The Long Weekend (4 page)

It was the birth of his second child that was to blame. For years after Ryan was born, Alison was a no-go area. The birth itself had been traumatic – a protracted labour, forceps, an episiotomy; he wished he had insisted upon her having a Caesarean when the going had got tough, but the midwives had brainwashed her into a natural birth. And for what? Months of agony, and physiotherapy, and a total aversion to sex that no one had ever seen fit to discuss with her. Or him.

Which had ended up driving Colin into Karen Griffith’s arms. Or rather, legs – for Karen didn’t really do affection either. There were none of the hugs Colin was craving. No tender caresses or brow-smoothing. But she did do sex. When he realised the price, it was too late.

He wondered afterwards if he’d been set up from the start. Karen insisted that Chelsey was an accident, but how hard would it have been for her to work out how much he was worth, and then lay the time-honoured trap? For Colin wasn’t one to shirk his responsibilities. He would never have insisted upon an abortion. He was, despite his one-off infidelity, a gentleman.

And so now here he was, on his annual guilt trip. The visit he insisted upon, because Chelsey was, after all, his flesh and blood, and even if he couldn’t admit her presence to the rest of the world, he could do her the courtesy of acknowledging it to her personally once a year.

He had plenty of excuses. He was always off to trade fairs, and on research trips, and at conferences, so Alison never queried yet another weekend away. But lying made him feel sick to his stomach. He knew plenty of men who were adept at it and lied to their wives all the time: about where they were, what they were up to; about money – where it had come from and where it went. He had seen them prevaricate, glibly, smoothly, not a trace of conscience. But Colin believed in total honesty. There was no point in being married to someone if you lied to them.

As far as his Chelsey weekends went, however, he had left himself with little choice but to be dishonest. Luckily, Alison had never suggested accompanying him on one of these trips. She had her own life: the gym, tennis, dog-training, charity lunches – endless lunches – and shopping trips to buy clothes for those lunches. Not that he begrudged her a penny that she spent. She worked hard, at keeping the house impeccable, looking after the children, looking after him, in fact.

Colin didn’t consider himself sexist. He’d given enough women opportunities at work to defend himself against anyone making that accusation, and he would have been quite happy for Alison to pursue a career if she’d wanted one, but sometimes he couldn’t help wondering if more women would be happier if they followed Alison’s suit. It made for easy teamwork. Their roles were clearly defined. Their life ran like clockwork and their interests and timetables rarely clashed. In fact, apart from this one blip, it was a pretty perfect marriage.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He was in plenty of time. He was due to pick Karen and Chelsey up at half ten, which meant they would probably reach the hotel just after lunch. He’d spotted an article about The Townhouse by the Sea in the
Sunday Times
travel section – it looked idyllic. He’d checked out Pennfleet on the Internet and thought it would be fun for Chelsey. They could go to the beach, take a boat out, and there were lots of pizza places and ice-cream parlours that he knew his own kids would have enjoyed, so why wouldn’t she?

At the thought of his children, he felt guilt nip at his heart: Ryan, on his gap year, living it up in Oz; and Michelle, in her second year at uni in Warwick. He was incredibly proud of them. They’d achieved so much. That was largely down to Alison and the attention she’d lavished on them while they were growing up, painstakingly helping them with their homework, running them to extracurricular activities, encouraging them to do everything they wanted to do. Not that Colin hadn’t been interested, but his working hours were brutal. He rarely got home before seven, and by then all the hard work had been done. He had, of course, paid for their education, and all the extras, and was funding Ryan’s gap year, and over his dead body were either of his kids taking out a loan to pay for their tuition fees at university, so he had contributed in no small way, but it was Alison who’d put in the blood, sweat and tears that had led to their success. Not that he spoiled his kids financially. On the contrary, he’d taught them both the value of hard work. They’d had jobs with him in the holidays: Ryan had worked at the factory, and Michelle had waitressed in one or other of the cafés, so they understood what it was to have your own money. They were grafters, like him.

Now, he burst with pride when he thought about the pair of them, and it made him feel quite ill to think of them knowing his dirty secret. The secret he’d kept quiet for so long it had become a part of him, a piece of his heart that had turned as black as coal.

He came off the motorway and headed into the service station where he’d arranged to pick them up. He didn’t want to turn up outside Karen’s house in his car, so she was leaving hers here for the weekend – he would drop them back here on his way home. He felt his heart rate increase slightly. This was one of the danger areas, where he might be spotted. It wasn’t beyond belief that someone he knew might have pulled in. He determined to get in and out as quickly as he could.

He peered over the rows of parked cars to the Costa Coffee. There they were, the two of them, sitting at an outside table. Karen, her dark hair scraped back into a high ponytail, her face fully made up but obscured by huge sunglasses, her heels high and her jeans tighter than tight, a camisole and a cropped pink suede jacket over the top. And next to her, Chelsey.

His heart turned over every time he saw her. She was only up to Karen’s shoulder, but she must be a stone heavier already. Small, plump, pale, worried, she had a pretty heart-shaped face with a perpetual frown. No eleven year old should look as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders, thought Colin, but no doubt living with Karen would leave you in a constant state of anxiety. Chelsey seemed to have dressed in whatever was to hand: pink leggings, scruffy sheepskin boots and a yellow sequinned T-shirt that didn’t quite cover her tummy – whether this was a fashion statement or whether it was simply too small, Colin couldn’t be sure. Her hair was straggly and needed cutting. He knew Alison wouldn’t have let Michelle out looking like that. Uncared for. His kids had always looked immaculate.

They hadn’t noticed him yet. Karen was busy smoking a cigarette. Chelsey was eating a doughnut. He waited a moment, watching them. He didn’t like anyone smoking or eating in his car, but he didn’t want to come across as pernickety. He felt the metallic taste of guilt in his mouth, wondered if he could sneak into the service station for a drink to wash it away before they saw him, but no – that was too risky. As he watched, Karen handed Chelsey another doughnut from a bag. Chelsey took it wordlessly and bit into it.

Colin frowned. He might be a purveyor of cakes, biscuits, scones, bread and all things fattening, but there was no way that child needed a second doughnut. He headed the car towards them, attracting their attention with a merry little parp on the horn. Karen dropped her cigarette butt and ground it out with her heel. Chelsey crammed another bite of doughnut into her mouth and began hastily wiping away the sugar crumbs.

They crowded up to the car door.

‘All right?’ Karen bent in and brushed his cheek with hers. She smelt of Benson & Hedges, chewing gum and toxic vanilla perfume. ‘Give your dad a kiss, Chels.’ She grabbed Chelsey by the shoulder and pushed her towards Colin.

He gave her a peck on the cheek. She tasted of sugar.

‘We’re going to have a great weekend,’ he told her. He jumped out of the car, picking up their bags to stow them in the boot. They’d packed enough for a week between them, but it didn’t matter. There was plenty of room.

‘I looked up the hotel on the net. It hasn’t got a pool. Or a spa.’ Karen wrenched the back door open and pushed Chelsey in, then stalked round to the passenger door. Colin looked at her as she settled into the front seat, pulling the seat belt across those boobs that had been his downfall.

‘There’s one up the road – you can borrow their facilities.’

‘Why didn’t you check us in there?’

‘It didn’t look as nice. This one’s by the sea. Right on the water. We’ve got rooms with a view.’

Karen looked doubtful.

‘How’ve you been, anyway?’ he asked her.

‘Nightmare. They’ve been laying people off at work and the rest of us have to cover for them with no extra money.’ Karen pulled the passenger mirror down to check her make-up.

Colin looked in the rear-view mirror. Chelsey was staring out of the window.

‘How about you, Chelsey? How’s school?’

‘Nightmare.’ Karen repeated her favourite description. ‘She’s been picked on by some kids in her class. They’ve been calling her fat.’

Colin felt himself go red. The trouble was, Chelsey
was
fat. And kids being kids were no doubt happy to point that out. But it hurt him, to think she was being teased.

‘Does the teacher know you’re being bullied, Chelsey?’

‘Yeah, but she’s not bothered.’ Chelsey’s tone was flat, matter of fact. ‘She reckons they’ll stop when they get bored.’

Little buggers. Colin felt the urge to go to Chelsey’s school and seek them out, give them a good old-fashioned hiding. But he couldn’t. The only thing he could do was make sure she had a wonderful weekend. A weekend to remember.

As he pulled back on to the motorway, the sun came out.

‘Hey, hey, we’re on our way,’ he sang tunelessly.

Karen looked at him sideways and began prodding at the CD player.

‘Have you got any Take That?’ she demanded.

In the back seat, he could hear Chelsey rustling her hand in a bag of pick ’n’ mix, and smelled the additive dust cloud that came out of it. He wanted to tell her to stop. Not because he cared about the mess, but for her own sake. But now probably wasn’t the time to start. He was only a part-time father, after all. Very, very part-time.

Angelica used her elbow to push down the handle of Claire and Luca’s room. Either Luca was still fast asleep or he was in the shower and hadn’t heard her knock. She edged inside cautiously, holding the tray bearing his wake-up ristretto – it seemed to have become her job to get him up in the mornings. The room was in half-light – sun was streaming in through the tiny skylight, but the curtains were still drawn.

He was asleep. She could make out his figure in the bed. She breathed in, inhaling his scent, sharp, musky and masculine.

‘Luca!’ she called gently. He groaned and rolled over, rubbing his hands over his eyes. ‘Claire says get up.’

‘Tell her to fuck off.’ His voice was husky with sleep.

‘I’ve brought you coffee.’

She walked across the room and round to his side of the bed, standing over him. She kneed him in the side.

‘Oi. Come on. You know we’re busy today.’

He took his hand away from his eyes and stretched out an arm. She thought it was to take the coffee. She was about to pass it to him when she felt his warm fingers on her thigh, just under the hem of her skirt. The lightest touch. A gentle caress. Familiar, affectionate. Meaningless.

Was it?

‘Just five more minutes. Please, Angelica. I’m knackered . . .’

Her heart was racing, stumbling over itself as he stroked her. How tempting it was to tumble on to the bed with him, roll under the duvet, feel those hands not just on her thigh but all over her body. Did he know what he was doing to her with that tiny, infinitesimal tease?

Of course he bloody did.

She put the coffee down on the bedside table with trembling hands.

‘Up to you, Luca. But I’ve always been told that working here was a team effort.’

And with that retort she left the room.

Outside the door, she leant against the wall. Her legs were shaking. She could barely stand. She gave a groan, shut her eyes and tilted her head back in despair.

Some days she could handle her obsession. And some days she couldn’t. This was going to be a ‘couldn’t’ day. Her skin was going to creep with it; her blood fizzing beneath the surface, buzzing like an overhead cable.

She didn’t understand why she couldn’t control it. She had tried to rationalise it so many times. Sometimes common sense prevailed and she could function like a normal human being. But sometimes it just washed over her, taking her breath away, sucking all reason from her, leaving her limp in its wake.

It wasn’t even as if she liked him much.

She hated the way he took Claire for granted. She hated his cockiness. The way he made assumptions. The way he bullied people – not all the time, but when the pressure was on in the kitchen, Luca gave everyone short shrift. Yet there was something magnetic about him. He fascinated her. She wanted to know what made him tick. What he really felt. What his innermost hopes and fears were. He seemed to live in the moment, but surely he had regrets? Memories? Ambitions? Did he ever ask himself ‘what if’ . . .?

She asked herself that all the time.

Not that she would go near him. Not in a million years. She liked and respected Claire far too much for that. But at home, in the privacy of her own room, in the privacy of her own mind . . . that was a different matter. She could fantasise.

And she knew that Luca knew. He could smell it on her; see it in her eyes. That was why he taunted her. It was a game to him, the way he played her. Tested her, tempted her; made her believe that anything was possible.

She remembered a moment at the last staff Christmas party, which they held in January, when the silly season was over. She and Luca had met on the stairs. She had been two steps above him, which brought her to his eye level. And he had looked at her. Mocking, inviting.

‘Angel. Angelic. Angelica,’ he said, his voice low and teasing.

He leant forward. Their foreheads were touching. She would only need to move a millimetre for their lips to touch too. They stood there for a full five seconds, each waiting to see who would make the first move. Angelica’s head was swimming. She wanted to reach up, grab his hair, pull him in to her and devour him. But she knew that once she had given in, there would be no return.