He shut down the message, put his phone back in his pocket and looked up at the night sky.
To his surprise, he felt completely calm.
As Luca led the Parfitts through the dining room, the other guests couldn’t help but follow his progress. The women took in his perfect arse and the freshly washed curls that were wilder than ever; the men noted the air of authority that seemed in total contradiction to his black skinny jeans and Gitane-blue shirt with the tails hanging out. He radiated a rock-star glamour that left the women weak and the men envious.
Behind him, Claire’s eyes looked to the right and left to make sure that everything was perfect. The restaurant was at peak capacity, all the tables full, yet the staff had everything under control.
She loved the dining room. It had taken such a long time to get it right. They didn’t want it twee or cluttered, or too stark. Nor did they want to detract from the stunning view that it looked out on to. The walls were painted a gun-metal grey that reflected the soft light from the pewter wall lanterns and the candles. The floor was a light polished oak, chunky wide boards that showed up the knots and imperfections. The upholstered chairs – they had spent months searching for the right ones; it was so important to be comfortable whilst eating – were covered in dark-grey stripes with either coral, turquoise or plum, the only splashes of colour in a neutral palette.
Written on one wall, in spidery black writing, was John Masefield’s poem ‘Sea Fever’. Claire had been worried when they commissioned it that it was a cliché, but the look of pleasure on diners’ faces as they read it was undeniable.
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
It was so evocative; so reminiscent of Pennfleet. It was all the decoration the room needed.
As Claire sat down at the table with Trevor and Monique – the best table in the room, by the French windows that led out on to the terrace, although it was too chilly to have them open this late in the evening – her stomach was churning. She had no idea how she was going to get through the meal.
‘This is fabulous,’ said Trevor, taking the seat opposite her. ‘Fabulous as ever. I have to say, Claire, Monique and I eat out a lot – a lot – and we still haven’t found anywhere to beat this place. It’s welcoming, it’s stylish, everything’s just right. And that’s not easy to do – I know that.’
‘Gordon Ramsay,’ said Monique. ‘He always gets it right.’
‘Well, yeah, but you’re talking in a different league there, Monique.’
‘That’s not to say we can’t emulate his standards,’ Luca pointed out, pulling out Monica’s chair. ‘Aim high.’
Trevor cocked a finger at him.
‘I like your style. Aim high is right.’
Claire smothered a smile – Luca being oleaginous was always amusing, because it didn’t come naturally to him.
‘I think what we’re trying to say,’ Trevor went on, ‘is we’re very proud to be a part of the Townhouse.’ He was distracted by the arrival of the waiter with a bottle of champagne. ‘Perfect timing!’ he crowed. ‘And Taittinger. Our favourite. How did you know?’
Claire gave a coy little shrug, not liking to say that she’d simply gone into their account to see what they had ordered on their last visit. For a man of the world, Trevor seemed easily flattered. Another waiter came out of the kitchen with a silver platter smothered in ice, on which were perched two dozen of the finest, plumpest rock oysters. He put it down on the table with a flourish.
Monique looked alarmed.
‘I’m not sure about oysters,’ she said.
‘You absolutely have to have one,’ insisted Luca. ‘It’s the food of the gods. Fresh out of the sea today. It doesn’t get better than this, Monique.’
Claire watched fondly as he selected an oyster, held it to his lips, and tipped his head back as he swallowed. Then he chose one for Monique and held it out to her.
‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘You simply can’t die without having tried an oyster. It’s the ultimate taste of the sea.’
Monique simpered and took it from him. With Luca in such a seductively persuasive mood, Claire thought she would have eaten the shell if he’d told her to.
The table watched as Monique followed Luca’s example. She gave a little shudder, then looked pleasantly surprised.
‘My goodness,’ she said. ‘It’s quite nice.’
‘Well, here goes then,’ said Trevor, reaching out a huge paw and grabbing one. ‘In for a penny.’
He slugged it back and nodded appreciatively.
‘Bit like the time I nearly drowned in Yarmouth when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘But not bad.’
‘Come on, Claire,’ urged Luca. ‘You love oysters.’
Claire stared down at the platter. She could think of nothing she felt less like eating. But it was vital to this meeting to be seen to be toeing the party line. She picked one up, thinking of Nick with his friends in the pub further down the river, wondering what he was thinking.
What was she going to say to him? What was she going to decide?
She picked up an oyster and threw it back, gagging on the salt, the unwanted substance in her mouth.
‘Delicious,’ she smiled, and Luca smiled back.
Colin crept into the bedroom, where Chelsey was lying on her bed. She was fast asleep, the television still blaring, the colours flashing across her body. Around her were empty wrappers, from the Minstrels he’d bought her, but also from other sweets she’d obviously had stashed in her bag.
Colin stood and watched her, as he had stood and watched his other children sleeping so many times. It was one of the best things about being a parent, he thought, being able to watch your kids without them knowing, wondering about their dreams, relishing the rise and fall of their chests as they breathed. A wonderful feeling of love and protectiveness washed over him.
She was his daughter, he thought. It was his duty to love and protect her, to make sure she had the best. How he was going to do that, he didn’t know. Not yet. But he wasn’t going to let her down. He wasn’t going to let her feel that she was a burden any longer.
He wasn’t sure what to do or where to sleep. He didn’t want her to panic if she woke up and saw Karen wasn’t there, but he didn’t feel quite right about getting into Karen’s bed. In the end, he decided to sleep in the armchair.
He crept around the room, clearing up the mess, turning off the television, switching on a standard lamp and turning off the main light. Then he took the mohair blanket off the end of Karen’s bed and settled himself into the chair by the television. He needed to sleep. He needed all his energy to deal with tomorrow, and the decisions it was going to bring. And as well as the decisions, he had to make sure that Chelsey had a wonderful day – the day she deserved.
The oysters were devoured; the table were onto their second bottle of Taittinger. As the waiter brought over tiny earthenware dishes of asparagus baked in tarragon custard, Monique produced a Mulberry document wallet and pulled out three sets of house details.
‘I’ve had every agent in London on to it,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to view seventeen different properties. And I’ve narrowed it down to three. Trevor and
I have our favourite, but it’s got to the point where we need your input.’ She laid the details out on the table for the four of them to analyse.
‘Thing is,’ said Trevor, ‘we need to act fast. If I don’t reinvest some of my profits quickly, I’m going to get walloped for a pretty hefty tax bill this year. Ideally we need an offer in and completion lined up for the end of the summer.’
Claire picked up one of the sets of details, her heart thumping. Things were moving too quickly.
‘Surely we need a business plan?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I’d like to see some concrete figures before we go any further. A hotel in London is going to cost a whole lot more than setting up this place, for a start.’
Trevor waved away her concern.
‘We’ve had the calculator smoking all week,’ he assured her. ‘And don’t worry: we wouldn’t go into something like this without doing the maths. We’re very confident. And I want to stress that your investment would be yourselves, rather than your money. You don’t need to make any financial commitment at this stage.’
Monique pulled out a sheaf of documents, one for Claire and one for Luca, neatly ring-bound.
‘The number-crunching is all here.’ She smiled. ‘We’re not expecting you to sign on the dotted line straight away, obviously. It’s far too big a decision. Come up to London; have a look round. Tell us what you think.’
Claire felt uneasy. The Parfitts seemed a bit glib, almost naïve – as if they thought that opening a hotel was just a question of choosing a building and sticking a chef in. There were all sorts of things to be taken into consideration. Who were their potential clients? Tourists, business people? How upscale were they going to go? Was the restaurant more important than the hotel? A million questions flew through her mind, not least whether the Parfitts could be trusted. They had been wonderful sleeping partners, with their twenty per cent investment in The Townhouse by the Sea, but would the balance of power shift with this new venture? She couldn’t help thinking it would. And charming and generous though they were on the surface, the Parfitts hadn’t got as rich as they were just by being nice. Which was why she was suspicious that they made it sound so easy. What was the catch? Were they just trying to pump her and Luca for ideas, which they would then incorporate into their business plan without cutting them in? She leafed through the figures, wondering if they were being taken for a ride.
Strangely, Luca, who was naturally suspicious, didn’t seem to share any of her reservations. Claire knew he was hungry for this, but she was surprised at his overt enthusiasm. He was usually a much cooler customer.
‘Let’s do it this week,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll be quiet again after the bank holiday, before the season proper kicks in. We could come up on Tuesday. Stay a couple of nights. The hotel can look after itself for a day or two.’
‘But how’s it going to work long term?’ asked Claire. ‘We can’t run this place and set up somewhere new in London.’
‘Of course we can,’ said Luca. ‘We’ve got to think big, Claire, if we’re going to move on. Lots of chefs do it. Rick Stein, Mitch Tonks. Jamie Oliver, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Lots of chefs also go bankrupt,’ she pointed out. ‘Historically, overstretching yourself is a classic mistake.’
‘The biggest mistake,’ said Trevor, ‘is not having a wealthy backer with deep pockets. I admire your caution. It’s one of the reasons I want to invest in you both. You’re not reckless. I’ve kept a close eye on the way you run this place.’ Claire’s eyebrows went up at this; she didn’t like to feel as if they had been spied on, even if Trevor did own a slice of the hotel. ‘But you’ve also got the magic. And it’s your magic I want.’
Monique leant in to Claire. ‘What do we have to do to persuade you?’ She gave her most alluring smile. ‘We’re not fools. We know we can’t do it without you. Well, we could, I suppose. Let’s put it another way. We don’t want to do it without you.’
Trevor chuckled. ‘And we are used to getting what we want. Whatever it takes.’
Claire looked at her plate. This was a nightmare. She was being railroaded. The situation would have made her feel uncomfortable even without the added complication of a big, fat skeleton in her cupboard. What would she be thinking about this proposition, she wondered, if Nick hadn’t wandered back into her life this morning?
She picked up one of the sets of details. A perfect Georgian house, on the edge of Soho. She could see it in her mind’s eye. A dozen bedrooms, a buzzy restaurant, a hip cocktail bar . . .
She could feel Luca’s foot pressing down on hers. She didn’t look up. She knew his eyes would be boring into her, asking what the hell she was playing at, dragging her feet. She would have to feign enthusiasm. After all, it wouldn’t mean a contractual obligation.
She managed a smile.
‘This one looks perfect,’ she observed.
Monique leant forward. ‘That’s my favourite! Of course, it’s also the most expensive. But you know what they say . . .’
Monique, Trevor and Luca chorused together.
‘Location, location, location.’
Claire looked round at them all. Under any other circumstances she would be fizzing with excitement. This was, after all, everything she and Luca had ever dreamt of. They had started out together with the intention of making their mark. Trevor and Monique were the key to making that dream come true.
But which of her dreams did she want to pursue now?
Trevor was pulling out his BlackBerry.
‘Okay, guys,’ he said. ‘I’m going to email my assistant and ask her to book you in somewhere really nice for Tuesday. And I’ll send a car to bring you up. I’m not taking no for an answer.’
His thumbs skittered over the tiny keyboard. Claire imagined his assistant, out somewhere on a Friday night, rolling her eyes when she got the email. Trevor was the sort of person who expected twenty-four-hour dedication from his employees.
Which was why she was wary. Although he was being charming, Claire knew that his charm evolved from pure self-interest. Working with the Parfitts would be tough. Though that wasn’t to say they shouldn’t do it.
‘There’s no harm in looking, I suppose,’ she ventured finally.
‘Fantastic!’ Monique looked delighted.
‘That’s not a yes,’ Claire warned. ‘We’re only looking.’
‘When you see it, you’ll love it.’ Monique seemed confident.
Claire smiled. ‘We’ll see.’
Luca put his hand over Claire’s.
‘The reason I love Claire,’ he told Trevor and Monique, ‘is because she’s cautious. Not like me. I’m impulsive. Claire’s my voice of reason. My sounding board. It’s why we make such a great team.’
‘I know,’ Trevor replied. ‘It’s the same for me and Monique. Yin and yang. And the four of us together – we’re going to take over the world.’
And with a triumphant smile he pressed Send.
Walking home from her shift at the end of the evening, Angelica could hear the row before she got to the top of her road.
Well, her mother’s half of the row. Trudy was screeching at the top of her lungs. Jeff, Angelica knew, would be sitting on the settee, placid and calm, his hairy tummy peeping out from under his T-shirt. It was anybody’s guess what would have set Trudy off. It didn’t take much. She was so angry. All the time. With everything and everybody.
Angelica sighed. She didn’t need this. She’d spent all evening going over and over what Luca had said. Thinking about London and whether it could ever be a possibility. Whether he had really meant it, or if he had just been playing her. Imagining what her life could be like. And wondering how on earth she could make the opportunity work, given her circumstances. Maybe she could do two nights in London and the rest of the time in Pennfleet? That way she wouldn’t be totally abandoning Dill, but she would have a taste of another life; something for herself. She felt cheered by the thought of this compromise as she turned in to the gate, just as Jeff came ou
t of the front door, his van keys in his hand.
‘I can’t take any more,’ he said. ‘That’s it. I’m off.’
‘You can’t go,’ replied Angelica. ‘We need you.’
‘She called me an impotent, minging slob.’
Angelica winced. She had no idea about the first slur, but the second was harsh. Jeff was no looker, but it was unkind to go for the jugular about his appearance. Besides, her mother was no beauty queen, not any more, nor a paragon of virtue in the hygiene stakes.
‘She’s a bitch. Don’t listen to her.’
‘I’ve done everything in my power to make her happy. But I’ve come to the conclusion that she doesn’t want to be happy.’
Jeff looked utterly deflated, but adamant. Angelica couldn’t blame him, but she still didn’t want him to go. Her mother without a man in the house was ten times worse. Trudy couldn’t operate without male approval.
Suddenly the upstairs window opened and a bin bag came hurtling out. Angelica and Jeff grabbed each other and ran to safety, standing under the lamplight as Trudy leant out of the window.
‘Take your fucking shitty clothes with you and don’t bother coming back.’
She slammed the window shut.
Jeff and Angelica looked at each other.
‘She’s mad. You know that,’ Angelica told him.
‘Er . . . yeah. I was coming to that conclusion.’ Jeff walked slowly over to the bag and picked it up. ‘Will you lot be all right?’
Angelica shrugged. ‘We’ll have to be.’
‘You should keep her off the sauce.’
‘How?’ Angelica sighed. ‘I don’t know what it is she wants.’
‘Neither does she,’ said Jeff.
‘The only time she’s okay,’ said Angelica, ‘is when she’s up the duff. But that’s not the answer. Anyway, she’s too old.’
‘You’ve got my mobile.’ Jeff put out an awkward hand and patted Angelica’s shoulder. ‘Call me if you need me. It’s not a problem.’
The Long Weekend Page 16
