In the bar, she could see Nick’s stag party. They were an eligible bunch by anyone’s standards – all early thirties, all confident and successful but not showy. Claire was fairly sure they would stick to their promise not to get rowdy, but it was plain they were up for a good time. They weren’t eating at the Townhouse tonight; they were saving that for their celebratory dinner tomorrow night. Instead they had booked supper at a pub a couple of miles up the river that Luca had recommended.
Claire brought over a plate of complimentary canapés for them to try – Stilton and chutney rarebits, rosemary drop scones with goat’s cheese, and crab cakes with chilli and lime mayonnaise, all done in miniature but the flavours robust and gutsy.
One of them stood up to greet her.
‘Hi – I’m Gus. The best man? I think we spoke on the phone.’ He introduced the rest of the party to her quickly, a predictable roll call of Wills and Jamies and Tobys. Then he noticed Claire eyeing up the mojitos lined up on the table in front of them. ‘Don’t worry – this isn’t going to get out of hand. It’s just an ice-breaker.’
With his curly brown hair and freckles, Gus didn’t even look old enough to be served alcohol. Claire wondered if Nick had hinted anything to him about his relationship with her. She smiled reassuringly.
‘You are allowed to have fun,’ she told him. ‘Just . . . no vomiting or nudity. Preferably.’
‘No nude vomiting,’ Gus promised her solemnly. ‘We’re just waiting for the groom. He’s having a shower.’
‘One more week of freedom,’ said one of the others. ‘Poor bugger.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Gus, chiding him. ‘Sophie’s a doll. They’re going to be the perfect couple.’
Everyone laughed.
Except Claire. An image suddenly came into her head of the little church at Mimsbury, of Nick standing at the altar with Gus as the congregation watched a beautiful bride walk down the aisle, and Nick turning to look at her adoringly.
She put down the plate of canapés hastily.
‘Enjoy these on the house,’ she managed, and walked away from the table, knowing they would find her abrupt departure strange. But she couldn’t hear any more. As quickly as she could, she bolted into the cloakroom that served the dining room and locked herself into a cubicle. Then she put the loo seat down and sat on it, resting her whirling head in her hands.
The weeks after Isobel revealed the final part of her plan to Claire were terrible. She found the strain of pretending that everything was normal almost unbearable, while Isobel seemed able to carry on as if nothing was wrong.
From time to time Nick wondered why it was that Claire seemed so withdrawn and tired.
‘Is it Dad?’ he asked. ‘Is he driving you too hard at work? I know he expects a lot of people, but you only need to tell him if it’s too much. He doesn’t know he’s doing it.’
Claire didn’t know what to say. She loved working at Melchior Barnes. She didn’t find it stressful at all. But it was easier to blame that pressure than to tell Nick the truth, although several times she came close. Then she would remember that it was nearly Christmas. She couldn’t ruin Isobel’s last Christmas, she told herself.
And all the while she prayed and hoped for some miracle, some reprieve. Of course there was none, and before she knew it, Christmas Day had arrived. She woke with a sore throat, a muzzy head and a heavy heart, but dragged herself out of bed for her parents’ sake. She knew they had been concerned about her recently, and she didn’t want to spoil Christmas morning for them, especially as she was going over to the Mill House after lunch.
They sat in the kitchen in their dressing gowns, eating bacon sandwiches and drinking Nescafé. It was a million miles away from the scene Claire knew would be unfolding at the Mill House – there would be smoked salmon and scrambled egg, champagne, carols from King’s College, Cambridge on the CD player, real coffee, a properly laid breakfast table – but for the first time since she had met the Barneses, she longed to stay at home all day. She felt safe with her parents, who, despite all their shortcomings, would never have forced her into the situation she was in. If they knew of her pact with Isobel, they would be horrified. They wouldn’t understand at all. Her parents never pretended. It just wasn’t in them. Perhaps this denoted a lack of imagination, but at least you knew where you were with them. Always.
Claire was incredibly touched by their present – they gave her a very generous cheque to redecorate her bedroom.
‘There’s no point in us doing it,’ her mum told her. ‘We wouldn’t have a clue what you wanted. But we want you to make the room your own. We haven’t done much to the place since we moved in.’
‘I’ll give you a hand with the painting,’ her father went on. ‘We could have it walloped out in a weekend.’
The numbers on the cheque went all blurry when she looked at them, especially when she remembered all the times she had felt resentful at how little care her parents seemed to give to their surroundings in comparison to Gerald and Isobel.
She was due to go over to the Mill House at three o’clock, but her heart was filled with dread at the prospect. How could she sit there amongst the baubles and glitter, knowing this was very probably Isobel’s last Christmas with her family, while they carried on with the festivities oblivious?
She wouldn’t go, she decided. She had the beginnings of a cold. It wouldn’t be fair to spread her germs. She called and left a message on the Mill House answerphone to say she wasn’t well, but the Barneses were having none of it. They phoned her three times to see where she was – they were waiting for her to come over and open her presents before lunch, which they always had in the late afternoon. At half past four, Nick came and knocked on the door.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘It’s just a cold. No one minds. Come on. A couple of glasses of bubbly and you won’t feel a thing. Bring your parents too, if you’re worried about leaving them.’
‘It’s not that,’ sniffed Claire.
‘Then what? Come on. Mum’s done you a stocking.’
And despite her protests, Claire found herself route-marched back to the drawing room at the Mill House, where Gerald poured her a glass of champagne and Isobel handed her a red velvet stocking filled with enticing packages. ‘I never get to buy girl things,’ she said. ‘I’m sick to death of buying aftershave and socks and things with batteries. Don’t get excited – it’s full of rubbish really.’
Claire was totally overwhelmed. Ten minutes later she was surrounded by shreds of silver gossamer paper and more presents than she knew what to do with: a beaded purse, sheepskin slippers (the floors at the Mill House were freezing in winter), lacy tights, a Jilly Cooper paperback, a bottle of Romance by Ralph Lauren . . .
‘And this is from me,’ said Gerald. It was her very own Riedel wine-tasting glass. He jumped up to open a bottle, hiding the label from her and pouring her an inch of burgundy.
‘Tell me what you think of that,’ he commanded.
Claire burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to blub. ‘I don’t feel awfully well . . .’
She fled the room, locking herself in the downstairs loo. She had to get it together, for Isobel’s sake. Isobel was behaving as if nothing in the world was the matter. How on earth did she find the strength, Claire wondered, knowing this was the last Christmas she would spend with her husband and her beloved boys?
Even in the loo, Claire couldn’t escape Isobel’s presence. The room summed her up so perfectly. It was painted a deep dusty Jaipur pink. An ancient chandelier hung from the ceiling, the droplets sparkling and spinning. The towels were thick and soft; the soap a thick creamy brick scented with lavender. She thought of her own parents’ downstairs loo. Sterile, empty. A ratty old towel that was rarely taken away to be washed. A cracked piece of supermarket soap, the lines engrained with dirt. The only sign that anyone had given any thought to decoration was an outdated calendar from the Lake District. She had no idea where it had come from. Her pa
rents never went on holiday. Suddenly she wished she was back with them. The kitchen at home this morning had seemed so safe.
She put the lid down on the loo seat, sat down and rested her head against the wall. On the opposite wall was a photo collage, of the kind so beloved by the English middle classes. She had seen several at the houses of Nick’s friends. It was a perfect timeline of the Barneses’ life. Fat, happy babies rolling on rugs. Three tow-haired children frolicking in the garden. Cricket matches. Skiiing holidays. Parties. And always amongst them, Isobel. Beautiful, smiling, full of life and love, her eyes alive with the joy her family gave her.
Claire had never seen her own mother look like that. Carefree. Besotted. Generous of spirit. Her mother never let go. Never gave any indication that people really mattered to her.
A hard lump rose in her throat as she wondered if she would sacrifice her own mother for Isobel. It would certainly cause less grief. If you could quantify grief. She pushed the thought away, hating herself for even having it, because she knew it was selfish. Because if it was her mother who was dying, she would at least have a chance of happiness with Nick. She and her father would be sad, of course, but . . .
She didn’t want to think about it. It just wasn’t fair, to compare the effects of one person’s death with those of another, as if anyone was more important than anyone else just because they happened to have more children, or appeared more loving. And anyway, she knew her mother loved her. She just didn’t have Isobel’s flamboyance.
After five minutes, Nick knocked on the loo door.
‘Claire? Are you okay?’
She edged her way out. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what the matter is. Christmas always freaks me out a bit.’
‘And you feel guilty.’ Nick looked at her knowingly.
Claire stared back at him. Did he know something? How could he know something?
‘About what?’ she stammered.
‘About not being with your parents, of course.’
Claire rubbed her hands over her face. Her head was pounding. She shouldn’t have had so much champagne, but at the Mill House your glass just refilled itself. She thought for a moment she was going to keel over.
Nick grabbed her.
‘Maybe you should lie down.’
‘Nick,’ she blurted. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t bear it any more.’
‘What?’
She had to tell him. The burden was too enormous. She couldn’t keep it to herself a moment longer.
At that moment Isobel came out of the drawing room into the hallway.
‘Claire, darling – you look ghastly. Come with me. You need a Lemsip with honey and a double dose of vitamin C. Nick, we need some more logs on the fire. Would you?’
And before either of them knew it, Claire had been whisked off to the kitchen, where Isobel made her the prescribed Lemsip.
‘I can’t do this.’ Claire was desperate.
‘You have to.’ Isobel drizzled manuka honey from a spoon into the cup. ‘This is how it should be,’ she told Claire firmly. ‘We’re all having a lovely time. A Christmas to remember. What would be the point of blowing it all apart?’
Claire took the steaming mug.
‘How can you be so . . .?’
Cheerful. Glamorous. Unaffected. Buoyant. Carefree.
But Isobel’s answering smile was bleak.
‘Inside,’ she told Claire, ‘I’m an absolute mess. But I’ll have all the time in the world to fall apart when the moment comes.’
New Year’s Day. Claire felt sick when she thought about it. In the meantime, she had to step up to the plate. She had to match Isobel’s dauntless spirit. She drank the Lemsip, had another glass of champagne, and pasted on a smile. That night she held on to Nick in bed as tightly as she could, drenched in sweat and dread. She was going to lose him. She could feel it coming.
By New Year’s Eve, she was still streaming with cold. All day she helped with preparations for the party. She could barely look Isobel in the eye, or any of the rest of the family. Luckily she had her cold to blame for her deflated mood. She put on the thigh-skimming black lace dress Isobel had bought her, and the stretchy knee-length boots, and the chandelier earrings.
‘You look . . . incredible,’ said Nick.
She managed a wan smile. ‘You look amazing too.’ She turned away before he could see the tears in her eyes. The boys were wearing black tie; they all looked devastatingly handsome. She couldn’t bear to think how proud Isobel would feel of them all.
She managed to get through the evening somehow. There were so many people, and she kept herself busy by topping up drinks and passing round canapés. As the hands crept towards midnight and the excitement of the millennium grew, she crept into the kitchen – everyone was crowding round the clock in the hall. Prince’s ‘1999’ was playing at full blast as the mood reached fever pitch.
Claire curled herself up in the squashy armchair by the Aga. She felt almost as if Isobel had offloaded all her guilt and grief on to her, and she was carrying it round like a surrogate mother incubating a big ball of pain that was just going to grow and grow and grow. Of course, Isobel must be suffering, but it was Claire who was going to have to deal with the aftermath. Claire who would be left with the fallout, mopping up everyone else’s pain and anguish. The pain and anguish that Isobel was so deftly avoiding.
She could hear the countdown to midnight. The uproarious bellow of a roomful of people moved by the momentousness of the occasion, the dawn of a new millennium. All the optimism of a fresh year, but a thousandfold. The future was bright for them all. The slate clean. The year 2000 – a chance to start again and make a difference.
She should get up and go and join them. Nick would be looking for her. He would want to kiss her on the stroke of midnight. It should have been a perfect moment for the two of them, young and in love. But she couldn’t kiss him with the burden of the secret she carried.
She couldn’t stay in hiding either.
She opened the kitchen door and stepped into the hallway. It was crammed with guests, all watching the minute hand of the grandfather clock as it jerked to join the hour, both pointing vertically to twelve. As midnight struck, a mighty cheer rose. There was the sound of champagne corks popping, party blowers hooting, a rousing drunken chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ as people hunted for their loved ones and embraced them and streams of party-popper ribbons flew into the air.
She could see Isobel across the room. She had lost so much weight, she looked like a twelve-year-old girl. But she was beautiful nonetheless, in a silver sequinned dress. She looked as if she was having the time of her life, partying as though she hadn’t a care in the world, though Claire knew she’d spent most of the afternoon asleep to give herself the energy to get through the evening. She watched as Isobel pulled Gerald to her and kissed him, the deep kiss of a couple who meant the world to each other. Then she looked for her sons through the fray, grabbing Felix and hugging him tight, reaching out for Shrimp’s hand and drawing him towards her, all the while looking for Nick, who was looking for Claire.
She was standing in the cloakroom doorway as he grabbed her.
‘Where’ve you been?’
He scooped her up, pulling her into his arms and off her feet, kissing her as if his very life depended on it. She shut her eyes for a moment, wishing this was real, wishing their future could be the happy one they surely deserved. When she opened them, Isobel was next to her, waiting patiently for the chance to wish her son a happy New Year, and Claire stepped aside and watched as they hugged, mother and son.
And then Isobel turned to her and slid her arms around her neck, and she breathed in the smell of crushed violets.
‘This is how it should be,’ Isobel was whispering urgently into her ear. ‘This is just how it should be, Claire. Thank you.’
She felt Isobel’s lips on her cheek, dry and warm. She wanted to push her away, scream at her; scream the truth to everyone. She didn’t want to be the keeper of the secret any
more. In one moment, she could share it with the entire party, spread the burden amongst the guests and be free of its malignant grip.
Yet that wouldn’t change what was going to happen. It wasn’t going to halt the dreadful disease and grant Isobel a reprieve. And in that moment Claire realised that Isobel was right. It was about damage limitation. What good would knowing the truth bring to this houseful of joyous guests, who were dancing and singing and carousing and celebrating the dawn of a new era? What right did she have to deprive Gerald, and Felix and Shrimp and Nick, of an untainted memory of this historic moment?
Nick was looking down at her. He took her face in his hands.
‘You’re crying,’ he teased her. ‘You soppy thing.’
She hadn’t realised that her eyes were brimming with tears. She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She looked at the clock.
One minute past midnight, and it was already the worst year of her life.
On New Year’s Day, she had stayed in bed, shivering under the covers, using a hangover combined with her cold as an excuse. She couldn’t bear to watch Isobel saying goodbye to Gerald and the boys, hugging them for the last time as the taxi waited outside, supposedly to take her to the airport but in reality taking her to the hospice. Instead, she had curled up in a ball under the duvet, trying to block out the awful image of Isobel’s last wave to her family as she drove away to die . . .
Now, staring at the limestone floor of the cloakroom, Claire felt sick at the memory. All the guilt and the horror had been stirred up again. But they were nothing compared to one overriding realisation.
She had thought herself healed. She had thought herself happy with Luca. She thought she’d moved on and left the memories behind her. But it was as if the intervening years had never happened. Her feelings were as strong as they ever had been. She leant her head against the wall in despair.
She was still in love with Nick.
And he was about to get married.
She had to go and find him. She had to tell him he couldn’t stay here. Either that, or she would have to leave the hotel for the duration of the weekend, but short of feigning appendicitis, that just wasn’t possible. No, Nick would have to make his apologies and make himself scarce. Then she would be able to deal with the weekend; with Luca and Monique and Trevor. Tonight’s meeting was vitally important, but with Nick under her roof, she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t operate, couldn’t converse. She needed to be on top of her game. She and Luca needed to come across as a team.
The Long Weekend Page 12