The Long Weekend (20 page)

Colin could feel himself breaking into a sweat. This was a total revelation; after all their years of meeting up, he had never known she felt like this. He looked around to see if anyone could hear their conversation. The tables were quite well spaced, but there was no doubt any eavesdropper would find this exchange completely compelling.

‘Listen to me!’ Karen grabbed his attention back. ‘I never stopped dreaming, all the while I was pregnant. It was what kept me going. I imagined everything. The little cottage with the roses over the door. You and me choosing her name. Days out at the seaside with a bucket and spade. Stuff like . . .’ She waved her hand around to indicate the surroundings. ‘This. You, me and her.’

Colin could see that she was perilously close to tears.

‘I knew that dream wasn’t going to come true when you didn’t come and see me in the hospital. Because how could you, what with your wonderful family that you didn’t want to jeopardise?’

Colin remembered the day. He was with Alison, Michelle and Ryan, having Sunday lunch with friends in their new conservatory. The lamb had stuck in his throat, knowing that five miles down the road his secret had just come into the world. He’d been to see Karen and the baby at home as soon as was decently possible, given her a generous cheque to buy everything she needed, sorted out the monthly payment.

‘It’s been bloody tough, you know? Yes, you’ve been generous and done your financial
duty
.’ She spat the word out like an oath. ‘But who was there when all the decisions had to be made? Who was there when she had chickenpox and I had to go to work? Who do I have to turn to when she’s being bullied? Who do I rely on now, when the pressure is on at work and if I don’t play ball I’ll be the next one for the chop? Because your
contribution
—’ again she spat out the word ‘—doesn’t cover all of it, you know.’

Her voice was rising.

‘Karen, please. Calm down. We can talk this through.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything to talk about really.’ Karen picked her napkin off her lap, crumpled it and put it on the table next to her plate. ‘I’ve done my best for her, but I can’t cope. I don’t mind telling you, I’m on antidepressants to keep me going. Just like your wife was once. Sound familiar?’

She stood up and leant over him.

‘I’m exhausted, Colin. I’m right on the edge. I can’t cope any more.’

She was nearly shouting. People were starting to look.

‘Karen.’ Colin stood up and put a steadying hand on her shoulder. She threw it off.

‘Don’t touch me. And don’t patronise me. I know exactly what you think. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me.
What was I thinking of?
Well, I’ve done my best to bring up your child, but to be quite honest, I don’t know that she’s safe with me any more.’

She indicated the prospectus, which was still lying on the table.

‘I thought this was going to be the solution. I thought it would help me through a rough patch. But you made it pretty clear what you think. That I’m trying to pull a fast one. Get something for nothing.’

‘I promise you. I didn’t think that.’ Colin kept his voice low, but he was desperate to calm her down.

‘Yes you did.’ She was adamant. She picked up her bag. ‘I’m going for a cigarette.’

He watched her go. The high heels, the too-tight cropped trousers, the slinky off-the-shoulder top, her hair extensions swishing, her bag clamped to her side. He could see everyone else watching her too. Her body language was shouting all the way across the room, and her heels clacked loudly over the hum of conversation.

Colin stayed sitting at the table. He wasn’t going to rush after her. Trying to placate a woman in that state of hysteria was asking for trouble. He’d let her calm down.

He looked down at his plate, still pristine and untouched, the slices of belly pork in a perfect fan. His appetite had gone. He picked up his wine and drank deep, then topped it up from the bottle in the cooler at the side of the table.

He picked up the prospectus and tried to digest what she’d told him. That she’d always been in love with him. That she’d hoped for something more. He had never got an inkling of that from her. She had always seemed so self-sufficient.

He thought back to when they’d first met. In what he called the Dark Ages, when Alison had shut down and gone in on herself. He’d taken to going to the gym, to work off the stress and keep his weight down, because it was too tempting to comfort-eat and drink when things were tough at home. He’d tried to get Alison to come too; to get her to shift some of the weight she hated, but she refused. She wouldn’t leave the children, even though his mum had offered to sit while the pair of them went out.

So he had gone on his own. Karen was always there, part of the fixtures and fittings, one of the beauty therapists in the salon attached to the gym. When she wasn’t working, she worked out, and he admired her figure from his stance on the treadmill or the rowing machine. They exchanged pleasantries at the water cooler or by the free weights. Pleasantries that morphed into mild flirting over the months, as Colin became fitter and his confidence grew. And when the gym had a Christmas party, he had gone, because he had sponsored one of the raffle prizes – a free cake every week for a year, which amused him highly given that most people were desperately trying to work off the calories they consumed.

They spent the evening drinking cheap, sickly cocktails and chatting. Then dancing – Colin liked a bop, and he didn’t get much chance to strut his stuff on the dance floor these days. And when Karen had asked him back for coffee at the end of the night, to her flat just down the road, it had been so easy to say yes. So easy when she’d peeled off her dress in her lounge and stood in front of him in a basque and stockings and those trademark high heels. She’d put on ‘Sexual Healing’ by Marvin Gaye, and danced for him, totally unselfconscious. In his sex-starved state – it had been more than two years – he felt as if he had died and gone to heaven.

She was beautiful then. He defended himself now for his weakness. He’d have had to be made of steel to refuse.

No, he told himself. It was no good trying to make excuses. He’d been despicably weak. Given in to his basest instincts without a thought for either Alison or, it seemed now, Karen. It was men like him who gave his sex a bad name. Men like him who had their brains in their trousers.

The affair hadn’t lasted all that long. Six months at the most. Sneaky sessions after the gym. Or sometimes in the morning before he went to work, because she worked shifts and started late, so he would swing by and she would answer the door, wearing one of the astonishingly short and sheer nightdresses she favoured. So far removed from the buttoned-up pyjamas that Alison had taken to wearing, to protect herself from any possible advances. Advances that he’d long since given up making.

He never flattered himself that Karen got all that much out of their relationship at the time. He thought she probably enjoyed the flowers he sent her, and the kudos of sleeping with the man with the flashiest car in the gym car park. He’d bought himself a Porsche for his thirty-fifth birthday; drove it round with the roof down and the music up. He’d stopped that once he turned forty. He didn’t want to look like a prat.

He ended it when Alison had finally gone for help, when her depression had been diagnosed at last and she started the medication that helped her get her head over the parapet, until gradually the woman he had fallen in love with had re-emerged. And their relationship had become ever stronger, blossoming as their children blossomed, only marred, for him, by his annual excursion with Karen and Chelsey.

He looked at his watch. Karen had been some time. He wondered if he ought to go and look for her. The waiter came over.

‘Is everything all right, sir?’

Colin looked down at their untouched plates, embarrassed.

‘Um – just give us a little longer. It’s all great. Thank you.’

The waiter nodded and melted away, trained not to make his guests feel awkward in any way.

Ten minutes. How long did it take to smoke a cigarette? Maybe she’d had two? She couldn’t go long without nicotine; maybe she was stockpiling. Or maybe she’d gone to the loo.

Colin waited another three minutes before making up his mind to go and look for her. They needed to decide what to do about their food – eat it or have it taken away. He certainly couldn’t face his now. He got up, and walked as casually as he could through the dining room. One or two guests glanced at him as he passed, and he thought he detected a trace of sympathy in their smiles. He nodded back, giving nothing away.

He walked into the reception area and out of the front door where he thought she was probably lurking on the pavement, sucking in the life force that her cigarettes seemed to supply. But there was no sign of her. Just the usual tourists ambling along the street, on their way to dinner or the pub.

Disquiet gnawing at his empty belly, he went back inside and approached the reception desk.

‘Um . . . I wondered if you’d seen my . . .’ He didn’t know what to call her. ‘My dining partner,’ he finished lamely. ‘Tall, thin, long hair?

The girl behind the desk looked concerned.

‘Sparkly top and skinny jeans? She just got a taxi.’

Colin swallowed.

‘A taxi? Do you know where to?’

‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid. She’s only been gone about . . . five minutes?’

Five minutes? It would take him ten to get up to the bedroom, find his car keys, run to the car park. And he still wouldn’t know what direction to head in. The station, probably . . . but even then he couldn’t leave Chelsey in her room while he went off in pursuit.

‘Do you know what firm it was? If they’d be able to tell me where she went?’

The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know if they’ll tell me, but I can try . . .’

She picked up the phone as his mobile went off in his pocket. A text. The sweat that had gathered round his collar trickled down his neck.

‘No, it’s fine. Don’t worry.’

He walked back outside and stood on the pavement. Took his phone out of his pocket and pressed the message icon.

It’s your turn now. I’ve done my best but I can’t do any more. It’s up to you or you can call the social services. They’d find her a nice foster place
.

He shut down the message, put his phone back in his pocket and looked up at the night sky.

To his surprise, he felt completely calm.

As Luca led the Parfitts through the dining room, the other guests couldn’t help but follow his progress. The women took in his perfect arse and the freshly washed curls that were wilder than ever; the men noted the air of authority that seemed in total contradiction to his black skinny jeans and Gitane-blue shirt with the tails hanging out. He radiated a rock-star glamour that left the women weak and the men envious.

Behind him, Claire’s eyes looked to the right and left to make sure that everything was perfect. The restaurant was at peak capacity, all the tables full, yet the staff had everything under control.

She loved the dining room. It had taken such a long time to get it right. They didn’t want it twee or cluttered, or too stark. Nor did they want to detract from the stunning view that it looked out on to. The walls were painted a gun-metal grey that reflected the soft light from the pewter wall lanterns and the candles. The floor was a light polished oak, chunky wide boards that showed up the knots and imperfections. The upholstered chairs – they had spent months searching for the right ones; it was so important to be comfortable whilst eating – were covered in dark-grey stripes with either coral, turquoise or plum, the only splashes of colour in a neutral palette.

Written on one wall, in spidery black writing, was John Masefield’s poem ‘Sea Fever’. Claire had been worried when they commissioned it that it was a cliché, but the look of pleasure on diners’ faces as they read it was undeniable.

It was so evocative; so reminiscent of Pennfleet. It was all the decoration the room needed.

As Claire sat down at the table with Trevor and Monique – the best table in the room, by the French windows that led out on to the terrace, although it was too chilly to have them open this late in the evening – her stomach was churning. She had no idea how she was going to get through the meal.

‘This is fabulous,’ said Trevor, taking the seat opposite her. ‘Fabulous as ever. I have to say, Claire, Monique and I eat out a lot – a
lot
– and we still haven’t found anywhere to beat this place. It’s welcoming, it’s stylish, everything’s just right. And that’s not easy to do – I know that.’

‘Gordon Ramsay,’ said Monique. ‘He always gets it right.’

‘Well, yeah, but you’re talking in a different league there, Monique.’

‘That’s not to say we can’t emulate his standards,’ Luca pointed out, pulling out Monica’s chair. ‘Aim high.’

Trevor cocked a finger at him.

‘I like your style. Aim high is right.’

Claire smothered a smile – Luca being oleaginous was always amusing, because it didn’t come naturally to him.

‘I think what we’re trying to say,’ Trevor went on, ‘is we’re very proud to be a part of the Townhouse.’ He was distracted by the arrival of the waiter with a bottle of champagne. ‘Perfect timing!’ he crowed. ‘And Taittinger. Our favourite. How did you know?’