The Long Weekend (27 page)

Luca came over and stroked her cheek.

‘Are you all right? Was he having a moan about something? Those Hooray Henry types are never happy.’

‘No.’ Claire thought quickly. ‘He just wanted to make sure we give the bill for dinner straight to him and not Nick.’

Luca nodded, his eyes raking across her face. She felt as if he was looking for clues. He was so close she could smell him; his scent always aroused her, made her blood heat. She shivered as he put his hand out to run his fingers through her hair. His mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry. She couldn’t resist. She could never resist. Besides, it would look suspicious if she protested.

He broke off, gazing at her with a vulpine smile.

‘Mrs Claire Bellamy. I’m liking it.’

‘That’s very presumptuous,’ she murmured. ‘How do you know I’m not going to keep my maiden name?’

‘Because you’re going to be my wife.’ He nuzzled her neck and she felt her knees go weak. ‘
My
wife. And we’re going to have it all,’ he breathed. ‘You and me. We’ve got the whole world at our feet.’

Twelve

L
aura stood for a moment at the bottom of the steps to Clarence House.

She’d kissed Dan goodbye ten minutes earlier. He’d hugged her tight, wished her luck; told her to call him on her mobile if she needed him.

She peered up at the front door, then realised that someone was waving at her from the ground-floor window.

Of course Tony Weston would be looking out for her. She raised a hand in reply, and began to climb the steep stone steps. He opened the door before she got to the top and stood in the doorway, barefoot, a mug of coffee in one hand, a smile of greeting on his face. He wore baggy blue linen shorts and a washed-out T-shirt; a plaited leather bracelet adorned one wrist, and he had no watch.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’m Tony. I’m guessing you’re Emma?’

Emma? She was about to correct him, then remembered her alter ego for the day. She wondered what her friend Emma would think when she told her.

‘Yes,’ she said, and stood on the doorstep, waiting. Waiting for what, she wasn’t sure. Some sort of recognition. From her. Or him. Some momentous sense of suddenly belonging. A wave of familiarity. But there was nothing.

Tony looked puzzled. His smile grew wider, as if he was suddenly worried he hadn’t been welcoming enough.

‘Well, come on in,’ he urged, waving his mug inwards. ‘Wendy’s making coffee. We saw you coming. You’d like a coffee, would you? Only we have tea, of course. About . . . seventeen different sorts, if that’s what you’d prefer.’

‘Coffee would be lovely,’ Laura murmured.

‘And how’s your hotel? You’re staying at the Townhouse? We go there for a glass of wine sometimes, but we can’t afford the restaurant. Starving artists, you see . . .’

‘Oh rubbish, don’t listen to him.’ A woman who was presumably Wendy came forward to greet her. ‘We’ve been there at least three times this year already.’

‘Only when friends take us,’ pointed out Tony amiably. ‘But I don’t blame you for staying there. It’s the only place, really.’

‘I got a good deal,’ said Laura, in case they thought she was the type of person who checked into that sort of hotel all the time without a second thought. ‘It was really very reasonable. And we got an upgrade . . .’

She still hadn’t quite got over the thrill of their sumptuous room.

‘It’s important to treat yourself every now and again,’ Wendy told her, handing her a chunky mug filled with real coffee. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

The room was large and light, open-plan, with a chaotic-looking kitchen at the back. Shelves were stuffed with spices and jars of pickles and bottles of oil, haphazardly arranged, with no thought to logic or order. It was the kitchen of people who loved to cook but weren’t so enamoured of clearing up. The living area was full of artefacts and brightly coloured cushions and books, but was clearly designed to focus on the stunning view of the harbour from the front window, which had no curtains – why would you ever want to block out the vista, either day or night?

‘Wow,’ said Laura. ‘No need to ask why you bought this house.’

‘You never tire of the view,’ Tony told her. ‘And it’s never the same. In five minutes, it will have totally changed.’

Laura looked around the walls. There were a few paintings, some of which she suspected were by Tony, but no family photographs that she could discern. No pictures of offspring she could scrutinise for a family resemblance.

She sipped her coffee, not wanting to seem too nosy, but not sure what to say either. She was naturally quite shy, and felt further inhibited by the burden of the secret she was carrying, especially as Wendy was there. Laura examined her as discreetly as she could. She was older than Tony, she guessed, but that could have been because she was weathered by the sun, her skin nut-brown. She was tall and sinewy, dressed in a denim dress that ought to have been far too young for her, but because of her grace, she got away with it. Her hair was greying, cut short in a crop that should have been severe but somehow wasn’t. She seemed like a woman who was very comfortable with who she was.

How long had Tony and Wendy been together? wondered Laura. Had they been together when she was conceived? She looked around the room for evidence of a long marriage. But there was nothing specific.

‘I’m going to the farmers’ market, then for a swim,’ said Wendy. ‘I’ll be back later. I’ve left soup and bread and cheese for your lunch.’ She smiled at Laura. ‘Enjoy your day.’

And she was gone, leaving Laura and Tony on their own.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started. You haven’t paid me all this money to sit around drinking coffee.’

She followed him up the stairs to his studio – a large room on the first floor with the same outlook as the living room. Here he had set up two easels, with paper, and a table full of freshly sharpened pencils, oil paints and brushes.

‘I thought the best thing to do,’ he said, ‘was to get you to have a go at drawing the view. So I can get an idea of your style. Then we can take it from there.’

‘I don’t think I’ve got a style,’ said Laura, feeling a flutter of nerves. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d picked up a pencil to draw. ‘I’m pretty useless . . .’

‘Everyone says that.’ Tony gave her an easy smile. ‘You wouldn’t be here if you thought you were a genius, would you? Just don’t feel self-conscious. I’m not here to judge you.’

Laura turned to face the easel, looking out to the view beyond. Her mouth felt dry; her hand was trembling. How long should she give it before broaching the subject? She needed to establish some sort of a relationship with Tony first, certainly. But the longer she left it, the harder it was going to be.

‘I’m not sure where to begin . . .’ she said.

The Parfitts’ boat,
The Blonde Bombshell
, would have looked more at home in St Tropez or Sandbanks. She was far too grand for Pennfleet. She stood out, white and gleaming in her fibreglass splendour, amidst the scruffy yachts, dinghies and fishing vessels. Someone – a nameless, faceless underling – had brought her over to the little jetty by the Townhouse earlier that morning, and no doubt she would have been fuelled and stocked up with all the necessary goodies. The Parfitts were the sort of people who had underlings making things happen for them everywhere they went.

Claire stepped on board tentatively. Although she lived by the sea, she wasn’t that much of a boat person. For a start, she didn’t have time to go on the water. Luca, however, bounded on as if he had been born on a boat, and was soon prowling about the deck with Trevor, who took immense pride in showing him all the gizmos and gadgets he’d had installed.

In a trice, Monique had settled Claire on some white leather seating while the men fiddled about at the helm, Luca making all the right noises.

‘It’s just a little day boat, really,’ Monique said. ‘Though it does sleep four. We love pootling up and down the coast in it.’

She stretched herself out next to Claire and tipped her face up to the sky with a sigh of satisfaction. The engine started with a sexy, throaty purr. Trevor untied the ropes and the boat started to nudge forward. Luca was driving: even he was slightly awed by its size and power as he navigated his way amongst the rest of the boats in the harbour, which swung from side to side in their wake. Claire couldn’t help feeling a little self-conscious. It was like driving a Ferrari through a supermarket car park. Everyone craned their neck to look, to see who was on board. She hoped no one recognised her. She didn’t care for ostentation.

‘I think it’s time for a little drinkie,’ said Monique. ‘Gin and tonic do you?’

Claire nodded, hoping Monique would make it a strong one. Anything to numb the events of the past twenty-four hours. It had been almost a day since Nick had walked back into her life, and she still didn’t have a clue what to do. She felt slightly sick, and wondered if it was her anxiety or the motion of the boat. She remembered someone telling her to look at the horizon if you felt seasick.

As she gazed out across the water, she caught sight of an old wooden boat just in front of them. It was a million miles from
The Blonde Bombshell
, dilapidated and cumbersome. To her horror, she saw that it was Nick and Gus and the rest of the crew setting out for the day. She shrank back in her seat, keeping her head low and praying that she wouldn’t be recognised. But she hadn’t taken into account Monique’s eagle eyes.

‘Oh look! Down there. Your stags.’ She waved madly, then gave a sigh of longing. ‘Oh, if only I was ten years younger.’

Try twenty, thought Claire, with uncharacteristic spite, then felt guilty. She could see Nick and Gus looking over at them and waving. She put her head down, burrowing in the picnic basket so it seemed as if she was otherwise occupied.

The Blonde Bombshell
swept past, and Luca held up his hand in a regal gesture, his other hand on the wheel. Claire just caught sight of Nick’s face. She could read what he was thinking quite clearly.

Tosser
.

Luca wasn’t a tosser. Not really. He just did a good impersonation of one a lot of the time. He had his positive side.

She had to believe that. After all, she was stuck with him now. She’d seen the picture of Nick with Sophie. How perfect they looked together. Gus was right. She couldn’t destroy another woman’s happiness in the hope of recapturing what she’d once had with Nick.

She should just be grateful for what she had now. Which by anyone’s standards was a lot. Lolling about on a luxury yacht, whose owners were gagging for your input on the project of your dreams? Wake up, Claire, she told herself.

‘Here you are, sweetheart.’ Monique returned with two enormous glasses, tinkling with ice. ‘This is the life, eh? You’d better get used to it.’

Claire took the gin and tonic eagerly. Monique raised hers with a dazzling smile.

‘Here’s to
The Blonde Bombshell
,’ she said. ‘And all who sail in her.’

‘
The Blonde Bombshell
,’ repeated Claire, and knocked back half the glass in one gulp.

Laura had become so absorbed in what she was doing, she had almost forgotten the purpose of her visit. She felt surprisingly relaxed. Tony’s voice was low and gentle and reassuring as he talked her through the painting process. He was a natural teacher – he seemed to know exactly when to guide and when to let her get on with it. When to praise and when to criticise, constructively.

‘It’s not about what you put in,’ he told her. ‘It’s about what you leave out.’

It was great, getting messy and doing exactly what she wanted. As a social media consultant, she spent her whole working life trying to please other people and working to a brief, and at first she had found it hard to let go, but he’d given her some relaxation exercises to start with, to loosen her up, and before long she was splashing on the paint with confidence, mixing up the colours with a palette knife and experimenting with cadmium and crimson and cerulean, marvelling at how just the tiniest blob could change the intensity and alter the mood of what she was working on.

Eventually she had in front of her a painting of which she felt justifiably proud. It wouldn’t score any points for originality, but it was bold and bright and looked like what it was: a jolly harbour scene, in turquoise and cobalt and emerald, with splashes of coral. Tony stood back and looked at it, arms folded. She realised it really mattered to her what he thought.

‘You’re talented,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve got quite a gift. A natural gift.’

And she couldn’t quite tell him that of course she had; that it was in her genes. On both sides, possibly.

She looked at the painting and it became blurry through her tears.

Pennfleet in the Rain
, she thought, then jumped as Tony put a hand on her shoulder.

‘It’s almost two o’clock,’ he told her. ‘We’ve been at it for four hours. Shall we have some lunch?’

Trevor moored
The Blonde Bombshell
just off Combesgate beach, a tiny cove that was only accessible by boat. They put the picnic hamper in the dinghy and rowed to shore. The beach wasn’t sand, but tiny white pebbles. They spread out a double layer of rugs to sit on, then Luca unpacked the picnic with pride. There were individual salad Niçoises with quail eggs, and a fat potato and onion tortilla studded with chorizo, followed by feather-light blueberry friands, which they washed down with a very light English sparkling wine from a local vineyard Luca had discovered and was keen to support.