The Long Weekend (39 page)

To his surprise, she seemed unfazed.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘In fact, I think this is the best thing that could have happened.’

Trevor was astonished.

‘How?’

‘If we buy into here, I can run the place. I can cut my teeth on it. Learn the ropes. It’s already up and running, so it’s ideal. Then, when I know what I’m doing, we can look at London again. I reckon I could do it on my own.’

She smiled at him. There was a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there for years. The darkness seemed to have gone. Trevor thought his heart was going to burst. She was so much stronger than he had thought. He walked over and took her in his arms.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ he said.

Luca was raging through the hotel. Where the bloody hell was Claire? She’d totally vanished. Her bag and her car keys were gone. She wouldn’t answer her phone.

‘What does she think she’s doing?’ he roared. ‘She can’t just walk out of here.’

Angelica came back from the car park. He’d sent her to see if Claire’s car was still there.

‘It’s gone,’ she told him.

He stepped towards her, his face dark with fury, and grabbed her arms.

‘This is all your fault,’ he shouted. ‘She must have seen us.’

His fingers were digging into her.

‘My fault?’ she said calmly. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘What the hell am I supposed to do now?’ he demanded.

He was shaking Angelica. She struggled to pull away. Behind Luca, she could see Trevor coming down the stairs.

‘Let her go at once.’ Trevor strode across the room. ‘I don’t ever want to see you lay another finger on that girl.’

Luca scowled. ‘It’s none of your business,’ he snarled.

‘Yes it is,’ replied Trevor. ‘In fact, that’s exactly what it is.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Luca released Angelica and turned to face Trevor.

‘Claire’s offered me and Monique her share of the business,’ Trevor told him.

‘What do you mean? She can’t just do that. What the bloody hell’s she playing at? And where’s she gone?’

‘I’ve no idea. She didn’t say.’

Luca stood stock still, trying to take it all in.

‘You might as well have the whole lot then,’ he managed finally, and walked out of the door.

Trevor looked at Angelica. ‘Are you all right, love?’

She shook her head. ‘What are we supposed to do now?’

‘Don’t worry. He’ll come back when he’s calmed down.’ Trevor was assured. Confident. ‘I’ll get Monique to come down and give you a hand.’

Angelica’s eyes welled up. ‘This
is
all my fault,’ she said.

Trevor patted her on the shoulder. ‘I don’t think so. Whatever’s gone on today, I think it all started a long time ago . . .’

It took Claire just under three hours to drive to Mimsbury. No doubt she would have a raft of speeding tickets in the post the following week. And although she had all the time in the world to debate what she was doing as she drove, not once did she feel the urge to turn around, or have any doubt that what she was doing was the right thing.

In her heart of hearts, she belonged to Nick. And if he didn’t feel the same way, well . . . Claire was ready to make her own way in the world. Start again on her terms.

She didn’t want to think about Luca and Angelica. They were irrelevant now. She certainly wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of a showdown, or a chance to defend themselves. Although if she really thought about it, she felt more betrayed by Angelica than Luca. She shivered to think how she had trusted the girl with her secrets. It had reminded her of something she already knew – that secrets were trouble; that they made you vulnerable.

The only way to get through life from now on, she decided, was not to have any.

She turned off the main road and down the narrow lane that led to Mimsbury. She hadn’t been back since she had left for Sausalito – her parents had moved again not long after she had gone – but it was still achingly familiar even after all this time. The hedgerows and verges were full to bursting, and every now and then she passed an exquisite red-brick cottage swathed in roses. She drove across the hump-backed bridge, the canal cool and silent beneath, then over the level crossing next to the little station, which had been the scene of that fateful meeting so many years ago, then through a dark tunnel of overhanging oak trees before they thinned out and Mimsbury appeared in all its glory, as perfect as ever, as if it was waiting for the arrival of the Best Kept Village judges any minute. She slowed down on instinct, even before she passed the twenty-miles-an-hour sign.

The Mimsbury Arms looked just the same. If she breathed in, she would be able to smell it – the woodsmoke from the fire, the hoppy scent of beer, Mel’s musky perfume, chips from the kitchen. A wave of nostalgia slid through her, making her feel slightly nauseous, and just for a moment she wondered about the wisdom of coming back.

And then, as she turned the corner, there was the Mill House. It still took her breath away, as if she was seeing it for the first time. It stood, quiet and still in the summer sun, waiting for her, the mellow red bricks hazy in the heat, the river snaking its sinuous way alongside. She pulled on to the gravel chippings at the side of the house and pulled on the handbrake. Stepping out of the car, she felt as if a camera crew should be following her; as if her every move and every reaction should be remarked upon by a commentator speaking in a suitably hushed tone.

She crunched towards the front door. She couldn’t stop to think about what she was doing. She had to move forward. On to the next phase of her life, whatever it might bring. She rang the bell. It drilled into the heart of the house, an intrusive sound on such a peaceful afternoon. There followed a long silence. No one was in.

For some reason, that eventuality hadn’t occurred to her. Disappointment nipped at her. She stepped back, chewing her thumbnail, unsure what to do. Should she go to the pub and wait? Somehow that took the urgency out of the situation. Her mission would lose its momentum. She was about to turn and go back to the car when she heard the handle rattle and the door opened slowly.

It was Gerald. He’d obviously just woken up. He looked bewildered and dishevelled, blinking at the light flooding into the cool dark of the hall.

‘So sorry. I was having a snooze in the garden . . .’ He peered at her, not recognising her as yet.

‘Gerald,’ she said, not sure how much enthusiasm to inject into her voice, as she had no idea how he was going to react. ‘It’s me. Claire.’

He looked smaller than she remembered. Frail almost. And quite grey. But it had been more than ten years, and at Gerald’s time of life, she supposed, ten years made all the difference. And he’d lost a lot of weight, which was always ageing.

Then he suddenly smiled, and his face lit up, and the Gerald she remembered was there, the bon viveur, the party-thrower, the charmer.

‘Claire!’ he cried, and there was no doubting the genuine joy in his voice. He stepped forward, and she let him put his arms around her, and stood very still as he hugged her. ‘My darling girl!’ She remembered how theatrical he always sounded when he was overexcited. ‘This is such a surprise. Such a shock. But such a pleasure.’ He stepped back and held her at arm’s length, surveying her. ‘You’d better come in. I’m so glad to see you. You have no idea . . .’

Claire stepped into the hall, and felt the familiar walls embrace her. It hadn’t changed. The grandfather clock was still there, the hands pointing now at ten past two, in the same place it had been when she had last seen it; its tick as loud and relentlessly steady. The air smelled of beeswax, and the coir matting on the floor. And still – or was she imagining it? – the faint scent of violets. She could almost – almost – imagine Isobel bounding down the stairs, greeting her with delight, hugging her . . .

‘Come on, come through.’ Gerald urged her into the kitchen.

As she walked in, the past jumped up and grabbed her. She faltered in the doorway, overwhelmed by nostalgia. Again, nothing had changed. The table smothered in paperwork, empty Emma Bridgewater mugs and the remains of someone’s toast and Marmite; the photographs on the wall, the view through the French windows. The smell. Of the oil that fired the Aga, the garden outside, the lingering scent of toast from lunch, freshly ground coffee beans . . .

It was marginally messier than it would have been during Isobel’s reign. There were no fresh flowers in the old enamel jug. The milk bottle was out on the side, and the sugar was in a bag, not a bowl, a teaspoon sticking out of it, which would have horrified her.

‘What can I get you?’ asked Gerald, ever the host. ‘No – don’t answer. If ever there was an excuse for champagne, this must surely be it . . .’

He looked at her, smiling, his eyes shining with genuine pleasure.

Claire found it hard to speak. There were so many emotions jostling for position inside her. Memories of the past mixed with her hopes for the future, all combined with a certain awkwardness. What should she say to Gerald? How could she explain her presence here?

Although he didn’t seem to want to know. He just appeared to accept that she was here, as he made his way to the fridge and pulled out a bottle, just as she had seen him do so many times. He hadn’t even waited for her agreement. He turned and looked at her, one hand expertly removing the foil and then easing the cork from its neck. He poured two glasses and handed her one.

‘I am so delighted to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ve thought about you a great deal over the years. Wondered how you are. You look well.’

Claire nodded. ‘I am . . .’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

They clinked glasses and drank, and she found the courage to speak up.

‘I thought about you too. A lot.’ It was too much. The memory was too much. She felt her face crumple. ‘I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry. About everything.’

‘My dear girl, you have no reason to be sorry. You never did have. But we never had the chance to tell you. None of us blamed you.’ He stopped and reached for one of her hands. She looked down, and noticed again how old he had become. His hands were gnarled and spotted. ‘None of us blamed you. How could we? You did what you thought was right. I’m just desperately sorry it had to end the way it did. It grieved me almost more than Isobel’s dying, because I’d known for a long time that was inevitable, and I’d come to terms with it. Although we never spoke about it, which was perhaps the problem. It’s a Barnes failing, pretending everything is all right when it isn’t . . .’

He looked deep into her eyes and smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he went on. ‘Because I’ve never had the chance to thank you. You gave me those last precious few weeks with Isobel. That Christmas was magical. I would never have had that if it weren’t for you. She needed you, to give her the strength to do what she did.’

At last Claire felt the guilt and the grief of twelve years work its way free from her heart. Tears were streaming down her face as she let Gerald fold her in his arms, and the comfort and relief that his embrace brought was the sweetest feeling. Eventually her sobs subsided, and she pulled herself free, wiping away the tears, laughing shakily, sipping her champagne to give her fortitude.

‘That’s better,’ said Gerald. ‘That’s much better.’

He pulled out a chair at the table for her, and then one for himself. They both sat. ‘Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here?’

‘Didn’t Nick mention that he’d seen me?’

‘No.’ Gerald’s eyes were troubled. ‘He’s played his cards very close to his chest. He came back from his stag weekend early. I know something’s the matter.’ He looked at Claire. ‘You know about the wedding?’

She gave a rueful smile.

‘Yes.’

Gerald gestured outside. ‘I’ve spent the past two months getting that garden into shape. I’d let it run rather wild over the past few years. It was always more Isobel’s thing than mine. I was lawn monitor, but she dealt with the beds and the roses. I like to think she’d have approved of what I’ve managed . . .’

Claire looked out. It was an English garden at its best: soft, blowsy, drooping blooms nodding in the breeze, pale pinks and yellows mixed in with a thousand shades of green. And the river winding through its tranquil midst.

‘It looks stunning,’ she told him. Now that she was more aware of her surroundings, she could see evidence of wedding preparations. There were boxes of wine glasses piled up in the corner of the kitchen. A guest list pinned to the wall. A pile of CDs where someone was compiling a playlist on the Mac – probably Shrimp; he had always been the music guru.

The Mac was, she realised, the only new thing in the kitchen since she had last been here. Otherwise it was just as it ever had been.

Gerald was standing in the doorway, looking out at the garden. He must be imagining all the parties they’d ever had, thought Claire, the ghosts of the guests dancing across the lawn.

‘I want it to be perfect for him,’ he said. ‘As perfect as Isobel would have made it.’

Claire felt a rushing in her ears. What on earth was she doing here? She must have been mad to think she could come waltzing in and cancel someone else’s wedding, just because she once happened to have been in love with the groom. Nick was her past, not her future. She couldn’t change the course of what was going to happen. She had no right whatsoever.

She got to her feet.

‘Listen, I ought to go. I’m on my way somewhere. I was just passing, and thought I’d call in to say hello. I hope it all goes well . . .’

Gerald turned, frowning. ‘No, don’t go. Nick will be sorry to have missed you. Stay a bit longer.’

‘No, honestly.’ Claire was fumbling for her keys in her bag. ‘It was lovely to see you . . .’

She could see that Gerald was puzzled by her hasty departure. She had to go before he started asking questions. She went over and kissed him on the cheek. As she pulled away, he took her elbow.

‘Claire – why did you come?’

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. The sooner she got to the car the better. Although where she was going to go, she had no idea. Maybe her parents? They’d be glad to see her; wouldn’t ask awkward questions . . . She pulled away with a tight smile and turned to go.