What the hell? she thought. When was she going to get the chance to sit at the wheel of a car like this again? She was going to take it for a spin. She’d say she had to wait ages for a parking space. She pulled away smoothly, and made her way up the hill and out of the town.
She could drive for ever like this. Leave Pennfleet behind. How long would it be before they caught up with her? The road stretched out invitingly in front of her, hugging the coast. She put her foot down and felt the power of the car surge beneath her.
This was it. This was the life she longed for. Freedom. Luxury. Fast cars.
She felt her hair stream out behind her and let out a whoop of pure joy. She knew she was being irresponsible, but she didn’t care. She was responsible every other day of her life.
She came to a halt on the brow of a hill, pulling over into a lay-by that looked out over the sea. A white speedboat was cutting through the waves in the far distance. Angelica could imagine the exhilaration the passengers were feeling, like the exhilaration she’d just felt. Then her heart sank. Who was she trying to kid? A jet-set lifestyle was totally out of reach. She had to accept it. She stroked the tan leather of the steering wheel, wondering about the Parfitts, and where they had got their money, and whether Monique had married Trevor because of it. It was the obvious route to wealth and luxury for an attractive woman, she thought.
She flipped the driver’s mirror down. She had the wherewithal to attract a man like Trevor, she knew she did. She’d seen men look at her hungrily. She held her hair up behind her head, narrowed her eyes, glimpsing herself sideways through almost closed lashes, pouting. How hard could it be?
Yet in her heart of hearts she knew it wasn’t a route she wanted to take. Come the day, she would marry for love, she thought, and a shadowy image of Luca hovered on the edge of her consciousness. She batted it away, reminding herself that she was lucky: she lived in a town most people would give their eye teeth to live in; she had a job she loved, working with people she admired . . .
A solitary cloud scudded in front of the sun, and she shivered. She needed to get back before anyone wondered where she was. She struggled to turn the car around, flustered and confused now that the adrenalin was gone. Back to reality, she thought, and for a moment she wished she hadn’t allowed herself to flirt with something that was so out of reach. She turned the music down and drove the car back down the hill, soberly, sombrely, suddenly afraid that she was going to prang it or cock up the parking. Her heart rate subsided as she drove back in through the familiar outskirts of the town, and she couldn’t help hoping that her mother would catch a glimpse of her gliding past.
Maybe one day, she thought. Maybe one day.
Laura had set her phone alarm in anticipation – she was worried they would both fall asleep and wake up in Penzance – and it burbled at her five minutes outside Pennfleet. She woke to find her head on Dan’s shoulder. He smiled down at her, and she sat up, confused, not quite remembering where they were, or why. Then she leapt up and starting pulling down her luggage.
‘Hey,’ said Dan. ‘Calm down. We’re not even at the station yet.’
‘I know,’ said Laura, already edging her way towards the carriage doors. ‘I know I’m a neurotic freak, but that’s just the way I am.’
Dan pulled his rucksack down and followed her. As they stood by the doors, waiting for the train to slow, he wrapped his arms around her. Laura leant back into him, grateful that he had come with her. She would have hated arriving in a strange place on her own.
The train ground to a halt and Dan opened the door on to the platform. The station at Pennfleet was entirely unprepossessing. Grey, rundown, with iron railings and overgrown grass sprouting through the Tarmac, a million miles from the jolly seaside scene they’d been expecting.
They went to find a taxi. There were two on the rank, one driver idly chatting to the other through the window in the afternoon sun, and they stood for a moment waiting for them to finish, until Dan ran out of patience and emitted a pointed whistle.
‘The Townhouse by the Sea, please,’ Laura told the driver.
‘Ooh, posh,’ he remarked, and she wondered if he was going to surreptitiously jack up his meter, thinking they could afford to pay over the odds. She didn’t usually indulge in expensive boutique hotels, but the whole prospect of the weekend was so scary, so intimidating, that she wanted to be in comfortable surroundings, and the Townhouse had looked so perfect. She didn’t want them to be stuck in some dreary bed and breakfast with orange-and-brown carpets and a bed you didn’t want to get into in case the sheets weren’t fresh.
The taxi spun out of the car park. As she settled back in her seat, Laura thought about how they could be making their way up to Camden this evening with their friends, for cocktails in the last of the sun and then clubbing, their usual Friday-night ritual, finishing with delicious kebabs and fiery harissa on the way home. This whole trip was going to be a waste of time and money.
‘You ready?’ asked the driver as they approached a bend. ‘This is the view of a lifetime. You wait.’
Dan and Laura both sat up expectantly as they rounded the corner. Then Laura gasped in delight, for there in front of them was an expanse of glittering sea, and the little town of Pennfleet perched on the harbourside, nonchalant with perfection.
‘Wow,’ said Dan.
The driver grinned.
‘Never fails to get a reaction,’ he replied. ‘You’d have to be dead not to think that was something special.’
‘Haven’t you seen it already?’
‘Loads of times. But it’s my favourite.’
Colin looked down at the DVD Chelsey had handed him. Tangled. His heart creaked just a little bit.
He and Karen had argued earlier about whether Chelsey should join them for dinner. Colin was all for it. He’d always enjoyed having his children at the dinner table; from an early age he and Alison had let them eat with them in restaurants. He thought it taught them how to behave properly, and what was the point of having them if you couldn’t make the most of their company? Karen, however, had other ideas.
‘You don’t want to have dinner with the boring grownups, do you, Chels?’
Colin could see Chelsey was used to being fed lines like this, and that she was programmed how to answer.
‘No – I’ll be fine here.’
‘She can have room service. And she’s got the telly.’
Colin suspected it was better not to rock the boat. And in a way, Karen was right. They definitely needed to have a chat without Chelsey around. He had a few things to say, for a start. But to salve his conscience he had brought her down to the newsagent to choose a DVD to watch.
‘Why don’t you have two?’ he suggested now.
She hesitated. ‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
She studied the rows of DVDs again. Colin thought that if it was Michelle, he would buy her a bag of sweets to go with it, but the last thing Chelsey needed was another input of calories. What should he do? There was a bowl of fresh fruit in the hotel room, but it would seem miserly to suggest that. He wanted to spoil her this weekend. He believed wholeheartedly in spoiling children.
He sighed and picked up a bag of Minstrels. One more packet wasn’t going to make a difference at this stage. He’d talk to Karen about Chelsey’s eating habits over dinner. Though he suspected his entreaties would fall on deaf ears.
Chelsey had chosen another DVD and proffered it awkwardly. He thought about the kids’ playroom at home, the huge wide-screen TV and the rows and rows of DVDs, almost more than there were on display here. The room was empty for most of the year now, eerily silent. He missed them both so much. He knew Alison did too.
He held up the Minstrels.
‘Do you like these? They’re my favourite.’
Chelsey nodded, and he walked over to the till. He looked at the cigarettes behind the counter, and felt an urge that he hadn’t felt since he’d given up fifteen years ago. It was Karen smokin
g around him that had given him the craving. He wasn’t going to succumb. Instead, he picked up a packet of Orbit.
‘Anything else you want?’ he asked Chelsey, and she shook her head.
He felt his heart melt a little bit more. Didn’t she realise he would give her anything she wanted? Anything.
Angelica returned from her joyride looking as if butter wouldn’t melt. She put the keys of the Mercedes in the reception drawer, ready to return to the Parfitts, and turned to smile at the young couple who were about to check in.
She felt a tug at her heart. The girl wasn’t much older than she was, and they seemed so sweet, the pair of them. The boyfriend was holding a flowery overnight bag without a hint of embarrassment, as well as his own rucksack, and had his other arm around the girl’s shoulders.
‘We’re booked in for the weekend,’ the girl told her. ‘In the name of Starling? Just two nights.’
‘You wouldn’t think it was just two nights,’ observed her boyfriend with a grin. ‘Given the amount of stuff you’ve packed.’
He received a nudge in the ribs for his cheek.
‘You have to be prepared,’ said the girl. ‘Don’t you?’ She turned to Angelica for support.
‘Oh yes,’ agreed Angelica. ‘Who knows what the weather’s going to be like? Or what might happen.’
She called their reservation up on the computer screen and saw that they were booked into the Broom Cupboard, the tiniest room in the hotel. It was sweet, but really only suitable for a person on their own: even though there was just enough room for a double bed, it was pretty cramped.
On impulse, Angelica checked her watch. It was late afternoon, and unlikely that anyone else was going to book in for the weekend at this stage.
She leant forward, her eyes twinkling.
‘Listen. We’ve got one of our bigger rooms still available,’ she told them confidentially. ‘I’m going to move you into that one at no extra cost.’ She flashed them a grin. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
‘Wow!’ The girl looked delighted. ‘Thank you very much.’
Her boyfriend nodded his appreciation. ‘Cool,’ he said, and he was. Very cool indeed, thought Angelica, entranced by the deep grey of his eyes and hoping the girl knew just how lucky she was.
Having given them their key, Angelica watched the two of them follow Ben up the stairs. She felt a little glow in her heart that she’d been able to do them a kindness. Then she wondered if she would ever turn up to a hotel like the Townhouse with a man she loved and find herself upgraded. She couldn’t imagine how it would feel. She amended the room reservation on the computer, the glow of her generosity fading somewhat, but hoping that her gesture was good karma and that the same might happen to her some day, somewhere.
Minutes later, Laura bounced into the middle of the king-size sleigh bed, piled high with cushions.
‘I don’t believe it. We got an upgrade!’ She hugged a cushion to her and looked around the room, her eyes wide with delight. ‘Oh my God, it’s just so gorgeous.’
The room was painted in pale coral and deep cream. Curtains with a starfish motif hung to the floor. There was a huge silver beanbag by the window. A blown-up print of Enid Blyton’s Five Go Down to the Sea was framed and hung over the bed, while on the wall facing the window three paintings by Pandora Mond glittered their metallic pewters and blues.
Dan put his iPod into the iPod dock. Moments later, the lush, swirling chords of his favourite new band filled the room.
By now, Laura had bounced into the bathroom. She came out brandishing a bottle of bath oil.
‘Look! Molton Brown. Tons of it. I’m going to have the deepest bath ever.’ She took off the lid and gave an appreciative sniff.
Dan found a silver biscuit barrel. It was stuffed with home-made shortbread.
‘This is going to be a good weekend,’ he mused, pulling out a piece and biting into it with relish. He held one out to Laura.
She shook her head, walking over to the window. The room was at the side of the hotel, but if you craned your neck, you could see the sea. To the right, the little town of Pennfleet unfolded itself, an inviting maze of narrow streets. As she looked, she remembered why they were here. Not for a romantic weekend away at all. She cast her eyes over the houses clinging to the side of the hill, wondering which one of them belonged to the man who might – or might not – be her father.
Dan came up behind her and put his arms round her. She melted into his clasp. Thank goodness for Dan. She would, she knew, never have made it this far without him. Whatever happened, she would still have him at the end of the weekend.
Monique walked across the living area of the grand suite and threw open the door of the tiny balcony that looked out over the harbour. A gust of salty air blew into the room, and she breathed in, shutting her eyes in the warmth of the sun.
‘Magic,’ said Trevor.
Monique smiled and scanned the boats tugging against their moorings in the breeze.
‘There she is.’ She pointed to a large white motorboat. Trevor came and stood behind her, smiling proudly. The Blonde Bombshell. Monique’s fortieth birthday present, which he’d given her more than ten years ago now. He’d had it built to an exacting specification, visiting the boatyard every week to make sure everything was as he wanted it, down to the last white leather cushion. He knew he’d driven the boatbuilders mad, but he didn’t care. It was his money, his wife’s present, and he wanted it to be perfect.
He remembered her face the day he had given it to her. Her eyes had been alive with surprise and delight as they launched it into the harbour at Lymington. She’d smashed the bottle of champagne on to the boat’s side with glee. And it had given the two of them more pleasure than they could have imagined.
But where once there had been laughter, now there was darkness. Still Monique’s eyes sought a glimpse of that shadowy figure who was never going to be there. There was nothing he could do for her, his beloved wife. It tore him apart, to know he was powerless to bring an end to her agony. And so he piled upon her distraction after distraction, in the vain hope that one day she would stop hoping.
Trevor himself had stopped hoping long ago.
This weekend, however, he felt sure was going to be a turning point. Opening a London hotel had been his brainwave, and he was delighted that Monique had leapt upon the idea with enthusiasm. Surely that would occupy her mind, stop her brooding; stop her restless search? He just had to pray that Claire and Luca would agree to come on board. He trusted them, and their vision, and he didn’t want to have to find someone else to mastermind the project for him. Despite his bluff geniality, Trevor didn’t take many people into his confidence. The Parfitts didn’t let anyone come too close these days.
They’d become very good at pretending. Anyone who met them would think they hadn’t a care in the world; that they lived life to the full. And yes, on the surface, they had a dream existence. Despite everything, Trevor’s financial success had gone from strength to strength, and they never stinted themselves.
It never ceased to crucify him that he couldn’t buy Monique the one thing she wanted though. He would have done anything to have that smile back again. The one that reached her eyes. Instead of the slightly blank gaze that wasn’t helped by the antidepressants, though he knew they made it just a little bit easier for her to get through the day. And people were prescribed them for a lot less. For nothing, it seemed.
He watched in silent despair as she walked over to her handbag. For the millionth time she pulled out the phone she kept in there, checked it for a message; held it up to verify there was a signal. There wasn’t always in Pennfleet – satellite coverage could be sketchy – but today there must have been, for she nodded to herself in satisfaction and dropped the phone back in her bag.
There wasn’t a message. There never would be. Trevor knew that, but Monique wouldn’t give up hope.
She walked back over to the window and looked out again. The sea breeze ruffled her hair. She looked so
young, so vulnerable, and he felt that terrible lump in his chest, the lump that reminded him how helpless he was. He swallowed it down.
‘Shall we go for a little stroll before dinner?’
She smiled over at him and nodded.
‘Yeah, let’s go down to the harbour. Get some sea air. Work up an appetite.’
Sometimes he thought it would be easier to bear if she wasn’t so brave.
Eight
Claire loved early evening in the hotel the best. Between five and six, when the sun slanted in through the windows, it had a sort of sleepiness combined with a sense of expectation. As the kitchen launched into preparation and the barman filled his ice bucket and laid out bowls of olives, guests retired to their rooms, relaxing on their beds for a quick power nap, or watching the news, or putting on make-up over sun-kissed skin, or making lazy holiday love.
Claire used this time to make sure everything was perfect, ensuring that the newspapers were put away, the flowers hadn’t wilted, the bathrooms were up to scratch. Of course she employed staff to do all these things, but it didn’t hurt to double-check and make sure her high standards were being met. Mitch the barman would often bring her a sample of his latest cocktail to try, and if she was lucky, she would spend ten minutes sitting at a table on the terrace relishing the delicious smells coming from the kitchen.
By quarter past six, the respite would be over. Passers-by would start drifting in to see if they could nab a last-minute table, local regulars would pop in for their habitual early-evening drink, and the bar would start filling up with guests coming down for dinner.
And with the glorious bank holiday weather forecast this weekend, the hotel was filling up even more quickly than usual. The restaurant was fully booked, and Claire had already turned away several disappointed holidaymakers.
The Long Weekend Page 11
