The Long Weekend

by Veronica Henry

  Three

  Laura 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.

  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

  Just 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 mi
nd. 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 . . .’