Karen had drunk far too much too quickly. She didn’t want wine – she didn’t drink the stuff – so Colin had chosen a bottle of white for himself while Karen stuck to vodka and soda.
‘It’s got the least calories,’ she told him. She was neurotic about her weight. She was on her fifth double nevertheless, and he decided he’d better broach the subject before she got too lairy.
‘We need to talk about Chelsey.’
‘Yes.’ She banged her glass down on the table. ‘We do.’
‘She doesn’t seem very happy.’
‘She’s not.’ Karen signalled to the waiter to bring her another drink. ‘I told you, she’s being bullied at school.’
‘Do you think it’s because of her weight?’
Karen shrugged. ‘Probably. But what can you do?’
‘A lot, actually. You could start by not feeding her so much junk.’
‘What?’ Karen’s indignation was almost comical.
‘She does seem to eat an awful lot of rubbish.’
‘Says the man who’s made a million out of flogging biscuits and cakes.’
‘I didn’t force-feed them to my children. I made sure they had a sensible, balanced diet.’
He knew he was straying on to dangerous ground, but you had to be forceful with Karen. Subtlety didn’t work.
‘No you didn’t.’ Her eyes were narrowing dangerously. ‘Your wife did. She was the one who cooked for them, and did all the shopping. It’s bloody easy to be perfect parents when there’s two of you.’
Her voice was rising. Colin put his hand up.
‘Okay. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard.’
‘Yes. It is.’
Colin looked at her. A few drinks had made her appear the worse for wear, and he realised that up close the years had not been kind to her. The tanning didn’t help, or the smoking, and he thought she probably hit the bottle quite a bit, because her eyes were rather bloodshot. He told himself he was being harsh – maybe she was just tired. But he didn’t think her lifestyle was doing her any favours. Or maybe it was just that she tried so hard to give the illusion of youth, when she should just give in gracefully.
He thought about Alison, who had if anything improved with age. Once she had got her bounce back, she had kept herself trim, and liked to look nice. She’d found her style – nothing wild, but she always looked groomed. She was probably ten years older than Karen, but looked younger. Although he thought Karen would probably sneer at Alison’s dress sense; would think her a frump.
None of these musings were going to solve the problem in hand.
‘Is there anything I can do to help? With Chelsey.’
‘Actually, yes, there is.’ Karen leant down into her huge handbag and pulled out a white A4 envelope. ‘I’m working all the hours God sends. The gym want me to do lates nearly every night. I don’t get home till ten. I can’t turn them down because anyone who doesn’t cooperate gets sacked. So I’m constantly having to farm Chelsey out. Or get someone in.’
‘I can see that’s tough.’
She pulled out the contents of the envelope and slid it across the table to him. It was a prospectus. A glossy prospectus for a private school.
The very school his own kids had gone to. The one Ryan had just left.
She was looking at him, judging his reaction. He deliberately kept his expression deadpan. Across the table he could smell her perfume. It reeked of bitter almonds. Cyanide, he thought. His toes curled up in his shoes.
‘Thing is, if she went here, she could board some of the time.’ She raked her ghastly square-tipped nails through her hair. ‘She never sees me as it is. At least this way she’s got company, and they can monitor her homework.’
‘What about Chelsey? What does she think?’
Karen blinked.
‘I haven’t told her yet. I didn’t want to get her hopes up.’
‘Do you really think this is the answer? Sending her to a private school, when she’s already being bullied? This place will be full of skinny girls with more money than sense. Trust me, I know. Michelle had a hard time at one point, till she learnt how to handle them.’
Karen looked sulky.
‘I’m just trying to do what’s best for her.’
‘What’s best for Chelsey?’
His implication was obvious. That her decision was a selfish one.
‘It was good enough for your kids, wasn’t it? But maybe Chelsey doesn’t rank as highly as they do.’
She might as well have picked up her steak knife and plunged it into his guts.
‘I can’t put this through the books, Karen. Four grand a term. Twelve grand a year. That’s the same again as I pay you now.’
‘So . . . your illegitimate daughter’s not worth the money, is that what you’re saying?’
‘No.’
‘It’s only the same amount as . . . a family holiday to the Maldives.’
He shouldn’t have told her about that.
‘I’m not quibbling because of the money – though it would be difficult. I’m concerned because I don’t think this is what Chelsey needs at the moment. I think she needs stability. And attention. Not to be thrown into an alien environment that will undoubtedly unsettle her.’
He broke into a bread roll with unnecessary force. Karen nodded at him solemnly, as if in agreement.
‘Really?’ she asked him, then picked up her drink, dangling the glass casually, and leant back in her chair. ‘You obviously don’t think I’m fit to judge what’s best for our daughter. Even though I’m the one who looks after her.’
‘I didn’t say that. I’m just . . . giving you my opinion.’
‘Well I think we need to get a few things cleared up before we make any further decisions about our daughter.’
She leant across the table.
‘I was there for you, Colin, when you were having a hard time. When your marriage was on the rocks and you needed someone to turn to. I listened to you, and I was there for you, and I never asked anything of you. And then suddenly it was “Sorry, Karen, I can’t do this any more, Alison needs me”, and you were gone. And I just had to accept that you were out of my life. I didn’t kick off, or make a fuss, or turn into a bunny-boiler. I knew the deal. And then I found out I was expecting Chelsey . . .’
She was gripping her glass so tightly Colin thought she might break it. He put out a hand to touch hers.
‘Hey, it’s okay.’
She snatched it away and shot him a look. He saw the pain in her eyes. Not venom, which was what he’d expected, but pain.
‘I could have done what other people do. I could have made an appointment, got rid of her, but I didn’t think that was right. I know what you think, that I saw her as a meal ticket, that I thought “Hooray! Blank cheque”—’
‘I never thought that.’
‘Bullshit.’
She stared at him again and he couldn’t meet her eye. Of course he had thought that, time and again.
She leant forward over her plate. He could see her cleavage, the breasts that had transfixed him all those years ago, the breasts that had lured him into the trap.
‘I loved you, you know that? I used to dream that your marriage would collapse. That one day you would turn to me and say that we could be together. But I never put any pressure on you. You don’t do that to married men. It’s the law.’
Colin could feel himself breaking into a sweat. This was a total revelation; after all their years of meeting up, he had never known she felt like this. He looked around to see if anyone could hear their conversation. The tables were quite well spaced, but there was no doubt any eavesdropper would find this exchange completely compelling.
‘Listen to me!’ Karen grabbed his attention back. ‘I never stopped dreaming, all the while I was pregnant. It was what kept me going. I imagined everything. The little cottage with the roses over the door. You and me choosing her name. Days out at the seaside with a bucket and spade. Stuff like . . .’ She waved her hand ar
ound to indicate the surroundings. ‘This. You, me and her.’
Colin could see that she was perilously close to tears.
‘I knew that dream wasn’t going to come true when you didn’t come and see me in the hospital. Because how could you, what with your wonderful family that you didn’t want to jeopardise?’
Colin remembered the day. He was with Alison, Michelle and Ryan, having Sunday lunch with friends in their new conservatory. The lamb had stuck in his throat, knowing that five miles down the road his secret had just come into the world. He’d been to see Karen and the baby at home as soon as was decently possible, given her a generous cheque to buy everything she needed, sorted out the monthly payment.
‘It’s been bloody tough, you know? Yes, you’ve been generous and done your financial duty.’ She spat the word out like an oath. ‘But who was there when all the decisions had to be made? Who was there when she had chickenpox and I had to go to work? Who do I have to turn to when she’s being bullied? Who do I rely on now, when the pressure is on at work and if I don’t play ball I’ll be the next one for the chop? Because your contribution—’ again she spat out the word ‘—doesn’t cover all of it, you know.’
Her voice was rising.
‘Karen, please. Calm down. We can talk this through.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything to talk about really.’ Karen picked her napkin off her lap, crumpled it and put it on the table next to her plate. ‘I’ve done my best for her, but I can’t cope. I don’t mind telling you, I’m on antidepressants to keep me going. Just like your wife was once. Sound familiar?’
She stood up and leant over him.
‘I’m exhausted, Colin. I’m right on the edge. I can’t cope any more.’
She was nearly shouting. People were starting to look.
‘Karen.’ Colin stood up and put a steadying hand on her shoulder. She threw it off.
‘Don’t touch me. And don’t patronise me. I know exactly what you think. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me. What was I thinking of? Well, I’ve done my best to bring up your child, but to be quite honest, I don’t know that she’s safe with me any more.’
She indicated the prospectus, which was still lying on the table.
‘I thought this was going to be the solution. I thought it would help me through a rough patch. But you made it pretty clear what you think. That I’m trying to pull a fast one. Get something for nothing.’
‘I promise you. I didn’t think that.’ Colin kept his voice low, but he was desperate to calm her down.
‘Yes you did.’ She was adamant. She picked up her bag. ‘I’m going for a cigarette.’
He watched her go. The high heels, the too-tight cropped trousers, the slinky off-the-shoulder top, her hair extensions swishing, her bag clamped to her side. He could see everyone else watching her too. Her body language was shouting all the way across the room, and her heels clacked loudly over the hum of conversation.
Colin stayed sitting at the table. He wasn’t going to rush after her. Trying to placate a woman in that state of hysteria was asking for trouble. He’d let her calm down.
He looked down at his plate, still pristine and untouched, the slices of belly pork in a perfect fan. His appetite had gone. He picked up his wine and drank deep, then topped it up from the bottle in the cooler at the side of the table.
He picked up the prospectus and tried to digest what she’d told him. That she’d always been in love with him. That she’d hoped for something more. He had never got an inkling of that from her. She had always seemed so self-sufficient.
He thought back to when they’d first met. In what he called the Dark Ages, when Alison had shut down and gone in on herself. He’d taken to going to the gym, to work off the stress and keep his weight down, because it was too tempting to comfort-eat and drink when things were tough at home. He’d tried to get Alison to come too; to get her to shift some of the weight she hated, but she refused. She wouldn’t leave the children, even though his mum had offered to sit while the pair of them went out.
So he had gone on his own. Karen was always there, part of the fixtures and fittings, one of the beauty therapists in the salon attached to the gym. When she wasn’t working, she worked out, and he admired her figure from his stance on the treadmill or the rowing machine. They exchanged pleasantries at the water cooler or by the free weights. Pleasantries that morphed into mild flirting over the months, as Colin became fitter and his confidence grew. And when the gym had a Christmas party, he had gone, because he had sponsored one of the raffle prizes – a free cake every week for a year, which amused him highly given that most people were desperately trying to work off the calories they consumed.
They spent the evening drinking cheap, sickly cocktails and chatting. Then dancing – Colin liked a bop, and he didn’t get much chance to strut his stuff on the dance floor these days. And when Karen had asked him back for coffee at the end of the night, to her flat just down the road, it had been so easy to say yes. So easy when she’d peeled off her dress in her lounge and stood in front of him in a basque and stockings and those trademark high heels. She’d put on ‘Sexual Healing’ by Marvin Gaye, and danced for him, totally unselfconscious. In his sex-starved state – it had been more than two years – he felt as if he had died and gone to heaven.
She was beautiful then. He defended himself now for his weakness. He’d have had to be made of steel to refuse.
No, he told himself. It was no good trying to make excuses. He’d been despicably weak. Given in to his basest instincts without a thought for either Alison or, it seemed now, Karen. It was men like him who gave his sex a bad name. Men like him who had their brains in their trousers.
The affair hadn’t lasted all that long. Six months at the most. Sneaky sessions after the gym. Or sometimes in the morning before he went to work, because she worked shifts and started late, so he would swing by and she would answer the door, wearing one of the astonishingly short and sheer nightdresses she favoured. So far removed from the buttoned-up pyjamas that Alison had taken to wearing, to protect herself from any possible advances. Advances that he’d long since given up making.
He never flattered himself that Karen got all that much out of their relationship at the time. He thought she probably enjoyed the flowers he sent her, and the kudos of sleeping with the man with the flashiest car in the gym car park. He’d bought himself a Porsche for his thirty-fifth birthday; drove it round with the roof down and the music up. He’d stopped that once he turned forty. He didn’t want to look like a prat.
He ended it when Alison had finally gone for help, when her depression had been diagnosed at last and she started the medication that helped her get her head over the parapet, until gradually the woman he had fallen in love with had re-emerged. And their relationship had become ever stronger, blossoming as their children blossomed, only marred, for him, by his annual excursion with Karen and Chelsey.
He looked at his watch. Karen had been some time. He wondered if he ought to go and look for her. The waiter came over.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’
Colin looked down at their untouched plates, embarrassed.
‘Um – just give us a little longer. It’s all great. Thank you.’
The waiter nodded and melted away, trained not to make his guests feel awkward in any way.
Ten minutes. How long did it take to smoke a cigarette? Maybe she’d had two? She couldn’t go long without nicotine; maybe she was stockpiling. Or maybe she’d gone to the loo.
Colin waited another three minutes before making up his mind to go and look for her. They needed to decide what to do about their food – eat it or have it taken away. He certainly couldn’t face his now. He got up, and walked as casually as he could through the dining room. One or two guests glanced at him as he passed, and he thought he detected a trace of sympathy in their smiles. He nodded back, giving nothing away.
He walked into the reception area and out of the front door w
here he thought she was probably lurking on the pavement, sucking in the life force that her cigarettes seemed to supply. But there was no sign of her. Just the usual tourists ambling along the street, on their way to dinner or the pub.
Disquiet gnawing at his empty belly, he went back inside and approached the reception desk.
‘Um . . . I wondered if you’d seen my . . .’ He didn’t know what to call her. ‘My dining partner,’ he finished lamely. ‘Tall, thin, long hair?
The girl behind the desk looked concerned.
‘Sparkly top and skinny jeans? She just got a taxi.’
Colin swallowed.
‘A taxi? Do you know where to?’
‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid. She’s only been gone about . . . five minutes?’
Five minutes? It would take him ten to get up to the bedroom, find his car keys, run to the car park. And he still wouldn’t know what direction to head in. The station, probably . . . but even then he couldn’t leave Chelsey in her room while he went off in pursuit.
‘Do you know what firm it was? If they’d be able to tell me where she went?’
The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know if they’ll tell me, but I can try . . .’
She picked up the phone as his mobile went off in his pocket. A text. The sweat that had gathered round his collar trickled down his neck.
‘No, it’s fine. Don’t worry.’
He walked back outside and stood on the pavement. Took his phone out of his pocket and pressed the message icon.
It’s your turn now. I’ve done my best but I can’t do any more. It’s up to you or you can call the social services. They’d find her a nice foster place.
The Long Weekend Page 15
