Colin picked up his malt. What now? he wondered. What did this mean? Was Alison going to leave him? Or, more to the point, kick him out? Which meant, he supposed, that it would be him and Chelsey against the world. He’d have to find them somewhere to live as soon as possible, just the two of them. Where, he had no idea. Near her school? God, no. That would be near Karen.
Bloody hell, thought Colin. What a mess. And all because he’d been a spineless fool looking for some attention. He wouldn’t make that mistake again in a hurry.
Nick tensed as Luca came over and stood at the head of the table that had been laid for the stags’ dinner out on the terrace. The table looked stunning, and suitably masculine, with pony-skin tablemats, black linen napkins and a phalanx of wine glasses at each place. Instead of flowers there were three squat glass vases each containing a globe artichoke. Storm lanterns held fat pillar candles, which flickered as the evening light began to fade.
The stags sat three each side of the table, which was perpendicular to the deck railings so they could all take advantage of the view. The air was still warm, but a patio heater stood to attention, ready to be turned on as the temperature dropped.
Luca held a piece of paper in his hand. Nick noted how he commanded everyone’s attention just by a mere flicker of a smile. He had an enviable silent authority, thought Nick, that way of asserting that he was the most important person in the room without having to do or say anything.
And he was beautiful. Not feminine in any way, far from it. But the way his features were put together would make even the most macho of men have doubts about their sexuality, if only for a moment. And Nick had seen the eyes of all the women on the terrace drawn to him. No matter how hard they tried to hide it from their dining partners, there was a hunger there. It wasn’t just Luca’s food that was making their mouths water.
Nick didn’t need Claire to explain herself at all. Why would she choose him over Luca, who was blessed with an incredible talent as well as charisma and beauty? Although Nick could sense that he was trouble too. It radiated off him. A man like Luca needed constant attention, adoration and stimulation. You could feel his restless energy; his quest for the next thrill.
He hoped Luca wouldn’t hurt Claire, but he supposed he would never know.
Luca began to speak, his eyes raking up and down the table.
‘Welcome to all of you. This is our first official stag night here at the Townhouse. We’ve always steered away from them, for obvious reasons, but I’m hoping that after tonight we can prove that there is a place for a civilised but sybaritic celebration in anticipation of forthcoming nuptials . . .’
And here his gaze came to rest lightly on Nick.
‘We’ve chosen the menu carefully. We know there’s probably going to be drinking involved, so we wanted to make it heavy enough to soak up the worst of your excesses—’ he grinned round ‘—but without sacrificing the light touch for which we’ve become known. So . . .’
He looked down at his piece of paper.
‘Tonight we’re starting with potted shrimps from Morecambe, which is one of the few things on the menu tonight that won’t be local, although I can promise you that the butter most certainly is. For the main course I had to resist the temptation to serve venison—’ here he paused for a moment, waiting for the penny to drop, and there was a resulting appreciative laugh ‘—but it’s not really the season, so I’ve done my take on porchetta – loin of pork slow-cooked with fennel and rosemary, and served with crunchy garlic potatoes and wilted greens. We’re going to finish up with whisky steamed pudding, which sounds stodgy but which is actually as light as a feather, studded with plump, juicy sultanas and cherries and served with a dollop of Cornish clotted cream laced with – of course – whisky. And if you’re not stuffed to the gills by then, we have a board of local cheeses with quince jelly and a glass of delicious Maury, a French red dessert wine that I think you’ll appreciate.’
He gave a little bow to indicate that he’d finished. Everyone applauded.
‘We’re starting tonight with a Tim Adams Riesling – one of my personal favourites as an aperitif, which will also set the shrimps off to perfection. And before you get stuck in, I’d just like to propose a toast . . .’
He raised his glass, his eyes glittering as he looked straight down the table to Nick.
‘I want to take the opportunity to say thank you for choosing us for your special evening, and to wish you the very best in your new life – if you’d like to bring your wife back here on your first anniversary, there will be a bottle of champagne chilling in the bedroom.’
This announcement was greeted with roars of approval.
‘So with no further ado, please raise your glasses to Nick and . . .?’
He looked enquiringly at Nick.
‘Sophie,’ replied Nick, through gritted teeth.
Luca smiled. ‘To Nick and Sophie.’
‘Nick and Sophie,’ chorused the table, as they knocked back their wine with fervour.
Nick sat with his smile frozen to his face. Fury raged through his veins. That toast had been totally stage-managed by Luca. It was practically a gauntlet. For a moment he thought of turning the table over, grabbing Luca by the throat and throwing him into the middle of it. He’d be a bloody potted shrimp by the time he’d finished with him.
Bastard.
But of course he didn’t. Instead he sat there forcing the food down, almost choking on every mouthful. And he didn’t get drunk. He pretended to, of course, by filling everyone else’s glasses up but missing his own.
He needed to stay sober. He was getting out of here as soon as it was polite. Back home, back to the Mill House, back to Sophie. As soon as he had her in his arms again, everything would be all right.
Under the same stars, a few streets away, Tony woke with a gasp. The moon slid past his window and peered in. He lay there with his heart pounding: the worry, the rich food at dinner, the wine . . . He could barely breathe. What if he was having a heart attack? He tried to relax and calm himself, but the more he tried to do so, the worse he felt.
Especially as a nasty little thought had popped into his head while he was sleeping, and was now flashing like a neon sign. What if Laura went back to Marina and told her she’d met him? He could just picture the scene. ‘You won’t believe what I did at the weekend, Mum. I went to see your old art teacher. I thought he might be my dad.’
He told himself over and over again that of course she wouldn’t. Laura had seemed keen to keep the whole episode a secret. It had been a clandestine operation from the start. Marina had no idea what she was up to, and he didn’t think she was going to go running back to tell her.
But she might do. The frustration of not discovering her father’s identity might get the better of her. She might corner Marina and try and force a confession out of her.
And then what? Oh dear God, then what? If Marina cracked and confessed, Laura would be straight back down to confront him, not quite so enamoured any more, no longer trusting him. And he would have to admit to not wanting to know her. The thought of it made him groan out loud, and beside him, Wendy stirred.
‘You all right?’ she murmured.
‘Too much chocolate mousse and cheese,’ he told her, squeezing her hand. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He saw her smile in the moonlight and drift back off to sleep.
He lay awake, turning his conundrum over and over in his mind until dawn broke and he finally fell, exhausted, into a restless slumber.
Colin knew that his chances of sleeping were nil.
After Alison had left, he went back up to find Chelsey. Together they sat and watched Casualty, because it was her favourite programme, even though he didn’t think it was entirely suitable. But he had the rest of his life to have those arguments with her, he supposed, and he looked away at the gory bits, amazed that she seemed to enjoy them so much. Then he tucked her into bed, and went to his own room and started working out his finances.
; He had to face up to the probability that his marriage was over. The house would have to be sold. There was no need to keep it on now that Michelle and Ryan were no longer at home full time. Unless Alison wanted to stay in it, of course. He didn’t want to force her out, though surely it would be too large for her on her own.
All these questions would have to be addressed.
In the meantime, his pen flew across the pages: addition, subtraction, division, percentages. It kept his mind off the emotion. The fact that tonight, a twenty-year marriage had effectively ended. His naïve dream of a happy ending for everyone was in tatters. So now it was up to him to divide the spoils.
He was, Colin decided, much better at numbers than people.
After Alison fled the Townhouse, she went to find her car in the car park.
As she sat in the driver’s seat, she realised that there was no way she should drive. Her head felt swimmy – whether from the drink or the shock, she couldn’t be sure, but she was definitely over the limit. She couldn’t possibly risk a three-hour drive on the motorway. Yet it was a bank holiday weekend in one of the most popular seaside resorts in England. Where on earth was she going to find somewhere to stay?
She climbed wearily out of her car, grabbing her handbag, and started to walk. She tramped around the streets, her eyes searching for a ‘Vacancies’ sign, pulling the cardigan she had brought round her as the heat of the day vanished and the damp sea air closed in. She was just starting to think that perhaps, after nearly an hour of brisk walking, she had sobered up sufficiently to drive when she saw a sign proclaiming ‘B&B Rooms 2nite!’ outside an unprepossessing thirties semi. She held out little hope for the standards of an establishment that wasn’t fully booked on a night like this, but by now she was exhausted.
Ten minutes later she was installed in the most depressing room she had ever been in. She supposed it matched her mood as she sat gingerly on the bed surveying her surroundings. There were flouncy floral curtains in a bruised pink and purple. A matching counterpane was folded back to show the pillows and sheets underneath, a sickly green brushed nylon. The wardrobe was dark and heavy; the dressing table white with ornate gilt knobs, two of them missing. There was a travel kettle, a brown mug, a small jar of Tesco value coffee and a carton of UHT milk.
Alison remembered the week she and Colin had spent in Koh Samui last New Year. The infinity pool, the freshly prepared tropical fruit, the crisp white linen. The heavenly massages. She had been so content. Michelle and Ryan had been doing their own thing. It was the first time they hadn’t come on holiday with their parents, and Alison had thought this was the start of a new phase in their life. A phase when they could please themselves, after years of worrying about what the children wanted. Not that she had ever minded or begrudged them, but it had been bliss for the two of them.
All that time she had been oblivious to the horrible secret Colin had been hiding.
The room smelled of cheap, harsh cleaning agents and some noxious air freshener. Together with the gin she had drunk on an empty stomach, it made her feel sick. She was overcome by a wave of tiredness, but she wasn’t going to get into the bed. She shuddered at the thought of who might have been in it previously. Instead she lay down on top of it and curled her legs up, clutching the frilly yellow cushion that sat on top of the pillows to her stomach. She heard a noise, then realised that it was her; that she was groaning with pain.
Not the pain of what Colin had just told her, but the realisation that it was all her fault.
Of course it was.
She remembered how she had pushed him away in those dark, dark days. How the very touch of his hand on her had made her want to scream. How her teeth had gritted in bed every time he rolled near her. She had felt as if she was made of cardboard: grey, flat and lifeless.
When she had finally surfaced from the fug, she had been so relieved that Colin was still there and hadn’t run off. She had been grateful for his loyalty. She’d known what a nightmare she’d been to live with, because she’d had to live with herself; with the loathing and hatred that built up to such a pitch inside her that she sometimes punched herself in the stomach, or pinched folds of skin and twisted them hard, or scratched herself till she bled.
What was she going to do now? What were people going to say? Whatever happened, the truth would come out in the end. With a start, she wondered if perhaps people knew already. Had she been the last to find out about Chelsey? Was she a laughing stock?
There was a sour taste in her mouth. The drink had dried it out. She thought she might vomit, and she heaved twice, great dry retches that came to nothing. Sleep was going to be her only refuge. It was the refuge she had taken during her depression; the only escape she’d had from the self-hatred. She shut her eyes against the harsh yellowy light of the bedside lamp – she didn’t want to turn it off – and waited for the sweet relief of oblivion.
The stags crawled up the stairs of the Townhouse not long after midnight, kidding each other about what lightweights they had become, but aware of their promise that their party would not be a rowdy one. By half past, sedated by the sea air and the delicious food and wine they had consumed, they were all asleep,
All, that is, except Nick, who waited for the sound of Gus’s gentle snores before quietly packing his bag, then picking up his shoes in one hand and his keys in the other. He’d text Gus when he got home: ask him to send his apologies to the other guys. He could tell them the truth if he liked. Nick didn’t care. He just had to get out of there. He’d already settled the bill, so he had a clear conscience. The young receptionist had seemed concerned that he was leaving, but Nick didn’t give her any opportunity for conversation.
The little town was eerily silent as he made his way to the car park, in total contrast to the hustle and bustle of the day. He could hear the waves slapping against the harbour wall, the clanking of the buoys, but that was all. He imagined smugglers creeping about under cover of darkness, as stealthy as he was now. As he found his car and started the engine, he worried he was going to wake the whole town up, it sounded so loud.
He put his foot down as he went up the hill that led out of Pennfleet. He was on his way, away from the Townhouse. Away from his past. Away from Claire.
Home to his future wife.
Fifteen
He was gone.
Claire could feel it as soon as she woke up. She had no sense of Nick being near her at all. The hotel felt empty, as did she. It was strange, how someone’s aura could affect you so deeply. How you could develop an instinct for their presence.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw Nick’s conspicuous absence at the breakfast table. The stags were all tucking into the Townhouse’s infamous Sunday brunch – it was quite the place for both tourists and locals to come and laze off their hangovers, and had become something of an institution. The restaurant and terrace were heaving, and a huge table groaned with piles of ricotta pancakes, kedgeree, devilled kidneys and jugs of spicy Bloody Mary.
‘Nick had to go,’ Gus told her awkwardly. ‘They were short-staffed for an event.’
Claire knew, even from her short time working at Melchior Barnes, that it was highly unlikely they didn’t have someone else to call on in an emergency. Gerald certainly wouldn’t expect his son to come back from his stag weekend to hump a few boxes of wine around.
Gus could barely look at her. He knew he’d been instrumental in forcing them apart. But then that was his role as best man, thought Claire ruefully. To make sure the groom got up the aisle whatever happened.
She just smiled. ‘Enjoy the rest of the weekend,’ she told him, and moved swiftly on to talk to the couple at the next table, who were regulars.
‘Look,’ she said to them, and showed off her engagement ring. She tried her best to revel in their delight and congratulations. No, she didn’t know when the wedding was going to be exactly, and yes, of course she was thrilled.
She hoped Gus was watching; that he would be convinced by her perfo
rmance. She was trying to convince herself as much as anyone.
It’s okay, she told herself. You can cope.
And then Luca came out of the kitchen, and started talking to some of the customers. The sun was shining, the hotel was buzzing; they were fully booked for lunch: this was everything they had worked their fingers to the bone to achieve, against the odds.
He caught her eye across the crowded dining room and smiled, and she felt a little green shoot of hope in her heart. They were a team, she and Luca. Of course they were. And they were going to go on to greater things. She had to put what had happened behind her and think about the future.
She looked across the room and smiled back.
Alison slept for a full ten hours. When she woke up, she was surprised to feel calm. And incredibly focused. It was extraordinary, how your subconscious could work while you were asleep. Untangle the worries of the world and lay them out for you so you could see clearly. She had been exhausted last night, and in shock from Colin’s bombshell, but now she felt rested and relaxed.
She left the hideous bed and breakfast as soon as she had been to the loo, washed her face and rinsed out her mouth, then run a comb through her hair. She didn’t think she had ever slept in her clothes in her life. She freshened her breath with a Polo mint, and resolved to go and find a shop to buy a toothbrush and toothpaste. She’d paid for her room the night before, so she didn’t have to speak to anyone before leaving, thank goodness. She wasn’t in the mood to waste her words. She was saving them for Colin.
Outside the day was glorious, the sun burning bright with an infectious charm. She made her way to the centre of the town and found a Spar, where she bought some toiletries and a fresh croissant. She took it down to the harbour and ate it, wishing she had bought two, remembering she had eaten nothing since lunchtime the day before. Then she nipped into the public loo and brushed her teeth, touched up her make-up and squirted Beautiful on to her wrists.
She knew exactly what she had to do. All the self-loathing and doubt of the night before had evaporated. She wasn’t going to let some manipulative, scheming lowlife ruin everything. She wasn’t going to blame herself either. She was simply going to rise to the occasion. The problem, after all, was not going to go away.
The Long Weekend Page 26