The Long Weekend (37 page)

Plum looked up at Claire from her place on the floor, surrounded by toys and a beaker of juice. She wrinkled her nose and raised her arms. Claire bent down to scoop her up, and as she lifted the warm, soft bundle, something moved deep inside her.

She stood stock still, gazing into Plum’s solemn eyes with awe, confounded.

‘Oh my goodness,’ she laughed, jiggling her up and down. ‘What have you started, you little dollop?’

Plum giggled in response, waking her mother, who jumped to her feet with profuse apologies, mortified to have fallen asleep on her watch.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Claire, handing Plum back to her. ‘You’re supposed to be on holiday.’

‘There’s no such thing as a holiday with babies. Honestly, running a bank was a picnic compared to this.’ The woman’s reply was heartfelt as she rolled Plum on to her back on the sofa and waggled her feet until she shrieked with laughter. The joy her daughter brought her clearly outweighed her exhaustion and the fact that her life had been turned upside down.

As Claire walked away, she tried to ignore the seismic wave that had shaken her to the core. It was too terrifying to confront alone. It hadn’t come from her mind, but from somewhere unknown inside her. A primal urge that she did her best to bury. It was echoing something Trevor had said to her yesterday, about starting a family.

She couldn’t hide it from herself any longer. It was time to face up to the fact that this should be her next priority. As she stood there, the realisation hit her, almost taking her breath away. Was this how it happened to everyone? One day you were going about your business, and the next the urge to procreate swept all other considerations aside. Bloody hell, as if she wasn’t confused enough already, Mother Nature had decided to stick her oar in. How was she supposed to throw motherhood into the equation?

There had been another clue lately, when she’d had a late period. Normally this would have thrown her into a state of panic, and she would have rushed off to the doctor or the chemist for something to allay her fears. Only this time she had felt a sense of calm, even intrigue, and was surprised to find herself disappointed when she finally came on a week late. She hadn’t dwelled on it at the time, but now she pulled it out of her mental filing cabinet as evidence of her train of thought.

She hurried back through the dining room and straight through the double doors into the kitchen. Fred and Loz were winding down with a beer while they did the last of the clearing up.

Luca was writing up the evening menu. He looked up as Claire approached.

‘We need to talk.’

He put down his pen. ‘Sure.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s take a bottle of wine out on to the terrace.’

She shook her head. ‘Not here,’ she said. ‘In private.’

As soon as they walked into their bedroom, more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Claire felt claustrophobic. As she looked round, she realised that her whole life was effectively contained in here: although she and Luca had the run of the hotel and all the benefits that brought, this twelve-by-twelve room was the only bit of space she could call her own, and even then she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t going to be interrupted by a chambermaid or a night porter at any time. A constant supply of fresh, fluffy white towels was no replacement for privacy. If she wanted to gossip with a girlfriend, yes, of course she had staff to bring her any variety of coffee she fancied, with home-made shortbread, but the chances of her confidences being overheard were high. She could never have an off day, or look any other than her efficient best. It didn’t seem to bother Luca, who behaved exactly as he liked and didn’t care a jot what anyone else thought. But Claire found it wearing she realised now.

‘So . . . what is it?’ Luca demanded. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘I want a home,’ she told him. ‘If we’re going to get married, and we’ve got all these grandiose plans, I want us to have a house of our own, filled with our own things; a place where I can be myself.’

Luca shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s perfectly reasonable.’

‘I can’t even have a snarly PMT moment here without raised eyebrows; I can’t come down to breakfast in my pyjamas, turn my music up loud, sing along if I want to, dance if I feel like it. Even leaving a banana skin on the table and having it still there two hours later would be a luxury!’ As she spoke, Claire realised that any trace that she existed was wiped up after her by a crack team of staff eager to prove their housekeeping skills. She had trained them well. So well that a forensic team would find it hard to prove that Claire had even set foot inside the Townhouse.

‘Hey, calm down.’ Luca put his hands on her shoulders, laughing. ‘Where’s all this coming from?’

‘I don’t know!’ She did know. Of course she did. And more important than the house was the other thing. If that didn’t fit into Luca’s life plan, then there was no point. ‘Yes, I do,’ she finished. ‘I want . . . a baby.’

The silence that followed seemed endless. Luca’s face was totally blank.

That was it. She’d thrown down the gauntlet. He was going to run a mile. Of course he wouldn’t want a baby. He was sniffy about having them in the hotel, let alone letting one invade their life.

And then suddenly, he smiled.

‘That’s amazing,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘That’s wonderful,’ he reiterated.

‘But . . . how can we?’ she blurted. ‘With everything that’s going on? A hotel in London . . . running this place . . . And how are we going to afford a house of our own?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Claire.’ Luca picked up her hand. ‘Stop thinking so much about things. Of course you should have a baby. We’ll manage. People do it all the time. It’ll be tough, but anything worthwhile always is.’

He drew her towards him and held her in his arms. ‘We’ve never talked about it properly, but I’ve always just assumed we’d have a family. It’s the natural thing to do. And if now’s the right time, then . . . so be it.’

He stroked her hair. Claire melted into him.

‘I didn’t know I felt like this. It just came over me. I suddenly realised what it was I wanted. I mean, I love the hotel, and of course I’m excited about the London thing, but—’

‘Claire, you don’t have to explain. I get it. A baby. A gorgeous, laughing baby who looks just like you. It’s perfect. We’ll sort all the other stuff out as we go along. It’ll all fall into place.’

He kissed the corner of her mouth, moving his hands over her shoulders, entwining his fingers in her hair. She felt the familiar warmth spreading inside her, and slid her hands round his waist, pushing them up under his shirt, feeling the velvet skin underneath.

‘Maybe we should start practising now,’ he murmured, dropping hot kisses on her neck. They walked backwards towards the bed, falling on to it in a tangle of limbs.

‘What about the hotel?’ she gasped. ‘We should be getting ready for afternoon tea . . .’

‘Bugger the hotel,’ he replied, undoing the buttons on her blouse. ‘Let them eat cake. There’s plenty of it . . .’

Seventeen

B
ank Holiday Monday dawned as bright and optimistic as Sunday had been, and the village of Pennfleet unfurled itself with enthusiasm. The sea seemed to glitter more invitingly than ever; boats bobbed in impatience as they awaited their passengers and the smell of coffee and frying bacon wound its way through the streets. Cars started arriving even earlier than usual as eager visitors claimed their pitch, wanting to make the most of their day of freedom.

Angelica, however, woke with a sense of dread, ready for confrontation. She’d been steeling herself for it all night. She rolled out of bed and padded through the house in her pyjamas. Everyone was still asleep, of course. She was the only mug who had to work.

She opened the door to her mother’s bedroom. Inside, it was pitch black. Trudy never opened the heavy dark-purple curtains. Angelica picked her way over the discarded boots and clothes. There was a brimming ashtray next to the bed; empty glasses and cups everywhere. A large-screen telly on the wall shone green in the darkness.

‘Mum,’ she called. ‘Come on. You’ve got to get up. Dill’s football thing is at ten. You’ve got to drive him there. And make him a packed lunch.’

There was no response.

‘Mum! Come on.’

‘For God’s sake. It’s a bloody bank holiday. Leave me alone.’

‘You’ve got to get Dill ready. He has to get his kit on.’

‘Forget it. I don’t want to get up.’

Angelica reached out a hand and pulled back the duvet. Trudy screamed and sat up. She was wearing a shorter than short purple satin nightdress, the spaghetti straps digging into her flesh.

‘Are you seriously going to let him down?’ Angelica demanded.

‘It’s only a game of football.’

‘Not to him it isn’t.’

The school had organised a special training day, with a player from Plymouth Argyle. Dill had been looking forward to it for weeks. Jeff had promised to take him, but of course Jeff wasn’t here any more.

Trudy lay down again and pulled the pillow over her head.

Angelica dropped the duvet back on her in disgust. She could rant and rave and scream, but she knew it would make no difference. What a waste of space her mother was.

Maybe she should phone in sick? But no – she needed the money. It was double time on a bank holiday. Besides, someone would be bound to see her and dump her in it. That was how life worked.

She clenched her fists in an effort to keep down her anger, then left the room to go and break the bad news to Dill.

In leafy Berkshire, Nick woke to the sound of the mower buzzing up and down the lawn outside. He and his father had agreed that this was the best day to cut the grass before the wedding. They didn’t want it to be too short, like a squaddie’s haircut. If they cut it today, it would have enough time to recover before the tent people came on Thursday.

The thought of the marquee waiting to welcome all those guests made Nick groan. He pulled the duvet over his head, but he could still see it there in his mind’s eye, white and majestic. He could even see the table with the cake – three tiers, fruit, chocolate and plain sponge, he seemed to remember from the discussions they’d had.

He hadn’t said much to Gerald about his impromptu return in the small hours of Sunday morning. His father had the tact not to probe, but had understood with fatherly intuition that Nick had undergone some sort of crisis he didn’t want to discuss. He probably thought he’d got drunk and snogged a girl at Pennfleet Yacht Club and was riddled with shame.

If only that had been his crime. He would swap a hundred stag-night snogs for what had really happened.

It was stifling under the duvet, so he threw it back and stared up at the ceiling. He really should get up and help his father. It wasn’t fair to let Gerald do all the donkey work, although he was always quite happy preparing for a social occasion. It was what Gerald did best.

It was what Isobel had done best, too. It was when the Barnes family really came into their own, when they were preparing to welcome guests. Nick thought about how much she would have adored getting ready for his wedding. Sophie had done a fantastic job, of course, but his mother would have made it extra special, with those little touches that only she could bring, the ones that had always made their parties so much more memorable than anyone else’s. Where had Isobel got it, that magic? he wondered. Or had it simply been her presence that had made the difference? Her warmth, her magnetism, her generosity, her
joie de vivre
. . .

Today he was meeting Sophie for lunch, to go through all her endless lists again. To be fair, she had been remarkably unhysterical about the whole wedding – he had heard serious horror stories from friends who had been married recently – but still he found the thought of discussing the photographer’s brief and who was going to collect the bridesmaids’ presents stultifying.

He walked over to the window and drew back the curtains, blinking at the brightness of the sun. He could smell the scent of freshly mown grass. He wondered if the weather would hold until Saturday, then wondered bleakly how many times he would have to have that conversation over the next few days.

He didn’t care about the weather. Not one jot. In fact, he couldn’t bear the thought of the sun shining next Saturday, and all the guests running round bleating about fairy-tale weddings and how lucky they were . . .

He could see his father carrying yet another load of grass clippings to the compost heap behind the shed. He’d go out and do a few rows up and down the lawn while Gerald made them a cup of tea. Then he’d better have a shower and drive over to Sophie’s.

It was going to be the last time they would meet before they saw each other at the altar.

At the Townhouse, Angelica sat at reception staring into space, unable to shake off an uncharacteristic feeling of resentment.

It had taken her nearly half an hour to pacify Dill. He had kicked and screamed and cried when she’d told him he couldn’t go to the training day. It had taken all her strength to stop him from hurting himself. Eventually he had calmed down when she had promised to take him to a real, proper football match as soon as she could.