The Long Weekend (11 page)

A
single tear trickled down Claire’s cheek as she reached this part of her tale. She’d given Angelica a garbled précis of the story, but the memory was almost as painful as the day it had happened. Surely it should have faded, after all this time? She wiped away the tear before any more could come, although she could feel them queuing up. She couldn’t lose it, not in public. Not in front of Angelica, who was looking aghast. And no wonder. She had never shared so much as a moment of weakness with her.

Until now. Claire, who had carried the burden of what had happened with her for twelve long years, was about to crumble. Guilt, regret, anger, grief – they all threatened to spill out of her.

‘It’s okay,’ said Angelica, anxious. ‘It’s okay to be upset.’

Claire leant back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling.

‘I know,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘It’s just . . . I haven’t thought about it for so long. And Nick turning up like that . . .’

She was interrupted by the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs. Moments later, Luca appeared on the bottom flight, jumping the last three steps and bounding through the reception, as eager and leggy as a wolfhound ready for its morning walk. Luca, who could go from unconscious and supine to upright and alert in seconds, was ready for the day ahead.

He stood before them, smiling broadly. He was in a long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants, his mop of dark hair still wet from the shower. ‘Hey, girls. What’s going on?’ he asked, bemused, raking one hand through his damp curls and tucking his T-shirt in with the other. Angelica gulped at the sight of his flat brown stomach.

‘Nothing,’ lied Claire. Not very well.

‘You don’t usually sit around quaffing Oyster Bay.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s my fault.’ Angelica decided that Claire was rubbish at dissembling and was going to give herself away. ‘Claire was just giving me some advice.’

‘Oh.’

‘Nothing major. Just a row with my stepdad. Same old, same old.’ Angelica knew that the first rule of lying was not to give too much detail.

Luca turned to Claire, his lack of interest in Angelica’s personal life obvious.

‘Do we know what time Trevor and Monique are getting here?’

‘Not till the evening, I don’t think. I’ve booked them in for dinner.’

‘I know. We’re eating with them.’

‘We are?’

‘Eight-thirty.’

Claire sighed. ‘This really isn’t the best weekend for a major business meeting.’

‘Tough.’ Luca was crisp. ‘You know what Trevor’s like. He’s the money man. If he wants to talk about business, then we drop everything.’

‘And what about all our other guests? We’re fully booked except for one room.’

‘We can handle it. The guys in the kitchen know they’ve got to pull their weight if I need to take some time out. We’re covered for staff.’

‘I can stay till whenever, if you need me,’ Angelica offered.

‘Thanks, Angelica. You’re a star.’ Angelica knew that Claire’s accompanying smile signified more than just gratitude for the offer. She’d got her out of a hole.

But with an awful inevitability, the hole was opening up again. Behind Luca, Angelica could see Nick coming down the stairs. As could Claire, who jumped up with a false hostessy smile.

‘Nick,’ she said, her voice high with tension. ‘Come and meet Luca. He’s going to be in charge of your stag dinner tomorrow. Luca, this is Nick. You won’t believe the coincidence. I had no idea he was the groom. He’s an old friend. We go back a long way.’

‘Really.’ Luca’s tone was dry. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, then held out his hand as an afterthought. Nick took it, the epitome of well-bred charm.

‘It’s a wonderful place you’ve got here.’

‘It is,’ agreed Luca. ‘It is indeed.’

His eyes flicked from the empty bottle to Claire to Nick.

He knows
, thought Angelica.
He knows this guy is a threat
. It was basic instinct, she supposed. Any minute now he’d be cocking his leg and peeing all over the furniture.

Nick smiled round at the three of them, sensing awkwardness. Angelica thought she detected Claire giving him the slightest shake of her head, to warn him not to give anything away.

‘I thought I’d go and check out the town, before the others arrive,’ he managed eventually. ‘They’ve not long left London, so they’ll be a while yet.’

Claire nodded. ‘Good idea. We’ll look after them when they get here, don’t worry.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The delicatessen does a good pasty.’

Luca smirked. Angelica felt queasy with tension. Nick shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.

‘Well, I’ll see you later, I guess.’

As he walked out of the door, three pairs of eyes followed him, but nothing was said.

‘Well, this won’t get the baby a new bonnet.’ Claire spoke finally.

Luca raised an eyebrow.

‘No, indeed.’

Angelica gathered up the empty glasses. And the by now empty bottle.

‘It was only half full,’ Claire told Luca.

‘You don’t have to explain. It’s important, to have good staff relations.’ He turned to Angelica. ‘Let us know if you need any time out to get over your trauma.’ You could have iced a cake with the sweet mockery in his voice.

Luca sauntered off towards the kitchen. Claire couldn’t quite meet Angelica’s eye. She realised she had told her too much. The shock and the wine had loosened her tongue.

‘Shit,’ she said.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Angelica, dying to hear more.

‘I’ve got no choice,’ replied Claire. ‘Keep calm and carry on.’

And she walked over to reception without a backward glance.

Luca always felt relaxed in his kitchen, even if no one else did. He had designed it exactly as he wanted it. He knew every switch, every appliance, every flame. He could have cooked a meal in here blindfold. He loved every square inch of its stainless-steel perfection. His knives were murderously sharp; his pans heavy and solid. His fridges were at the optimum temperature. His private collection of tools was kept in a big drawer, and woe betide anyone who borrowed so much as a measuring spoon. His rules were not made to be broken; they were made to be followed to the letter. Anyone who bucked the system wouldn’t last the day. His two loyal sous-chefs, Fred and Loz, had learnt the hard way how to handle him, and had now earned his respect. Sure, they might have an easier life at one of the other hotels or restaurants in the area, but the food they produced would be nowhere near as good. Luca set the pace, and they were happy to keep up. They knew that if they screwed up one day and suffered his wrath, they would be triumphant the next and be heaped with praise. And now, he trusted them enough to let them do lunches without his supervision. They were prepping them now: a selection of light dishes to be served in the bar or on the terrace. Today’s delights included a crab salad, a chunky rabbit terrine and lobster ravioli.

‘Hey, boss!’ Fred looked up from coaxing silken sheets of pasta out of the machine. Loz brought him over a caffè ristretto without being asked. They could already sense that Luca was feeling uptight. He wore his emotions so clearly on his face. Something had rattled him, so the two boys knew to keep their heads low and their output high.

This was usually the part of the day Luca loved best, when he came into the kitchen to see what his suppliers had bought and began to put together the evening’s menu. But today something wasn’t right. He sensed a shift in Claire that he didn’t like, and he suspected it was something to do with the man she had introduced him to. Claire wasn’t very forthcoming about her past; she never had been. She said it was irrelevant and unspeakably dull, but Luca knew that a woman of her depth, her passion and her wisdom must have done some living.

Was this stag more than just an old friend? Something inside Luca told him he was. But he was going to play it cool for now. He’d learnt to curb his temper over the past few years. If Claire had taught him anything, it was that overreaction didn’t get you anywhere. He was going to bide his time and make sure of the facts before he made his move, if any move was necessary.

He gulped down his coffee, reminding himself that, after all, the bloke was getting married next week. Maybe Claire just felt awkward at someone from her past appearing unannounced. She was very private.

So why had she hit the bottle? He’d never seen her do that before, not even when that couple had done a bunk without paying after staying a week and running up a massive bill. He certainly hadn’t bought Angelica’s cover story. Angelica was a tough nut. She was like him. A survivor. She didn’t need Claire’s bloody reassurance over a row with her stepdad. Girls like Angelica ate stepfathers for breakfast.

He put the tiny cup in the dishwasher. He wasn’t going to let the situation rattle him. This weekend was an important one. He didn’t want to mess things up in front of Trevor and Monique. He was desperate for his own place in London; desperate to make a real name for himself. Sure, he had a great reputation, but Pennfleet was off the map. This was the next step, and a big one, and the last thing he wanted was for his investor to get cold feet. They had to come across as a team. A great team. Which they were. They absolutely were.

Luca liked to tell people he had learnt to cook in borstal, which was bullshit. Not that he hadn’t been to borstal – he had; when he was seventeen, for stealing a car – but actually he’d learnt to cook when his mother dragged him to live with one of her lovers in the south of France. He had spent the whole summer in the kitchen of the village restaurant, learning at the feet of the irascible patron, and had emerged as accomplished a cook as any Michelin-starred chef. This was a typical interlude in Luca’s life. His past was a patchwork splatter-gun portfolio of überglamorous and harrowing, as he and his mother lurched from squalor to splendour, depending on her moods and who she was squiring. The little boy had trailed in her wake, one day playing with his toy cars on the terrace of a hotel in Cap Ferrat, the next shivering in a bedsit in Hammersmith. It had turned him into a complicated person. He was by turn arrogant and self-deprecating. Ebullient and withdrawn. Super-confident and needy. Addictive and controlled. Energised and exhausted. Gradually, over the past few years, Claire had learnt to predict his moods, had spotted the behaviour patterns and learnt how to deal with them. And taught him how to deal with them too, by and large. He was a much better person, he reflected, than the animal he’d been when they met.

Which was why he had been able to walk away from what he recognised as a situation, and was now calmly observing the fish tray.

Plump coral-coloured scallops – they could be pan-fried with some chorizo. A big net of navy-blue mussels – he would do something Thai, with coconut and chilli and coriander, to make a change from the usual moules marinière. Hot-pink crabs held out their claws in supplication – sorry, mate, he thought; it’s a tian for you, with slivers of pink grapefruit. The sea bass wouldn’t need any messing about with; he would just bake it in a thick crust of Cornish salt and serve it with some braised fennel. He picked through the assortment of mixed fish, checking for quality, but the fishmonger never let him down, never slipped in anything less than fresh. All that would go into the huge cast-iron pot that was already simmering on the gas burner, a rich mix of garlic and onions and tomatoes for his signature fish stew – he wasn’t pretentious enough to call it bouillabaisse.

His menu was short, fluid, spontaneous. It included some old favourites, and he usually experimented with something new, but it entirely depended on what his suppliers brought him and how he was feeling. He ran his hands over the skin on a slab of pork belly – he would roast it until the fat was crispy and delicious, then serve it with a rhubarb compote. He could see the pink and green stalks in the vegetable box. He squeezed some plump pears, visualising them in a toffee sauce with a frangipani crumble topping.

His last inspection was the bread basket. He didn’t have time to bake the bread as well, and they couldn’t afford to employ someone to do it at the moment, so he outsourced the breadmaking to a woman who had done location catering and had retired to Pennfleet. He frowned. The walnut rolls looked overdone. He prodded one suspiciously. Too hard; too dark. He ripped it open, tasted, grimaced.

‘Fred!’ he roared, as he snapped a parmesan shortbread straw in half, nodding in approval at its texture. ‘Tell whatsername to bring me another batch of walnut rolls. These are no good.’ He lobbed them across the room into the bin. ‘And I’ve got some extra special guests tonight. I need to cook them an amazing meal. I want you to get your thinking caps on. Come up with a menu.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Fifty quid to the winner.’

He was impulsively generous too.

He pulled a freshly laundered green bandanna out of a drawer, rolled it up and tied it round his curls.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

At reception, Claire picked up a pile of envelopes.

‘Angelica . . . I’m just popping out to the post office. I need to get these brochures in the mail today.’

Angelica looked at her. Claire never went to the post office. ‘No problem. I’ll be here.’

‘Thanks.’ Claire put the envelopes in her bag and headed for the door.

Outside, on the front step, flanked by two pristine bay trees, she looked to her left and then to her right. Pennfleet was tiny. There were only a few places Nick could possibly be. To the left there were a few shops, and then the road meandered towards the yacht club; he was unlikely to have gone that way. She turned right, raking her eyes from side to side as she hurried along the street, searching among the heads for his familiar dirty-blond hair. The sun was out; the town was filling up, people ambling along slowly. They were alarmed by her haste, which seemed out of place. They were all in holiday mode, in no rush to get anywhere, and her urgency jarred. It was the sort of behaviour that belonged in the rush hour, on the Tube, not at the start of a sunny weekend.

As she passed each shop she gave a perfunctory look inside to see if he might be browsing. The bakery, dispensing freshly made sandwiches and sticky cakes. The tiny bookshop, which made a precarious living out of blockbusters, crime novels and local maps and guides. A high-end gift shop that sold things nobody needed but that they somehow suddenly wanted when they were on holiday. Not Nick’s cup of tea. An antique shop – she peered into its murky depths, through the coronation china and art deco lamps and lace tablecloths, but he wasn’t there. The deli, where she’d recommended he get a pasty – there were plenty of people queuing up, but not him. The White Lion? She didn’t think he’d venture in there, it wasn’t his scene. She’d try in there later if she had no luck, but she didn’t want to waste time. A card shop, the tea rooms – nope. She nipped inside the newsagent’s in case he’d gone in to buy a paper or a Kit Kat . . .