‘Okay. I moved here with my mum and dad three weeks ago. They work at Aldermaston. I’m at the college, doing A-levels. And I don’t know anyone yet – though I’ve just started working at the Mimsbury Arms. Waitressing.’
The three of them looked at each other.
‘Well,’ said Nick. ‘You better come to our party on Saturday. Actually, it’s our parents’ party, but we’re allowed to ask friends.’
‘Party?’ Claire panicked inwardly. She thought she could imagine the sort of parties they had. Girls with long, glossy hair in taffeta dresses. Men in dinner jackets. The thought made her stomach curdle.
‘Don’t look so frightened,’ laughed Nick. ‘It’s not a posh do. Just come as you are – that’s the rule. We live at the Mill House.’
He said it as if she would know exactly which house he meant.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing on Saturday. I’ll probably be working.’
‘Well, come afterwards.’ These boys were clearly not used to taking no for an answer. ‘Things never get going till eleven o’clock anyway.’
Claire decided it was easier to agree to come than to carry on protesting. They were the sort of people who would probably forget they had even invited her once she was out of their sight.
‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d love to come.’
Of course she had no intention of going. Charming though they appeared, Claire didn’t think the Barnes boys were her sort of thing at all. She would have nothing in common with them whatsoever.
Yet when they got off at Newbury and hugged her goodbye, she watched them ramble off down the platform together and felt a strange warm feeling in the pit of her stomach. And then Nick turned round and looked at her, held up his hand to wave, and the warmth diffused further, spreading up towards her heart.
‘See you Saturday,’ he shouted.
He was so not her type. He was posh, privileged, educated, rich, glamorous . . .
Kind, fun, thoughtful.
Sexy.
She was disconcerted to find the warmth spreading downwards too.
Saturday arrived, of course, unashamedly glorious, the perfect English summer’s day. Phil, the landlord of the Mimsbury Arms, had called to ask Claire to come in – the pub was going to be rammed; he needed all hands on deck. She was more than happy to oblige. It meant she didn’t actually have to make a decision about whether to attend the party. The decision had been made for her.
Nevertheless, as the afternoon drew on, she decided to leave home early and take the scenic route into work by cutting across the field at the back of the house and approaching the pub from the other direction, following the river. She pretended that this was to give herself some exercise, but deep down she knew it was curiosity. She found herself intrigued. She wanted a closer look at the house the Barnes boys lived in. She had a feeling that their world and hers were miles apart, but she wanted to make quite sure.
The house her parents had rented in Mimsbury was fairly nondescript, which took some doing, as the little village was famously picturesque. It was mostly made up of cottages in mellow red brick and flint, but the council had obviously got lax at some point in the mid-seventies and allowed a small close of boxes to be built just on the outskirts, as dreary and anonymous as you could wish, which of course suited Claire’s parents down to the ground. They managed to find the most unprepossessing house in the village, with its metal windows, mean patch of garden and larch-lap fencing. On the other hand, it was more attractive than the semi they had lived in on the main road through Isleworth, though that wasn’t saying much.
Claire had lived a totally urban existence until now. From the age of twelve she’d been a latch-key kid, making her way to and from school by bus, travelling further afield by train at the weekends, buying herself food from the One Stop shop if her parents were late home. Moving to the country made her feel listless, lacking in tension. She found that the fresh air and the sunshine and the quiet and the sound of birdsong rather than aeroplanes flying overhead took some getting used to. And not having to worry about traffic was strange. She was grateful for the job at the pub, which gave a momentum to weekends she had no idea how to fill. She’d met a few people at college, but she didn’t know them well enough yet to agree to meet up. She was essentially quite shy, and not keen on change, so serving food at the local seemed the perfect way to fill the void until she got herself a social life.
Her encounter with the Barnes brothers had taken her by surprise. Instinct told her to run a mile from their privileged insouciance, yet there had been a warmth in them that spoke to her. And so she found herself leaving early for work, taking a diversion, irresistibly drawn to see just where it was they came from. It was a balmy evening as she crossed the field, the long grass slapping at her bare legs, then wandered through the lanes to the east of the village, passing slumbering cats and sweet-scented hanging baskets – in Mimsbury, you were undoubtedly judged on your horticultural ability. Only the occasional car passed by, at a sedate speed. Isleworth would have been frantic with Saturday traffic at this time – the boom of bass and pipping horns, the smell of exhaust fumes entwining with the stench of frying food from the takeaways gearing up for their busiest night. As she took the left fork past the station and followed the river, she felt the tug of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. She knew from consulting the OS map her parents had bought that the Mill House was just around the corner.
Nothing could have prepared her for the fairy tale she found as she rounded the bend. The Mill House was built of brick that had softened to a mellow dusty coral. With a profusion of wonky half-hipped roofs, and run through with bleached oak timber beams, it sprawled behind the ebullient river Pease, a wooden bridge connecting it to the real world. At its side the mill wheel turned, determined and relentless, whilst behind it languished an acre of softly lush lawn studded with weeping willows. Outside were parked a silver Range Rover, a sporty Golf and a small van with smart black livery that proclaimed ‘Melchior Barnes – Wine Merchants’.
The scene took Claire’s breath away. It was hard to believe that mere mortals actually lived there. What was particularly charming was that it wasn’t preserved in self-conscious pristine perfection, which you might have expected from the jewel in Mimsbury’s crown. It was clear on not especially close inspection that it was a family house, and the chaos of their life was evident to anyone who cared to look. The smell of cooking and the sound of laughter and music floated out of the open windows: the party preparations were clearly in full flow. Claire could see a man battling to put up a green linen gazebo in the garden. He must be the boys’ father. Even from here, he looked too posh, too well bred, to be staff.
She felt like some Dickensian urchin pressing her nose up against a window into a better world. Before anyone could see her staring, she slipped away, wondering why on earth she had done this to herself. Yes, they’d extended a disingenuous invitation to a party, but she knew wild horses wouldn’t drag her there, and they wouldn’t miss her. She was taunting herself.
She hurried away, anxious to put as much distance between herself and the Mill House as possible. She headed back along the main road towards the centre of the village, her shoes coated in dust, perspiring slightly from the heat of the early-evening sun. It would be boiling in the kitchen at the pub. And it would be crowded – people would be crammed into the garden, hoping to eke out the last hour of sunshine over a drink. Oh well, at least she’d be busy, not left alone with her thoughts.
At last the Mimsbury Arms came into view, perched on the other side of the road, a handsome coaching inn painted a soft cream. She darted inside, greeting Mel, the landlord’s wife, with relief and more effusiveness than she usually managed. Mel she could handle. Mel was salt of the earth, the proverbial busty barmaid, Mimsbury born and bred. She had no airs and graces. She was no threat.
Nevertheless, as they stacked the shelves with bottles and filled the ice buckets, she found herself asking, as casually
as she could, about Nick and his brothers.
‘The infamous Barnes boys?’ Mel’s eyes widened. ‘Where did you meet them, then?’
Her tone indicated that she was surprised Claire had come into contact with them.
‘At the train station. I had a go at them for running across the tracks when the barrier was down.’
Mel grinned. ‘How did they take that?’
‘Actually, I felt a bit like the nanny, telling them off like that. But they were all over me afterwards.’
Mel nodded knowingly. ‘They’re lovely boys, all three of them. They just get a bit high-spirited sometimes. When their mum was ill, they were positively feral, but they’ve calmed down a lot since. Grown up, I suppose.’
‘What was the matter with her?’
‘The Big C. It was terrible.’ Mel started unloading the glass washer. ‘They spent loads of time in here while Isobel was having her treatment,’ she continued. ‘Gerald, their dad, is a bit useless. A total charmer, but he didn’t have a clue how to look after them. He used to bring them in here for their dinner every night. Or just send them over with fifty quid. More money than sense. He should have got a woman in to look after them all.’ She went a bit misty-eyed. ‘I’d have done it.’
‘They live in the Mill House, right?’
Mel sighed. ‘Wouldn’t you just die to live in a place like that? It’s my dream house. It’s not going to happen, though. None of them would look at me.’
‘Or me,’ laughed Claire in collusion, and Mel didn’t contradict her, thereby confirming her suspicions. The Barnes brothers were out of her league. As she laid out fresh towelling cloths on the bar, she felt relief. She wasn’t going to have to subject herself to the inevitable humiliation after all.
By quarter to eleven she was done in. She was rushed off her feet serving breaded scampi, steak and ale pie and chips, and black forest gateau, for the restaurant was extremely popular on a Saturday night, and they managed to squeeze in three sittings. By eleven o’clock every table was cleared, and Phil told her to go to the bar for half a lager – waitress’s perks. All Claire wanted to do was to go home and crawl into the bath, to get the smell of cooking out of her hair and skin, but it was rude and unsociable not to take him up on his offer. She had just perched at the bar and asked for a splash of lime in her lager when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
It was Nick. Nick, looking dishevelled in a white shirt with the collar turned up and the cuffs undone, and tight black jeans. Her mouth went dry.
‘I knew you wouldn’t come of your own accord,’ he grinned. ‘So I’ve had strict instructions not to leave until I’ve dragged you kicking and screaming.’
Claire shook her head.
‘No way. I can’t come dressed like this.’ She indicated the polyester shirt and black skirt that was the pub uniform.
Nick held up a bag, triumphantly.
‘We knew you’d say that, so we raided Mum’s wardrobe. You’re about the same size.’
He pulled out a dress – a red silk shift, totally plain but beautifully cut.
‘I need a bath. My hair’s . . .’
She held her hands up to her head in mock despair.
He reached behind and pulled out the scrunchie that was holding back her curls, and ruffled his fingers through them till her hair fell to her shoulders.
‘It’s great. What’s the problem?’
Claire searched for another excuse.
‘I’ve got no make-up.’
Nick whistled to get Mel’s attention.
‘Mel – can Claire borrow some make-up?’
Mel came over, eyeing the pair of them with relish. She could sense gossip brewing. She grinned at Claire as she rummaged in the handbag she kept behind the bar and pulled out a bag bulging with Boots special offers.
Claire stood for a moment, the dress in one hand, Mel’s make-up in the other. She had run out of excuses.
‘Go on,’ said Nick. ‘Go into the bog and change. I’m not leaving without you. And don’t get any ideas about jumping out of the window.’
Moments later Claire stared at herself helplessly in the mirror. What on earth was she supposed to do to make herself presentable? She wasn’t a vain creature, but every girl faced with an invitation such as this would want to look her best.
She rarely wore make-up; she didn’t see the point in drawing attention to herself. She thought she was ordinary at best, and would have been surprised to discover that, in fact, she had the sort of natural beauty that crept up on people. It was only when they’d known her for a while that it occurred to them that she was utterly ravishing. She was completely unaware of the phenomenon, as people tended not to mention their discovery. Instead, she was hypercritical; she considered her features unassuming, and rarely did anything to enhance her looks. Yet her face was a perfect oval, with a high forehead from which her dark-brown hair sprang wild and untamed to her shoulders. Her eyebrows arched over blue-green eyes with a dark rim around the iris. Her skin was pale, smothered in freckles, and her mouth, with its full, pale-pink lips, curled up in a smile like a cat. She was skinny, but she hid her figure under jeans and baggy beaded tops and an old army parka. The whole effect screamed ‘don’t look at me’.
Tonight, however, she felt the need for artifice. And although Mel’s colours were all wrong and too harsh for her, she rooted through the bag with shaky fingers, applying the contents in a haphazard fashion. Then she hurled off her uniform and slipped into the dress Nick had given her. The silk was slippery under her fingers, and as she pulled it over her head, she breathed in the perfume Nick’s mother must have had on the last time she wore it, something hauntingly floral. She battled with the zip for a few moments, and as it closed, the dress moulded itself to her, sweeping over the curve of her breasts, in at her narrow waist then out again over her hips.
As she bundled her own clothes into the bag Nick had brought the dress in, she realised she had nothing at all to put on her feet. She couldn’t wear the shoes she’d worn to work. They were flat and black with clumpy soles. She’d just have to go barefoot, she decided.
She fluffed up her hair, breathed in, and plucked up the courage to look in the mirror. The dress fitted perfectly. The neckline was low; the hem fell just above her knees. It emphasised her tiny waist and her not inconsiderable cleavage. Her cloud of hair fell wild down her back. Her eyes were ringed with kohl and her lashes were thick and long with mascara. Lipstick had transformed her mouth into a red pout. She felt a little fizz in her stomach. This was why people dressed up. For the thrill of being someone else. She grinned at herself, and a minx grinned back.
She came back into the bar barefoot. Nick’s jaw dropped when he saw her.
‘Bloody hell,’ was all he could manage.
Behind him, Mel gave her a triumphant thumbs-up of approval.
‘Come on then,’ said Claire. ‘Let’s party.’
Because of her bare feet, they walked over the verges, retracing the journey she had made earlier, although she made no mention of it. She didn’t want to admit to her interest, like some weird stalker. As they walked, Nick filled her in on his family. He and his older brother, Felix, worked for their father in the family business.
‘Dad’s a wine merchant. He says the business is his legacy to us, though to be honest, Felix isn’t really interested. He’s finally going up to Cambridge to do law in October, because it turns out he’s a bit of a brainbox. Mum and Dad don’t know how it could have happened, because they haven’t got a qualification between them. Dad says he’s just a professional pisshead, and Mum . . .’ He paused for a moment. ‘Mum’s just Mum. She’s never been interested in a career. She says she’s never met a happy career woman.’
‘How very . . . post-feminist of her.’
Nick looked sideways, not sure if Claire was winding him up.
‘She’s probably right,’ Claire added hastily. ‘I’m not sure that my mother’s happy. And her work is the only thing that matters to her.’
‘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 . . .
The Long Weekend Page 6
