pull herself back from the brink just in time.

As she relived those warm, healing days, Luca banged on the door, dragging her back to the present.

‘Have you fallen down the plughole?’

‘Two minutes!’ Claire shouted in reply.

She had to get dressed, paint on a face and gear herself up for dinner with Trevor and Monique. The last thing she felt like doing was discussing a bold new venture. But she had no choice.

She slipped into the dress she’d bought earlier and let Luca do up her zip.

‘You look fabulous,’ he said, kissing her neck, and she fought off the urge to push him away.

‘Do you think this is stalkerish?’ Laura looked down at the email she had printed out, giving directions to Tony Weston’s house.

‘Immensely stalkerish.’ Dan looked at her, amused. ‘But sometimes stalkerish is okay.’ He paused. ‘I drove past your flat three times before I asked you out.’

‘No way!’ She looked at him in astonishment.

He nodded. ‘Sometimes you just need to do the research. Get a feel for how things are.’

She frowned at him, half laughing. ‘What did you see, when you drove past?’

Dan laughed. ‘Bugger all. Just . . . your flat. You have a weird neighbour, though, who goes to the shop in her pyjamas.’

‘No,’ said Laura. ‘Those are her clothes.’ She laughed when he looked disconcerted. ‘That’s crazy, trendy Hoxton for you.’

Dan hit his head as if he had forgotten something. ‘Of course.’

Laura squinted along the terrace.

‘I think it’s that one. Clarence House.’ She didn’t point, just tilted her head discreetly towards it. She didn’t want anyone noticing them and thinking their behaviour odd.

Clarence House was in the middle of a row of Victorian villas, positioned high on a steep bank to give them a view over the houses opposite, which backed directly on to the harbour. The villas were in various stages of dilapidation and renovation. Some were tired-looking; some had been given a state-of-the-art makeover, with black decking and balconies made of glass and stainless steel. Clarence House fell somewhere between the two: it retained its original features, but had been thoughtfully tweaked to bring it into the twenty-first century. The terrace at the front was crammed with pots brimming with geraniums and busy Lizzies. Rustic wooden furniture had been washed with a pale lavender paint. Moroccan lanterns were dotted amidst the pots, and an antique triptych mirror leant against the wall of the house, reflecting the sea in its glass.

With a thump of her heart, Laura realised that it reminded her of home.

‘What do you think?’ she asked Dan.

‘It’s a fantastic house. It must have a stunning view.’

‘No, I mean do you think it could be my dad’s?’

Dan put an arm around her. ‘Laura, you can’t guess by looking at his plant pots. You won’t know until you ask him.’

‘What if I bottle it?’

Dan sighed. ‘Let’s forget about it for this evening. Let’s go back to the hotel and have a drink. Enjoy the weather. I don’t want you stressing about this.’

‘Sorry. I know I’m being a complete pain.’

‘You’re not. This is a huge deal for you. But there’s no point in speculating.’ He put his hands around her face and kissed her on the nose. ‘There’s going to be loads to talk about tomorrow. So let’s just have fun tonight.’ He took her hand and drew her back down the road towards the hotel. She had to run to keep up with his stride, but she knew he was right.

They came to a gap in the houses where a little wall overlooked the harbour. The evening sun was an impossible orange; the water played with the light it threw, tossing sparks of gold and silver around the bay.

‘Stand there,’ Dan commanded, and pulled out a tiny camera from his pocket, the one he used for snaps.

Laura leant back against the warmth of the wall, smiling. The sea breeze tossed strands of her hair around her face, and she tried to smooth them down.

‘No. Leave them. It’s fine. Windswept is good.’

Afterwards, she looked at the pictures of herself on the screen. That’s me, she thought, the day before I meet the man who might be my father. How will I look tomorrow?

Nine

C
olin was not enjoying his dinner.

It was a shame. One of the reasons he had chosen the Townhouse was because he thought the menu looked wonderful. But Karen made it very obvious that it wasn’t her idea of good food. She didn’t like fish, for a start, and as that was a speciality, it narrowed her options considerably. In the end she went for pâté and steak, while Colin ordered mussels, which came in a big, steaming pan. She looked at him in disgust as he scooped up the shells and devoured them.

‘I don’t know how you can eat those things.’

Something else turning their nose up at what you were eating invariably spoiled your pleasure.

Plus Alison had phoned just before they had come down to dinner. She didn’t usually phone while he was away. She said she hated the idea of bothering him with trivialities while he was in the middle of something. But tonight she’d needed to double-check a date with him urgently, and when he reassured her that he wasn’t in the middle of business, she had chatted away to him about her day – a bit of village gossip, Ryan had sent through some photos, the agricultural contractor had finally come to trim the hedges . . . By the time they said goodbye, Colin wished he was at home, about to sit down to a quiet supper with his wife, instead of what he suspected would be a far from quiet dinner with his ex-mistress.

Karen had drunk far too much too quickly. She didn’t want wine – she didn’t drink the stuff – so Colin had chosen a bottle of white for himself while Karen stuck to vodka and soda.

‘It’s got the least calories,’ she told him. She was neurotic about her weight. She was on her fifth double nevertheless, and he decided he’d better broach the subject before she got too lairy.

‘We need to talk about Chelsey.’

‘Yes.’ She banged her glass down on the table. ‘We do.’

‘She doesn’t seem very happy.’

‘She’s not.’ Karen signalled to the waiter to bring her another drink. ‘I told you, she’s being bullied at school.’

‘Do you think it’s because of her weight?’

Karen shrugged. ‘Probably. But what can you do?’

‘A lot, actually. You could start by not feeding her so much junk.’

‘What?’ Karen’s indignation was almost comical.

‘She does seem to eat an awful lot of rubbish.’

‘Says the man who’s made a million out of flogging biscuits and cakes.’

‘I didn’t force-feed them to my children. I made sure they had a sensible, balanced diet.’

He knew he was straying on to dangerous ground, but you had to be forceful with Karen. Subtlety didn’t work.

‘No you didn’t.’ Her eyes were narrowing dangerously. ‘Your wife did. She was the one who cooked for them, and did all the shopping. It’s bloody easy to be perfect parents when there’s two of you.’

Her voice was rising. Colin put his hand up.

‘Okay. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard.’

‘Yes. It is.’

Colin looked at her. A few drinks had made her appear the worse for wear, and he realised that up close the years had not been kind to her. The tanning didn’t help, or the smoking, and he thought she probably hit the bottle quite a bit, because her eyes were rather bloodshot. He told himself he was being harsh – maybe she was just tired. But he didn’t think her lifestyle was doing her any favours. Or maybe it was just that she tried so hard to give the illusion of youth, when she should just give in gracefully.

He thought about Alison, who had if anything improved with age. Once she had got her bounce back, she had kept herself trim, and liked to look nice. She’d found her style – nothing wild, but she always looked groomed. She was probably ten years older than Karen, but looked younger. Although he thought Karen would probably sneer at Alison’s dress sense; would think her a frump.

None of these musings were going to solve the problem in hand.

‘Is there anything I can do to help? With Chelsey.’

‘Actually, yes, there is.’ Karen leant down into her huge handbag and pulled out a white A4 envelope. ‘I’m working all the hours God sends. The gym want me to do lates nearly every night. I don’t get home till ten. I can’t turn them down because anyone who doesn’t cooperate gets sacked. So I’m constantly having to farm Chelsey out. Or get someone in.’

‘I can see that’s tough.’

She pulled out the contents of the envelope and slid it across the table to him. It was a prospectus. A glossy prospectus for a private school.

The very school his own kids had gone to. The one Ryan had just left.

She was looking at him, judging his reaction. He deliberately kept his expression deadpan. Across the table he could smell her perfume. It reeked of bitter almonds. Cyanide, he thought. His toes curled up in his shoes.

‘Thing is, if she went here, she could board some of the time.’ She raked her ghastly square-tipped nails through her hair. ‘She never sees me as it is. At least this way she’s got company, and they can monitor her homework.’

‘What about Chelsey? What does she think?’

Karen blinked.

‘I haven’t told her yet. I didn’t want to get her hopes up.’

‘Do you really think this is the answer? Sending her to a private school, when she’s already being bullied? This place will be full of skinny girls with more money than sense. Trust me, I know. Michelle had a hard time at one point, till she learnt how to handle them.’

Karen looked sulky.

‘I’m just trying to do what’s best for her.’

‘What’s best for Chelsey?’

His implication was obvious. That her decision was a selfish one.

‘It was good enough for your kids, wasn’t it? But maybe Chelsey doesn’t rank as highly as they do.’

She might as well have picked up her steak knife and plunged it into his guts.

‘I can’t put this through the books, Karen. Four grand a term. Twelve grand a year. That’s the same again as I pay you now.’

‘So . . . your illegitimate daughter’s not worth the money, is that what you’re saying?’

‘No.’

‘It’s only the same amount as . . . a family holiday to the Maldives.’

He shouldn’t have told her about that.

‘I’m not quibbling because of the money – though it would be difficult. I’m concerned because I don’t think this is what Chelsey needs at the moment. I think she needs stability. And attention. Not to be thrown into an alien environment that will undoubtedly unsettle her.’

He broke into a bread roll with unnecessary force. Karen nodded at him solemnly, as if in agreement.

‘Really?’ she asked him, then picked up her drink, dangling the glass casually, and leant back in her chair. ‘You obviously don’t think I’m fit to judge what’s best for our daughter. Even though I’m the one who looks after her.’

‘I didn’t say that. I’m just . . . giving you my opinion.’

‘Well I think we need to get a few things cleared up before we make any further decisions about
our
daughter.’

She leant across the table.

‘I was there for you, Colin, when you were having a hard time. When your marriage was on the rocks and you needed someone to turn to. I listened to you, and I was there for you, and I never asked anything of you. And then suddenly it was “Sorry, Karen, I can’t do this any more, Alison needs me”, and you were gone. And I just had to accept that you were out of my life. I didn’t kick off, or make a fuss, or turn into a bunny-boiler. I knew the deal. And then I found out I was expecting Chelsey . . .’

She was gripping her glass so tightly Colin thought she might break it. He put out a hand to touch hers.

‘Hey, it’s okay.’

She snatched it away and shot him a look. He saw the pain in her eyes. Not venom, which was what he’d expected, but pain.

‘I could have done what other people do. I could have made an appointment, got rid of her, but I didn’t think that was right. I know what you think, that I saw her as a meal ticket, that I thought “Hooray! Blank cheque”—’

‘I never thought that.’

‘Bullshit.’

She stared at him again and he couldn’t meet her eye. Of course he had thought that, time and again.

She leant forward over her plate. He could see her cleavage, the breasts that had transfixed him all those years ago, the breasts that had lured him into the trap.

‘I loved you, you know that? I used to dream that your marriage would collapse. That one day you would turn to me and say that we could be together. But I never put any pressure on you. You don’t do that to married men. It’s the law.’