The Long Weekend (7 page)

He thought about Sophie. She would be on her way to Brighton. She and five of her girlfriends, booked into a hotel for a weekend of hen hedonism.

‘I know it’s really naff,’ she’d told him. ‘But the shops are great, and I’ve found a fantastic hotel. And we won’t get up to anything too wild! Just cocktails and dancing and shopping and spa treatments.’

Sophie. The girl who was going to walk down the aisle and join him at the altar next Saturday, in St Mary’s Church in Mimsbury, with the reception afterwards at his father’s house, because although it defied convention, they had both agreed that a marquee on the lawn by the river at the Mill House was the ideal spot. Why pay for a swanky hotel when they had perfection on the doorstep? A hundred and forty guests, canapés, a string quartet, an exquisite buffet – neither of them could face the horror of a seating plan – and then dancing barefoot till midnight at the water’s edge. They’d been planning it for months. This weekend was a much-needed break for both of them. Nick had been really looking forward to chilling with his mates, taking a boat out on the water, having a few beers, chewing the fat . . .

If he had any sense, he thought, lacing his hands behind his head as it sank into the pillow, he would walk now. Phone the others, plead a stomach bug. Go back to his father’s, bury himself in work, or mowing the lawn, and try and forget that she had walked back into his life at the most inopportune moment possible.

He jumped off the bed and walked to the window. In the harbour, boats were riding the wavelets, tugging against their buoys like unbroken horses. A tiny ferry chugged across the water, taking passengers to the far shore, where another village, the mirror of Pennfleet, nestled amongst the trees. The sun threw its rays down on to the water, casting a fine coating of gold on to the blue. He should be filled with excitement and exhilaration, longing to get out on the water, to breathe in the ozone, luxuriate in the warmth. Instead he felt filled with fear.

Leave now, he told himself. You have nothing to gain from staying. You’re just going to rake up pain and misery and regret. And ghosts. He felt for the car keys in his pocket, pulled his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket, scrolled through to find Gus’s number. Gus would understand that something was wrong; he wouldn’t give him a hard time. And the others could carry on as normal. Just because the groom wasn’t there didn’t mean they couldn’t make a weekend of it.

His finger hovered over the number, pressed it. The phone rang for a while. Gus must be driving. He would have to leave a message. Maybe that would be easier.

‘Hey, Nick.’ His friend’s voice came down the line. ‘How’s it going?’

Nick didn’t reply immediately. He looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. But it wasn’t.

‘Buddy?’ Gus sounded concerned.

‘Hey,’ replied Nick. ‘I just wondered what time you guys were going to arrive. This place is incredible. Get yourselves down here as quickly as you can.’

Angelica hung up the phone and came back into the bar.

‘Just a booking for the restaurant tonight,’ she told Claire, surprised to see that she had nearly finished her glass of wine. Even more when she reached out to top herself up.

‘Don’t worry,’ Claire replied as she noticed Angelica’s frown. ‘I’m not on a mission. Just taking the edge off the shock.’ She poured herself a more restrained inch and a half and cocked the bottle towards Angelica, who shook her head.

‘One of us better stay sober.’ She grinned as she sat down again. She wondered how to get back into the conversation; if Claire would still want to talk.

‘So,’ she tried. ‘Did he dump you, that bloke?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Bastard.’ Angelica knew from her mother men’s capacity to hurt. Their selfish, treacherous ways.

‘No,’ Claire contradicted her. ‘There were reasons. Good reasons.’

‘What? Like he’d found someone else?
It’s not you, it’s me
; that sort of thing?’ Angelica rolled her eyes. ‘He looked very nice, but they are all the same, you know.’

Claire smothered a smile at Angelica’s world-weary wisdom. It was a shame that she was quite so cynical so young. She supposed it was a defence mechanism; the protective armour of a girl who’d never known stability in her family life. She’d heard about her mother’s string of men. She looked at her watch. It was twenty to twelve. People would start coming in for lunch any time soon. They only did bar snacks at lunchtime during the week – Fred and Loz, the two local boys whom Luca had trained up, were in the kitchen prepping – but it was Friday, a bank holiday weekend, and the sun was out. They would have a flock of spontaneous lunchers any moment.

Lunch, however, wasn’t the problem in hand.

‘I did something terrible,’ she told Angelica.

‘I can’t imagine you doing anything terrible.’

Claire leant forward.

‘I thought I was doing the right thing,’ she said fiercely. ‘At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing.’

‘Of course you did!’ Angelica reached out and stroked her arm, to reassure her. It was strange, to be comforting Claire. She’d never known her to need a moment’s reassurance about anything.

‘Shit.’ Claire sat back and put her face in her hands. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. You must think I’m mad.’

‘No. Of course I don’t.’

‘I’ve thought about this happening so many times, but you never think it’s really going to . . .’

‘He seemed happy enough to see you.’

‘That’s the problem.’ She glanced round her anxiously. ‘Luca’s not up yet?’

‘Not yet. I did try waking him, but he’s out for the count.’

‘Good.’

They sat in silence, Claire alone with her thoughts, Angelica with her curiosity. Eventually Claire spoke.

‘I’m not sure if I can handle this. But I’m going to have to.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I don’t know. I never have. Not even with Luca.’ She paused. ‘Especially not with Luca. I’m ashamed of what I did. I’ve lived with it all this time. But I was only nineteen.’ She looked at Angelica, anguished. ‘I had no idea how the world worked. I was burdened with the biggest secret imaginable and I couldn’t share it with anyone.’ She slumped down in her chair, exhausted by the memory. ‘Eventually I did, of course. But by then it was too late.’

‘Maybe what you did wasn’t as bad as you think. Things often aren’t. They just build up in your head and you end up feeling guilty.’ Angelica had been made to feel bad about herself often enough in her short life to know that this was true. She’d come to the conclusion that guilt was a pointless emotion; that for every bad thing you did, people around you did worse. It had made life a lot easier once she’d worked that out.

Claire looked at her thoughtfully.

‘I try not to think about it. It makes me feel sick, even now.’

Angelica leant forward.

‘Tell me,’ she urged. ‘I’m not going to judge you. Honestly, I could tell you things about my life that would make your hair curl.’

Claire picked up the bottle and poured another inch.

‘Oh God. I’m going to be drunk in charge of reception at this rate.’

‘It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m here. I can deal with it.’

For a full ten seconds there was silence, except for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the shriek of seagulls.

‘I didn’t expect to fall in love,’ Claire began. ‘And it wasn’t just with Nick. It was with his whole family. His life. His house. The whole thing. The whole Barnes package . . .’

Five

C
laire was waiting for a train when she first met the Barnes brothers.

Her parents had dropped her at the station before tootling off in their brown Rover to their jobs at the Atomic Weapons Establishment in Aldermaston. Claire was never really clear what it was they did there. A lot of it was secret, but anything they discussed in front of her was certainly safe, as it meant nothing to her. She hadn’t followed in their scientific footsteps. She was doing English, art and economics at the college in Reading, and although they had never said so, she felt they weren’t terribly impressed.

She was taking the train to college. They appeared on the other side of the track by the level crossing, just as the barriers went down and the lights began to flash. She saw the three of them look at each other conspiratorially and run for it. Idiots! They tore across the track, jostling and laughing, before jumping on to the platform. Claire saw a tangle of tousled hair, jeans and perfect teeth as the fast train to London tore past the station.

Her heart was thumping in her chest. She held her portfolio in front of her like a shield as she strode up to them.

‘Have you any idea how dangerous that is?’ she demanded.

They all turned to look at her, their expressions polite but puzzled.

‘I know you think it’s hilarious, but what if you got hit? How do you think the driver would feel?’ She could feel her voice rise with indignation.

‘Hey, look – we’ve been running across that track since we were . . .’ The tallest held his hand out to indicate the height of a small child.

‘I don’t care. Have you ever seen someone hit by a train?’

The three of them looked at each other, and shook their heads.

‘Well I have, and it’s not pretty.’ She hadn’t, but she wanted to get her point across.

‘Everyone does it,’ said one of them.

For some reason Claire felt tears stinging her eyes.

‘You’re total idiots,’ she told them. ‘You obviously don’t have a thought for anyone else, do you? All you care about is how much of a laugh you’re having. You deserve to get squashed.’

She spun on her heel and walked off. She could hear the three of them conferring behind her, whispering, laughing. She felt a hand on her shoulder and whirled round, furious.

‘Don’t take the piss.’

‘I wasn’t going to. You’re totally right. And our mother would be livid if she knew what we’d done. It’s one of her rules. One of her only rules.’

By her estimation, this must be the middle brother. Maybe a couple of years older than her? Certainly old enough to know better. He was wearing faded jeans and a striped shirt under a baggy jumper, and Converse sneakers. His hair was dirty blond, the fringe falling into his eyes, which were twinkling at her. Brown eyes, with long lashes. Thoughtful eyes, she decided, and realised she had been totally disarmed.

The little local train pulled in, insignificant by comparison to the 125 that had sped past earlier. He took her by the elbow.

‘Come and sit with us,’ he pleaded. ‘We want to prove that we’re not prats. Not really.’

It was the last thing she wanted to do. She wanted to sit as far away from them as possible, plug herself into her music, think about her project. But they were completely and utterly impossible to resist. They herded her into the carriage; sat her by the window. Her assailant was Nick, the middle brother and nineteen, just as she had guessed. Felix was the oldest at twenty-one; seventeen-year-old Shrimp, still at school, was so-called because he was nearly six foot four. They hit her with a barrage of questions. When had she moved to Mimsbury? And why? What was she doing there? Who did she know?

She laughed.

‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?’

‘The Mimsbury Inquisition. We need to know.’

‘Okay. I moved here with my mum and dad three weeks ago. They work at Aldermaston. I’m at the college, doing A-levels. And I don’t know anyone yet – though I’ve just started working at the Mimsbury Arms. Waitressing.’

The three of them looked at each other.

‘Well,’ said Nick. ‘You better come to our party on Saturday. Actually, it’s our parents’ party, but we’re allowed to ask friends.’

‘Party?’ Claire panicked inwardly. She thought she could imagine the sort of parties they had. Girls with long, glossy hair in taffeta dresses. Men in dinner jackets. The thought made her stomach curdle.

‘Don’t look so frightened,’ laughed Nick. ‘It’s not a posh do. Just come as you are – that’s the rule. We live at the Mill House.’

He said it as if she would know exactly which house he meant.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing on Saturday. I’ll probably be working.’

‘Well, come afterwards.’ These boys were clearly not used to taking no for an answer. ‘Things never get going till eleven o’clock anyway.’

Claire decided it was easier to agree to come than to carry on protesting. They were the sort of people who would probably forget they had even invited her once she was out of their sight.

‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d love to come.’

Of course she had no intention of going. Charming though they appeared, Claire didn’t think the Barnes boys were her sort of thing at all. She would have nothing in common with them whatsoever.

Yet when they got off at Newbury and hugged her goodbye, she watched them ramble off down the platform together and felt a strange warm feeling in the pit of her stomach. And then Nick turned round and looked at her, held up his hand to wave, and the warmth diffused further, spreading up towards her heart.

‘See you Saturday,’ he shouted.

He was so not her type. He was posh, privileged, educated, rich, glamorous . . .