The Long Weekend (5 page)

Instead, she reached up and put her index finger on his lips.

‘Naughty,’ she chided. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

He looked deep into her eyes, and she could feel her soul trying to tug itself free.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t think about it.’

‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘But I think about all sorts of thing I can’t have.’

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Claire making her way towards the stairs. She looked ravishing in a dark-red velvet dress, a Father Christmas hat at a jaunty angle on her curls, her high heels kicked off long ago.

‘What are you two up to?’ she laughed, hooking her arm around the newel post beneath them, a half-empty glass of champagne in her hand.

‘Just giving the boss a Christmas kiss,’ replied Angelica, and in full view of Claire she put a hand either side of Luca’s head, pulled him in and kissed him. It was a pantomime kiss, a kiss for dramatic effect, an over-the-top office party gesture that no one could take offence at. Claire just giggled from the bottom of the stairs. Angelica wriggled past Luca and came down to join her. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she headed for the steaming bowl of mulled wine for a top up.

Afterwards, as they all sat round in a circle opening their Secret Santa presents, Angelica caught Luca’s eye. He held her gaze a moment too long; his meaning was unmistakable. She widened her eyes at him in innocence and turned away. She wasn’t going to be his toy. She wasn’t going to embark on a torrid, seedy affair with him. Hurried sex between shifts behind locked doors. She valued herself too highly for that. She valued her job even higher. And her relationship with Claire even higher than that. Claire was her idol, her mentor, her girl crush. The first person in her life who had shown faith in her. She wasn’t going to sacrifice that for a tumble with Luca, no matter how much her body craved it.

Besides, Angelica had always been an all-or-nothing girl. If she couldn’t have Luca to herself, she certainly didn’t want to share him. Yet still she tortured herself. To be honest, it was the only thing that kept her going; the only thing that stopped her going completely mad. Even though it was a kind of madness in itself.

Inside the room, she could hear the creak of the bed as Luca turned over. An image of his body sprang into her mind, for she knew he’d been naked under the duvet. She brushed herself down, ran her fingers through her hair and made for the stairs. Thank God it was going to be busy. She could think of nothing worse than sitting behind the reception desk burning with unrequited lust all day.

Three

L
aura Starling stood on the crowded concourse at Paddington, chewing her bottom lip. Her gaze flipped between the announcement board, waiting for the platform number to appear and trigger the surge of people towards the train bound for Penzance, and the escalator leading up from the Tube. Where was he? She knew perfectly well, of course. He would have his arm hooked round a pole in a carriage on the District Line, listening to his iPod, in his own little world, oblivious to the fact that she was about to explode with anxiety.

Dan always left things to the last possible moment. She, conversely, had been here for over half an hour, just in case. Just in case of what, she couldn’t say, but she always liked to be on the safe side. Dan would, she knew, appear in the nick of time. He always did. In the six months she had known him, he had never actually let her down, but she was always convinced he wasn’t going to turn up.

He just didn’t have the worry gene. He was totally laidback. The hideous possibilities that occurred to Laura every minute of the day weren’t on his radar. When she ran a potential snag past him, he just shrugged and said, ‘So what? What if that does happen? The world won’t come to an end.’ And the annoying thing was, he was right. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t train herself to think like him. Or get him to accommodate her fears and worries into his timetable. It was her problem. One of the things she was working on, that would make her the person she wanted to be.

This was despite Dan repeatedly telling her she was perfect as she was.

‘Well, not perfect.’ He qualified his statement. ‘Because perfect would be dull beyond belief. And you’re certainly not that.’

She looked at her watch, in case it told a time different from the station clock, but it didn’t. She breathed in to calm herself. The air was filled with the scent of fried doughnuts and sweat. Anticipation hovered, for this was more than just the usual Friday commuter crowd. It was a bank holiday weekend and there were adventures afoot. The exodus from the city had already begun.

Here he was, at last. Loping across the concourse with his endless legs, a canvas rucksack on his shoulder. She knew all that would be in it would be a spare shirt and pants, his toothbrush and his camera. Her case, by contrast, was filled with an array of dresses, jeans, tops, make-up and shoes. In faded jeans and a plaid shirt, his hair messy, he looked like any other scruffy twenty-something boy, until you clocked his bone structure and those extraordinary eyes – a deep, soft grey, fringed with thick black lashes. Laura had seen girls visibly wilt when he turned to look at them, just as she had when they’d met at a mutual friend’s party. The kindness in them was infinite. For Dan was, above all else, the kindest person she had ever met.

‘Hey.’ He ambled up with a grin and dropped a kiss on her head, just as the platform number appeared. She grabbed his sleeve.

‘Come on,’ she urged, picking up her overnight bag, heavier than she had intended, and checking her pocket again for their tickets so that they could slip through the barrier with no delay. She’d reserved their seats, her finger hesitating on the ‘purchase’ button for so long that she had to remind herself that even if she bought the tickets, they didn’t have to go; that she could change her mind right up to the last minute.

They were swept along in the current of travellers, all trying to outrun each other, as if there was some elusive prize at the end of the platform. They hurried past the first-class carriages, all tauntingly empty, until they reached coach F.

‘This is the one,’ she told Dan, and jumped on board.

‘Calm down,’ he laughed. ‘The train isn’t going to drive off while we’re getting on.’

He went to sling his rucksack in the luggage compartment, but she put out a hand.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Put it in the overhead rack. I know people who’ve had their cases pinched.’

‘No one would want my stuff. They’d be sorely disappointed.’

‘What about your camera?’

He shrugged. ‘Insured.’

Laura shook her head. How could he be so cavalier about the tools of his trade? Surely it would be a disaster if someone took it? She didn’t pursue this line of thought, however, as he had bowed to her better judgement and was stuffing his rucksack on to the rack over their seat. He put out his hand for her bag too. A moment later they were in their seats, side by side.

Laura brought out two smoothies and two plastic tubs of breakfast muesli she’d bought in Marks & Spencer.

‘I knew you wouldn’t have had breakfast . . .’

‘No,’ admitted Dan happily, unscrewing the cap of one of the smoothies and gulping it down.

Laura pulled out the brochure she had sent off for. A small, tasteful A5 booklet, printed on cream cartridge paper. The cover showed a painting of the harbour at Pennfleet, executed in bright, splashy colours. ‘Learn to draw or paint in a stunning and inspirational seaside setting. Royal Academician Tony Weston will unleash your creativity and give you the confidence to bring out your inner Monet or Picasso. An ideal birthday gift or simply treat yourself – the ultimate in “me” time.’

Inside was a list of Tony Weston’s credentials, galleries he had exhibited at and more examples of his paintings. His photograph showed a man in his fifties sitting in front of an open French window that looked out on to the sea. He had cropped grey hair, fashionable black-rimmed glasses and a shirt with a round-necked collar – a typical ageing trendy media type, for his CV revealed that he had worked in advertising before retiring to Pennfleet.

Laura had analysed his features over and over again, but the picture was too lacking in detail for her to come to any conclusion. A static photograph was never an accurate representation of someone’s physiognomy. You had to watch them talk, smile, frown, laugh to pin down any resemblance to another human.

For most of her life Laura had been cool about not having a father. It made her different from other kids at school, but that was something she relished rather than resented. She had a great relationship with her mother. It had always been just the two of them. Marina was like a mate, or a big sister. All her friends were green with envy that she had someone she could share her secrets with. And over the years Marina became a confidante to them too. Their little house was always bursting at the seams, full of music and laughter and gossip and home-made chocolate chip cookies. Marina had the answers to the knottiest of problems. She was unshockable. There was nothing you couldn’t talk to her about.

Except one thing, and she made it clear that was a no-go area. She simply refused to be drawn on the identity of Laura’s father. Laura had learnt to stop asking. By the age of thirteen, she had resigned herself to the fact that she was never going to know. She had been, to all intents and purposes, an immaculate conception.

At fifteen, she panicked, wondering perhaps if her mother had been raped. That would certainly explain Marina’s reluctance to divulge the truth. One evening when Marina was in a calm and reflective mood, she’d plucked up the courage to ask. They were sitting out on the tiny terrace that served them as a garden. It was covered in brightly painted pots stuffed with flowers, and strung with fairy lights; they were sitting in the last of the sun, Marina with a glass of wine.

Laura fiddled with the edge of the pink linen tablecloth that was spread over the rickety wooden table Marina had picked up from a junk shop.

‘Mum, just tell me one thing. Did he rape you? My father?’

Marina reached out and stroked her hair. The expression on her face could not be read.

‘No, my darling. Absolutely not. I promise you.’

Laura nodded. She knew not to probe any further, but she had needed to put that possibility out of her mind. And she believed her. Marina’s reassurance had come from the heart.

It wasn’t until she met Dan that her curiosity was piqued again. He’d been intrigued by the fact that she didn’t seem to want to know who her father was. He was never intrusive or judgemental, but it set her thinking about her father’s identity. And then he had shown her a feature in a magazine he’d done the photos for. It was about men who had discovered late in life that they’d fathered children they never knew they had. To a man they revealed what a delight it was to find a new son or daughter, and how it had enriched their lives, even when they already had other legitimate children.

‘I’m not saying you should look for him,’ Dan said, ‘but not one of these guys was upset or angry. Although obviously you’d need to be careful.’

Laura thought about it. She had always presumed her father didn’t know of her existence, but she’d never really considered it from his point of view. Did her mother really have the right to deny him knowledge of her existence, whoever he was? Maybe he hadn’t gone on to have other children. Maybe he too would be delighted to know he had a daughter. Not to know you had a child was peculiar to men – it was an experience no woman could ever share. And so how could a woman really empathise?

It began to eat away at her. And she began to resent Marina for her arrogance. Surely every child had the right to know her father, and a father to know his daughter? But she knew, absolutely, that she would never be able to worm it out of her.

‘I’ll never get Mum to tell me,’ she told Dan. ‘I’ll have to figure it out for myself.’

He promised to help her in any way he could. And to be there for her, whichever way it went. She began looking for clues in earnest. Rifling through Marina’s drawers when she went round for Sunday lunch. Rummaging through cupboards, shoeboxes, empty suitcases, pulling up pieces of loose carpet. But there was never anything that gave even a hint. Surely if the relationship had had any meaning, which Laura felt it had, she would have kept some relic, some tiny memento? Her mother kept everything – ticket stubs, photos, postcards, programmes, souvenirs. She was a hoarder.

The only place she hadn’t managed to look was the box file Marina kept her paperwork in – her passport and driving licence and chequebooks. It was kept firmly locked, and Laura had no idea where to find the key.

Dan laughed. ‘Not a problem,’ he said when she described the lock to him. And so one weekend, when they knew Marina was away, Laura and Dan sneaked into her house with the spare key, and Dan picked the lock of the box file.

‘Where did you learn how to do that?’ Laura demanded.

‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,’ he told her, laughing. And she thought that was probably the moment when her feelings for him tipped from delicate and fragile embryonic love into something more profound. It was the first time in her life that she had felt protected by someone other than her mother. It made her feel warm inside.