The Long Weekend (9 page)

‘What does she do, then?’

‘She’s a scientist. A physicist. I have no idea what she
actually
does. I didn’t get her brains, or Dad’s. I think I’m a bit of a disappointment to them.’

‘That’s sad.’

Claire shrugged.

‘I’m used to it. They’re not horrible or anything.’

‘No . . .’

‘Just . . . not very interested.’

‘That’s cruel, to have kids and not take an interest in them.’ He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘How could anyone not be interested in you?’

Claire felt her heart start to melt, just a little, like an ice cream that’s being eaten too slowly.

‘They
care
. Of
course
they care. But they just don’t understand art or poetry or music . . . any of the stuff I like.’

Nick made a face. ‘They sound . . .’

‘Boring?’ Claire laughed. ‘They enjoy a lively debate on quantum physics.’

‘And do you?’

‘Um . . . no. I gave up science as soon as I could. Which didn’t thrill them, but as Dad said, you can lead a girl to science but you can’t make her think.’

‘Wow.’ Nick looked disgusted. ‘You’d better not introduce me.’

‘It’s okay. They let me go my own way. It’s cool.’

‘But . . . lonely. You seem lonely.’

Claire bristled. She realised she painted a blacker picture of her life than it really was.

‘I’m not. Honestly. They do love me. And I love them.’

‘Good.’

‘And if I seem lonely, it’s because I’ve left all my mates behind. I don’t know anyone here.’

They’d arrived outside the house. It was lit up from the inside, loud music spilling out on to the road. Claire stopped, suddenly overcome with nerves.

Nick took her hand.

‘Hey. It’s okay. After tonight, you’ll have more friends than you know what to do with.’

Claire’s mouth felt dry. This had been a really bad idea. Given half a chance, she’d turn tail and run barefoot up the road back to her mum and dad right now. Flop on the sofa, flip on the ancient telly, make them a cup of tea, raid the biscuit tin . . .

‘Come on.’

He could sense her disquiet, but he wasn’t going to give her the chance to bolt. She screwed up every last drop of courage as he led her over the bridge. The river swirled underneath, dark and cool and dangerous. She could hear the mill wheel turning, scudding through the water. He pushed open the front door, led her through a hall that could comfortably have accommodated her own lounge with room to spare, and then into the kitchen.

It was mayhem. Unashamed mayhem. There must have been thirty people, all talking, laughing, drinking. A girl in a short swishy black skirt and long black boots stood on the kitchen table, dancing an improvised flamenco to the sound of Spanish guitar on the sound system, flicking her hair back and forth provocatively. A Rubenesque woman sat in a huge armchair dandling a baby – he paddled his feet in the air, seemingly oblivious to the noise and the hour. A birdcage hung over the table, and in it an orange canary sang along to itself. A set of folding glass doors at the back opened out into the garden, where lanterns led the way to the river’s edge. More people were spilling out of the doors, laughing, drinking, dancing on the terrace.

And in the middle of it all was the most beautiful woman Claire had ever seen. Tiny, fragile, with a white-blonde pixie crop, wearing an ice-blue dress and an armful of silver bracelets, she flitted from one guest to the next. Nick took Claire’s hand, pulled her towards the woman.

‘This is my mother,’ he said, grabbing a glass of champagne from a tray on the side and handing it to her. ‘Mum, this is Claire, who I told you about. Claire, this is Isobel.’

The woman turned, and Claire was met with a pair of eyes that exactly matched the ice blue of her dress. But they weren’t cold. They were the colour of the sun dancing on a fjord – bright and clear and shining. Isobel held out her arms and wrapped them around Claire’s neck, hugging her to her. Claire wasn’t used to effusive body contact. Her parents never hugged her. Usually she would stiffen given such familiarity, but Isobel was so warm, she just melted into her embrace, breathing in the scent of crushed violets. The smell of the dress she herself was wearing.

‘Nick tells me you tore the boys off a strip for running across the level crossing?’ Her voice was surprisingly deep for such a fragile creature; a Marianne Faithfull drawl.

Claire felt her cheeks redden. Was Isobel one of those protective mothers who didn’t like other people disciplining her offspring?

‘It’s dangerous.’

‘It certainly is. And I’ve told them often enough. Good for you.’ She flicked her eyes to the ceiling in a minimal gesture of fond exasperation. ‘Honestly, do you think they’ll ever grow up?’

Claire could tell that, despite her plea, Isobel thought her sons were pretty much perfect as they were. And indeed they were. You couldn’t fail to be charmed. Gangly Shrimp, slight Felix, and the relatively solid Nick, as close as the Three Musketeers but individuals in their own right. Already she could see that Felix was the thinker, Shrimp the joker and Nick the mediator, the roles clearly defined between them.

She realised that Isobel was still looking at her, still had her arms wrapped round her neck.

‘Nick said you were gorgeous.’

Claire started. No one had ever called her that before.

‘He’s right. You
are
gorgeous.’ Isobel stroked a finger down Claire’s cheek as if to confirm that she was a living, breathing human, then nodded in approval before sliding off and going to greet the next guest. People still seemed to be arriving, even though it was almost midnight. Nick had disappeared, swept off into the crowd now that he had made his introductions. Suddenly self-conscious, both from Isobel’s attention and because of the fact that she was now standing on her own and knew no one, Claire took a greedy gulp from her glass of champagne. She wasn’t equipped for this party. Not at all. She thought perhaps she’d been brought along as a novelty. A curiosity for them all to gawp at. They seemed the type of people to have low boredom thresholds.

She wondered if she could just slink away. No one would notice if she trickled out of the front door. She could put the dress back through the letter box tomorrow . . .

And then she felt a pair of arms slide themselves around her waist from behind, and a warm mouth burrowing itself in her hair, and the world around her fell away. She knew without looking that it was Nick. He crossed his hands over her tummy and it turned over and over, like an exuberant toddler who has just learnt to somersault.

‘Come and dance,’ he said.

Ricky Martin was on the sound system, ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’, and everyone had hit the floor.

‘I don’t dance.’

‘Don’t be silly. Everyone can dance.’

‘I didn’t say I couldn’t. I said I didn’t.’

But he was leading her through the crowded kitchen, disregarding her protests, which were by now interspersed with laughter, until he found a space, and then he put one hand on her waist and held her hand with the other. Claire forgot that dancing made her feel clumsy and self-conscious and moved with him, twirling like a ballerina on top of a jewellery box. Ricky Martin faded into ‘Smooth’ by Santana, a slower pace, and Nick pulled her in close.

‘Tell me something about yourself that you’ve never told anyone before,’ he said.

She put her head to one side, considering the challenge.

‘I love spiders,’ she replied.

‘You’ll like this house, then,’ he told her. ‘It’s full of them. Big, fat, hairy ones.’

‘My favourite sort.’

‘You are funny.’

‘What about you?’ she said. ‘Tell me something about you.’

He looked at her. Her tummy flipped again.

‘I believe in love at first sight.’

She took a breath.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Who doesn’t?’

‘I didn’t until Tuesday.’ The import of this statement hung between them. ‘I want to kiss you.’

He stopped dancing and looked at her. There were bodies all around them, spinning, gyrating, arms and hair flailing, but in the centre of the vortex it felt still. Claire wondered fleetingly if he did this all the time, brought home some random pretty girl and kissed her in full view of everyone. Then she tipped back her head and a sensation of blissful warmth washed over her from head to toe as their lips met. Their arms became more tightly wound around each other, as if they were each trying to pull the other inside them.

If she’d known that falling in love was going to be this easy, she would never have been afraid. If she’d known it was going to be this wonderful, she definitely wouldn’t have waited so long. Although perhaps it wouldn’t have been the same with someone else . . . How would she know? She had nothing to compare it to.

On the other side of the room, Isobel watched. And smiled. Then turned away. And if anyone had looked closely, they would have seen pain in her face, just for a fleeting moment, before she picked up her glass and made her way outside.

By two o’clock that morning, Claire realised that Nick was right. She had made more friends than she knew what to do with. Far from being intimidating, the Barneses and their friends were charming. They made her feel interesting. Made her feel beautiful – many of the men had commandeered her for a dance, and she’d felt like the belle of the ball. And whilst they were admiring of her, none of them was groping or lecherous. They treated her with respect. As she danced to ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ with Gerald, Nick’s father, she reflected that she’d never had such a wonderful time in her life, never allowed herself to let her hair down. She’d always judged ‘posh’ people, assumed them to be obsessed with avoiding tax and using the right knife and fork and killing defenceless animals.

As the song ended, Gerald led her away from the dance floor with the utmost chivalry and gave her yet another glass of champagne to cool herself down. Her head was starting to spin with all she had drunk, and she put out a hand to steady herself.

‘Hey.’ Nick was at her side, concerned. ‘Come on. Let’s take you to bed. You look done in.’

She felt slightly alarmed as he led her out of the kitchen, through the hall and up the meandering staircase. What did he mean? Had he just assumed she was going to stay the night? Did he think he had some right over her? Was she going to have to fight him off? Just because she’d accepted his hospitality, had she entered into some unspoken agreement?
Droit de seigneur
– she remembered that from history . . .

She braced herself as they reached the bedroom door, but as Nick put his hand on the handle, he turned to her with such a kind smile, a smile that reached right inside and reassured her, that she didn’t care what happened. She trusted him, implicitly. She felt entirely safe in his hands.

She followed him in. It was an attic room, long and low-ceilinged, with dormer windows and wooden floors. Snug and cosy, with built-in cupboards at one end, almost like a ship’s cabin. It was a riot of blokiness, a weird mixture of boy meets man; Ralph Lauren meets
The Beano
. Old school photos jostled for position with posters of Kylie and Elizabeth Hurley. The dressing table was covered in bottles of expensive aftershave, cans of deodorant and jars of hair gel. An ancient teddy sat in a chair, gazing at the surroundings solemnly. There were piles and piles of CDs, some of them in wooden wine crates that were stacked up against one wall next to an elaborate sound system. A huge corkboard was covered in invitations, postcards, concert tickets and silly photos of Nick and his mates – a collage of a life that was so different to hers, as she spotted formally engraved requests to attend eighteenth birthday parties, and pictures of the family on the slopes in Val d’Isère. She had never been to a black-tie party or skiing; nor was she likely to go, yet it was as normal as breathing to Nick. For a moment she wished she had insisted on going home. Nerves overtook her again. This wasn’t her world.

‘You can have my bed,’ said Nick cheerfully. ‘Mrs B changes the sheets on a Friday, so you’ve only got one day of my mucky sweat to contend with.’

He plumped up the pillow and shook out the duvet – navy blue-and-white stripes. Claire could imagine Isobel choosing his bed linen with care. She couldn’t imagine her mother buying sheets at all. She had no idea where anything in the house had come from. Her mother never went shopping.

‘I won’t look,’ he said, turning away. ‘I’ve got a spare duvet and pillows in the cupboard. I’ll sleep on the floor.’

When he turned back with his arms full of bedding, Claire was standing by the bed, naked in the moonlight.

‘Share with me,’ she said. ‘Keep me warm.’

And so, in his single bed, with ‘Nightswimming’ by REM playing softly in the background, she gave herself to the first man she had ever fallen in love with.

The first man. And the last.

Claire found herself in a brand-new world. Sometimes she asked herself why. Why had she been chosen? She was so unlike all the other girls in the Barnes circle – the Tashes and Hatties and Millies. Nick could have had any one of them. He had charm, money, background, confidence, the big house – all the attributes that entitled him to one of these long-haired, long-legged creatures with their affected drawls, their Pony Club confidence, their assumption that the world owed them a wealthy husband.

Maybe it was because she didn’t make that assumption. Nick just shushed her when she asked what he saw in her, then pointed out that she made him see the world differently.

‘I love my friends, but they are all tossers,’ he admitted to her one day as they lay in bed. ‘They don’t give a thought to anyone else. But you do. You make me think.’

‘Oh right, so I’m your social conscience?’ Claire wasn’t sure this was a compliment.

‘There’s other things.’ Nick ran a hand up her thigh and nuzzled her shoulder. ‘Like the fact that you fuck like a wild thing. All those other girls just lie there until it’s over, thinking of England.’

Claire gave an indignant gasp, pretend-fighting him off, but it was in vain and eventually she gave herself up to him, laughing. She could never get enough. They were joined at the hip from that first night, she and Nick. Soulmates sounded like such a cliché, but she really did feel as if they shared a spirit, an understanding, even though they were so very different. It transformed her from a girl into a woman. Life suddenly made perfect sense. It had meaning.