The Long Weekend (6 page)

Carefully and meticulously, Laura searched through the contents of the box file and found the clue she was looking for, amidst tax returns and bank statements. A tiny, perfect life drawing of what was clearly a teenage Marina. Carelessly impressionistic but brilliant, it brought to life her slight figure, her full breasts, and a lustrous sheet of black hair falling past her shoulders.

‘Wow,’ said Dan. ‘Your mum’s still stunning, but . . . wow.’

Laura, who was pretty but had suffered all her life from knowing she didn’t have her mother’s arresting aura, smiled wryly. Her boyfriends had often been dumbstruck when they met Marina. Dan had seemed unfazed up till now, but this drawing captured her raw beauty so perfectly that even he couldn’t fail to express admiration.

She held the drawing with shaking fingers as she deciphered the scrawled signature in the right-hand corner.

‘Tony Weston. I think it says Tony Weston.’

Dan scrutinised it and agreed.

‘Probably a pretty common name.’

‘Do you think this is my dad? This would have been drawn just before she had me. She had all her hair cut off after I was born, she told me, because I kept pulling it.’ Laura knew she was gabbling. This was the closest she had ever come to unveiling the secret. ‘Do you think it’s him?’

‘Well,’ said Dan. ‘They were obviously quite close, judging by the way she’s looking at him . . .’

The drawing was intimate, there was no denying that. Laura swallowed. Tony Weston might be her father. She couldn’t take the picture with her, so she photocopied it, then put it back in the box file and snapped it shut again. She had found the one thing her mother had never wanted her to find. But why all the secrecy? Why didn’t Marina want her to know who her father was?

It took Laura and Dan a while on the Internet to compile a shortlist of possibilities. Dan was right – Tony Weston was a common name. But in the end they narrowed it down, by a meticulous process of elimination and extensive research in the local library, until at last they had a prime suspect.

This particular Tony Weston had once been the head of art at St Benedict’s School for Girls, in the town where her mother had grown up. The school Marina had attended. He had left there the year before Laura was born.

Laura found his website, advertising painting courses.

‘His CV doesn’t mention St Benedict’s,’ she pointed out to Dan.

‘That smacks of guilt in itself. He must be hiding something. Why would you leave that out, unless you didn’t want anyone to know?’

‘Or you wanted to forget . . .’

They examined the evidence. Forensically, the drawings on his website were similar in style to the sketch they had found – bold, impressionistic, exuberant.

‘Do you think it’s him?’ Laura asked Dan.

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he replied. ‘You’ll have to go and see him. We’ll go there for the weekend.’ He scrolled down Tony Weston’s website. ‘Pennfleet looks like a nice enough place.’

And so Laura emailed Tony Weston and booked a weekend of private painting tuition, under a false name – Starling was too unusual; she didn’t want to ring any alarm bells, so she called herself Emma Stubbs, after a childhood friend. She paid using one of Dan’s cheques, explaining that the weekend was a birthday gift. Tony Weston would have no reason to suspect he was being hunted down.

And now here they were on the train, rattling past Staines, Slough, heading relentlessly west. She had no idea how she was going to play it, if she was going to reveal her identity, or how she would even know if she’d found the right person. Maybe she wouldn’t have the courage to see it through.

When they reached Reading, she was tempted to jump off.

‘I don’t think I can go through with this,’ she said to Dan. ‘Let’s get off and get the next train back to London.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he told her. ‘We’ve already paid for our tickets and the hotel. It would be a waste. If you do bottle it, the worst that can happen is we spend the weekend in Pennfleet.’

Laura had to admit that she couldn’t argue with his logic. And so the train rattled on, past Newbury, Hungerford, Pewsey. By the time they reached Castle Cary, the warmth of the carriage and the sleeplessness of the night before had lulled her to sleep. There was no turning back now.

Four

J
ust before eleven, Claire heard the front door open and prayed it wasn’t an arrival. She hated it when guests checked in early. The corridors were still busy with Henry the Hoover and lined with canvas bags of dirty linen, and there was nothing worse than the sight of a hotel room door agape and a stripped bed. There was nothing you could do about it – rooms had to be turned round – but she wished people would wait till after midday at least to turn up.

She looked up nevertheless, with her most welcoming smile. If their room wasn’t ready, complimentary coffee and shortbread on the terrace usually mollified.

‘I know it’s too early to check in, but I wondered if I could leave my . . .’

The guest trailed off, dropping his battered leather Gladstone bag with a clatter. ‘Claire?’

She dropped her pen with a matching clatter.

She’d dreamt of this moment for years. More years than she cared to remember; years that had seemed interminable as she struggled to get him out of her mind. And eventually, of course, in the fullness of time, the dream had faded, only sneaking back to catch her unawares every now and again, in her sleep, when she was at her most unguarded.

‘Nick?’ She got to her feet and they gazed at each other across the desk. ‘What are you . . .? Are you . . .?’

She felt completely at a loss for words. She indicated the computer helplessly.

‘Checking in?’ he filled in for her. ‘Yeah . . . Um . . . Do you work here?’

‘Actually, it’s mine.’ She gave a faltering smile. ‘It’s my hotel.’ She paused. ‘Me and my . . . partner’s.’

She didn’t say boyfriend.

‘Wow.’ Nick gazed at her.

Claire shook her head in disbelief.

‘This is such a shock.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Gus will be mortified when he finds out.’

‘Gus?’ The name rang a bell.

There was a pause.

‘Gus Andrews. My best man.’ He pushed back his fringe. That fringe she herself had pushed back so many times. ‘It’s . . . my stag weekend.’

Of course. The six blokes on the third floor.

‘You’re getting married.’

It was a statement. It hung heavy between them, just as Angelica came in, dwarfed behind a huge sheaf of gladioli that had just been delivered from the florist. She plonked them on the reception desk, and looked between Claire and the new arrival.

‘Is everything okay?’ she asked. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

A strange expression flickered over the man’s face. Claire hurried back behind the desk and grabbed a key off the hook.

‘Mr Barnes is a bit early, but luckily his room’s ready – it wasn’t used last night. If you could show him up . . .’

Angelica took the key and went to pick up the bag, but Nick demurred.

‘No, it’s okay. It’s heavy. I’ll—’

‘I can manage.’

Angelica took the bag firmly. They had a strict policy of carrying guests’ luggage. And not hovering for a tip.

The two of them were still staring at each other.

‘Would you like to follow me?’ Angelica asked, trying to break the spell.

‘Um, sure,’ said Nick, looking back at Claire. ‘Maybe see you later? For a coffee?’

Claire managed a nod. Angelica moved off towards the stairs.

‘The bar’s just through there to your right, if you want a drink.’ She began her introductory spiel. ‘We’ll be serving light snacks on the terrace at lunch. And if you’d like to reserve a table for dinner . . .’

‘I think that’s all been organised.’ Nick followed her, allowing himself one glance back, but Claire was starting very intently at her computer screen.

Moments later, the hall was empty. Claire could hear Angelica chattering away up the stairs, her voice fading gradually as they went up another floor.

Married. Of course he was getting married. He was what – thirty-three? Two years older than she was. She looked down at her own left hand, bare, ringless, and imagined a slender finger with a sparkling diamond belonging to a shiny-haired blonde. She was astonished at how much it hurt.

Of all the hotels in all the world, Nick Barnes had to walk into hers.

Angelica unlocked the door to Room Seven and stood back to let the new arrival in. She surveyed him with approval: fairly typical Pennfleet summer fodder, in jeans and a sage-green cord jacket, everything expensive but subtly distressed and faded, his hair dirty blond and pushed back by a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans. Posh, but without that way of looking right through you that some of the visitors seemed to have. He was distracted, but not rude.

Swiftly she pointed out the bathroom, the minibar, the heating control and the television remote. He seemed to be barely listening. He obviously couldn’t wait for her to leave. She handed him the key with a welcoming smile.

‘Just phone reception if there’s anything you need.’

He thanked her, and Angelica slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She ran back down the stairs as quickly as she could, curiosity eating at her. She had never seen Claire look so rattled, and those two definitely had history.

Claire was behind the reception, wrestling the gladioli into a square vase and positioning it carefully on the desk. She was definitely still flustered, her cheeks pink. Angelica had never seen her fazed, not by the most difficult customer, not even by Luca at his most ornery. She always remained cool, serene, dignified.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Angelica.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was too careful to be convincing.

Angelica surveyed her. Claire took a deep breath to calm herself.

‘I’m fine. Honestly.’ Her eyes flicked to the clock. ‘Actually, no. No, I’m not. Let’s have a drink.’

‘It’s not even midday.’

‘Who cares? It’s a bank holiday weekend. There are no rules.’ Claire tweaked the last flower defiantly and led the way through into the bar.

Astonished, Angelica followed her. This was totally out of character. Claire might occasionally succumb to a glass of wine at the end of a long day, but unlike Luca, alcohol wasn’t her automatic solution to a problem. But here she was, determinedly pulling a bottle of house white from the fridge at half past eleven in the morning. Who
was
that guy? Angelica wondered.

The bar wasn’t huge – there was enough room for a dozen people at the most to have pre-or post-dinner drinks; they didn’t want to waste valuable dining space – and it was chicly stark in comparison to the more opulent reception area. The walls were white, adorned with bronze and silver casts of fish skeletons by Abigail Fallis, and the chairs were covered in slubby turquoise linen.

‘If we sit here, we can see if anyone comes in.’ Claire indicated the two chairs nearest reception. Angelica took a glass from her and sat down, not quite sure how to play this unusual turn of events. She took a tentative sip of wine; she wasn’t a great drinker, and when she did, she favoured sugary alcopops. She shuddered slightly as the sharp tang of gooseberry hit her taste buds.

‘So,’ she ventured finally. ‘Who was that?’

She knew she was prying. She didn’t think there was much chance of Claire confiding in her. She wasn’t the type to share her personal life.

‘He’s an old boyfriend.’ Claire took a grateful glug of Sauvignon Blanc. ‘My first boyfriend. I haven’t seen him for . . . twelve years?’

She didn’t know why she was questioning the length of time. She knew exactly how long it had been.

Eleven years and five months.

The phone rang, breaking the moment. Claire looked irritated.

‘Five minutes’ peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask?’

Angelica stood up.

‘I’ll get it.’

Claire watched her go. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. There was so much to organise. Getting sloshed at this time in the morning really wasn’t going to help her get through the day. She was usually so conscientious – it was counterintuitive, this behaviour. But shock did that to you, she supposed, as she raised the glass to her lips and took another shot of coolly delicious anaesthetic.

Eleven years, five months and twenty-seven days.

Nick Barnes stood in the middle of the room he had been shown to on the third floor. He barely noticed it, although normally he would have fully appreciated its understated luxury – the fat goose-down duvet, the chic supersized sisal carpeting, the Bose iPod dock. He dropped his bag at his feet and walked through into the bathroom for a pee, again hardly seeing the mother-of-pearl mosaic tiles and the range of Molton Brown accessories.

What bloody awful timing. This was absolutely the worst thing that could have happened, the eventuality he had dreamt about so many times. And how ironic that it should happen on his stag weekend. Someone up there was having a laugh. Not that Nick believed that there was someone up there. He had stopped believing anything like that a long, long time ago.

He checked his watch. The other guys would be here in a couple of hours. He’d wanted to make the journey down on his own; use the time to get his head together. Little realising that any togetherness he might have achieved would be blown to buggery. He kicked off his shoes and flopped down on one of the twin beds; the one nearest the window. He didn’t even bother looking out at the incredible harbour view. He shivered, although it wasn’t cold in the room.