The Long Weekend (24 page)

And my God, she realised with a lurch to her stomach as she slid the ring back on to her finger, it looked as if she had.

The phone on his bedside table chirruped to tell Nick he had a text.

He lay there for a moment, not wanting to look at it. He knew who it would be from.

Eventually he stretched out an arm and picked up the phone.

Hey! How’s the head? Not too bad here. We’re going to have a massive breakfast then hit the shops. Have a lovely day xxxx

He didn’t know what to reply. He could ignore it and plead lack of signal. But that seemed mean somehow. His thumbs raced over the keyboard.

Heads not too bad here either. Looking forward to a day on the water. Love to all the girls and have fun x

He imagined them, the six of them, sitting round the table at their hotel, revelling in the decadent sin of a full English despite knowing they would have to get into their various frocks the following Saturday. Sophie would be immaculate, her blonde hair freshly washed and falling to her shoulders. She’d be in jeans and a twinset, bright-eyed and ready for the day ahead, everything organised down to the last cappuccino. Sophie never left anything to chance. Not that she was boring, but she liked to have a plan. She believed that that way you got the most out of life. She would have emailed the other girls a detailed itinerary of the weekend; they were used to her exacting ways and seemed to love her all the more for it. And they would all, Nick knew, have the greatest fun. Sophie would have researched everything thoroughly – the hotel, the restaurants, the spa, the bars – booked the best tables, made sure that all their requirements were met. It was, after all, merely an extension of her job in event management: they had met when Nick had supplied the wine and champagne for a Gold Cup day she had organised in a wealthy client’s garden. Nick remembered it all too clearly, seeing her wrapping yellow organza around the poles in the marquee, her T-shirt riding up to expose her midriff as she reached up . . .

He couldn’t think about her. He put his pillow over his head to try and block out the memory. But there she was, turning to him, charming him with her easy manner, directing him to the place where she wanted the wine stored . . . then laughing with mortified apology when she realised that he was the sales director, not the delivery boy. They’d been short-staffed that day. She’d insisted on taking him to the pub over the road for a drink to apologise.

Eight months later they were engaged.

Did he love her? Yes, absolutely he loved her. He loved her dauntless enthusiasm, her unflappability, her certainty. The way she always looked perfect. The way she got what she wanted without coming across as a princess. He knew his life with her would be ordered: not rigid in any way, but pleasantly calm, with no unexpected upheaval or drama. He’d been looking forward to marrying her, making a home with her, starting a family.

There was, though, something missing. He had never had the urge to bury his face in Sophie’s neck and breathe in the very essence of her. His lips didn’t tingle with electricity when he brushed them over her skin. She didn’t appear in his dreams, a shadowy figure just out of his reach.

He didn’t want to die in her arms.

Every time he thought about Sophie, she was overshadowed by Claire. Every time he thought about the wedding next Saturday, it was Claire’s face he saw as he turned to look at his bride at the altar. Claire whose very essence was filling his head, his heart and his soul.

He’d come to accept, subconsciously, that you probably only got that feeling with another person once in your life. And he’d also come to accept that perhaps life would be easier with a person who didn’t make you feel that way. There would be less passion, certainly, but how much easier to manage your life, your career, your family with someone whom you loved and respected, but who didn’t haunt your every waking hour.

Like Claire had. He’d wondered, over the years, if he had built her up into a fantasy figure simply because he couldn’t have her. But now he had seen her, now he had touched her again, he knew that wasn’t true. The magic, the chemistry, the longing, the
rightness
of Claire was still there. Sophie would never arouse those feelings in him.

And if Claire decided that being together wasn’t the right thing to do, could he then go ahead and marry another woman knowing that his heart belonged to someone else?

In the meantime, he had the rest of his stag weekend to struggle through. The six of them were due to be getting a boat for the day. It was anchors away at ten o’clock – they needed to be up, dressed and fed by then. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. The dining room should be open any minute. But he couldn’t face going down to breakfast in case he saw her. He decided to ring room service.

In his experience, the world always looked a better place after a big, fat bacon sandwich.

Dan and Laura were the first people down to breakfast on Saturday morning. They took a table near the windows so they could look at the view.

Dan was in seventh heaven. He ordered up a full English breakfast, stretched luxuriously and cracked open the Saturday
Independent
with a sigh of pleasure.

‘God, it’s great not to be hotfooting to some random church in the bloody Cotswolds,’ he observed, taking a swig of delicious coffee. He quite often did weddings on a Saturday – more for friends and friends of friends than officially, but because he offered a good rate and didn’t mess about or do endless permutations of relatives and bride’s friends, he had become quite popular.

Laura sipped at a glass of fresh pink grapefruit juice, a pot of Earl Grey tea in front of her. She’d ordered mushrooms on granary toast, even though she wasn’t hungry. She wished she didn’t feel so stomach-churningly nervous. After all, this was the first time she and Dan had been away. The first time she’d been to a hotel like this with
anyone
.

Holidays with Marina had always been chaotic camping trips with other single mums and hordes of children, or a rented cottage; there had never been enough money for hotels. She’d been away on conferences with work, to impersonal, faceless chain hotels. But never to somewhere as exquisite as this.

Suddenly she thought about cancelling the whole madcap plan. The pressure was spoiling what should be a lovely, romantic weekend. She’d had been awake since dawn going over and over the wisdom of what she was doing and debating the likelihood of a happy outcome. She was trying not to burden Dan too much with it all. She didn’t want him to get sick of her anxiety. She didn’t want to become a bore.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering what Tony Weston was doing: whether he was still in bed or if he was an early riser; if he’d already been to the shop for the paper. She wondered what he read. Did he get the
Independent
, or the
Times
, or perhaps the
Guardian
? Was he leafing through it now? Or was he preparing for her arrival, laying out paper, pencils, brushes, tubes of paint? Was he wondering what she would be like, his weekend student? What was he picturing? A middle-aged woman looking for a new lease of life? An exhausted mother indulging in a weekend of ‘me’ time?

Probably not, she reflected as the waitress brought her breakfast, the long-lost daughter he never knew he had.

She picked up her fork and speared a mushroom, plump with melted butter.

‘What are you going to do today?’ she asked Dan.

He peered at her over the top of his paper.

‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be perfectly happy.’ He nodded to the view outside. ‘I could just sit here all day and watch the harbour, to be honest.’

Laura followed his gaze. She could easily send Tony Weston a cancellation email. She could spend all day with Dan.

But then she’d never know.

When Chelsey woke, just after eight, Colin had already woken and crept back into his bedroom to shower and dress. He found her standing by the window, the curtains drawn back, staring out at the sea.

‘Hey. Good morning. You slept well.’

She turned to him with a smile. She looked so much younger than her eleven years, in her Hello Kitty pyjamas, her pale-brown hair with its centre parting messy from bed.

‘Where’s Mum?’ she asked. ‘Is she up already? She never gets up before midday on a Saturday.’

Her eyes strayed enquiringly towards the interconnecting door. Shit, thought Colin. She thinks Karen spent the night in my bed. He came into the room, marshalling his thoughts, knowing he had to be careful.

‘Your mum had to go,’ he told her. ‘There was a problem at the gym, they called her in, so she’s gone home.’

Chelsey frowned. ‘Is that what she told you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ lied Colin, because he couldn’t think of a better reason.

Chelsey looked at him. Her little face was troubled.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘She can’t have gone to the gym.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’ll kill me if I tell you.’

Colin hated to see his daughter’s distress, but he needed to know the source of it.

‘No she won’t.’ He put an arm round her. ‘She won’t, because I won’t tell her you told me. What is it, Chelsey?’

Eventually, reluctantly, she told him.

‘She was fired from the gym a few months ago. She hasn’t been there for ages. I wasn’t supposed to say anything.’

‘I see.’ Colin digested this information, rapidly putting it into context, taking in all the implications. No wonder Karen had been so on edge. He sat down on the end of Chelsey’s bed. ‘Well,’ he carried on carefully. ‘She probably needs a bit of time on her own, to think about what she’s going to do.’

Chelsey put her hand to her hair and started twirling a strand around her finger. A nervous habit, Colin thought.

‘Is there something else?’ he asked. ‘You can trust me, Chelsey. Honestly. I understand your mum gets cross with you, so I won’t let you get into trouble.’

This, he realised, was the start of their relationship proper. From now on, he was going to have to gain her trust, if they were going to get through this.

‘I expect she’s going to Hot Legs,’ she said finally. ‘She works there sometimes.’

Colin felt a chill. Hot Legs.

He knew about it, of course. Who didn’t? The infamous ‘gentlemen’s club’ on the edge of the Chinese quarter in town – although there was nothing gentlemanly about it, in his opinion. It was open twenty-four hours, with non-stop dancing girls. He had never been there, although he’d heard stories of the scantily clad beauties who performed at your table in front of you for twenty pounds. The thought made him queasy. He didn’t belong to the school of macho who got off on that kind of thing – but there were plenty of men who did. Faithful husbands, family men, for whom the thrill of a naked girl gyrating between their legs proved too much of a temptation.

They were fools, thought Colin, to be taken in by the charade, to be seduced by the pouting lips and come-hither eyes. To him it was a sordid transaction. Why would you want to buy sexual promise? An empty encounter?

Worse than that, though, was the thought that Karen had been reduced to this, if what Chelsey was saying was true. And how appalling that she thought it was okay for her daughter to know.

‘How long has she been working there?’ he asked Chelsey lightly. It was important not to show his shock. He wanted to get as much information out of her as possible.

‘Ages,’ said Chelsey. ‘Her friend Sharanne is the manager there. She calls her when they’re short. It’s good money,’ she assured him. ‘She can get two hundred pounds in a night. And it’s cash.’

She was eleven years old. She shouldn’t know any of this. Sickened, Colin thought of Michelle at eleven. Her head had been filled with ponies and puppies and cupcakes, nothing more sinister. Okay, so eventually pop music and make-up and boys had filtered through, but in a controlled and healthy way.

Yet while in some ways Chelsey seemed so much younger than Michelle had at the same age, here she was talking about her mother effectively selling her body for cash in a matter-of-fact manner that chilled Colin’s heart to the core.

‘Have you been there?’ he asked.

‘A couple of times,’ she told him. ‘If she goes there in the day, I hang out in the changing rooms till she’s finished her shift.’

‘What do you do?’

Chelsey shrugged. ‘Play on my DS. Watch the telly.’

Colin felt his fists clench. His daughter, his flesh and blood, subjected to that kind of immoral degradation. He couldn’t bring himself to ask any more questions. He didn’t want to know, not just yet. He wiped his forehead. It was coated with beads of sweat, oozing globules of shock and fear and disgust.

To him, the biggest surprise was that Karen had even got a job there. He would have thought her too old; well past her prime. But he supposed that with the right make-up, the right costume and subdued lighting, she would pass muster. She had the moves. She had the right look in her eye. He knew that well enough.

He had no idea what his next move should be. Karen doing a runner had been one thing, but this revelation raised the stakes even higher. He needed to keep his head; keep calm. Make some phone calls.

Alison. He couldn’t think about Alison just yet.

And his priority was still Chelsey. This weekend had always been about her, and it still would be, if it killed him. Absolutely none of this was her fault. He took a quick glance at his phone to see if there was a message from Karen, either conciliatory or explanatory, but there was nothing.

‘I think you should get dressed and we’ll go down to breakfast,’ he said, injecting a cheerfulness into his voice that he didn’t feel. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

When she got back to their room, Claire was amazed to find that Luca was already up. She must have missed him on her way back. Maybe he was in the kitchen? Unusual, she thought, but actually she was relieved. She’d been dreading seeing him, having to fake enthusiasm for what had happened the night before. She felt drained, unable to muster so much as a smile.

His presence was everywhere in the room. Steam from his shower, wet towels and last night’s clothes on the floor, a rumpled bed – okay, the chambermaids came and made it every morning, but did he have to leave it in quite such disarray? – and two empty coffee cups.