‘She didn’t sit her exams in the end,’ he was told. ‘No one knows what happened to her. She just disappeared.’
They lost her, their baby girl.
A week before she was due to give birth, Wendy couldn’t feel the baby kicking any more. The midwife’s calm reassurance that it was quite common in the last stage of pregnancy did nothing to soothe her worry.
‘The baby’s probably resting,’ Tony told her. ‘Ready for the big journey.’
He could sense Wendy’s disquiet. And when they finally went to the hospital, her worst fears were realised. They couldn’t hear the heartbeat because there was no heartbeat. The baby inside her was dead. She still had to deliver her, though. A proper full-blown labour, with all the concomitant pain. Tony didn’t understand why they couldn’t deliver it by Caesarean – surely that was more humane? – but it wasn’t hospital policy.
They held her for an hour afterwards, their baby daughter. She was unbelievably perfect. A rosebud mouth under a button nose. A shock of dark hair. Tiny fingers that Wendy curled round her thumb, before the midwife took her away in the yellow blanket they had chosen only the week before, together with her name, Rosalind.
Tony knew he had to be strong. If it was devastating for him, how much worse must it be for Wendy, who had felt the baby inside her for all those months; who had nurtured her. The tragedy made him realise how much he loved his wife, for her strength, her dignity, her quiet but contained grief. From that day on, he shut his mind to what Marina might be doing. He allowed himself no fantasy of a clandestine reunion. Wendy didn’t deserve his treachery. She deserved his devotion.
Over the years, he wondered if he had paid for those few months of madness with Rosalind’s death. He had never quite been able to scrub the shame from his mind. The grubbiness of it all crept up on him when he least expected it, making him squirm. He’d been reckless, self-indulgent, irresponsible. Wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels. At the time, he had managed to persuade himself that it was a love story, but no – it was the sordid tale of a randy art teacher taking advantage of his star pupil. Classic tabloid fodder. In his darkest moments he imagined the headlines if Marina ever decided to come clean, and the fear squeezed his guts. Would he be arrested, prosecuted, imprisoned?
Eventually, the fear faded. The trail went cold. There would be no evidence, only circumstantial. But now, as he stood at the window looking out on to the view that had given him and Wendy so much pleasure over the years, he realised that his ugly past had caught up with him. And there was evidence all right. DNA evidence. Living, breathing proof of every fuck he’d had with Marina. But he hadn’t been able to acknowledge it to Laura. Of course he hadn’t.
As he took in great gulps of fresh air to quell his nausea, he saw Wendy coming back along the road. He watched her climbing the steps with her long, easy strides. The striped bag containing her swimming costume and a towel was across her lean, athletic body, kept that way by the daily ritual of a swim in the sea. In her hand was the basket containing the things she had bought from the market: fresh olives, perhaps, a loaf of stoneground bread, coffee beans.
He stood back from the window, not wanting her to see him, not wanting her to raise her hand in greeting.
How could he tell her? How could he tell her that, in the same year their daughter had been stillborn, another girl had come into the world, a girl that he had fathered? It was unbearable to think of her grief, the grief she had thought she shared with him, but which she would now have to shoulder alone.
No. That part of his life had to stay in the shadows. No matter how enticing it was to get to know his daughter, he had to keep the door firmly locked.
Thank God the girl had seemed convinced by his argument. He had longed for her to go, but he couldn’t be seen to be hurrying her out in case he looked guilty. He had been so relieved when she decided to go back to the hotel. He wouldn’t have been able to bear to spend the afternoon with her, or to see Wendy in the same room.
He heard the front door shut. With dread in his heart, he crossed the room and went down the stairs.
She was in the kitchen, filling the kettle.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked him with a smile. ‘Are you two ready for some more tea? I bought scones from the farmer’s market, and some cream.’
‘Emma had to go,’ he told her. ‘She’s got a migraine. She was practically seeing double. She’s gone back to the hotel to lie down.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’ Wendy busied herself taking her purchases from her bag. ‘She seemed very nice.’
‘Yes, very nice,’ agreed Tony. ‘And not a bad little painter either. But never mind. It means we’ve got the rest of the weekend to ourselves.’
Wendy looked at him. ‘She’s not coming back, then?’
Tony couldn’t meet her eye. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I hope you didn’t go giving her a refund. I know what a soft touch you are.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ The guilt was horrible. It was worse than the guilt he’d felt at the time. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we go out tonight? Nip up the river to the King’s Arms for a crab supper?’
Wendy put her head to one side as she considered his offer.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘That would be really lovely.’
Fourteen
By six that evening, the Townhouse was absolutely buzzing. Half of Pennfleet seemed to have decided to pop in for a drink on the terrace. Mitch the barman was panicking that he might run out of ice, and sent a waiter down to the Spar shop for some spare bags for the freezer just in case. Everyone, it seemed, was in a holiday mood. The sun had brought out the best in them.
It had, however, brought out the worst in Claire. She’d had too much of it, on the deck of the boat and lying on the beach, and combined with unaccustomed daytime drinking she felt totally dehydrated. Two Nurofen and a bottle of water hadn’t dented her headache. She should be smiling and buoyant for her customers. She should be congratulating herself. The Townhouse was at its best. This was when all her hard work came to fruition; when she was rewarded for the effort she put in behind the scenes. But tonight, instead of appreciating it, she was tense. Tense with waiting for the opportune moment. She had to do what she was going to do as soon as she could, but she had to time it right.
Perhaps it had been the coldness of the sea, but while she was under the water, she had seen everything so clearly. Trying to recapture her past was futile. There was absolutely no guarantee that she would find happiness with Nick, and it would certainly cause distress to a lot of people. Staying with Luca was the right thing to do, and she had to make that clear to Nick as soon as she possibly could.
Laura was sitting at a table on the terrace, reading Stieg Larsson and nursing a Sea Urchin. The barman had talked her into it. It was his special cocktail for the bank holiday weekend, and he had wanted a guinea pig, so she had agreed. She was sipping it cautiously – she was a white wine girl usually – but she was enjoying the slightly heady sensation it gave her. It stopped her worrying about Dan. She was back earlier than expected, after all. She didn’t want to phone him to find out where he was. She didn’t want to seem needy. She’d sent him a text saying Having a drink on the terrace. See you soon xx but had heard nothing back. Every time someone wandered over to the railings to look at the view, she looked up to see if it was him. But it was gone six o’clock and still no sign.
And then suddenly he was there, strolling across the deck with a beer in his hand and a smile on his face.
She jumped up to hug him.
‘How did it go?’ he asked, dropping a kiss on to the top of her head.
She was going to play it down. She was just going to tell him the truth, that she’d got the wrong man, then ask him what he’d been up to. She’d wasted enough of Dan’s time going on about it. He must have had a basinful of her banging on about her unknown father.
‘It wasn’t him. I got the wrong end of the stick totally.’
She just about managed a w
obbly smile, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, the emotion of the afternoon hit her and she burst into tears.
‘Hey. Hey, it’s okay . . .’
Dan pulled her to him and hugged her, soothing her as if she was a child. Laura was furious with herself. She’d meant to be so calm and mature about it. She’d meant to laugh it off, pick up her cocktail with a careless shrug, move on. And now everyone on the terrace was staring.
She didn’t want to provide the early-evening entertainment. She brushed away her tears with a shaky laugh.
‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.’
‘It’s okay. It’s cool.’
They sat back down at the wooden table she’d commandeered. Laura gulped some of her cocktail.
‘What’s in that?’
‘Um . . . Campari, vodka, some blue liqueur thing, lime juice, wild hibiscus – it’s called a Sea Urchin.’
‘You be careful.’ Dan looked at it askance. ‘So come on – what happened?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. You don’t want to hear about it. It was just . . . embarrassing.’
‘No, come on. Tell me. I want to know.’
And so, with reluctance, she told him. She found herself crying again when she got to the bit where Tony put her straight, but she was able to laugh at the same time.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. But I didn’t realise how important it was to me. I felt as if I was going to discover the missing piece of the jigsaw at last. Find the person who gave me all the bits of me that aren’t Mum. But I’m no closer to knowing.’ She wiped her tears away. ‘It never used to bother me. But . . .’ She was going to tell him. She was actually going to tell him. The Sea Urchin had loosened her tongue with its syrupy potency. ‘Ever since I met you, I’ve felt the need to know exactly who I am. Because you’re the first person who’s ever really made me think about the future.’ She looked down at her lap, her cheeks flaming. ‘Babies, I mean. And where they come from. And where I came from. Sorry. That’s too much information. Just tell me to shut up.’
She shut her eyes. She didn’t open them, because for all she knew Dan would have done a runner. Men did, didn’t they, if you started babbling about that sort of thing? She’d blown it. She’d totally blown it. She didn’t have a father, and she wouldn’t have a boyfriend now either. Six months, that was how long they’d been together. Not nearly long enough to start that kind of conversation . . .
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and looked straight into his, their velvet greyness softer than ever.
‘That’s a lovely thing to say,’ he told her. ‘But you know – you don’t have to worry. You’re you. You’re not two halves made up of two other people. You’re Laura. You’re yourself. And . . . that’s the person I love.’
‘What?’ Laura stared at him, wide-eyed.
He repeated his words slowly. ‘You’re the person I love.’
‘Oh.’
They blinked at each other, both equally surprised. Dan gave a wry grin.
‘I had no idea I was going to say that.’
‘Nor did I.’ Laura laughed shakily.
‘It’s true, though.’
She took another gulp of her Sea Urchin. Her head really was swimming now. She gazed at him in awe. Dan, with his über-fit body under his Nirvana T-shirt, his kindness, his incredible talent, loved her, ever-so-slightly-neurotic and lacking-in-confidence Laura, who had grown up in the shadow of her mother.
‘You know what we should do now?’ He gave her a cheeky grin and put down his beer. ‘Let’s forget this five-star nonsense. I mean, it looks great and all, but what I really fancy is fish and chips.’
At last Claire saw her chance. Luca was in the kitchen. The stags were gathering in the bar. She could see Gus chatting to Mitch, no doubt about the mysterious alchemy of the mixicologist – Mitch was shaking up his latest concoction, something lethal called a Sea Urchin. For a moment, she smiled. Mitch loved an opportunity to experiment with anything other than the predictable gin and tonics the typical Pennfleet visitor seemed to favour. He had a captive and appreciative audience in Gus.
Then she remembered the task in hand and the smile faded on her lips. This was it. This was her only chance.
She ran up the stairs as quickly as she could. Outside Nick’s door she paused for a moment, remembering standing here less than twenty-four hours ago. She couldn’t think about it. She knocked.
‘Come in.’ The sound of his voice made her heart beat a little faster. Nerves. It was nerves. She turned the handle and walked in.
He was standing by the window with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing jeans, and a pale-blue chambray shirt, untucked. The breeze from the open window brought a trace of Must de Cartier across the room, recently sprayed. It was still sharp. His skin hadn’t yet warmed it; mellowed it, but the scent was so familiar. Claire remembered finding his jumper in her bedroom, just after they split. She’d borrowed it to walk home in one evening. The smell had made her cry. Don’t look back, she reminded herself. Look forward.
‘Hi.’ She was as businesslike as possible. ‘I just came to say . . . I hope you have a great evening tonight. Luca’s put on a really special menu for you. And if there’s anything you want—’
‘Claire.’ Nick cut straight across her as soon as he realised who it was. He walked towards her, his eyes bright with expectation. ‘There’s only one thing I want. You know that.’
‘Yes. Well. About that too. Um . . .’ She fixed a bright smile on to her face. ‘I know we had a bit of a moment yesterday. I think we got slightly carried away. But as far as I’m concerned, it didn’t happen.’
Nick stared at her.
‘A bit of a moment?’ He repeated her words back to her.
‘Yeah. Just for old times’ sake. It didn’t actually mean anything.’ Claire said it as if she did that kind of thing all the time.
‘How can you say that?’
‘Look, it was lovely and everything, and amazing to see you, and great to . . . bury the hatchet after all this time . . .’ Why couldn’t he get the message? This was excruciating.
‘Bury the hatchet?’ Nick echoed her again. ‘Is that what you call it? Claire, it was momentous. It was . . . the most important thing that’s ever happened to me.’
‘No,’ said Claire. She had to be firm. ‘No, it wasn’t. You’re investing too much into it. It was a quick bonk between two people who once meant a lot to each other.’
He looked at her in disbelief.
‘But you still do. Mean a lot.’
‘No, Nick. I’m a different person now. There can’t be anything between us. You’re getting married, and so am I. To the people who love who we are now. And that’s the way it’s got to be.’
‘Is it?’ His eyes bored into her. ‘There’s no law that says you have to marry the person you are engaged to. People break off their engagements all the time. And everyone survives. We could walk out of here, you and me. Together. Luca and Sophie would survive.’
Claire flinched at the sound of their names.
‘Please. Don’t make this difficult.’ She tried to be brisk. ‘You should be downstairs. Your friends are waiting. And I need to get back to work.’
Nick folded his arms. She wasn’t going to fob him off that easily, she realised.
‘Is it because I can’t offer you all this?’ he asked. ‘Is it because I can’t give you a five-star hotel and a white yacht and—’
‘No!’ cried Claire. ‘You know me better than that.’
‘Yes. I do. And I know this isn’t the real you. You’re playing a part. That smarmy, jumped-up playboy isn’t the man for you.’
‘There’s no need to bring Luca into this.’ Claire’s tone was harsh, but she had no choice. ‘Please. I was hoping we could part friends. Unlike last time. You could have found me if you’d really wanted to, all those years ago.’ She cringed as soon as the words left her mouth. It was a mistake, flinging that accusation at him. It made it
seem as if she still cared.
‘Your father made it very clear you didn’t want to be found.’
She put up a hand.
‘I don’t want to rake it all up. Let’s just move on, shall we?’
There was a silence that seemed to go on for ever. The two of them stood in the stillness of the room. From outside they could hear the excited chatter and babble of people enjoying themselves. It seemed like another world.
Finally Nick held out his hand.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It was good to catch up with you, Claire. And I wish you every happiness in your new life.’
His tone was entirely neutral. Neither of them smiled as she took his hand and shook it.
‘Me too,’ she echoed. ‘Every happiness . . .’
And she turned and left the room.
Dan and Laura sat on the harbour wall, scoffing scalding-hot chips and watching the last of the boats coming in for the evening.
‘I want to show you something tomorrow,’ said Dan, squirting another sachet of ketchup over his chips. Laura had never met anyone who ate so much ketchup. Or anybody who ate so much and managed to stay so skinny.
‘What?’
‘Surprise,’ he said with his mouth full.
‘Something you found today?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Seals?’ There were supposed to be seals further down the coast.
He shook his head, smiling.
‘Puffins?’
‘I’m not telling!’
She nudged him. ‘Spoilsport.’
‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
Laura frowned, wondering what on earth it could be.
Dan crumpled up his chip wrapper.
‘Do you want to finish mine?’ she asked. ‘I’m stuffed.’
He took them off her and devoured them while she looked out to sea.
‘It’s perfect,’ she sighed, as the fiery orange blob of the sun inched its way downwards.
‘Perfect,’ he agreed. ‘I always forget how nice it is to get out of London.’
They both sat in silence, watching the light bounce off the water, a gentle breeze dancing round them. Laura felt calm. She didn’t need to know who her father was. Of course she didn’t. She had Dan. She slid her arm round his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. She loved him, she realised, with his down-to-earth attitude. He didn’t need to impress anyone. He knew what he wanted. And that was why she felt so safe. She could trust him. She knew where she was with him. He didn’t play games.
The Long Weekend Page 24