Which was why he had been able to walk away from what he recognised as a situation, and was now calmly observing the fish tray.
Plump coral-coloured scallops – they could be pan-fried with some chorizo. A big net of navy-blue mussels – he would do something Thai, with coconut and chilli and coriander, to make a change from the usual moules marinière. Hot-pink crabs held out their claws in supplication – sorry, mate, he thought; it’s a tian for you, with slivers of pink grapefruit. The sea bass wouldn’t need any messing about with; he would just bake it in a thick crust of Cornish salt and serve it with some braised fennel. He picked through the assortment of mixed fish, checking for quality, but the fishmonger never let him down, never slipped in anything less than fresh. All that would go into the huge cast-iron pot that was already simmering on the gas burner, a rich mix of garlic and onions and tomatoes for his signature fish stew – he wasn’t pretentious enough to call it bouillabaisse.
His menu was short, fluid, spontaneous. It included some old favourites, and he usually experimented with something new, but it entirely depended on what his suppliers brought him and how he was feeling. He ran his hands over the skin on a slab of pork belly – he would roast it until the fat was crispy and delicious, then serve it with a rhubarb compote. He could see the pink and green stalks in the vegetable box. He squeezed some plump pears, visualising them in a toffee sauce with a frangipani crumble topping.
His last inspection was the bread basket. He didn’t have time to bake the bread as well, and they couldn’t afford to employ someone to do it at the moment, so he outsourced the breadmaking to a woman who had done location catering and had retired to Pennfleet. He frowned. The walnut rolls looked overdone. He prodded one suspiciously. Too hard; too dark. He ripped it open, tasted, grimaced.
‘Fred!’ he roared, as he snapped a parmesan shortbread straw in half, nodding in approval at its texture. ‘Tell whatsername to bring me another batch of walnut rolls. These are no good.’ He lobbed them across the room into the bin. ‘And I’ve got some extra special guests tonight. I need to cook them an amazing meal. I want you to get your thinking caps on. Come up with a menu.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Fifty quid to the winner.’
He was impulsively generous too.
He pulled a freshly laundered green bandanna out of a drawer, rolled it up and tied it round his curls.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
At reception, Claire picked up a pile of envelopes.
‘Angelica . . . I’m just popping out to the post office. I need to get these brochures in the mail today.’
Angelica looked at her. Claire never went to the post office. ‘No problem. I’ll be here.’
‘Thanks.’ Claire put the envelopes in her bag and headed for the door.
Outside, on the front step, flanked by two pristine bay trees, she looked to her left and then to her right. Pennfleet was tiny. There were only a few places Nick could possibly be. To the left there were a few shops, and then the road meandered towards the yacht club; he was unlikely to have gone that way. She turned right, raking her eyes from side to side as she hurried along the street, searching among the heads for his familiar dirty-blond hair. The sun was out; the town was filling up, people ambling along slowly. They were alarmed by her haste, which seemed out of place. They were all in holiday mode, in no rush to get anywhere, and her urgency jarred. It was the sort of behaviour that belonged in the rush hour, on the Tube, not at the start of a sunny weekend.
As she passed each shop she gave a perfunctory look inside to see if he might be browsing. The bakery, dispensing freshly made sandwiches and sticky cakes. The tiny bookshop, which made a precarious living out of blockbusters, crime novels and local maps and guides. A high-end gift shop that sold things nobody needed but that they somehow suddenly wanted when they were on holiday. Not Nick’s cup of tea. An antique shop – she peered into its murky depths, through the coronation china and art deco lamps and lace tablecloths, but he wasn’t there. The deli, where she’d recommended he get a pasty – there were plenty of people queuing up, but not him. The White Lion? She didn’t think he’d venture in there, it wasn’t his scene. She’d try in there later if she had no luck, but she didn’t want to waste time. A card shop, the tea rooms – nope. She nipped inside the newsagent’s in case he’d gone in to buy a paper or a Kit Kat . . .
He loved Kit Kats. They often used to share one, lying on his bed. She remembered the snap of each finger, the way just a little sprinkle of chocolate would always end up on the sheets, the way they would feed each other. And afterwards, chocolate kisses.
He wasn’t in there either.
She had nearly reached the end of the street. Her next plan was to cut through to the quay behind the shops and walk back until she reached the hotel. As she turned the corner, the brilliance of the sun on the sea dazzled her for a second. She held up an arm to shade her eyes from the light, scanning the people leaning on the wrought-iron railings. The view never ceased to gladden her heart, but today she wasn’t interested.
She realised that people were staring at her, and that she must be looking a bit wild-eyed. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, so she slowed to a walk. There were even more people here, licking ice creams, tossing the crusts of their pasties to the seagulls, who were revelling in the increase in available rations. She searched through them: young families with small children; retired couples; no teenagers, as presumably they hadn’t yet been released from school. A coachload of pensioners in a cluster, on a day trip, anxious not to lose each other. The tables at the back of the White Lion were crammed; the harried waitress was scurrying about with endless baskets of scampi. It reminded her that the terrace would be filling up with diners; that she should be back at work by now; that the afternoon’s guests would be arriving.
She wrapped her arms around herself and headed back towards the Townhouse. She’d been mad to come out. What would she say to Nick anyway? And what would Luca think if he knew she was missing?
And then she saw him. Leaning on the iron railing at the end of the quay, looking down at the water lapping against the grey brick of the wall. She would know the back of his neck anywhere, the way the fine blonde hairs gathered into a point at the nape. The hollow where his hairline ended and his spine began.
She was twelve steps away. Then seven.
‘Nick.’
He turned.
She walked towards him slowly, then flew the last couple of yards. He pulled her into his arms.
He smelled the same. Of Persil and Must de Cartier and . . . Nick. Oh God, if she hadn’t smelled him, she might have been able to survive, but she felt as if she was coming home. The same feeling she had dreamt of so many times. He mustn’t kiss her. He was squeezing her. Was it the hug of a long-lost friend, or something more?
‘I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,’ she told him, her voice tight with tears. ‘I don’t know what to think.’
He stroked the hair back from her face tenderly. ‘Where did you go?’ he asked. ‘Where did you go? I looked and looked for you, but you disappeared off the face of the earth . . .’
‘You said you didn’t want to see me again.’ Her voice was muffled; her mouth pressed up against the comfort of his chest.
‘I didn’t mean it, Claire.’ There was a crack in his voice. ‘Of course I didn’t mean it.’
She looked up at him. There was no point in trying to stop the tears. So what if someone she knew saw them?
‘How was I supposed to know?’ she whispered. ‘After everything that happened, how was I supposed to know you didn’t mean it?’
‘We were kids, Claire. And there was so much shit going on . . . I couldn’t make sense of any of it.’ He buried his face in her hair for a moment, breathing her in. She smelled the same. It was as if the twelve years between had never happened. ‘I still can’t,’ he told her.
They held each other in silence for a moment. People swarmed round them, oblivious to their pred
icament. How could they unfold their intervening lifetimes here, in public?
‘We can’t do this here,’ he murmured.
‘I know. And I’ve got to go back to the hotel,’ she replied. ‘Everyone will be arriving.’
It seemed strange, to talk about what was happening in the here and now, when they were both preoccupied with the past.
‘It might be better if I went,’ said Nick.
‘No!’ She heard the hysteria in her voice. She tried to calm herself. ‘No. We’re both grown-ups now. There’s no need to spoil all your plans.’ She held on to his hands. ‘This doesn’t change anything. It just means that we can make our peace with each other, after all this time. A reconciliation, so we can get on with our lives.’
She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want him out of her sight. But she had to play it cool. If it looked as if she was investing too much in this appalling coincidence, Nick might turn tail. Men didn’t deal with the unexpected very well.
She gave him another reassuring smile, the perfect impersonation of a calm, reasonable woman.
‘Your mates will be gutted.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Nick. ‘They arranged it for me as a surprise. They’re all guys I know through work. They’d think it was weird if I just left.’
‘Are Shrimp and Felix coming?’ Claire’s heart thumped at the thought of Nick’s brothers too. More memories walking back into her life.
‘No. They couldn’t make it. We’re supposed to be going out on the razz on Thursday. Only the Mimsbury Arms . . .’
She could imagine it. Mel behind the bar; the three brothers intent on drinking it dry. She managed a smile.
‘Anyway, Luca’s going to do you an amazing meal for tomorrow night, and you can’t miss that. Let’s not make more of this than what it is. A . . . happy coincidence. Which will allow us to put our ghosts to bed.’
‘Sure.’ Nick was nodding in agreement. ‘No, you’re right. No big deal. Just a bit of a mind-fuck for a minute there.’ He let go of her and stepped back.
‘Maybe we can have a drink. When the hotel’s not too busy . . .’ She was stepping away. Out of the past, back into the present.
‘Of course. That would be great. And I’d like to get to know Luca.’
She nodded, then held up her hand in a farewell gesture.
‘See you later.’
He held up his hand too, mirroring her.
‘See you.’
He watched her go.
Okay, Mum, he thought. What do I do now?
‘Doesn’t this hotel even have its own car park?’ Karen was sounding querulous. The winding lanes that made up the last part of the journey had made her feel sick, and she was desperate for a cigarette as Colin steered the Jaguar carefully past the bollards and into the public car park.
‘You know what these tiny seaside towns are like. Parking’s at a premium.’
‘That’s why we should have gone to Torquay again.’ She liked the Palace. It had all the facilities she wanted.
Colin didn’t rise to the bait.
‘A change is as good as a rest. And I thought we could hire a boat.’
‘Well, you can count me out.’ Karen wasn’t getting in a boat for anyone.
‘It would be fun, wouldn’t it?’ Colin looked at Chelsey, who smiled at him.
‘Yeah.’
Colin surveyed the car park. It was already full to bursting.
‘There’s nowhere. It’s rammed.’ The voice of doom came from the passenger seat.
‘Then we’ll wait.’ Colin let the engine idle. ‘Someone’s bound to leave any minute. And we’re in no hurry.’
Karen sighed. She picked up her bag and opened the car door.
‘I’m going to have a fag.’
‘No problem.’
Colin watched her get out and go and stand by the ticket machine, rummaging in her bag for her cigarettes and lighter. As she lit up, she spotted a car leaving and waved at him, frantically pointing, urging him to commandeer it. But there was somebody around the other side who had been waiting longer than him, so he indicated that they should take it.
Karen snatched the door open.
‘For God’s sake – quick!’
‘They were here first,’ Colin pointed out reasonably.
‘But you’re nearer.’
‘Karen – just calm down, will you? Finish your cigarette. We’ll get a space.’
Karen shut the door with a clunk and walked back to her post, crossing her arms.
Colin looked at Chelsey, who gave a little shrug.
‘She’s like that the whole time,’ she told him.
Colin smiled at her. She was a sweet kid. Not at all like her mother. Stolid, patient. Like him, maybe. She’d definitely inherited his metabolism. He’d never had much of a figure, being only five foot six, and the nature of his business meant that the extra pounds slipped on gleefully when he wasn’t looking, and no amount of pumping iron in the home gym he’d installed in his conservatory seemed to have any effect.
Karen, conversely, seemed thinner than ever. Except for her boobs, which were suspiciously round and high. With her straightened hair, her blingy jewellery and her too-tight clothes, she turned Colin’s stomach slightly. What he had once found so attractive now repelled him. She obviously worked hard to keep the years at bay – her forehead had the smooth rigidity of one addicted to cosmetic jabs – but she looked totally out of place in the Pennfleet car park. He shuddered slightly in distaste.
Three cars up, a Volvo started backing out of its space. Colin put the car into gear.
‘There you are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Perfect. Good things come to those who wait.’
As she headed back to the Townhouse, Claire realised that she hadn’t posted her letters, her alibi, so she dashed into the post office and hastily bought some stamps. It seemed like a lifetime, but she’d only been fifteen minutes. As she pushed the brochures into the box outside, she glanced in the window of the boutique next door. There was a dress on the mannequin. It was a halter-neck with a full skirt, royal blue, printed with vintage seaside postcards.
She could hear a voice in her head: Darling – it’s absolutely you. You must have it. Go on.
She froze in the middle of the street. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rippled. She told herself not to be ridiculous. People couldn’t talk to you from the other side. Yet still she couldn’t drag her eyes away. Somehow the dress represented the girl she had once been. She had to have it.
After all, when was the last time she had bought something frivolous? Something she loved? Just for the hell of it?
She marched into the shop and found the assistant.
‘The dress in the window. Do you have it in a twelve?’
‘Would you like to try it on?’
‘No. I’ll just take it. I’m sure it’ll be fine. But I’m in a hurry . . .’
‘No problem.’
The assistant hurried to a nearby rack and pulled out the right size, then took it to the desk as Claire found her credit card.
‘Is it for something special?’
Claire didn’t know. She just felt as if she should have it. As if the dress was somehow going to make a difference to what happened next.
‘I don’t know exactly,’ she said. ‘I just love it.’
‘That’s absolutely the best reason to buy a dress.’ The assistant wrapped it in tissue and slid it into a bag. ‘In fact, the only reason.’
When she got back to the hotel, the place was in chaos. There were several people in the bar waiting to be served, so she put down her shopping and hurried over, offering apologies. Within moments she had flourished a bottle of wine from the fridge and settled three of them at a table, and ushered another couple through to the dining room into the hands of Cherry, the daytime waitress. Angelica was behind the reception desk, looking harassed, checking in a stocky man and a young girl. A woman loitered nearby, looking bored, dressed for a nightclub rather than a weekend by the
sea. Claire remembered the ‘friend’ Mr Turner had mentioned when booking. As Ben, the young boy they employed at weekends to help with luggage, led the strange little party towards the staircase, Claire thought that perhaps she wasn’t the only person with a complicated life.
‘Luca’s on the warpath,’ Angelica hissed as Claire slid back behind the reception desk. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Yes.’ Luca appeared behind them as if by magic. ‘Where?’
Claire threw back her shoulders. She didn’t need to be interrogated.
‘I went to the post office,’ she declared. ‘And I bought a dress. What’s the problem?’
Luca looked at the bag she was holding aloft as proof.
‘Shopping. You’ve been shopping. When it’s been chaos in here.’
‘Not chaos. We’re managing,’ Angelica contradicted him.
‘I just thought it would be good to have something new to wear for dinner with Trevor and Monique. You know how dressed up she always is. I thought I’d make the effort.’ Genius. She was a genius. She pulled the dress out of the bag and held it up.
Luca nodded his approval. He didn’t look entirely mollified, though. Instead, he dropped into the leather office chair behind the reception desk and swivelled it from side to side, his long legs stretched in front of him.
‘So,’ he said pleasantly, ‘tell me about whatsisname. Your long-lost friend.’
There was no point in Claire pretending she didn’t know who he meant. That would indicate guilt immediately.
The Long Weekend Page 9
