‘Nick? His parents had the biggest house in the village when I was growing up. I used to hang out there for a while. With him and his brothers.’ She swallowed on her equivocation. ‘We lost touch when his mum died.’ She flashed a disingenuous smile. ‘I hope you’re going to do him proud for his stag dinner. My reputation in Mimsbury depends on it.’
‘I always thought you couldn’t wait to get away from there?’
‘I couldn’t, but I’d still like to be well thought of.’
‘Typical middle-class insecurity.’
Claire thumped him playfully. ‘Who are you calling middle class?’ She put on a mock south London accent. ‘I’m from Isleworf, remember?’
Luca grinned.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he has a stag night he’ll never forget.’
He sat still for a moment, looking between the two girls, then stood and headed off back towards the kitchen. Claire blew her cheeks out in relief. It had been a huge effort keeping the banter light, but that was the best way of keeping Luca off the scent.
Next to her, Angelica’s eyes were like saucers.
‘Don’t say anything,’ said Claire. ‘Don’t ask any questions. I’ve already told you too much.’
‘So she did die? His mother?’
‘Of course she died. She had grade four cancer.’
‘Grade four? What does that mean?’
Claire sighed.
‘Let’s put it this way. There is no grade five.’
She was echoing Isobel’s own words.
After finding her in the kitchen that day, Claire had continued to be her confidante, though she still didn’t understand why Isobel wanted to keep her illness quiet. Of course the boys and Gerald would be upset, but surely they needed to know?
Isobel was adamant.
‘I’m trying to protect them, darling. Can’t you see? Them knowing won’t help at all. It’s what made it so hard before. And now that Nick and Felix are working for Gerald, it’s even more important to keep them in the dark. I can’t risk the business falling apart. I know it looks as if we’ve got pots of money, but it’s all a bit precarious financially. Melchior Barnes needs to keep afloat. If Gerald’s worrying about me, he’ll take his eye off the ball. He nearly went under last time – he lost several big contracts. Screwed up loads of deliveries. It was nearly a year before he got the business back on its feet. What’s the point of risking it all if they don’t need to know?’
And so Claire came to the conclusion that if Isobel was brave enough to face her illness alone, she had to respect that, and that she had no right to reveal the truth. She became very protective of her, and did everything she could to help. She saw that Isobel tired easily, and she took over the shopping and the cleaning as discreetly as she could.
As summer slid into autumn, Isobel grew thinner and paler. The family couldn’t fail to notice. Gerald was beside himself, nagging her to go to the doctor.
Claire became anxious. ‘You have to tell him. It’s obvious there’s something wrong.’
She watched, aghast, as Isobel lied glibly to the family as they sat round the dinner table.
‘I’ve had the results back. I’ve got a stupid bloody virus. They gave it a name – I can’t remember it; something unpronounceable – but the doctor says it’s not uncommon for people who’ve had chemo to be more susceptible. Something to do with my stupid immune system. I’ve just got to rest a lot. And he recommended a holiday. Sunshine.’
‘So . . . it hasn’t come back? They’ve checked?’ Claire could see the anxiety on Gerald’s face.
‘Of course they’ve checked. It’s the first thing they checked for.’ Isobel’s smile was dazzlingly convincing. ‘Anyway, I’ve phoned Sally in Lanzarote. She says I can go over there in the New Year and stay for as long as I like.’
‘Go now!’ urged Gerald. ‘Get your strength up in time for Christmas.’
‘No,’ said Isobel. ‘I’d rather get Christmas out of the way. And anyway, I can’t miss New Year’s Eve. The party of the century?’ She smiled round at them all. They’d been planning it for months – the celebration of all celebrations to mark the end of 1999. ‘Then I can start the new millennium with a treat.’
Everyone seemed happy with that. Except Claire, who had a growing sense of unease. Surely, she thought, Isobel should be having some sort of treatment to keep her illness at bay?
‘What are they actually doing?’ she asked her one day.
Isobel looked her straight in the eye. ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘There’s nothing they can do. I’ll have pain relief towards the end. Palliative treatment. But this is it.’
Claire frowned. ‘It? What do you mean, it?’
‘I’m dying, darling. Four months if I’m lucky.’
Claire sat down, shaken. She hadn’t realised she’d been colluding in Isobel’s eventual death. Of course, with cancer that was always a possibility, but she’d thought they were just covering up the treatment. Now she realised how stupid she had been. There was no treatment.
Isobel held Claire’s hands over the kitchen table. The table where the family had had so many happy meals together.
‘Listen to me, Claire,’ she said. ‘I’m going away on New Year’s Day. If I make it to then, that is. I’m going to a hospice. And I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want anyone to watch me suffer. As far as they know, I’m going to Lanzarote to stay with my old schoolfriend Sally for a few weeks to convalesce.’
Claire shook her head.
‘You can’t do this.’
‘So what’s the alternative?’ Isobel’s voice was harsh. ‘I tell them, and spoil our last Christmas, then lie upstairs rotting from the inside while they try and keep everything together and wait for me to die. Watch me racked with pain – because it’s going to bloody hurt; I’ve been through it often enough with the nurse. That’s not what I want for Gerald and the boys. Weeks of not knowing when the end is actually going to come. Why would I want to put them through that, Claire? Why?’
She smashed her fist on the table, and winced with the pain. Tears came into her eyes. Isobel rarely cried, but she did now, sobs racking her tiny body.
‘You have to understand why I’m doing this. I don’t want their last image of me to be some hideous skeletal cadaver who doesn’t know who they are. I want to go out on a high. We’re going to have the biggest party on New Year’s Eve, the party to end all parties, and that will be it. I want to remember them happy. And I want them to remember me as me. Do you understand?’
Claire had never felt fear like it. Isobel was such a force, but death was an even greater one. And try as she might, she could find no argument to convince Isobel that her plan was wrong. How could you persuade someone that their nearest and dearest would want to see them suffer right up to the bitter end? Of course they wouldn’t.
‘When you’re a mum,’ Isobel told her, ‘you’ll understand.’
‘I understand now,’ said Claire. ‘I think.’
‘You’re going to have to be their rock,’ Isobel went on. ‘You’re going to have to be their me. I know you can do it. They all love you to bits.’
‘So what will happen?’ Claire could barely ask. ‘How will they find out?’
‘The hospice will contact them. Tell them I’ve slipped away in my sleep. Even if I go out screaming in agony.’
Claire put her head on the table and covered it with her arms.
‘I can’t bear it,’ she sobbed.
‘Tell me the alternative.’ Isobel had gathered her composure now. She was resolute. She was the strong one. ‘You tell me a better way, and I’ll consider it. Bearing in mind that one thing’s for sure – I’m going to die.’
But try as she might, Claire couldn’t think of an alternative. There was a warped logic to what Isobel was saying. And as she was the one who was dying, Claire had to respect her wishes.
What she didn’t know then was if Nick would ever forgive her. If he ever found out.
Se
ven
‘This isn’t like our usual suite at the Palace. There’s no lounge.’
Karen stood in the middle of her room, scowling. Colin suppressed his irritation. It was the nicest hotel room he’d seen in a long time, but then after years of five-star opulence he was beginning to appreciate character and understated good taste over showy luxury. Not Karen, though. She needed to be hit over the head with the trappings. This was far too subtle for her.
‘They didn’t have a lounge available,’ he told her. ‘But look at the view. Isn’t it fantastic?’ He walked over to the window and threw it open, breathing in the wonderful fresh air.
Karen ignored him, heaving her imitation Louis Vuitton on to the bed.
‘Chelsey?’ Colin turned to his daughter. ‘Come and look. You can see right out to the sea.’
Chelsey came over, and the two of them leant out. To the right, the estuary opened up on to a wide expanse of ocean that you couldn’t see from ground level, miles and miles of billowing turquoise infinity.
Karen flipped open her suitcase and started rifling through her clothes. She’d brought enough for a week. Women always over-packed, in Colin’s experience, but he wasn’t sure how sequinned leggings and a leopardskin dress were quite going to fit into the surroundings. And by the looks of it, she hadn’t brought any sensible shoes, so his idea of walking the coast path was probably a non-starter.
‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘I forgot my straighteners. I left them on the side at home.’
‘Doesn’t matter. We’re on holiday. At the seaside.’ Colin adopted a cheery sing-song tone that he knew would do nothing to avert the crisis.
Karen shot him a withering look and slammed the lid of her case down.
‘I bet there isn’t a decent hairdresser in this godforsaken place.’
Chelsey slunk away and sat on the corner of the bed looking miserable.
Colin turned away from the window. He couldn’t suppress his annoyance any longer.
‘Are you going to spoil the whole weekend?’ he asked. ‘Only I was hoping—’
Karen stepped back from the bed, throwing her hands in the air in a defensive gesture.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know I’m being a mardy cow. I’m just stressed about work, that’s all. It’s been really tough.’
She tried to smile, and Colin realised that her stress was genuine; that she really was sorry.
‘Why don’t we order up some tea?’ he suggested. But Karen wasn’t going to let it drop.
‘They’re laying people off left, right and centre. Everyone else is doing double the workload. And you can’t moan in case it’s you next. The customers are complaining because the place isn’t run like it should be. They’re all leaving and joining the gym on the other side of town, because they don’t cut corners. And you can’t blame them.’
She was getting tearful. Colin could empathise with her plight. It was happening all over the country. He was proud that he ran a tight ship and hadn’t let anyone go yet. He had a certain amount of natural wastage and he had relied on that to cut his staff numbers down. So far, so good, and he went out of his way to assure his workforce that he would endeavour to keep them in their jobs as long as he could. He wasn’t one to sacrifice people for profit, which was one of the reasons for his success. He got the best working for him because they knew he was a good boss. A philanthropist, he would have been called once.
He couldn’t, however, assure Karen that her job was safe, because he suspected it very likely wasn’t.
‘Look,’ he said kindly, ‘let’s talk about it over dinner, when we can have a nice glass of wine and put the world to rights.’ He turned to Chelsey, who was still sitting on the bed looking miserably down at her lap. ‘Come on. Let’s take a walk down to the harbour while your mum freshens up and gets your stuff unpacked.’
Chelsey looked relieved and jumped up eagerly. Colin suddenly wanted to get away from Karen’s stifling scent, and her even more stifling mood. Maybe he should have booked the Palace instead? But no – he’d chosen Pennfleet for Chelsey. This weekend was supposed to be about her, after all, not her mother.
Just after four o’clock, Trevor and Monique Parfitt came in through the door of the Townhouse, reeking of money.
Actually, they reeked of Gucci – Envy for her, Guilty for him, which they had bought jointly the last time they were in Harrods. But the fact that they weren’t short of a bob or two was screamingly obvious. And the fact that they didn’t want anyone to miss that fact was screamingly obvious too.
They were both deeply tanned. Trevor was tall, shaven-headed and built like the proverbial. He was wearing a black trouser suit with a white silk T-shirt underneath that clung to his overworked pectorals. He wore suede loafers with no socks; a thick gold chain nestled round his neck and the predictable Rolex was on his wrist. His wife Monique was a diminutive size eight beside him, dressed in a white trouser suit with nothing underneath, showing off an impressive décolletage. Her four-inch heels and bouffant mane of platinum white brought her up to about five foot three. She was immaculate, but the overall impression was spoilt slightly by the fact that she was chewing gum.
They both wore sunglasses perched on their heads, Prada for him, outsize Chanel for her.
‘Mr and Mrs Parfitt,’ gushed Angelica, moving out from behind the reception desk with a smile to shake their hands.
‘Angelica, babe,’ Trevor beamed. ‘You’re looking as gorgeous as ever.’
‘Thank you. And you both look very well.’
‘We’ll be all the better for a weekend here. Now, tell me, has Luca sorted valet parking for this place yet? Only I’ve left the Merc outside on the double yellows.’
‘Well, I’m afraid we haven’t,’ said Angelica. ‘But if you wait a moment, I’ll get Ben to bring your cases in . . .’
She waved at Ben, who surged forward on her signal.
‘. . . then I’ll see if I can find someone to park it.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Mrs Parfitt. ‘Trevor will do it. I told him, this isn’t that sort of a hotel. He should know by now.’
Trevor shrugged. ‘You know what a perfectionist I am. And if I’ve told Luca once – if we want five stars, we need valet parking. People expect service.’
Angelica nodded in agreement. ‘If you could just wait two seconds I’ll tell Claire you’re here. You’ll be all right outside for a minute while you unload.’
Angelica disappeared into the back office, where Claire was doing the wages for the weekend staff.
‘Trevor and Monique have arrived,’ she whispered. ‘You should see the diamonds on her.’ She circled her thumb and forefinger and put them by her ear. ‘They can’t be real, but I bet they are.’
Claire stood up. She looked weary, thought Angelica. Obviously the strain of the unexpected arrival was getting to her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and walked out into the reception area with a welcoming smile.
‘Trevor. Monique.’ She held out her hand to be shaken, but Trevor wasn’t having any formality. He grabbed her in a big bear hug.
‘Claire. Babe. I can’t tell you how excited we are. And you’ve organised the weather for us.’
‘Well, we try to please,’ gasped Claire, wriggling out from his grasp and going to air-kiss Monique. ‘Has Angelica arranged for your luggage to be brought in?’
‘Ben’s just bringing it,’ Angelica told her.
Claire turned to see Ben struggling in with an enormous pair of matching suitcases.
Trevor held out his key fob and a twenty-pound note. ‘Here you go, mate. You can park it for me. It’s insured for anyone. And don’t forget to put the roof up.’
Ben looked at the keys in horror. ‘Um . . . actually, I can’t drive. I’m only sixteen.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Angelica stepped forward and held out her hand.
‘Do I trust a woman with my motor? It’s top of the range, you know.’ Trevor twinkled at her, dangling the keys just out of reach.
Angelica’s eyes widened slightly.
Monique smiled fondly. ‘He doesn’t mean it, love. It’s just his way.’
‘Of course I don’t. My Monique’s a better driver than I am any day of the week. She’s got patience.’
Trevor dropped the keys into Angelica’s outstretched palm just as Luca came through the bar with a wide smile.
‘Trevor! Monique.’
In the flurry of overexcited greetings, hand-shaking and kissing, Angelica slipped away unnoticed.
The car was parked on the pavement, a Mercedes SL convertible in gleaming cherry red that made her mouth water. She opened the driver’s door and slid inside. It smelled delicious, of leather and newness, even if the seatbelt did reek of Trevor’s aftershave. She nestled into the butterscotch hide with glee, enjoying the luxurious way it moulded itself around her bottom, then ran her hand over the sleek dashboard, admiring the layout, the high-tech state-of-the-art instruments, the steering wheel.
She put the keys into the ignition and looked around her for a moment, trying to recall Jeff’s instructions.
What she hadn’t told Trevor Parfitt was that she hadn’t actually passed her driving test. She’d had a few lessons, and been out for some practice with Jeff in his van. He was incredibly patient with her, bless him. There was no wincing or hysteria, just a measured calmness combined with meticulous instruction. He had been a driving instructor in a former life, and had told her she was a very competent driver, a natural, so Angelica felt quite confident that she could handle the Merc.
Moments later, the engine was purring. She flicked the indicator, slid the car into first and pulled away from the pavement, driving carefully up the high street towards the car park, enjoying the envious and admiring glances of passers-by. She was oozing with excitement, the thrill of it all. The glamour, the power, the naughtiness. She pressed the play button on the sound system and Elton John burst out – it wouldn’t have been her choice, but it didn’t matter. The music swirled round her, the bass reverberating through her body.
She suppressed the urge to scream with excitement. She was smiling from ear to ear. The entrance to the car park appeared on her right. She started to slow down, disappointed that her adventure was going to come to such an abrupt end, then met the eye of a man who was giving her a look of pure envy.
The Long Weekend Page 10