THE WEEKEND AWAY
Sarah Alderson
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Copyright © Sarah Alderson 2020
Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarpeCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photographs © Ethan Robertson/Unsplash (background), Shutterstock.com (woman)
Sarah Alderson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008411862
Ebook Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780008411879
Version: 2020-07-13
Dedication
For Nichola
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
There’s no disguising the absolute terror on Rob’s face.
‘Will you be OK?’ I ask anxiously.
‘Yeah, totally,’ Rob says. ‘We’ll be fine. Go and enjoy yourself.’
Marlow frets in his arms, reaching out her pudgy hands towards me and I have a sudden urge to change my plans. I’m not sure Rob’s got this, despite his protestations that I should go and enjoy myself. It’s the first time I’ve left him with the baby all by himself, and while a weekend in Lisbon with my best friend seemed like a good idea at the time, now I’m regretting it.
But it’s too late to back out now. Kate’s already texted me that she’s on the way to the airport.
Marlow lets out a hiccup and I reach for her, letting her sticky hands grab for my hair. ‘Make sure you remember to feed her,’ I say to Rob. ‘And put her down at the right time.’
‘I think I can manage,’ Rob says.
I kiss Marlow, squeezing her gorgeous bao bun cheeks, and then peck Rob on the lips.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rob says, seeing that I blatantly am.
I nod and pick up my suitcase. He’s right. It’s only a weekend away. A few days, that’s all. It’s not going to kill me.
I might even have some fun.
Chapter One
‘Bloody hell, Kate, this is gorgeous,’ I say, abandoning my suitcase by the front door and taking a few flabbergasted steps inside the apartment, drawn like a newly hatched moth to the flaming view ahead of me. The sun spills through huge French windows. I take in the jumble of pastel-coloured buildings and, through the gaps in the roofs, a sparkle of blue not too far in the distance. It must be the river, which I think is called the Tagus. Whatever it’s called, it’s way more inviting-looking than the mud-coloured Thames.
Kate joins me over by the windows, which are floor to ceiling and run the length of the living room. She squeezes my shoulder then turns to me, grinning. ‘Not bad.’ She laughs before turning around and making a beeline towards the suitcases. ‘Right, where’s that duty-free bag? Let’s get this party started.’
As Kate locates the bottle of Dom Pérignon she bought at the airport, I find the latch on the window and slide it open, stumbling outside onto the balcony. A thrill of excitement courses through me like an electric current. It takes me a moment to realise the buzz I’m feeling isn’t a result of the coffee I had on the plane, but the illicit thrill of freedom. I feel like a prisoner who’s tunnelled out of jail, poked her head above ground and realised she’s successfully pulled off her escape. I’m giddily triumphant.
As soon as I recognise the feeling for what it is though, I experience a twinge of anxiety that cancels it out completely. How is Marlow doing? Will Rob have remembered to put her down to sleep at the right time? Fifteen minutes late and she’s a monster the entire next day. Will he hear her in the night if she wakes? He sleeps like the dead normally. And what if he doesn’t change her nappy and she gets a rash? Oh God, what if he gives her grapes that haven’t been cut in half and she chokes to death?
My hand twitches, automatically reaching for my phone, before I remember it’s in my handbag, which I dumped somewhere by the front door. I resist the urge to find it and text him. I don’t want to be that kind of a mother or wife. Rob’s fine with Marlow. He’s a hands-on dad and has looked after her before on his own. But he did seem nervous about having to take care of her for the whole weekend by himself. No, I tell myself forcefully, I need to shake it off and enjoy myself. No point worrying.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of a new city, and enjoying the balmy warm air against my skin. The lovely electric buzz of excitement returns again. For three entire days I have no one to worry about but myself. I can eat what I want, drink what I want, lie in as long as I want and basically go back to living the way I lived before I had a baby, when I totally underestimated how glorious it is to be able to pee in peace or how lovely it is to wear clothes that aren’t stained with baby vomit.
‘Here!’
I turn around to find Kate thrusting a glass of champagne at me. I take it. ‘Cheers!’ she says.
‘Cheers!’ I answer, chinking my glass against hers.
‘This is amazing,’ I say, gesturing at the view and the apartment. ‘I can’t believe this place.’ I glance around the balcony with its elegant outdoor seating arrangement, sun-loungers and … I cock my head at the square object in the corner – ‘Wait, is that a hot tub?’
&nbs
p; ‘Yes,’ says Kate. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Or I’d have brought my swimsuit.’
‘We don’t need swimsuits.’ Kate laughs, heading back inside to grab the bottle of champagne. I trail after her, thinking that once upon a time I might not have batted an eye about being naked in front of her or anyone, but now even being naked in front of Rob is something I’d only do under imminent threat of death.
There’s just so much wobble that wasn’t there before. My boobs are like two helium balloons that once floated proudly but are now wrinkling at the seams and drooping back down to earth. My belly too is yet to return to its previous flat form, my abs covered with a soft roll of fat that no amount of exercise seems to erase, though to be fair, managing the odd five sit-ups once a week is probably not going to do much, and neither is the pain au chocolat that I buy most mornings when I take Marlow to the park or to a mum and baby group. I’ve tried giving up sugar but I find that cake is the only thing that makes those groups bearable, and sometimes the only thing fuelling me through twelve gruelling hours of solo babysitting.
No one tells you how hard parenting is, or how hard it is to get your figure back, certainly not those bloody celebrities posing in their leggings and crop tops a day after giving birth. I suppose that’s not completely true; plenty of people say parenting is hard, but the notion is totally abstract before you have a child. It’s like being told that serving a life sentence in solitary confinement has its challenges. You can sort of imagine it but it’s not until you’re actually sitting alone in your cell, staring at the walls, knowing this is it for the rest of your life, that you start to fully appreciate exactly how challenging.
As Kate tops up my champagne glass, I sneak a look at her and can’t help but feel a wave of self-consciousness. She’s so chic and put together, in skinny jeans tucked into Louis Vuitton boots, and a low-cut top that shows off her unfairly perky breasts and toned arms. Her make-up looks freshly applied too, even though we’ve been travelling for about six hours. I can’t remember the last time I wore lipstick, let alone shaved my legs, and my upper arms have lost all the tone I once had from weekly Pilates classes, and are in danger of becoming fully fledged bingo wings.
Kate and I used to be roughly the same size and shape, five feet four and slim – enough that we could share clothes – but now we’re very different. I’ve never before been jealous of Kate’s figure and I try not to fall into the trap of comparing myself to her. I’ve had a baby for Chrissake! It’ll take time to get back into my skinny jeans.
‘I made a reservation at a restaurant my friend told me about,’ Kate says, oblivious to my unhappy comparisons between our figures. ‘Table’s booked for ten.’
I glance at my watch. It’s almost seven. ‘Blimey,’ I say, stifling a yawn. ‘I’m normally asleep by ten.’
‘You can sleep when you’re dead, Orla,’ Kate says, setting her glass down and winking at me.
I groan. That used to be our thing when we were young twenty-somethings, living together in a tiny flat in Stoke Newington and clubbing every Friday and Saturday night. We’d stay out until dawn before heading home via the bagel shop on Brick Lane or the kebab shop on the corner of Old Street, and stuff ourselves stupid before falling into bed and sleeping well into the next afternoon.
Kate must see my expression as I contemplate my exhaustion and wonder where those youthful stores of energy disappeared to. ‘Fine,’ she says, ‘take a nap and I’ll wake you up at nine.’ She grins at me. ‘Come on, let’s check out the bedrooms.’
I hurry after her, both of us acting like excited toddlers as we throw open doors and explore the apartment. The kitchen is shiny and full of brand-new high-end appliances and there’s a dining table big enough to host a dinner party for twelve.
‘How on earth did you find this place?’ I marvel, opening the cupboard doors and admiring the fine china and delicate wine glasses on display.
‘Airbnb,’ Kate answers, pulling open the refrigerator to reveal bottles of sparkling water, milk, eggs and coffee. ‘I think the owner lives in the apartment downstairs. He owns this one too and rents it out.’
‘How much was it?’ I ask, slightly tentatively.
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Kate smirks. ‘Toby’s paying.’
I glance sideways at her.
She shrugs. ‘He forgot to take me off one of his credit cards. Don’t worry, he won’t notice.’
I shake my head but can’t help laughing.
‘Bastard owes me,’ she mutters and I silently agree. I never liked Kate’s ex, Toby, much to begin with but after he cheated on Kate I gave up pretending I ever had. He isn’t even good-looking, which isn’t to say that if he had been I could have forgiven him, but it is hard to see how a man of his very mediocre looks could cheat on a woman like Kate, who is ten million miles out of his league.
I never understood what Kate saw in Toby, with his dome-like bald head and contradictory masses of thick black body hair, though I suppose he has got charisma, and as Kate liked to joke, short, bald men work harder to please in the bedroom. Not that I want to imagine that.
There are two enormous bedrooms in the apartment: a master bedroom with a marble en-suite bathroom and another smaller bedroom that is still far nicer than any hotel room I’ve ever stayed in. Everything is white – the cloud-like duvet cover, the pillows, the walls, the Eames armchair in the corner, the linen curtains – but whoever decorated the place has also added bold splashes of colour to stop it from looking too clinical. Blue and yellow patterned pillows are perfectly aligned on the bed, as though arranged using a protractor, while one wall is tiled with beautiful blue-patterned ceramic tiles. It’s like something you’d see in Condé Nast magazine.
‘You take the big room,’ Kate says to me.
‘Oh no,’ I say, ‘I’m fine in this one. It’s great.’
‘I insist,’ Kate argues. ‘You deserve it.’ And before I can say another word she wheels her suitcase into the smaller room. Kate’s suitcase is huge enough that she needed to put it in the plane’s hold, while I only brought a carry-on. She said she had too many shoes and too many toiletries to fit in a carry-on-sized suitcase, which is typical Kate, who used the second bedroom in the flat she lived in with Toby just to house her clothes and the third bedroom to store her shoes and handbags.
I wheel my own scruffy bag with a broken wheel into the master room, which is done in much the same colour palette as the smaller bedroom, and I collapse down on the bed. Through the window I can see puffy white clouds wafting across the bruise-coloured sky. It feels glorious just to lie here, feeling the stress of the last couple of years already starting to melt away. It’s amazing how a comfortable bed and the prospect of a weekend of lie-ins and laughter can do that.
Kate wanders into my room a minute later and flops down beside me on the bed, her arm brushing mine. We lie there in silence, staring at the clouds, which are starting to turn the colour of candyfloss.
‘I’m so happy we did this,’ I say after a minute of contented silence.
‘Me too,’ Kate answers.
I turn my head in her direction and am taken aback by the sadness etched on her face as she stares out the window. For a moment I wonder if she’s been crying but then I figure it’s just the pink evening light filtering into the room. Kate doesn’t do sad. Whenever she’s upset about something she turns to dark humour to survive. She never mopes. Back before she met Toby, if a boy dumped her she’d never cry about it, she’d just laugh and whip out a Kate-ism: ‘Onwards and upwards, plenty more dick in the sea.’
If she ever lost a client she’d pick up her phone and go about finding an even bigger fish to net. Even when she found out that Toby had been sleeping with escorts on his frequent business trips to Seoul and Shanghai, she didn’t cry or stay in bed for days eating ice cream like I would have. No, she took his credit card and booked a first-class flight to Mauritius where she spent a week at The Four Seasons, lying on a beach drinkin
g cocktails and having wild sex with the pool boy, telling me afterwards that she was following the sage advice that the best way of getting over someone was by getting under someone else. No one in the world does depression better than Kate. In fact, I should probably learn from her, but my credit card has a much lower limit.
As I stare at her now in the golden glow of the sunset though, I wonder whether Kate is hiding the truth from me, and if all this time when I’ve thought she’s been doing fine, she’s actually been struggling. It would hardly be surprising given all she’s been through and, now I think about it, I realise I’m stupid not to have considered it before. The thing with Kate is that she’s one of those people who always seems so put together that you sometimes don’t spot the cracks hiding beneath the wallpaper.
Now I look closer, she does seem on edge. Beneath the make-up I notice there are shadows under her eyes as though she hasn’t been sleeping, and she was unusually quiet on the flight here. She’s bitten the skin around her thumbnails too – something she only does when she’s anxious.
It hits me then that I’ve been a totally shit friend. Once upon a time, Kate and I would tell each other everything. We were closer than sisters, definitely closer than I am to my own sister who lives in Ireland and who I rarely see. When I moved to London from Cork as an eager twenty-two-year-old, desperate to get the hell out of my small hometown, I moved into a flat-share in West Hampstead. That’s where I met Kate. She rented the other bedroom.
From the minute we met it was as if we’d known each other forever. We were both Sagittarians, we both had a dad who’d died when we were eight, we both loved Richard and Judy books and reading gossip magazines, and we both loved going out clubbing. On Wednesdays we’d celebrate making it halfway through the week in our crappy temping jobs by buying a four-quid bottle of Black Tower wine, which we’d fully decant into two enormous glasses in order to avoid having to get up from the sofa to refill them, and then we’d settle in for Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathons. We’re the kind of friends who interrupt each other constantly, talk faster than a bullet train to Busan, and can also communicate an entire conversation if we need to, purely with facial expressions.
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