The Long Weekend (3 page)

He was her little mate.

Half an hour later, the pair of them walked out of the front door: Dill with his hair carefully gelled as he liked it, in his green school uniform, his Doctor Who rucksack on his back, and Angelica, her linen suit pristine and her hair immaculate. She walked him to the school gate and kissed him goodbye with the other mothers, while their own mother slept on in bed, oblivious.

It was the same every day.

Guests invariably gasped with delight when they walked into the Townhouse. A square five-storey building overlooking Pennfleet harbour, it had once been the custom house. It had thick stone walls and large windows that filled it with a translucent light. Inside the feel was opulent, steering firmly away from maritime jollity – Pennfleet was already well served with nautical stripes. The walls were covered in pale-green wallpaper embossed with birds in golden cages. A Murano chandelier hung over the reception desk, throwing a rosy glow on to the chalkboard that bore the day’s weather forecast and tide times; below that hung the keys to the eight rooms, attached to outsize leather fobs, impossible to lose. A small seating area housed a chaise longue covered in burnt-orange velvet and two distressed-leather club chairs; on a round table in the middle of the hall was a glass-lined crate filled with moss and stuffed with blowsy, fat ranunculus. The air smelled delicious: fresh coffee mingled with the scent from a large three-wick candle that burned cinnamon, ginger and cardamom.

The overall effect was both calming and stimulating. Guests felt as if they were walking into a little haven that was unique and special. Claire hated the descriptions ‘quirky’ and ‘classic with a twist’ – she found both overused – but she supposed the hotel was both, though she never once sacrificed style for eccentricity. Everything was just as it should be.

She ran her eye down the list of guests for the coming weekend. The three rooms on the third floor had been booked by a stag party. Two blokes in each. Normally Claire baulked at stag events, but the best man, Gus Andrews, had reassured her. ‘We’re coming down for some sailing. We just want a good dinner and some nice wine,’ he told her. ‘We won’t leave the groom trussed up naked in reception, I promise you.’ He sounded civilised and was happy to leave a hefty deposit, so Claire accepted the booking, crossing her fingers that he was true to his word.

Two of the rooms on the next floor were interconnected, and could be reserved for families with ‘well-behaved children over ten’. These interconnecting rooms had been booked by a Mr Colin Turner, who wanted a double in one room and twin beds in the other – for his ‘friend’ and her daughter. Claire was immediately intrigued. ‘Friend’ always had connotations.

The smallest room, the one they fondly referred to on their website as ‘the Broom Cupboard’, had been booked by a Miss Laura Starling. And finally, the grand suite on the first floor, with its drawing room and balcony overlooking the harbour, was reserved for their most important guests, Mr Trevor Parfitt and his wife Monique. Claire’s stomach churned slightly at the thought of their arrival.

Trevor and Monique always had the grand suite, because they had a twenty per cent stake in the Townhouse. Trevor had long been a fan of Luca, when he had been a chef in London. When he’d heard that Claire and Luca were planning to buy a hotel of their own, he had jumped at the chance to invest. The Parfitts visited regularly, coming down for long weekends to enjoy the fruits of their investment, and had even bought a boat – a shiny white gin palace that stuck out like a sore thumb in Pennfleet harbour.

And now, it turned out, the pair of them had had a brainwave. They wanted to open a hotel in London, and for Claire and Luca to go in with them. They had mooted the idea at their informal AGM three weeks ago. Trevor had pitched it as ‘The Townhouse in the City’, and Claire had felt a prickle of irritation. The Townhouse name had been her idea. Now Trevor seemed keen to roll it out as a brand, and Claire couldn’t help feeling that he had somehow hijacked her concept. She told herself that that was how he had become successful, which he undoubtedly was. Not many people had spare cash to invest in a new hotel these days.

Trevor was also keen for Monique to have as much input as possible, especially on the ‘dekkor’ front. Claire didn’t need to see their house to know that Monique would go for a Jackie-Collins-meets-Versace-in-
Hello!
-magazine look, all marble and leopardskin and glitz, which wasn’t Claire’s style at all.

When she expressed her fears afterwards to Luca, he just laughed. ‘You can handle her. Let her choose a bit of curtain fabric and some cushions.’

‘She’ll want more input than that!’

‘Then make her work really hard. Run her ragged trotting round London for samples. She’ll soon get bored.’

Claire looked doubtful. Monique was the sort of person who would get the bit firmly between her teeth and never let go.

‘Just smile sweetly and pay lip service. Then we’ll take the money and run. I promise you, Trevor will just let us get on with it. It’s a vanity project.’

Claire wasn’t convinced of the value of being involved in a vanity project, but Luca persisted.

‘Trevor won’t want it to fail. And Monique will get bored eventually. Then one day we’ll be able to buy them out. Trust me, Claire.’

Claire couldn’t help wondering if this was what she and Luca really wanted. Yes, Luca’s ultimate dream was to have his own place in London, but they were already overstretched. He seemed to think they could just leave The Townhouse by the Sea to fend for itself, in the capable hands of whoever they chose to delegate to. Claire knew it was not as simple as that. Who, for example, would cook? People came to eat Luca’s food; it was his light touch and inspirational juggling of flavours they wanted to experience. They didn’t want a substitute.

She decided she wasn’t going to worry about it for the time being. There was a long way to go before the dream became a reality. Instead, she printed out the registration forms for the weekend’s guests, and was just noting any special requests on a notepad when the front door opened and Angelica came in.

Angelica was Claire’s lifeline. When she had first started, as a part-time chambermaid, Claire had recognised something in her, a hunger to learn, a quickness that she was convinced she could harness. When she heard Angelica was leaving school, she offered to train her up as the hotel receptionist. Angelica had been thrilled – she’d been on the verge of taking a job at a travel agent in Bodmin. Claire gave her two hundred pounds to go and have her pink-streaked hair dyed back to a normal colour, and to buy some respectable clothes. And she had to take her tongue ring out. Pink streaks and body piercings were acceptable in a chambermaid, but not front of house.

Angelica had reappeared the next Monday with a dark chestnut bob, dressed in a black linen skirt (it was a little on the short side, but Claire had to concede that probably wouldn’t do any harm), a fitted white blouse (again, her black bra was clearly visible underneath, but the same conclusion applied), a boxy linen jacket and a pair of ballet flats. And now, three years later, she was almost –
almost
– fit to be left in charge of the hotel. She still had a tendency to be a little sharp-tongued, and Claire was working on rubbing off these rough edges before letting her loose, but she was proud of her protégée.

She was also very protective of her. She knew that all was not as it should be chez Angelica, that she took her responsibility to her little brother very seriously and that her mother Trudy was a bit of a loose cannon. Claire never pried, but she always noticed when Angelica was feeling the strain, and lent her as much support as she could. In the meantime, it gave her a warm glow to think that she’d provided an opportunity for a local girl, rather than some smugly ambitious trainee fresh from a university hotel-management course. And in a strange sort of way they had become quite close, despite the age gap. In quiet moments at the hotel they would gossip and chat and share confidences. And once or twice, in the depths of winter when the hotel had been almost empty, they had gone off to the big shopping centre in Bristol, like two naughty schoolgirls doing a bunk from double maths, coming back laden with shoeboxes and make-up samples and the sort of dresses they would never wear in Pennfleet, but that every girl needed in her wardrobe.

In return, Angelica never abused Claire’s generosity or openness. During working hours they were a team, and they both knew better than to blur the distinction between employer and employee. Becoming too close to someone who worked for you could be the kiss of death, Claire knew. She thought she’d managed to get the balance right.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re ready for the weekend. It’s going to be a long one.’

‘The car park’s already filling up,’ Angelica told her. She picked up the guest list and made a face. ‘Mr and Mrs Parfitt? Again? They were only down two weeks ago.’

‘Well, we have to be extra specially nice to them this weekend.’

‘We always are,’ protested Angelica. ‘I go out of my way not to slap his face when he pats my bottom.’

Claire laughed. It was true: Trevor Parfitt was of the old school, the type who really didn’t think bottom-patting was offensive. He called his wife ‘babe’ without a hint of irony.

‘Trevor’s not going to change.’

‘No,’ said Angelica. ‘But why do we need to be
extra
nice? The Parfitts always get treated like royalty when they come here.’

Claire hesitated. They hadn’t told anyone about the possibility of a new hotel yet – rumours like that always unsettled staff – but if the deal did come off, she was going to be relying on Angelica more than ever. She decided to take her into her confidence.

‘This is strictly between you and me,’ she said, ‘but Trevor and Monique might want us to open a hotel in London.’

Angelica’s face clouded.

‘You won’t be leaving, will you?’ she asked. ‘Because I won’t work here without you. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I didn’t,’ replied Claire lightly. ‘But you don’t need me.’

‘I’m not working for anyone else.’

‘I’m touched by your loyalty.’ Claire smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not leaving yet. And anyway, it might be good for you. We’d need someone to hold the fort here if it does go ahead.’

Angelica said nothing. Claire rather wished she hadn’t mentioned the London hotel, but she didn’t like secrets. In her experience, they were bad news. From the corner of her eye she saw the fisherman walk through to the dining room en route to the kitchen with today’s catch – she’d better check it over and sign for it.

She picked up the phone and handed it to Angelica.

‘Can you call Buddleia? We need a large bouquet for the Parfitts’ room and a replacement for the flowers on the front table, as well as the usual.’ Angelica nodded and took the receiver from her. ‘And if you can bear it, take Luca a coffee and tell him to get up. We need all hands on deck this morning.’

Claire headed for the kitchen. She needed some super-strength coffee herself, and a bowl of their hand-made granola mixed with Greek yoghurt and berries. It was going to be a long day.

Angelica watched Claire go, a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach. She felt unsettled. A hotel in London? What was that going to mean?

Change, definitely. Angelica didn’t like change. She wanted things to stay the same, for ever.

Except, of course, for the things she wanted to be different. But life didn’t work like that. She knew that perfectly well. She took a deep breath, and told herself that nothing was definite. She didn’t need to panic yet. Anything could happen. She dialled the number of the florist, running her eye down the list of other requests Claire had written out, making a mental note of the things that needed doing first. Angelica was nothing if not well trained.

Two

T
here weren’t many people who considered Colin Turner a foolish man. On the contrary, most people had an enormous amount of respect and admiration for him. He managed to be a success without inviting jealousy. After all, there was no denying that he was a grafter. He was always on site by six o’clock, dressed in his whites, ready to get his hands dirty. He looked after his workers, and was a most generous employer. Conditions at both the cake factory and his half-dozen cafés were exemplary. He didn’t try and screw extra hours out of anyone, and the perks were legendary: hefty discounts, generous bonuses and an extravagant Christmas party at a local hotel, all drinks on the house. And he had reaped the rewards of his hard work. The sleek Jaguar he was driving as he pulled on to the M5 was testament to that.

He had only ever made one mistake in his life, he reflected as he glided over into the fast lane. But it was a big one. And his only crime had been to crave affection. Physical contact with someone who didn’t flinch. When had he become so repulsive? he’d wondered on that fateful day, nearly twelve years ago now.

Of course now he understood. Eventually the GP had diagnosed depression and prescribed a course of antidepressants for his wife, but by then it had been too late. How was Colin supposed to know that post-natal depression could still have a grip more than five years after a child had been born? He was a baker, not a psychiatrist. By then the nights of rejection had stacked up, leading to desperation. Which in turn had led him to act on impulse, something he rarely did.