The Long Weekend

by Veronica Henry

  Isobel insisted on asking her parents to supper, and Claire couldn’t think of any way of getting out of it that didn’t make her seem rude or cruel. It was excruciating, watching her drab, passive mother and father in the riot of the Barnes kitchen, trying to make polite conversation about whether they were going to the open-air concert at Highclere Castle (no), where they were going on holiday (nowhere), and were they joining in the open garden scheme in August (not a chance). Claire squirmed with embarrassment at her mother’s shapeless blue cardigan and drawstring trousers; her father’s supermarket trainers. Both Isobel and Gerald battled valiantly; plied them with delicious food and delicious wine that was totally wasted on them. Claire knew that the Meursault was heading for thirty quid a bottle, and it might as well have been Blue Nun as far as her parents were concerned. For a moment she hated them for their introspection and their lack of social skills, and then she hated herself for feeling that way. They were her parents, after all, and they had never been unkind, and it was hardly their fault that they weren’t like Isobel and Gerald.

  She knew she’d changed, and she wondered if they had noticed. Claire suddenly felt visible. Alive and sparkling and visible, having done her best to keep herself unnoticed for most of her life. And with this new lease of life came confidence. She felt like a someone, and not a nobody. And if, perhaps, she feared that without the Barnes she would go back to being a nobody, she never vocalised it.

  By the time her A-levels were nearly over, Claire knew that working for Melchior Barnes was her destiny. She hadn’t found an alternative that offered a life anything like as challenging or exciting. And so it was decided that after her exams she would take up the post of marketing director. Her future was mapped out. She knew that before long she and Nick would get married. They’d even, one idle afternoon, decided on their children’s names. Tabitha for a girl; Archie for a boy.

  But fate, it seemed, had other plans for all of them.

  One afternoon Claire finished college early and headed straight to the Mill House. She knew Nick wouldn’t be home yet, but she had learnt to treat the place as her own. She would make herself a cup of tea, read a book in the garden for an hour or so, then go up to his bedroom to wait for him.

  Isobel was at the kitchen table. She looked up as Claire came in, but she didn’t smile. Claire stopped in the middle of the room. Isobel always smiled.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, feeling cold dread claw its way up her spine.

  Isobel didn’t reply. There was a terrible stillness to her. She pressed her lips together, and Claire could see they were trembling. She stepped forward. Whatever was wrong with Isobel, it wasn’t an accident, or something that involved another member of the family. It was something private; something personal.

  ‘Isobel?’ She bent down towards her and slid an arm round her shoulder. The older woman felt fragile, her shoulders bony under her cashmere sweater. She sighed and rested her head against Claire, and a tangible weariness emanated from her.

  ‘I couldn’t beat the bastard,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t fucking beat the bastard.’

  Claire frowned. Isobel rarely swore. She sat down in the chair next to her, took her hands in hers, rubbed her thumbs over the backs of them in the hope of giving some comfort.

  ‘What bastard?’ she asked. ‘Who?’

  Isobel’s eyes sought hers. Her gaze was piercing, the bright blue made even brighter by unshed tears.

  ‘You’re absolutely not to tell the boys. Or Gerald. I trust you, Claire. They won’t be able to cope. They couldn’t last time. I can’t put them through it again. This is my battle . . .’

  ‘Of course I won’t tell them.’ Claire felt a black cloud on the horizon. It loomed, menacing, threatening to engulf them all.

  ‘I don’t know if Nick told you . . . I had cancer about four years ago.’

  Claire frowned.

  ‘He has told me, yes. But he’s never really talked about it.’

  ‘No. Well, it was a pretty awful time. And none of us handled it terribly well. I was very ill, obviously, and Gerald just . . . fell apart, and the boys ran amok.’ She breathed in, as if to compose herself. ‘I had surgery, and the dreaded chemo, and it was grim, grim, grim. I genuinely did just want to roll over and die. And I think they all thought I was going to. You hear such amazing stories of families pulling together and being brave in the face of illness, but it nearly destroyed us.’ Isobel put her hands on the table, as if to give herself support. ‘Eventually I came through it, but it took me at least another year to regain my strength. I knew my hair would never be the same again.’ She ruffled her blonde pixie crop ruefully. ‘I used to have a golden mane that Barbie would kill for. Maybe it was nature’s way of telling me I was too long in the tooth for big hair.’

  ‘It suits you like that.’

  Isobel just rolled her eyes.

  ‘Hair isn’t really the issue here.’ She paused. Claire shivered. The cloud was pressing in. ‘I’ve known something wasn’t right for the past few months. I’ve been an ostrich about it. Because I can’t go through it all again. And the boys can’t. And Gerald absolutely can’t.’ She looked up. ‘I went to my consultant last week. He sent me for a scan. I had the results today.’

  She didn’t need to tell Claire any more.

  ‘Oh, Isobel . . .’

  She half stood to go and hug her, but Isobel put her hands up.

  ‘Please. Don’t. I’ll go to pieces. And they’ll all be back in a minute. I’ve got to keep it together.’

  She was tightening her fists into little balls, squeezing at the pain.

  ‘I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. But I only heard this afternoon. And I want you to promise me, absolutely promise me, that you won’t say a word. I’ve got to find my own way to deal with this and I don’t want any of them to know. They’re all that matters to me and I don’t want them to suffer any more than they need to.’

  ‘But they’ll want to know. They’ll want to help. You can’t go through this on your own.’

  Isobel gave her a penetrating look.

  ‘Yes I can. That’s what I’m choosing to do. I’m appealing to you, as someone who loves Nick, and hopefully the rest of us, to be my ally. And sometimes my alibi. I’m going to need you to be both.’

  Claire’s stomach felt as if it was full of oily black diesel. She had no idea how to handle a situation like this. Her life had been so dull, so ordinary: until now she had never experienced drama or crisis. She adored Isobel, almost as much as she adored Nick. She had been so kind to her, so generous, so loving – almost, although she never said anything so corny, treated her like the daughter she had never had. So Claire owed her support.

  ‘Of course. I’ll do whatever you want. And I won’t say a word.’ She hoped she could talk her round eventually. Isobel was obviously still in shock from the news. Given time, she would see that this was not the way to deal with what had happened.

  ‘Thank you.’ Isobel grabbed her hands and squeezed them tight. ‘It’s very important. I’m going to deal with this. This is my problem . . .’

  ‘But surely they’ll know? Surely they’ll notice?’

  Isobel didn’t answer. She looked away.

  ‘They mustn’t know. You must promise.’

  Her tone was flat. And final.

  Claire swallowed.

  ‘Okay. I promise . . .’

  The enormity of what she’d done overwhelmed her. How on earth was she going to keep her word?

  Six

  A single tear trickled down Claire’s cheek as she reached this part of her tale. She’d given Angelica a garbled précis of the story, but the memory was almost as painful as the day it had happened. Surely it should have faded, after all this time? She wiped away the tear before any more could come, although she could feel them queuing up. She couldn’t lose it, not in public. Not in front of Angelica, who was looking aghast. And no wonder. She had never shared so much as a moment of weakness with her.
r />   Until now. Claire, who had carried the burden of what had happened with her for twelve long years, was about to crumble. Guilt, regret, anger, grief – they all threatened to spill out of her.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Angelica, anxious. ‘It’s okay to be upset.’

  Claire leant back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘I know,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘It’s just . . . I haven’t thought about it for so long. And Nick turning up like that . . .’

  She was interrupted by the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs. Moments later, Luca appeared on the bottom flight, jumping the last three steps and bounding through the reception, as eager and leggy as a wolfhound ready for its morning walk. Luca, who could go from unconscious and supine to upright and alert in seconds, was ready for the day ahead.

  He stood before them, smiling broadly. He was in a long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants, his mop of dark hair still wet from the shower. ‘Hey, girls. What’s going on?’ he asked, bemused, raking one hand through his damp curls and tucking his T-shirt in with the other. Angelica gulped at the sight of his flat brown stomach.

  ‘Nothing,’ lied Claire. Not very well.

  ‘You don’t usually sit around quaffing Oyster Bay.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s my fault.’ Angelica decided that Claire was rubbish at dissembling and was going to give herself away. ‘Claire was just giving me some advice.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Nothing major. Just a row with my stepdad. Same old, same old.’ Angelica knew that the first rule of lying was not to give too much detail.

  Luca turned to Claire, his lack of interest in Angelica’s personal life obvious.

  ‘Do we know what time Trevor and Monique are getting here?’

  ‘Not till the evening, I don’t think. I’ve booked them in for dinner.’

  ‘I know. We’re eating with them.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Eight-thirty.’

  Claire sighed. ‘This really isn’t the best weekend for a major business meeting.’

  ‘Tough.’ Luca was crisp. ‘You know what Trevor’s like. He’s the money man. If he wants to talk about business, then we drop everything.’

  ‘And what about all our other guests? We’re fully booked except for one room.’

  ‘We can handle it. The guys in the kitchen know they’ve got to pull their weight if I need to take some time out. We’re covered for staff.’

  ‘I can stay till whenever, if you need me,’ Angelica offered.

  ‘Thanks, Angelica. You’re a star.’ Angelica knew that Claire’s accompanying smile signified more than just gratitude for the offer. She’d got her out of a hole.

  But with an awful inevitability, the hole was opening up again. Behind Luca, Angelica could see Nick coming down the stairs. As could Claire, who jumped up with a false hostessy smile.

  ‘Nick,’ she said, her voice high with tension. ‘Come and meet Luca. He’s going to be in charge of your stag dinner tomorrow. Luca, this is Nick. You won’t believe the coincidence. I had no idea he was the groom. He’s an old friend. We go back a long way.’

  ‘Really.’ Luca’s tone was dry. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, then held out his hand as an afterthought. Nick took it, the epitome of well-bred charm.

  ‘It’s a wonderful place you’ve got here.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Luca. ‘It is indeed.’

  His eyes flicked from the empty bottle to Claire to Nick.

  He knows, thought Angelica. He knows this guy is a threat. It was basic instinct, she supposed. Any minute now he’d be cocking his leg and peeing all over the furniture.

  Nick smiled round at the three of them, sensing awkwardness. Angelica thought she detected Claire giving him the slightest shake of her head, to warn him not to give anything away.

  ‘I thought I’d go and check out the town, before the others arrive,’ he managed eventually. ‘They’ve not long left London, so they’ll be a while yet.’

  Claire nodded. ‘Good idea. We’ll look after them when they get here, don’t worry.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The delicatessen does a good pasty.’

  Luca smirked. Angelica felt queasy with tension. Nick shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you later, I guess.’

  As he walked out of the door, three pairs of eyes followed him, but nothing was said.

  ‘Well, this won’t get the baby a new bonnet.’ Claire spoke finally.

  Luca raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No, indeed.’

  Angelica gathered up the empty glasses. And the by now empty bottle.

  ‘It was only half full,’ Claire told Luca.

  ‘You don’t have to explain. It’s important, to have good staff relations.’ He turned to Angelica. ‘Let us know if you need any time out to get over your trauma.’ You could have iced a cake with the sweet mockery in his voice.

  Luca sauntered off towards the kitchen. Claire couldn’t quite meet Angelica’s eye. She realised she had told her too much. The shock and the wine had loosened her tongue.

  ‘Shit,’ she said.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Angelica, dying to hear more.

  ‘I’ve got no choice,’ replied Claire. ‘Keep calm and carry on.’

  And she walked over to reception without a backward glance.

  Luca always felt relaxed in his kitchen, even if no one else did. He had designed it exactly as he wanted it. He knew every switch, every appliance, every flame. He could have cooked a meal in here blindfold. He loved every square inch of its stainless-steel perfection. His knives were murderously sharp; his pans heavy and solid. His fridges were at the optimum temperature. His private collection of tools was kept in a big drawer, and woe betide anyone who borrowed so much as a measuring spoon. His rules were not made to be broken; they were made to be followed to the letter. Anyone who bucked the system wouldn’t last the day. His two loyal sous-chefs, Fred and Loz, had learnt the hard way how to handle him, and had now earned his respect. Sure, they might have an easier life at one of the other hotels or restaurants in the area, but the food they produced would be nowhere near as good. Luca set the pace, and they were happy to keep up. They knew that if they screwed up one day and suffered his wrath, they would be triumphant the next and be heaped with praise. And now, he trusted them enough to let them do lunches without his supervision. They were prepping them now: a selection of light dishes to be served in the bar or on the terrace. Today’s delights included a crab salad, a chunky rabbit terrine and lobster ravioli.

  ‘Hey, boss!’ Fred looked up from coaxing silken sheets of pasta out of the machine. Loz brought him over a caffè ristretto without being asked. They could already sense that Luca was feeling uptight. He wore his emotions so clearly on his face. Something had rattled him, so the two boys knew to keep their heads low and their output high.

  This was usually the part of the day Luca loved best, when he came into the kitchen to see what his suppliers had bought and began to put together the evening’s menu. But today something wasn’t right. He sensed a shift in Claire that he didn’t like, and he suspected it was something to do with the man she had introduced him to. Claire wasn’t very forthcoming about her past; she never had been. She said it was irrelevant and unspeakably dull, but Luca knew that a woman of her depth, her passion and her wisdom must have done some living.

  Was this stag more than just an old friend? Something inside Luca told him he was. But he was going to play it cool for now. He’d learnt to curb his temper over the past few years. If Claire had taught him anything, it was that overreaction didn’t get you anywhere. He was going to bide his time and make sure of the facts before he made his move, if any move was necessary.

  He gulped down his coffee, reminding himself that, after all, the bloke was getting married next week. Maybe Claire just felt awkward at someone from her past appearing unannounced. She was very private.

  So why had she hit the bottle?
He’d never seen her do that before, not even when that couple had done a bunk without paying after staying a week and running up a massive bill. He certainly hadn’t bought Angelica’s cover story. Angelica was a tough nut. She was like him. A survivor. She didn’t need Claire’s bloody reassurance over a row with her stepdad. Girls like Angelica ate stepfathers for breakfast.

  He put the tiny cup in the dishwasher. He wasn’t going to let the situation rattle him. This weekend was an important one. He didn’t want to mess things up in front of Trevor and Monique. He was desperate for his own place in London; desperate to make a real name for himself. Sure, he had a great reputation, but Pennfleet was off the map. This was the next step, and a big one, and the last thing he wanted was for his investor to get cold feet. They had to come across as a team. A great team. Which they were. They absolutely were.

  Luca liked to tell people he had learnt to cook in borstal, which was bullshit. Not that he hadn’t been to borstal – he had; when he was seventeen, for stealing a car – but actually he’d learnt to cook when his mother dragged him to live with one of her lovers in the south of France. He had spent the whole summer in the kitchen of the village restaurant, learning at the feet of the irascible patron, and had emerged as accomplished a cook as any Michelin-starred chef. This was a typical interlude in Luca’s life. His past was a patchwork splatter-gun portfolio of überglamorous and harrowing, as he and his mother lurched from squalor to splendour, depending on her moods and who she was squiring. The little boy had trailed in her wake, one day playing with his toy cars on the terrace of a hotel in Cap Ferrat, the next shivering in a bedsit in Hammersmith. It had turned him into a complicated person. He was by turn arrogant and self-deprecating. Ebullient and withdrawn. Super-confident and needy. Addictive and controlled. Energised and exhausted. Gradually, over the past few years, Claire had learnt to predict his moods, had spotted the behaviour patterns and learnt how to deal with them. And taught him how to deal with them too, by and large. He was a much better person, he reflected, than the animal he’d been when they met.