The Long Weekend

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Well, okay. So now you know. She’s well and happy. She’s got a pretty hot boyfriend . . . partner . . . whatever. And now you can move on. Put it to bed.’

  ‘It’s not as easy as that.’

  Nick came and sat on his bed so that he was facing Gus.

  ‘I’ve told her . . . she’s got the weekend to decide. If she wants to come away with me, I’ll cancel the wedding.’

  ‘You can’t do that, Nick!’ Under any other circumstances, the indignation on Gus’s face would have been comical. ‘You cannot do that. What about Sophie? No way can you do that to her . . .’

  ‘Why not?’ Nick stared at his friend. ‘Surely it’s better than marrying her when I’m in love with someone else?’

  Gus looked scandalised. Nick wished he hadn’t told him. After all, he wasn’t going to say anything Nick didn’t already know. Gus’s input would only add to his dilemma.

  ‘But you love Sophie!’ Gus insisted. ‘You can’t just stop loving someone, just like that.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s love, isn’t there? And then there’s . . .’ Nick trailed off, not sure what to say without sounding like an idiot. ‘Love. With a capital L.’

  Gus stood up and walked over to the minibar, pulling open the fridge door and peering inside until he found two miniature bottles of Jack Daniel’s. He twisted off the lids, handed one to Nick, and knocked his own back almost in one.

  ‘Over a hundred guests.’ He spoke finally. ‘Everything’s arranged. A new flat, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to be moving into a new flat . . .’

  ‘We haven’t exchanged. It’s not too late to pull out.’

  Gus stood with the bottle two inches from his mouth, too outraged to drink.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? You really have thought this through.’

  ‘Have you any idea what it’s like when someone you love disappears from your life? Vanishes completely, overnight. You wonder every day for the rest of your life what has happened. You don’t just say oh well and forget it. It taints everything. It . . . haunts you. There hasn’t been a day when Claire hasn’t been the first person I think of when I get up . . .’

  ‘Shit,’ said Gus. ‘This is bad.’

  He chucked the empty miniature in the bin.

  ‘So what does she think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Nick miserably.

  ‘You must have some idea. You must . . . know if she was pleased to see you or not. I mean, was she . . . polite? Or does she feel the same? Did you fall into each other’s arms?’

  ‘Well, no, not in front of everyone. But . . .’

  Nick decided it was better not to confess too much more.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on. You can’t give me half the story.’

  Nick chewed the inside of his cheek and looked out of the window.

  ‘She came up here before dinner. It was pretty obvious she felt the same.’

  ‘By pretty obvious, you mean . . .?’ Gus peered at him, eager for further clues. When Nick wouldn’t look him in the eye, the penny dropped. ‘Oh my God. You shagged her.’

  ‘Don’t say shagged.’

  ‘Jesus, Nick. You’re a week away from your wedding day. This is not good.’ Gus looked as distressed as any best man might be on hearing such news. ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘I’m waiting for her to decide. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it properly.’

  ‘No – only long enough to get your leg over.’

  Nick looked exasperated. Gus held up his hands.

  ‘Sorry, but I can’t help thinking that this is some kind of eleventh-hour fantasy shag—’

  Suddenly Gus found Nick grabbing the front of his T-shirt, twisting the fabric and holding his fist at his throat.

  ‘It’s not a fantasy shag, okay?’ growled Nick. ‘She’s the love of my life.’

  Gus fixed him with a glare, and removed Nick’s hands, putting his own on Nick’s shoulders instead.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Repeat after me. She was the love of your life. Sophie is the love of your life. Sophie, who is on her hen night right now. Sophie, who loves and adores you. Sophie, who is going to be at your side on Saturday, saying I will . . .’ He released Nick, moved away, started looking for his clothes in the chaos. ‘We should leave right now. I’m taking you with me.’

  He grabbed his jeans and started putting them on.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. Neither of us can drive for a start. We’re well over the limit.’

  Gus stopped, letting his jeans fall to his ankles. ‘I’ve just realised. This is totally my fault. I chose this place.’ He put his hands to his head in semi-drunken despair.

  ‘It’s fate,’ said Nick.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Gus. ‘It’s a pain in the arse, is what it is.’

  Nick sat back down on the bed.

  ‘So what do I do?’

  Gus kicked his jeans away.

  ‘You’re in love with the idea of being in love. You’ve been swept up by the romance of it. Get a grip, Nick.’

  Nick looked at the floor. If only he could. If only he could talk to Claire, talk things through with her. About the past. The present. Their future.

  But Luca didn’t look like the sort of guy who would take kindly to his girlfriend’s ex knocking on the door in the middle of the night for a heart-to-heart. And he couldn’t screw things up for Claire. After all, if she didn’t feel the same as he did, she had a life to get on with. And Nick loved her enough not to burn her bridges.

  If she wanted him, she’d come.

  Eleven

  Claire woke even earlier than usual the next morning, just after dawn. She knew there was no point trying to get back to sleep, so she pulled on her sloppiest clothes and went down to the kitchen to make herself a latte with a double shot of espresso to offset the fact that she felt light-headed from tossing and turning all night. And before Luca got any ideas about sleepy early-morning sex . . .

  She stood on the terrace with her coffee, dressed in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, shivering in the damp morning air. An eerie mist hung over the harbour, but high above it, the sun was nudging its way through. In another half-hour it would have won the battle and the mist would reluctantly evaporate, revealing the boats and the village on the far shore. It was going to be glorious.

  She pulled out a chair and sat down, putting her bare feet up on the wooden railings and curling her fingers around her mug. The only signs of life so far were the seagulls, though it wouldn’t be long before the first of the fishermen set sail. She looked round at the terrace, the most perfectly positioned vantage point in Pennfleet, with its view out to sea and back down the river, the lushness of the trees on the opposite bank softening the view and making it even more magical.

  There was no doubt about it. It was the perfect venue for a wedding reception – they’d had a few here already. They would put up a huge canopy sail over the terrace. The railings would be entwined with greenery and cream flowers and swathes of organza. They would have a jazz trio playing Billie Holiday; a long table groaning with plateaux de fruits de mer and a towering pavlova instead of a wedding cake, studded with plump fresh raspberries and drizzled with white chocolate. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t planned it all out in her mind’s eye in the past: all girls fantasised about their perfect wedding, didn’t they, even if they didn’t admit to it? She had never imagined that hers would become an eventuality.

  Or that come the day it would be the last thing she wanted . . .

  She twisted the ring on her finger. How could she get out of wearing it? She couldn’t say it didn’t fit, that she was afraid it might fall off, because it fitted perfectly. She took it off and rolled it between her fingers. She could drop it. She could drop it on the decking and it would roll between the cracks and fall – plop! – into the water underneath. She could feign distress. It would be easy enough.

  As the early-morning sun finally broke through, it caug
ht the pinky-brown of the diamonds. She would never have guessed that Luca had such perfect taste in engagement rings. When had he bought it? she wondered. When had he made the trip to a jeweller, pored over the selection he had to offer until finally choosing this one? How long had he been planning a proposal? She had seen no sign of it coming. He hadn’t so much as hinted.

  Luca, who always kept her on his toes. Luca, who she had never entirely trusted, because he was clearly a rogue, though that was what had attracted her.

  Everyone had warned her off him. Men and women alike. Everyone adored him, because he was great company, the original party animal, but they were all too clear about his shortcomings. He was described variously as a player, a wolf in wolf’s clothing, as being only interested in himself. A pisshead and a philanderer. A loose cannon. Bloody impossible. A nightmare.

  ‘He’ll chew you up and spit you out and you’ll never get over it,’ warned a girl who had known him a long time. Claire just smiled. She’d got over much worse than maltreatment by a jack-the-lad who thought he was God’s gift. If anything, it made the challenge more enticing. She’d gone ahead and done the classic good-girl thing, of thinking she could tame the bad boy.

  And my God, she realised with a lurch to her stomach as she slid the ring back on to her finger, it looked as if she had.

  The phone on his bedside table chirruped to tell Nick he had a text.

  He lay there for a moment, not wanting to look at it. He knew who it would be from.

  Eventually he stretched out an arm and picked up the phone.

  Hey! How’s the head? Not too bad here. We’re going to have a massive breakfast then hit the shops. Have a lovely day xxxx

  He didn’t know what to reply. He could ignore it and plead lack of signal. But that seemed mean somehow. His thumbs raced over the keyboard.

  Heads not too bad here either. Looking forward to a day on the water. Love to all the girls and have fun x

  He imagined them, the six of them, sitting round the table at their hotel, revelling in the decadent sin of a full English despite knowing they would have to get into their various frocks the following Saturday. Sophie would be immaculate, her blonde hair freshly washed and falling to her shoulders. She’d be in jeans and a twinset, bright-eyed and ready for the day ahead, everything organised down to the last cappuccino. Sophie never left anything to chance. Not that she was boring, but she liked to have a plan. She believed that that way you got the most out of life. She would have emailed the other girls a detailed itinerary of the weekend; they were used to her exacting ways and seemed to love her all the more for it. And they would all, Nick knew, have the greatest fun. Sophie would have researched everything thoroughly – the hotel, the restaurants, the spa, the bars – booked the best tables, made sure that all their requirements were met. It was, after all, merely an extension of her job in event management: they had met when Nick had supplied the wine and champagne for a Gold Cup day she had organised in a wealthy client’s garden. Nick remembered it all too clearly, seeing her wrapping yellow organza around the poles in the marquee, her T-shirt riding up to expose her midriff as she reached up . . .

  He couldn’t think about her. He put his pillow over his head to try and block out the memory. But there she was, turning to him, charming him with her easy manner, directing him to the place where she wanted the wine stored . . . then laughing with mortified apology when she realised that he was the sales director, not the delivery boy. They’d been short-staffed that day. She’d insisted on taking him to the pub over the road for a drink to apologise.

  Eight months later they were engaged.

  Did he love her? Yes, absolutely he loved her. He loved her dauntless enthusiasm, her unflappability, her certainty. The way she always looked perfect. The way she got what she wanted without coming across as a princess. He knew his life with her would be ordered: not rigid in any way, but pleasantly calm, with no unexpected upheaval or drama. He’d been looking forward to marrying her, making a home with her, starting a family.

  There was, though, something missing. He had never had the urge to bury his face in Sophie’s neck and breathe in the very essence of her. His lips didn’t tingle with electricity when he brushed them over her skin. She didn’t appear in his dreams, a shadowy figure just out of his reach.

  He didn’t want to die in her arms.

  Every time he thought about Sophie, she was overshadowed by Claire. Every time he thought about the wedding next Saturday, it was Claire’s face he saw as he turned to look at his bride at the altar. Claire whose very essence was filling his head, his heart and his soul.

  He’d come to accept, subconsciously, that you probably only got that feeling with another person once in your life. And he’d also come to accept that perhaps life would be easier with a person who didn’t make you feel that way. There would be less passion, certainly, but how much easier to manage your life, your career, your family with someone whom you loved and respected, but who didn’t haunt your every waking hour.

  Like Claire had. He’d wondered, over the years, if he had built her up into a fantasy figure simply because he couldn’t have her. But now he had seen her, now he had touched her again, he knew that wasn’t true. The magic, the chemistry, the longing, the rightness of Claire was still there. Sophie would never arouse those feelings in him.

  And if Claire decided that being together wasn’t the right thing to do, could he then go ahead and marry another woman knowing that his heart belonged to someone else?

  In the meantime, he had the rest of his stag weekend to struggle through. The six of them were due to be getting a boat for the day. It was anchors away at ten o’clock – they needed to be up, dressed and fed by then. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. The dining room should be open any minute. But he couldn’t face going down to breakfast in case he saw her. He decided to ring room service.

  In his experience, the world always looked a better place after a big, fat bacon sandwich.

  Dan and Laura were the first people down to breakfast on Saturday morning. They took a table near the windows so they could look at the view.

  Dan was in seventh heaven. He ordered up a full English breakfast, stretched luxuriously and cracked open the Saturday Independent with a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘God, it’s great not to be hotfooting to some random church in the bloody Cotswolds,’ he observed, taking a swig of delicious coffee. He quite often did weddings on a Saturday – more for friends and friends of friends than officially, but because he offered a good rate and didn’t mess about or do endless permutations of relatives and bride’s friends, he had become quite popular.

  Laura sipped at a glass of fresh pink grapefruit juice, a pot of Earl Grey tea in front of her. She’d ordered mushrooms on granary toast, even though she wasn’t hungry. She wished she didn’t feel so stomach-churningly nervous. After all, this was the first time she and Dan had been away. The first time she’d been to a hotel like this with anyone.

  Holidays with Marina had always been chaotic camping trips with other single mums and hordes of children, or a rented cottage; there had never been enough money for hotels. She’d been away on conferences with work, to impersonal, faceless chain hotels. But never to somewhere as exquisite as this.

  Suddenly she thought about cancelling the whole madcap plan. The pressure was spoiling what should be a lovely, romantic weekend. She’d had been awake since dawn going over and over the wisdom of what she was doing and debating the likelihood of a happy outcome. She was trying not to burden Dan too much with it all. She didn’t want him to get sick of her anxiety. She didn’t want to become a bore.

  Still, she couldn’t help wondering what Tony Weston was doing: whether he was still in bed or if he was an early riser; if he’d already been to the shop for the paper. She wondered what he read. Did he get the Independent, or the Times, or perhaps the Guardian? Was he leafing through it now? Or was he preparing for her arrival, laying out paper, pencils, brushes, tubes of paint?
Was he wondering what she would be like, his weekend student? What was he picturing? A middle-aged woman looking for a new lease of life? An exhausted mother indulging in a weekend of ‘me’ time?

  Probably not, she reflected as the waitress brought her breakfast, the long-lost daughter he never knew he had.

  She picked up her fork and speared a mushroom, plump with melted butter.

  ‘What are you going to do today?’ she asked Dan.

  He peered at her over the top of his paper.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be perfectly happy.’ He nodded to the view outside. ‘I could just sit here all day and watch the harbour, to be honest.’

  Laura followed his gaze. She could easily send Tony Weston a cancellation email. She could spend all day with Dan.

  But then she’d never know.

  When Chelsey woke, just after eight, Colin had already woken and crept back into his bedroom to shower and dress. He found her standing by the window, the curtains drawn back, staring out at the sea.

  ‘Hey. Good morning. You slept well.’

  She turned to him with a smile. She looked so much younger than her eleven years, in her Hello Kitty pyjamas, her pale-brown hair with its centre parting messy from bed.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ she asked. ‘Is she up already? She never gets up before midday on a Saturday.’

  Her eyes strayed enquiringly towards the interconnecting door. Shit, thought Colin. She thinks Karen spent the night in my bed. He came into the room, marshalling his thoughts, knowing he had to be careful.

  ‘Your mum had to go,’ he told her. ‘There was a problem at the gym, they called her in, so she’s gone home.’

  Chelsey frowned. ‘Is that what she told you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ lied Colin, because he couldn’t think of a better reason.

  Chelsey looked at him. Her little face was troubled.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘She can’t have gone to the gym.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’ll kill me if I tell you.’