He picked up the last chip and smiled down at her.
‘Last one?’
She opened her mouth and he fed it to her.
Dan was all she needed in the world.
Colin was sitting at the most discreet table in the dining room, waiting for Alison to arrive.
He couldn’t for the life of him figure out the best way to have this conversation. Was it fair to drop his bombshell on her in public? Alison was a calm and measured woman, not likely to become hysterical, or slap him, or tip a jug of water over his head, but he was very aware that the dining room was going to be full of people. He couldn’t talk to her in the privacy of his room, because Chelsey was there. He’d given her room service, and she seemed happy enough to be left while he went down to dinner. He swore this would be the last time she was fobbed off and left to fend for herself, but this was important. Nor could he leave the hotel. So the dining room it would have to be.
He clutched a tumbler of Laphroaig, his favourite malt whisky, in his right hand. He took a swig, enjoying its medicinal smokiness. And he definitely needed a slug for courage. Who knew what the forthcoming conversation would bring? By the end of it, would he have gained a daughter but lost a wife?
And then suddenly she was there, walking towards him with an uncertain smile. She was wearing a loose pink linen dress and ballet pumps, her dark-blonde hair blow-dried into a slightly tousled bob. Round her neck was the gold necklace he had given her for her last birthday. She looked . . . perfect. A confident woman in her prime who knew how to dress. He thought she had never looked better.
As he stood up to greet her, she leant in for a kiss and he smelled her perfume: Beautiful, by Estée Lauder. Father Christmas put a bottle in her stocking every year. It was so familiar. It made him afraid; afraid of everything he might be about to lose. But he had no choice.
‘This is a lovely place,’ she remarked, sitting down on the chair opposite him. ‘You’d better tell me what you’re doing here. I can’t see any sign of a conference of any sort.’
She meant business, he could see that. With a wife’s instinct, she knew she wasn’t going to like the reason she’d been summoned here.
‘Let’s get you a drink.’ Colin signalled to the waiter, who hurried over. ‘A Bombay Sapphire with slimline tonic and a slice of lime, please.’
‘Had we better make it a double?’ Alison’s tone was light, but Colin wasn’t fooled. He was, however, comforted by her poise. She knew how to carry herself, did Alison. He felt a burst of pride, followed by another shard of fear. What he was about to tell her was either going to strengthen their marriage, or destroy it altogether.
But then he reminded himself she hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time when she had pushed him away, when there had been nothing he could do for her, even though he had tried everything in the world he could think of to help.
Which was exactly why they were here now.
Claire focused on the paintings as she walked down the stairs. She might swap that seascape for the picture of the heron, she thought. She liked to move the paintings round every now and again, to refresh the walls. She didn’t want returning visitors to get bored.
On the first-floor landing she bumped into Angelica.
‘Oh, there you are! I’ve had someone on the phone about a booking for next week. They specifically wanted a room overlooking the harbour, so I swapped them with the person booked into Room Four, because they didn’t specify.’
Claire nodded. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.
Angelica peered at her.
‘Claire? What’s the matter?’
Claire shook her head to indicate nothing, but her face was crumpled with the effort of trying not to cry.
‘Hey.’ Angelica went to put her arms round her. Claire raised her hands to stop her.
‘I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute.’
It was obvious she wasn’t. Her eyes were brimming with tears; her chin was wobbling. She was heading for a meltdown. Angelica looked round. No one should witness this. Not one of the guests; especially not any of the staff. She steered Claire towards the linen cupboard. It was huge, big enough for both of them. She pulled open the door and dragged her inside.
‘It’s okay. No one can see you in here.’
Claire fell against her and proceeded to cry her heart out. Angelica held her, feeling her whole body shudder. She stroked her gently, shushing her.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We should take you to your room. You can’t cry like this here.’
This seemed to alert Claire to the inappropriateness of the situation.
‘I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Sorry.’ She frantically brushed her tears away.
Angelica looked at her.
‘Is it because of . . .?’ She raised her eyes upstairs, to indicate Nick.
Claire gave a mixture of a nod and a shrug.
‘If you really love him, you should follow your heart,’ Angelica told her.
‘How can I?’ Claire demanded. ‘There’s Luca. And the hotel. And the bloody London thing. And anyway, he’s getting married.’ Fresh tears popped from her eyes, like bubbles from a bottle of Fairy Liquid. ‘Oh God . . .’ She pressed the heels of her hands under her eyes. ‘I never cry. What’s the matter with me?’ She tried to laugh.
Angelica chewed her lip. It was plain that Claire was still besotted with her childhood sweetheart, but she obviously thought she couldn’t go there. What if she knew the truth about Luca, though? Would that change how she felt? Should Angelica tell her about his lingering hands, the meaningful glances, the innuendo? She knew enough about men to know that if she’d given him half a chance, Luca would have taken things further. All the way . . .
Of course, she didn’t have actual proof of anything. Instinct was hardly concrete evidence. And it wasn’t her place to interfere in Claire’s life.
Besides, if she blew the whistle on Luca, it would get back to him, and she would probably be out of a job. And then she would have no chance of a future with him.
Not that she wanted a future with him, she reminded herself. Luca was bad news.
Oh God – why was life so difficult?
As Angelica wrestled with her conscience, Claire seemed to pull herself together. She straightened up, smoothed back her hair, patted under her eyes to make sure there was no trace of mascara.
‘Sorry about that,’ she told Angelica. ‘I just had a bit of a wobble. Wrong time of the month. Too much pressure. You know how it is. Yes, that’s fine about Room Four. Well done.’
And the next moment she had pulled open the door and vanished down the corridor. Angelica stared after her. That was no premenstrual wobble, she thought. That was a woman whose heart was broken. But if Claire didn’t want to share with Angelica, there was nothing she could do to help.
She looked up as Nick came down the stairs, his face set and hard.
‘Evening, sir,’ said Angelica.
‘Evening,’ he managed, his accompanying smile as bleak as the nearby moors in the depths of winter.
She watched him as he made his way down the next staircase. No, she decided. She wasn’t going to throw her penny’s worth into the mix. She had enough problems of her own without stirring up trouble.
Colin couldn’t delay the conversation any longer. They’d made polite chit-chat and ordered their drinks. Alison looked at him. There were two pink spots on her cheeks, the ones that always appeared the moment she drank alcohol, but otherwise she seemed calm.
‘So?’ she asked. ‘What’s this all about?’
Colin set his glass down.
‘You know when we were going through that difficult patch? When Ryan was about five?’
Alison grimaced. ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘How could I forget? I totally lost the plot. It was awful.’
Colin nodded. ‘I think in a funny kind of way I lost the plot too. It was a very stressful time.’
Alison took a sip of her drink.
‘And . . .?’
‘I . . . had an affair.’
There. That was it. He’d dropped his bombshell. But the walls hadn’t come crashing down. Alison was sitting very still.
He supposed he’d better elaborate.
‘I’m not going to sit here and defend it. It was a disgraceful thing to do. But at the time I felt very alone. Very unhappy. An opportunity presented itself, and for some reason it seemed the right thing to do. Of course, it wasn’t . . .’
Alison stirred her drink with her swizzle stick.
‘I suppose I’m not surprised,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not happy about it, but I’m not surprised. Most men would have. I was a mess.’
For some reason, this made Colin feel worse than if she had reacted badly. To hear that he was no better than most men, when he had always prided himself on being the perfect husband and father, cut deep.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘that was then. Almost a lifetime ago. What’s it got to do with now?’
She looked straight at him across the table. Alison was no fool. She knew there was more; that he hadn’t just lured her down here to get his infidelity off his chest.
Colin steeled himself. He needn’t think that her initial acceptance meant he was going to get an easy ride.
‘You know I love you,’ he told her. ‘The affair was . . . a blip. I came to my senses and ended it, and it made me realise how much you mean to me.’
Alison raised her eyebrows. Colin ploughed on.
‘By then you were . . . on the road to recovery, and things seemed to sort themselves out. You’ve made me very happy, Alison. I’m proud of our marriage. And our kids. And everything we’ve achieved.’
‘But?’ Her smile was only a half-smile. ‘I’m guessing there is a but?’
Colin nodded. His guts were turning to water. This was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do in his life. For a moment he regretted choosing the restaurant for his confession, but he’d hoped it meant Alison wouldn’t overreact. She wasn’t one to cause a scene in public.
He chose the least emotive and most succinct words he could.
‘There’s a child.’
Alison recoiled.
‘What?’ Her voice was suddenly shrill. The next table looked over. She lowered her voice. She hated scenes, and unwanted attention. ‘What do you mean – a child?’
‘My . . .’ What word could he use? Mistress? Lover? ‘The woman I had the affair with became pregnant. She had a daughter.’
‘A daughter?’
‘Yes.’ Colin glanced down at his plate. He felt as low as it was possible to feel. ‘I’m sorry.’
Alison put her hands to her head and stared at the table. He couldn’t see her expression, until she signalled to the waiter to bring her another drink, then looked at him. Her face was deadpan.
‘I suppose the woman’s turned up out of the blue, demanding money?’
‘Not exactly.’ He had to come clean. He had to tell her everything. It was only fair, given what he was going to ask. ‘I’ve always . . . er . . . honoured my responsibility.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been giving her money.’
Alison sat back in her chair. ‘So . . . for all this time, without me knowing, you’ve been paying for your . . . your . . .’
She floundered for the right word. Colin put a hand on hers.
‘Yes. I’ve been paying maintenance. And I see her once a year.’
Alison seemed to deflate before him, as if her bones had been pulled out of her like blocks from a Jenga tower.
‘And the mother?’
‘Yes. She comes too. But there’s no . . . there’s nothing between us.’
‘Am I really supposed to believe that?’
‘Alison, I’m being a hundred per cent honest with you here.’
‘After years of sneaking off behind my back?’
He could hardly bear the look of hurt in her eyes.
‘It wasn’t something I wanted to happen.’
She looked away from him. She seemed baffled, a deep crease between her eyebrows.
‘Why are you telling me all this now?’
He was silent for a moment. He wondered about bottling it altogether. Alison didn’t need to know the full story. He could talk to Karen. More money would probably help. Karen was the sort of woman who saw things differently with a cheque in her hand.
But then he thought about the little girl upstairs. The fantastic day they’d had together. Simple pleasures, but they had been such huge ones to Chelsey. He didn’t want to send her back to a life of fast food and a latch key.
He owed it to her. None of this was her fault.
‘Her mother’s . . . not well. She can’t cope. Basically, she’s done a runner and left me with Chelsey.’
‘Chelsey.’ Alison spoke the name with flat distaste. ‘Is that what she’s called? Did you choose the name together, you and . . .’ She trailed off. ‘You and . . . what is her name?’
‘Karen.’
‘Karen.’ She spat the name out like an unwanted mouthful of food.
Colin couldn’t read Alison’s face. It was flat; expressionless. Her eyes seemed dead. At least she hadn’t thrown her drink over him. At least she hadn’t screamed at him. He had to take advantage of her momentary calm to limit the damage.
‘The thing is, Alison, none of this is Chelsey’s fault, and she needs me. She needs a good home. She needs someone who cares about her. She needs . . . stability.’
‘By which you mean her mother is unstable?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think she is. I think she’s probably depressed.’
Alison bit her lip. ‘Like I was, all those years ago? Do you remember? When it was all I could do to get up and face the day, because I just wanted to fall into a black hole. Do you know how many times I thought about swallowing a bottle of tablets? Or driving into a brick wall?’
‘Alison—’
‘But I didn’t, and you know why? The one thing that kept me going was you. You were so kind and caring and loving and supportive. You got me through it. But all the time—’
She broke off as the waiter approached with their drinks and put them down.
‘Are you ready for me to take your order?
‘Not yet,’ Colin snapped. He never snapped at waiters usually.
The waiter melted away.
Alison looked up and took her fresh gin and tonic. She seemed to have composed herself.
‘Look,’ said Colin, ‘we could rake it all up. We could spend all night throwing recriminations at each other. It wasn’t easy for me either. And I made a mistake. A big mistake. But I’ve never been unfaithful to you since.’
‘How do I know that?’ She was becoming bitter now.
‘You have to trust me.’
She stared right at him. He could imagine all the questions whirling round in her brain. Questions he had no idea how to answer for the best. The problem was, he had to make some sort of decision. ‘Alison, I need to decide what to do. Chelsey’s upstairs—’
‘What?’ Alison slammed her glass down. ‘My God, Colin. How much more can you humiliate me?’ Her voice was low as she spoke, but the venom in it was undeniable. ‘You drag me down here to air your dirty linen in a full bloody restaurant—’ Colin flinched; Alison rarely swore ‘—and then you tell me the child’s upstairs? Do you think that’s fair on me, to put me under that kind of pressure?’
‘Of course I don’t!’ Colin was desperate to keep the nightmare under control. ‘But I didn’t have any choice. I had to tell you what was going on. I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. I’ve got to decide what to do with Chelsey, because her mother has made it clear that it’s my turn.’ He could feel the sweat breaking out under his arms.
Alison’s tone was hostile. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to welcome some little cuckoo into the nest?’
‘She’s not a cuckoo,’ said Colin. ‘She’s my daughter. And I know you’re angry. Of course you
are. You have every right to be.’
‘What about Michelle and Ryan? What are they supposed to think? What are you going to tell them?’
‘Michelle and Ryan have got their own lives now.’ Colin was firm. ‘And I think, given time, they’d understand.’
‘Do you?’ The puzzlement in Alison’s eyes had cleared. She could see everything all too clearly. ‘By making me the enemy, I suppose? Telling them their mother wasn’t fit for purpose so you had to play away?’
‘Absolutely not!’
Alison spread her hands. ‘That’s effectively what you told me. I was a wreck, so you had to turn to Karen.’
‘I was wrong,’ said Colin. ‘I’m not denying that. But I can’t change what’s happened, Alison, and there’s a little girl involved. A little girl who’s had a pretty tough time.’
He stopped. Alison was staring down at the table, tears in her eyes.
‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She bent down and picked up her handbag.
‘I can’t do this here,’ she told him. ‘I’m going home. You do whatever you think is right. She’s obviously your priority. I can’t argue with that. As you’ve pointed out, it’s not her fault.’
‘Alison – don’t go. At least have dinner. Let’s talk it over.’
She shook her head.
‘You’ve had time to think about this. Nearly twelve years. I’ve had all of twelve minutes.’
She stood up. Her chair scraped against the slate floor, setting Colin’s teeth on edge.
‘Will you phone me?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘I am sorry. This isn’t easy for me.’
Pain flickered over her face.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it is.’
And she turned and walked back through the dining room, her head held high.
The Long Weekend Page 25
