The Long Weekend (28 page)

From a distance, it was the perfect scene. Four friends enjoying an idyllic al fresco lunch on what was effectively a private beach. The sun shone down on them; a light breeze stopped it from being too relentless. Before them the sea shimmered and on the horizon other boats glided past, but no one came to invade their privacy.

After lunch, Luca and Monique went off to explore the caves in the neighbouring cove while the tide was still out. Claire stripped down to her bikini and stretched out on the rug. Her eyes felt heavy. All she wanted to do was go to sleep, to stop the questions whirling around her head. Maybe when she woke everything would seem better.

She was just drifting off, enjoying the feeling of the sun on her face, when she sensed Trevor sitting down beside her.

‘I’m glad to get you on your own, Claire,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

Claire struggled to open her eyes. She felt exasperated. Why couldn’t he just go away? She didn’t want to hear any more facts and figures about the new hotel. She’d got the picture. She wanted to be on her own. But Trevor wasn’t going to go away.

‘I need to tell you something. About Monique and me. I think it’s important. It might alter the way you look at our proposition.’

Claire sighed inwardly. Trevor wasn’t going to let it drop. She rolled over on to one side, resting her head on her hand, and looked at him with a polite smile. What was he going to tell her? That they were swingers and were hoping to chuck in their car keys later that evening? Was that going to be the deal? She stifled a giggle: it wouldn’t surprise her. They had that air about them.

But Trevor looked solemn. Not as if he was about to make a dodgy pass.

‘We have a son. Jamie. He’s coming up to twenty-two. This July.’

‘Oh.’ Claire was surprised. She’d never heard Jamie mentioned.

‘You thought we were childless, I expect.’ Trevor gave her a knowing smile.

‘I don’t know that I’ve ever really thought about it.’ If anything, she’d assumed that Trevor and Monique might have grown-up children. They were both pushing fifty.

‘We only had the one child. That’s how it worked out. But we were happy. Jamie was the apple of our eye. He was a great kid. He adored his mum. They were like that.’ Trevor crossed his fingers to show her. ‘He was a good all-rounder. A smart kid. Good at footie. Played the trumpet. Popular. Then, when he was about sixteen, it all started to go wrong.’

He went quiet for a moment and looked down at the pebbles, picking up handfuls and letting them trickle through his fingers.

Claire wasn’t sure what to say. ‘It’s a difficult age, I suppose.’

‘He got in with the wrong crowd. We never stopped him from doing anything, but we didn’t like his new friends. We were pretty sure he was smoking dope – his clothes used to smell funny, and he was . . . different. Moody and distant. Never opened his curtains. Sat in his room with his headphones on, playing on the computer. His grades went down. The school called us in and told us he was absent a lot of the time. We didn’t know what to do. Our lovely son, who we’d been so proud of, seemed to have turned into a different person.’

‘It must have been very hard.’ Claire tried to look sympathetic.

‘We tried to talk to him. We did our best. We tried to be supportive. But he didn’t want to know. He told us we didn’t understand. Understand what? He didn’t want for anything. We were always there for him. We told him that whatever it took to make him happy, we would do it. We just wanted our old Jamie back, not this sullen, hostile, unhappy kid who didn’t want anything to do with us.’

Claire could just imagine Trevor and Monique trying to deal with a recalcitrant teenager. They were both so full-on, so forceful. Even if their hearts were in the right place, she felt sure their overtures would have been unwelcome. She herself could remember being a moody teenager, and just wanting to be left alone. Part of her sympathised with Jamie.

‘One day,’ said Trevor, and Claire realised that his voice had a quiver in it, ‘one morning, we went to his room because he hadn’t got up, and he wasn’t there. He’d vanished. Disappeared.’ It was a moment before he continued. ‘We never saw him again.’

Claire sat up, shocked.

‘Never?’ she echoed.

Trevor shook his head. He was clearly finding it difficult to speak.

‘We’ve no idea what happened. Where he went. Or why. There was no note. All he took was his phone, and his bank cards. Just the stuff he would have had with him on a normal day. He was only seventeen.’

His face creased up with the effort of sharing the memory.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Claire managed at last. What on earth was she supposed to say? ‘That’s terrible.’

Trevor nodded. ‘I did everything I could. I got every copper I knew to pull strings. I hired the best private detectives I could find. I gave his friends money to help me find him.’

Claire could imagine Trevor swinging into action. A military operation oiled by large amounts of cash.

‘And you never heard anything?’

‘A month after he left, Monique got a text from him. It said, “Sorry Mum”. That was it. We don’t know whether he went abroad or . . . jumped off a bridge or . . . what. We have no idea where he is. He could have started a new life somewhere. Or be down and out. A druggie in some doorway . . .’

‘How awful. Not knowing.’

‘Yes.’ Trevor looked her straight in the eye. ‘It was a living hell. I’ve never felt so angry, or helpless, or desperate. And it totally broke Monique.’

‘Well, yes, I can imagine.’ Actually, she couldn’t. Or didn’t want to. ‘But I had no idea. She seems so . . .’ Claire sought for the words. Up, she thought. Monique was always so up, so bright and full of enthusiasm.

‘She puts on a good act. Most people have no idea what she’s gone through. She’s learnt how to hide it. But it still torments her. She’s never given up hoping. She still carries her phone round with her – the one she had when he went missing – in case he calls. She’s got a new number for everyday, but she checks the old one constantly. Night and day. It’s like an obsession. But then I suppose . . . she’s never given up hope . . .’

He trailed off. Claire felt overwhelmed with pity.

‘And you?’ she asked softly. ‘Have you given up hope?’

Trevor looked out to sea. His eyes were screwed up behind his sunglasses; whether to block out the sun or to hold back tears, she couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t an attractive man as such, she decided, but he had a diamond-geezer aura that drew you to him. And a sense of power that made you want him on your side. He would always look after you, Claire decided.

‘They call it ambiguous loss,’ he said. ‘It’s very difficult to deal with, because you don’t have . . . what do they call it? Closure. And you never know the reason why. What went wrong. What you did wrong.’ He paused for a moment. ‘In the end, I learnt to focus on the present. I taught myself to come to terms with the fact that Jamie doesn’t want to be found. And I decided I wasn’t going to beat myself up about it. I did my best as his dad. The best I knew how . . .’

‘Of course you did.’ Claire touched him on the arm.

‘I knew if I carried on hoping, like Monique, that I’d drive myself crazy in the end. And she needs me to be strong.’

He picked up more pebbles, clawing at them urgently. Claire could feel the tension in him. The frustration that must still eat him up, all these years on.

‘The reason I’m telling you all this,’ he went on, ‘is because this hotel project is the first thing that has really fired Monique up since Jamie disappeared. I think it could be the turning point. The thing that helps her move on. Which is why I so desperately want it to work. And why I want you both on board. Because you can make it happen. There’s no way she could do it on her own – she’s smart enough, but I don’t think she’s strong enough. And I’ve got too much else on to give it the attention it needs. Someone’s got to finance it after all. But with you and Luca – it would be a great team.’

‘I understand,’ said Claire. She felt guilty that she’d thought it was just a vanity project to keep a silly woman with too much money happy. Poor Monique.

‘I know Luca’s committed.’ Trevor pushed up his sunglasses and fixed her with a look that said the emotional stuff was over and now he meant business. ‘But I can see you’re not convinced.’ He held a hand up as she started to speak. ‘Which is absolutely right. You shouldn’t be rushing in. As a woman, you’re bound to have more reservations. It’s okay for Luca to go charging ahead, but what about you? You’ve just got engaged. I expect you’re thinking about your future. How it all fits in. How you’ll cope if you want a family.’

‘Well,’ said Claire. ‘There’s a lot to think about, certainly.’ Her heart was hammering. Trevor was getting too personal for her liking. Yet she admired him for his perspicacity. He knew something was amiss.

‘All I’m saying,’ replied Trevor, ‘is that whatever it takes, whatever I can do to convince you, I’ll do it. If you have concerns, or you want to make conditions, please talk to me. I don’t want this project to fall through. I want to make it work for you. So I can make it work for Monique.’

Claire nodded. There wasn’t much she could say, because she couldn’t reveal the real source of her reluctance. Yet at the same time, she felt a sudden desire to take the project on. Trevor’s story had moved her deeply. Of course, she knew that this was why he was so successful, because he was an expert in manipulating people, but he certainly hadn’t been lying.

And she saw Monique in a different light now – underneath the make-up and the designer clothes and the flashy jewellery, she saw a woman, a mother, in constant pain.

‘I’ve got some stuff I need to work out first,’ she managed finally.

Trevor smiled. ‘Whatever it takes. And remember – we haven’t had this conversation. Monique doesn’t like people to know about Jamie.’

He flipped his glasses back down to cover his eyes as Luca and Monique came into view. They were talking animatedly, Luca gesticulating, Monique nodding.

Claire didn’t want to hear what they were saying. Now that she knew the stakes, she didn’t want to be part of the conspiracy until she knew exactly where her future lay. And the only one who could figure that out was her.

She stood up. ‘I’m going for a swim.’

She didn’t wait for a reply. She ran down towards the water and straight into the sea, gasping at the coldness. But she didn’t stop. She carried straight on until the water reached her waist, and then she plunged underneath the waves, down into the deep coolness, where there was no sound. She stayed there until her lungs nearly burst, wishing she could swim off into the silent green depths of the ocean where nothing and no one could reach her.

Laura and Tony sat on the terrace at the front of the house for lunch, an Indian parasol shielding them from the heat of the sun.

Tony brought out home-made watercress soup, served with a swirl of double cream and a sprinkling of chives from one of the pots of herbs that were ranged under the windows. With the soup were a chunky loaf of organic stoneground bread and a wedge of Sharpham Brie, ripened to gooey perfection.

They ate for a few minutes in silence. A gentle breeze came off the sea, bringing with it a tang of ozone that sharpened Laura’s appetite: she was so nervous, she hadn’t thought she could face food, but she was surprised to be hungry. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying to each other.

‘They’re a bloody menace,’ said Tony. ‘They’ve been known to come and take food off the table. You can’t turn your back.’

‘But they’re part of the seaside, aren’t they? You can’t have sea without seagulls. They’re iconic.’

‘I suppose so.’ He smiled at her as he sliced another couple of chunks of bread and passed her one on the end of the knife.

‘So – how long have you lived here?’ Laura busied herself with the butter.

‘Fifteen years now. We decided we wanted to leave the rat race and have a simpler life. We’ve never regretted it. Okay, so we don’t have a flash car and we don’t stay at posh hotels if we go away, but I sleep at night now. I’m not very good at stress.’

Oh dear, thought Laura. You might not sleep tonight after what I’m about to tell you. She took a gulp of elder-flower cordial. Her mouth felt so dry, she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to form the next words. She had to confront him. Wendy might come back at any moment, and then it would be too late.

She cleared her throat before speaking.

‘You used to teach at St Benedict’s, didn’t you?’

It came out as more of a statement than a question.

Or an accusation.

The fleeting look on Tony’s face was a mixture of fear, surprise and guilt, which he managed to erase with admirable speed.

‘St Benedict’s?’ He frowned, and shook his head.

‘The girls’ school? In Reading. I looked you up,’ insisted Laura. ‘You were head of art.’

‘Oh!’ A gleam of recollection came into his eye. Was she supposed to be taken in by his acting? ‘Yes, I was there for a couple of terms. But it was an awfully long time ago. An awfully long time.’ He put his hands on the table to push himself up, as if to accentuate how old he was. ‘There’s gooseberry fool if you’d like it . . .’ He trailed off as he realised Laura was staring at him. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking down at the table. He sat back down.

‘What?’

He knows, she thought. He knows.

She bent down and burrowed in her bag for the photocopy of the drawing she’d found in Marina’s box file, then laid it out on the table.

‘Did you draw this while you were there?’

He stared at the picture for what seemed like an eternity. Apart from the slightest crease between his brows, his face was expressionless. At long last, he spoke.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘It
looks
like my signature, certainly. But I must have done hundreds of drawings like this during my life. I’ve no idea who it is, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t remember anyone, really. My memory’s dreadful these days.’ He passed the drawing back to her with a smile. Was his hand shaking slightly, or was it the breeze ruffling the paper? ‘Anyway, I’m hardly famous, so even if I did draw it, it won’t be worth anything. Though I’m flattered that you might think so.’