‘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.
And, thankfully, the rest of the family took to her. She wasn’t made to feel like a black sheep, like some commoner who wasn’t good enough. Felix and Shrimp treated her like a sister, teasing her but also protecting her: one of them would always give her a lift if she needed it and Nick wasn’t available; they made her cups of tea, lent her their big fleecy sweatshirts when she was cold, and their favourite CDs so she could play them in her Walkman on the way to college.
And Gerald, who adored female company, was delighted to have another woman about the place. With his dark soulful eyes and thick hair that was just starting to grey, he had the air of a devil-may-care roué, and he played up to the role. He was an incorrigible flirt, with a battery of outrageous remarks, and was rarely to be found without a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. But Claire soon worked out that it was just an act, that he was all talk, and was utterly devoted to Isobel.
When Claire revealed that she had subsisted most of her life on offerings from Fray Bentos, Crosse & Blackwell and Heinz, Gerald took it upon himself to educate her. Gerald was obsessed with food and wine, and didn’t understand why the whole world didn’t feel the same. Having a keen student meant he could run riot with his culinary expertise. He fed her plump olives coated in fine herbs, and fat, juicy boquerones, and Venezuelan dark chocolate. Soft, oozing Vacherin and piquant Dolcelatte. He made her crab linguine and Irish soda bread and coq au vin. Claire was gratifyingly appreciative, while the rest of the family rolled their eyes. They had been brought up with Gerald’s passion, learnt that he needed praise like a small child for each of his offerings, but her relish was genuine.
And if food was a revelation, wine was an epiphany. She discovered – or rather Gerald did – that she had an extraordinarily refined palate. He loved nothing better than to open a bottle of something new for her and ask her for tasting notes. Since she hadn’t been brought up drinking wine, she was a total novice, and her reaction was always unaffected. ‘Play-Doh?’ she would suggest, and Gerald would bark with delighted laughter.
She found the family business fascinating. Melchior Barnes (there was no Melchior – Gerald had simply rather liked the name when he set up the company fifteen years ago) was housed in a canal-side warehouse in Sandleford, a nearby town made up of genteel antique shops, delicatessens and boutiques. They supplied wine to restaurants and hotels, as well as discerning individuals. They also imported the finest Cuban cigars. Gerald was the sales director and spent his life schmoozing clients old and new, luring them to tastings and urging them to be ever more experimental in their choice of wine. Felix and Nick dealt with the practicalities – the ordering, the storage, the delivery.
‘What we really need, though,’ said Gerald one day, staring at Claire, ‘is a marketing director. We should be sponsoring events, getting our name out there, going to wedding fairs, setting up a wine club . . .’
‘You don’t mean me?’ she said.
‘Why not? It would be perfect for you. You’re creative, imaginative. You love wine. You’re far more organised than any of us.’
‘I haven’t even finished my A-levels yet. I can’t be a director.’
Gerald did the habitual Barnes wave of the hand, which summarily dismissed any fears.
‘You’ll be finished by June. You can start in the summer.’
Something inside Claire urged caution. It really did smack of having all her eggs in one basket. So much of her life was already taken up with the Barnes family. For a moment she felt slightly smothered.
‘Surely you need someone with experience?’
Gerald flapped her objection away.
‘I can train you up. How hard can it be? You’re
smart. You get what we’re about. Learn on the job.’
Claire looked sceptical.
‘Can I think about it?’
‘Of course. I don’t want to railroad you into anything.’
But that was the trouble with the Barnes family. They did railroad you into things, without you even noticing. You got swept along by their enthusiasm, their infectious joie de vivre, and before you knew it, they had you exactly where they wanted you.
Isobel shared the family trait. Claire knew that boyfriends’ mothers could be tricky and jealous and manipulative, but nothing could be further from the truth in Isobel’s case. She welcomed Claire with open arms, becoming a combination of sister, best friend and mum. And subtly and tactfully, she masterminded Claire’s transformation from drab student to siren, encouraging her to develop her own style, luring her into shops she would never have dreamt of going into, urging her to try things she would never normally try.
‘Of course you can wear a dress that short. You’re only seventeen and you’ve got amazing legs.’
‘Go for the pink. Grey’s so drab. Pink makes you look an absolute angel.’
‘Have two. If you like it, have two.’
Of course, it helped that quite often Isobel was picking up the tab. Not that Claire expected her to – she was happy to pay her own way from what she was earning at the pub – but Isobel was embarrassingly generous, and seemed to get as much of a thrill out of buying for someone else as she did for herself. Until now, Claire’s uniform had been jeans, but in Isobel’s world jeans were for gardening. It wasn’t that she was overly dressy, but she loved beautiful clothes, pretty things, looking nice, and she was quite determined that Claire should be the same. And Claire found that she enjoyed this new, more feminine version of herself. Superficial it might be, but it made her feel good to walk into a room and be greeted enthusiastically, be showered with compliments.
This was what having a proper mother felt like, thought Claire. It wasn’t that her own mother didn’t love her, of course she did, but she never took any real interest in her, or wanted to spend time with her. Whenever Claire was at home, she felt like A. N. Other member of the household, an independent being who came and went regardless of what everyone else was up to. There was usually food in the cupboard or the fridge, but the meals they had were still mostly out of a packet or a tin or the freezer section. Claire tried to cook some of the dishes she’d picked up from Gerald, but her parents were politely uninterested. There was no enthusiasm. So she spent less and less time with them, and sometimes she thought that perhaps they were relieved to have her off their hands.
The Long Weekend Page 7
