Bank Holiday Monday dawned as bright and optimistic as Sunday had been, and the village of Pennfleet unfurled itself with enthusiasm. The sea seemed to glitter more invitingly than ever; boats bobbed in impatience as they awaited their passengers and the smell of coffee and frying bacon wound its way through the streets. Cars started arriving even earlier than usual as eager visitors claimed their pitch, wanting to make the most of their day of freedom.
Angelica, however, woke with a sense of dread, ready for confrontation. She’d been steeling herself for it all night. She rolled out of bed and padded through the house in her pyjamas. Everyone was still asleep, of course. She was the only mug who had to work.
She opened the door to her mother’s bedroom. Inside, it was pitch black. Trudy never opened the heavy dark-purple curtains. Angelica picked her way over the discarded boots and clothes. There was a brimming ashtray next to the bed; empty glasses and cups everywhere. A large-screen telly on the wall shone green in the darkness.
‘Mum,’ she called. ‘Come on. You’ve got to get up. Dill’s football thing is at ten. You’ve got to drive him there. And make him a packed lunch.’
There was no response.
‘Mum! Come on.’
‘For God’s sake. It’s a bloody bank holiday. Leave me alone.’
‘You’ve got to get Dill ready. He has to get his kit on.’
‘Forget it. I don’t want to get up.’
Angelica reached out a hand and pulled back the duvet. Trudy screamed and sat up. She was wearing a shorter than short purple satin nightdress, the spaghetti straps digging into her flesh.
‘Are you seriously going to let him down?’ Angelica demanded.
‘It’s only a game of football.’
‘Not to him it isn’t.’
The school had organised a special training day, with a player from Plymouth Argyle. Dill had been looking forward to it for weeks. Jeff had promised to take him, but of course Jeff wasn’t here any more.
Trudy lay down again and pulled the pillow over her head.
Angelica dropped the duvet back on her in disgust. She could rant and rave and scream, but she knew it would make no difference. What a waste of space her mother was.
Maybe she should phone in sick? But no – she needed the money. It was double time on a bank holiday. Besides, someone would be bound to see her and dump her in it. That was how life worked.
She clenched her fists in an effort to keep down her anger, then left the room to go and break the bad news to Dill.
In leafy Berkshire, Nick woke to the sound of the mower buzzing up and down the lawn outside. He and his father had agreed that this was the best day to cut the grass before the wedding. They didn’t want it to be too short, like a squaddie’s haircut. If they cut it today, it would have enough time to recover before the tent people came on Thursday.
The thought of the marquee waiting to welcome all those guests made Nick groan. He pulled the duvet over his head, but he could still see it there in his mind’s eye, white and majestic. He could even see the table with the cake – three tiers, fruit, chocolate and plain sponge, he seemed to remember from the discussions they’d had.
He hadn’t said much to Gerald about his impromptu return in the small hours of Sunday morning. His father had the tact not to probe, but had understood with fatherly intuition that Nick had undergone some sort of crisis he didn’t want to discuss. He probably thought he’d got drunk and snogged a girl at Pennfleet Yacht Club and was riddled with shame.
If only that had been his crime. He would swap a hundred stag-night snogs for what had really happened.
It was stifling under the duvet, so he threw it back and stared up at the ceiling. He really should get up and help his father. It wasn’t fair to let Gerald do all the donkey work, although he was always quite happy preparing for a social occasion. It was what Gerald did best.
It was what Isobel had done best, too. It was when the Barnes family really came into their own, when they were preparing to welcome guests. Nick thought about how much she would have adored getting ready for his wedding. Sophie had done a fantastic job, of course, but his mother would have made it extra special, with those little touches that only she could bring, the ones that had always made their parties so much more memorable than anyone else’s. Where had Isobel got it, that magic? he wondered. Or had it simply been her presence that had made the difference? Her warmth, her magnetism, her generosity, her joie de vivre . . .
Today he was meeting Sophie for lunch, to go through all her endless lists again. To be fair, she had been remarkably unhysterical about the whole wedding – he had heard serious horror stories from friends who had been married recently – but still he found the thought of discussing the photographer’s brief and who was going to collect the bridesmaids’ presents stultifying.
He walked over to the window and drew back the curtains, blinking at the brightness of the sun. He could smell the scent of freshly mown grass. He wondered if the weather would hold until Saturday, then wondered bleakly how many times he would have to have that conversation over the next few days.
He didn’t care about the weather. Not one jot. In fact, he couldn’t bear the thought of the sun shining next Saturday, and all the guests running round bleating about fairy-tale weddings and how lucky they were . . .
He could see his father carrying yet another load of grass clippings to the compost heap behind the shed. He’d go out and do a few rows up and down the lawn while Gerald made them a cup of tea. Then he’d better have a shower and drive over to Sophie’s.
It was going to be the last time they would meet before they saw each other at the altar.
At the Townhouse, Angelica sat at reception staring into space, unable to shake off an uncharacteristic feeling of resentment.
It had taken her nearly half an hour to pacify Dill. He had kicked and screamed and cried when she’d told him he couldn’t go to the training day. It had taken all her strength to stop him from hurting himself. Eventually he had calmed down when she had promised to take him to a real, proper football match as soon as she could.
She knew he would be stuck inside all day watching DVDs while her mother slept. Maybe if she got away early she could take him to the beach this evening, but she was due to work until seven, and by the time she got home she’d be knackered and would just want a shower and something to eat, not to have to get his swimming things together and walk all the way to Neptune’s Cove, which was his favourite . . .
When it should be bloody Trudy who was doing it.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She was used to being let down by her mother, but it wasn’t fair on Dill. He had enough to contend with.
To compound her dark mood, Claire seemed very chirpy. She was checking out the young couple Angelica had upgraded.
‘I hope you enjoyed your stay,’ she said, as they paid their bill.
‘We loved it,’ the girl said. ‘We’re hoping to be back soon. We’ve put an offer in on a house.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ Claire replied as she folded up their receipt and put it in an envelope. ‘Good luck.’
The couple gathered up their bags and walked off arm in arm. Two more satisfied customers, thought Angelica. Well, they would be, wouldn’t they? They’d got twice the room for half the price. She wished she could snap out of her sour mood. She didn’t begrudge the couple their upgrade – of course she didn’t . . .
‘Go and wake that lazy lump for me, would you?’ Claire asked.
Angelica got off her chair and made her way over to the stairs. She should have phoned in sick. She was tired of putting a brave face on it. Good old Angelica, who everyone relied on but didn’t give a toss about. It was all right for Claire to be all perky, with her sparkly diamond ring and her glittering future. It had been Angelica’s shoulder she’d cried on, though, hadn’t it? When everything hadn’t seemed so rosy?
She stomped up the stairs. She hated feeling like this. Where was she supposed to fi
nd a shoulder to cry on when she needed it? Could somebody tell her that?
While they packed up the last of their things, Alison was showing Chelsey photographs of her dog, Monty, on her phone. They’d decided not to stay on, but to take Chelsey back home while arrangements were made.
‘He’s a springer spaniel,’ Alison told her. ‘And he’s very naughty. I have to take him to special classes.’
‘I’ve always wanted a dog,’ said Chelsey. ‘But Mum wouldn’t let me.’
Colin had to turn away. The emotion kept getting to him. He imagined Chelsey with Monty in the garden, running around like his kids once had. Was it going to work?
It had to, he thought.
And even if it didn’t, even if their marriage buckled under the strain, at least he didn’t have to live with the guilt any more. The secret was out. He could do his best for Chelsey from now on; do everything in his power to give her a happy life and whatever she wanted.
The two of them were giggling over the photos. For a moment he felt like the outsider. Alison had always been wonderful with children.
Alison had always been wonderful full stop, he reflected.
‘Come on, you two,’ he said. ‘Let’s make the most of that weather.’
They were hiring a boat. Colin wasn’t sure how good he was going to be at skippering, but at least it would give him something to focus on while the two of them bonded.
He picked up his phone and checked it, nervous that there might be a text from Karen saying she’d made a mistake, saying she was coming to collect Chelsey.
Nothing. Colin felt relief. Every hour of silence from Karen was another nail in her coffin. He’d be able to get a court order, hopefully custody in the long run. He didn’t want things to get nasty, but he thought he had enough evidence to prove she was unfit. Of course, it would be so much better if they could do things in a civilised manner. Karen was Chelsey’s mother, after all, and she should stay in contact with her.
And it wasn’t all going to be plain sailing. Another year and Chelsey would be hitting the troublesome teenage years. He might well regret taking her on.
No, thought Colin. He was never going to regret taking her on, whatever happened. Chelsey was his flesh and blood. She deserved every opportunity, every chance that his other children had been given.
Now that he’d got her, he wasn’t going to let her go.
He zipped up her little case and picked it up.
‘Come on then. Let’s check out. We can leave our cases and pick them up later.’
‘Can we come back one day?’ asked Chelsey. ‘I love it here.’
Colin looked around the room. It had been a strange weekend. Traumatic, emotional, difficult . . . but there was no doubt that Pennfleet was special. The Townhouse was special. A good find, he thought.
‘Of course,’ he told her, because he was never going to be able to say no to her. He could see that from the wry smile Alison gave him.
There was nothing wrong with that, was there?
Luca was still fast asleep in bed.
‘Oi,’ said Angelica, prodding him. ‘Some of us have got work to do. Get up.’
He opened his eyes and looked up at her.
‘You’re full of charm this morning,’ he told her.
‘Fuck off,’ she said, and burst into tears.
He sat up, alarmed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. He didn’t like crying women. It was one of the things he valued Claire for, the fact that she didn’t turn the taps on at any given opportunity.
‘Like you care,’ Angelica sobbed. ‘Like you give a toss about anyone except yourself.’
‘That’s not fair.’
He put out a hand to stroke her. She shut her eyes.
‘Don’t,’ she said, but she didn’t move.
He ran his fingers through her hair. ‘Poor Angelica,’ he soothed. ‘What’s the matter? This isn’t like you.’
She shut her eyes even tighter, to keep the tears in. ‘You don’t know how much you mean to me, do you?’ she asked eventually, her voice taut with the effort of not crying.
‘Mean to you?’ he laughed. ‘No, of course I don’t.’
‘Don’t laugh at me.’
‘I’m not laughing at you.’ He patted the bed next to him. ‘Sit down. Tell me what this is all about.’
She hesitated, then sat down, against her better judgement. Luca was leaning back against the wooden headboard. His hair was wild, and he needed a shave. His chest was golden against the white of the bed linen. She breathed him in and thought she would faint as his familiar scent curdled her insides.
He was staring at her, puzzled. ‘Come on,’ he said.
Angelica wasn’t at all sure how to proceed. Whether to treat this as an informal staff meeting, or unburden herself to him as a friend. Or to tell him the truth.
He lifted his hand and stroked her bare arm with the back of his fingers.
‘What?’ he asked softly.
His touch made her crumble. She couldn’t treat him as a boss or a friend.
‘You’re all I think about,’ she told him. ‘Day and night. Awake or asleep, you’re always there. On the edge of my dreams . . .’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Luca. And as her tears started to fall again, he put his arms round her and pulled her towards him. ‘Come here. You shouldn’t cry.’
She was leaning against his chest. His arms were around her.
Oh God, thought Angelica. What on earth had she said? It had just seemed so unfair. Poor Dill. Her bloody mother. The loved-up couple. Everyone walking around in the bank holiday sunshine, happy with their lot. When all she could see unfolding in front of her was a lifetime of frustration.
And now, the moment she had fantasised about so many times was here. His warm hands were sliding up her legs, under her skirt, into her knickers. She squirmed.
‘No,’ she said, but she felt helpless. This was everything she had ever longed for. She had fought it for so long, and now, when she was at her most vulnerable, she didn’t think she could resist. Even though she knew it was wrong. Even though it would only bring her more heartache.
But at least she would know how it felt. At least she would know what she was missing. His hands were inside her shirt, running over her skin. It was everything she had ever imagined. Everything she had ever allowed herself to dream about. And Angelica thought that if she died today, she would die happy, as the feelings built up inside her, growing in force until she could hardly bear it.
‘Don’t stop,’ she begged, and tears rolled down her face.
‘I won’t.’ Luca’s breathing was ragged. ‘I won’t . . .’
Claire ran up the stairs, two at a time. Where on earth was everybody? Didn’t they know how busy they were going to be today? The hotel seemed to be full of people wanting coffee on the terrace, or a table for lunch, or cocktails, and she wasn’t a bloody magician. She needed Angelica on reception and Luca in the kitchen, but neither of them was to be found. She reached the bedroom door. Angelica must have gone to wake Luca, who’d probably ignored her and gone straight back to sleep again.
As she opened the door and surveyed the scene inside, she felt . . .
Nothing.
Not anger. Not jealousy. Not shock. Or outrage.
Nothing.
She turned and shut the door gently. She stood on the landing for a moment. All she could hear was her heart thudding inside her. Adrenalin. The fight-or-flight impulse.
She wasn’t going to fight. There was nothing to fight for, she realised. Nothing that she wanted. He could have it all, as far as she was concerned. And good luck to him. They would be fine, Luca and Angelica. She wasn’t going to hang around and fight over the spoils. She had more dignity than that.
Besides, there wasn’t much time. She knew that. If she was going to get what she did want, she would have to move fast.
She set off down the stairs, thinking as she went. She didn’t need to take anything with her. Her bag and keys were downs
tairs in the office. She could send for everything else later, if need be.
As she reached the first-floor landing, she paused for a moment. She was outside Trevor and Monique’s room, and for a split second she felt a pang of guilt at what she was about to do. She remembered everything Trevor had told her, and it occurred to her that by leaving, she was jeopardising their dream. She owed them if not an apology then at least an explanation.
She stood outside their room, about to knock. They’d be disappointed, she knew that. And then a further thought occurred to her. Why should she just walk away and leave Luca with the fruits of her hard labour, not to mention her initial investment?
She looked at her watch, took a deep breath and tapped on the door.
Trevor opened it with a beaming smile.
‘Claire!’ He stepped aside to let her in. ‘What can I do for you?’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘Have you come to sign on the dotted line?’
Inside, Monique was sitting at the dressing table applying the last of her maquillage. Beside her the French windows were open to the balcony, showing a glimpse of the glorious day outside. Claire felt a lump rise in her throat. She would be giving up all of this.
‘No,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’ve got a totally different proposition.’
Trevor and Monique looked at her expectantly.
‘I’ve come to ask if you’ll buy my share of the Townhouse.’
There was a moment’s silence while the two of them took in what she was saying.
‘What do you mean?’ said Trevor.
‘Luca and I own forty per cent each,’ Claire explained. ‘But . . . I don’t want to carry on. We’re finished, Luca and I.’
‘Oh my God!’ Monique got to her feet. She was still clad in a white satin nightdress with matching negligee. ‘What’s happened? The engagement . . . it was only yesterday . . . You seemed so happy!’
Claire looked down at her ring. She’d totally forgotten about it. She tugged it off and rolled it round in her fingers, nervous.
‘I’m not going to go into details,’ she replied. ‘But I thought I would give you first refusal. And obviously . . . I can’t go ahead with the London deal. I’m so sorry. I know how much it means to you. I hope you’ll find another way of pulling it together.’
The Long Weekend Page 29
