The Long Weekend (15 page)

Minutes later, Laura bounced into the middle of the king-size sleigh bed, piled high with cushions.

‘I don’t believe it. We got an upgrade!’ She hugged a cushion to her and looked around the room, her eyes wide with delight. ‘Oh my God, it’s just so gorgeous.’

The room was painted in pale coral and deep cream. Curtains with a starfish motif hung to the floor. There was a huge silver beanbag by the window. A blown-up print of Enid Blyton’s
Five Go Down to the Sea
was framed and hung over the bed, while on the wall facing the window three paintings by Pandora Mond glittered their metallic pewters and blues.

Dan put his iPod into the iPod dock. Moments later, the lush, swirling chords of his favourite new band filled the room.

By now, Laura had bounced into the bathroom. She came out brandishing a bottle of bath oil.

‘Look! Molton Brown. Tons of it. I’m going to have the deepest bath ever.’ She took off the lid and gave an appreciative sniff.

Dan found a silver biscuit barrel. It was stuffed with home-made shortbread.

‘This is going to be a good weekend,’ he mused, pulling out a piece and biting into it with relish. He held one out to Laura.

She shook her head, walking over to the window. The room was at the side of the hotel, but if you craned your neck, you could see the sea. To the right, the little town of Pennfleet unfolded itself, an inviting maze of narrow streets. As she looked, she remembered why they were here. Not for a romantic weekend away at all. She cast her eyes over the houses clinging to the side of the hill, wondering which one of them belonged to the man who might – or might not – be her father.

Dan came up behind her and put his arms round her. She melted into his clasp. Thank goodness for Dan. She would, she knew, never have made it this far without him. Whatever happened, she would still have him at the end of the weekend.

Monique walked across the living area of the grand suite and threw open the door of the tiny balcony that looked out over the harbour. A gust of salty air blew into the room, and she breathed in, shutting her eyes in the warmth of the sun.

‘Magic,’ said Trevor.

Monique smiled and scanned the boats tugging against their moorings in the breeze.

‘There she is.’ She pointed to a large white motorboat. Trevor came and stood behind her, smiling proudly.
The Blonde Bombshell
. Monique’s fortieth birthday present, which he’d given her more than ten years ago now. He’d had it built to an exacting specification, visiting the boatyard every week to make sure everything was as he wanted it, down to the last white leather cushion. He knew he’d driven the boatbuilders mad, but he didn’t care. It was his money, his wife’s present, and he wanted it to be perfect.

He remembered her face the day he had given it to her. Her eyes had been alive with surprise and delight as they launched it into the harbour at Lymington. She’d smashed the bottle of champagne on to the boat’s side with glee. And it had given the two of them more pleasure than they could have imagined.

But where once there had been laughter, now there was darkness. Still Monique’s eyes sought a glimpse of that shadowy figure who was never going to be there. There was nothing he could do for her, his beloved wife. It tore him apart, to know he was powerless to bring an end to her agony. And so he piled upon her distraction after distraction, in the vain hope that one day she would stop hoping.

Trevor himself had stopped hoping long ago.

This weekend, however, he felt sure was going to be a turning point. Opening a London hotel had been his brainwave, and he was delighted that Monique had leapt upon the idea with enthusiasm. Surely that would occupy her mind, stop her brooding; stop her restless search? He just had to pray that Claire and Luca would agree to come on board. He trusted them, and their vision, and he didn’t want to have to find someone else to mastermind the project for him. Despite his bluff geniality, Trevor didn’t take many people into his confidence. The Parfitts didn’t let anyone come too close these days.

They’d become very good at pretending. Anyone who met them would think they hadn’t a care in the world; that they lived life to the full. And yes, on the surface, they had a dream existence. Despite everything, Trevor’s financial success had gone from strength to strength, and they never stinted themselves.

It never ceased to crucify him that he couldn’t buy Monique the one thing she wanted though. He would have done anything to have that smile back again. The one that reached her eyes. Instead of the slightly blank gaze that wasn’t helped by the antidepressants, though he knew they made it just a little bit easier for her to get through the day. And people were prescribed them for a lot less. For nothing, it seemed.

He watched in silent despair as she walked over to her handbag. For the millionth time she pulled out the phone she kept in there, checked it for a message; held it up to verify there was a signal. There wasn’t always in Pennfleet – satellite coverage could be sketchy – but today there must have been, for she nodded to herself in satisfaction and dropped the phone back in her bag.

There wasn’t a message. There never would be. Trevor knew that, but Monique wouldn’t give up hope.

She walked back over to the window and looked out again. The sea breeze ruffled her hair. She looked so young, so vulnerable, and he felt that terrible lump in his chest, the lump that reminded him how helpless he was. He swallowed it down.

‘Shall we go for a little stroll before dinner?’

She smiled over at him and nodded.

‘Yeah, let’s go down to the harbour. Get some sea air. Work up an appetite.’

Sometimes he thought it would be easier to bear if she wasn’t so brave.

Eight

C
laire loved early evening in the hotel the best. Between five and six, when the sun slanted in through the windows, it had a sort of sleepiness combined with a sense of expectation. As the kitchen launched into preparation and the barman filled his ice bucket and laid out bowls of olives, guests retired to their rooms, relaxing on their beds for a quick power nap, or watching the news, or putting on make-up over sun-kissed skin, or making lazy holiday love.

Claire used this time to make sure everything was perfect, ensuring that the newspapers were put away, the flowers hadn’t wilted, the bathrooms were up to scratch. Of course she employed staff to do all these things, but it didn’t hurt to double-check and make sure her high standards were being met. Mitch the barman would often bring her a sample of his latest cocktail to try, and if she was lucky, she would spend ten minutes sitting at a table on the terrace relishing the delicious smells coming from the kitchen.

By quarter past six, the respite would be over. Passers-by would start drifting in to see if they could nab a last-minute table, local regulars would pop in for their habitual early-evening drink, and the bar would start filling up with guests coming down for dinner.

And with the glorious bank holiday weather forecast this weekend, the hotel was filling up even more quickly than usual. The restaurant was fully booked, and Claire had already turned away several disappointed holidaymakers.

In the bar, she could see Nick’s stag party. They were an eligible bunch by anyone’s standards – all early thirties, all confident and successful but not showy. Claire was fairly sure they would stick to their promise not to get rowdy, but it was plain they were up for a good time. They weren’t eating at the Townhouse tonight; they were saving that for their celebratory dinner tomorrow night. Instead they had booked supper at a pub a couple of miles up the river that Luca had recommended.

Claire brought over a plate of complimentary canapés for them to try – Stilton and chutney rarebits, rosemary drop scones with goat’s cheese, and crab cakes with chilli and lime mayonnaise, all done in miniature but the flavours robust and gutsy.

One of them stood up to greet her.

‘Hi – I’m Gus. The best man? I think we spoke on the phone.’ He introduced the rest of the party to her quickly, a predictable roll call of Wills and Jamies and Tobys. Then he noticed Claire eyeing up the mojitos lined up on the table in front of them. ‘Don’t worry – this isn’t going to get out of hand. It’s just an ice-breaker.’

With his curly brown hair and freckles, Gus didn’t even look old enough to be served alcohol. Claire wondered if Nick had hinted anything to him about his relationship with her. She smiled reassuringly.

‘You are allowed to have fun,’ she told him. ‘Just . . . no vomiting or nudity. Preferably.’

‘No nude vomiting,’ Gus promised her solemnly. ‘We’re just waiting for the groom. He’s having a shower.’

‘One more week of freedom,’ said one of the others. ‘Poor bugger.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Gus, chiding him. ‘Sophie’s a doll. They’re going to be the perfect couple.’

Everyone laughed.

Except Claire. An image suddenly came into her head of the little church at Mimsbury, of Nick standing at the altar with Gus as the congregation watched a beautiful bride walk down the aisle, and Nick turning to look at her adoringly.

She put down the plate of canapés hastily.

‘Enjoy these on the house,’ she managed, and walked away from the table, knowing they would find her abrupt departure strange. But she couldn’t hear any more. As quickly as she could, she bolted into the cloakroom that served the dining room and locked herself into a cubicle. Then she put the loo seat down and sat on it, resting her whirling head in her hands.

The weeks after Isobel revealed the final part of her plan to Claire were terrible. She found the strain of pretending that everything was normal almost unbearable, while Isobel seemed able to carry on as if nothing was wrong.

From time to time Nick wondered why it was that Claire seemed so withdrawn and tired.

‘Is it Dad?’ he asked. ‘Is he driving you too hard at work? I know he expects a lot of people, but you only need to tell him if it’s too much. He doesn’t know he’s doing it.’

Claire didn’t know what to say. She loved working at Melchior Barnes. She didn’t find it stressful at all. But it was easier to blame that pressure than to tell Nick the truth, although several times she came close. Then she would remember that it was nearly Christmas. She couldn’t ruin Isobel’s last Christmas, she told herself.

And all the while she prayed and hoped for some miracle, some reprieve. Of course there was none, and before she knew it, Christmas Day had arrived. She woke with a sore throat, a muzzy head and a heavy heart, but dragged herself out of bed for her parents’ sake. She knew they had been concerned about her recently, and she didn’t want to spoil Christmas morning for them, especially as she was going over to the Mill House after lunch.

They sat in the kitchen in their dressing gowns, eating bacon sandwiches and drinking Nescafé. It was a million miles away from the scene Claire knew would be unfolding at the Mill House – there would be smoked salmon and scrambled egg, champagne, carols from King’s College, Cambridge on the CD player, real coffee, a properly laid breakfast table – but for the first time since she had met the Barneses, she longed to stay at home all day. She felt safe with her parents, who, despite all their shortcomings, would never have forced her into the situation she was in. If they knew of her pact with Isobel, they would be horrified. They wouldn’t understand at all. Her parents never pretended. It just wasn’t in them. Perhaps this denoted a lack of imagination, but at least you knew where you were with them. Always.

Claire was incredibly touched by their present – they gave her a very generous cheque to redecorate her bedroom.

‘There’s no point in us doing it,’ her mum told her. ‘We wouldn’t have a clue what you wanted. But we want you to make the room your own. We haven’t done much to the place since we moved in.’

‘I’ll give you a hand with the painting,’ her father went on. ‘We could have it walloped out in a weekend.’

The numbers on the cheque went all blurry when she looked at them, especially when she remembered all the times she had felt resentful at how little care her parents seemed to give to their surroundings in comparison to Gerald and Isobel.

She was due to go over to the Mill House at three o’clock, but her heart was filled with dread at the prospect. How could she sit there amongst the baubles and glitter, knowing this was very probably Isobel’s last Christmas with her family, while they carried on with the festivities oblivious?

She wouldn’t go, she decided. She had the beginnings of a cold. It wouldn’t be fair to spread her germs. She called and left a message on the Mill House answerphone to say she wasn’t well, but the Barneses were having none of it. They phoned her three times to see where she was – they were waiting for her to come over and open her presents before lunch, which they always had in the late afternoon. At half past four, Nick came and knocked on the door.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘It’s just a cold. No one minds. Come on. A couple of glasses of bubbly and you won’t feel a thing. Bring your parents too, if you’re worried about leaving them.’