‘Didn’t you have another?’
‘No. She couldn’t. Wendy couldn’t . . .’
‘That’s so unbelievably sad.’
‘Yes.’ Tony took another fortifying slurp of vodka. He didn’t think he had ever told anyone about this part of his life before. ‘That’s why I didn’t want to acknowledge you. Because if Wendy ever found out that I had a child by someone else, it would break her heart all over again. And she doesn’t deserve that.’
‘No,’ agreed Laura. ‘No, I can understand that.’
She was turning everything over in her mind.
‘But . . . the fact remains. You must be my dad.’
‘I guess so.’
They looked across the table at each other.
‘I’d love to get to know you, Laura. You’re my daughter – let’s assume so, at least – and I treasure that. I want to know everything about you. But it’s very difficult. I can’t let you into my life. I just can’t.’
Laura looked down at the table. Tony feasted his eyes on her features, searching for signs of Marina, signs of himself, and couldn’t help wondering how much she would have shared with the baby girl he lost all those years ago. They’d be almost the same age.
He knew Wendy still did the calculations. That she would know, exactly, if he asked her, how old her daughter would have been today. Maybe she had even looked at Laura and thought that’s about how old Rosalind would have been. The notion almost took his breath away.
I want to know about you too.’ She looked up, squinting in the glare of the sun. ‘I want to know about the other half of me. But of course I understand. I don’t want Wendy to get hurt.’ She stirred her drink with the celery stick. ‘Dan and I might be buying a cottage here . . .’
‘Really?’
‘Well, it’s early days . . . but we thought that instead of buying a flat in London, we’d get somewhere to escape to. Rent it out as a holiday let to make some money.’
They looked at each other for a moment, scanning for similarities.
I’ve got a daughter, thought Tony. Someone is going to carry on my genes.
I’ve got a dad, thought Laura. At last I can find out who I am.
‘We’d be able to see each other if you do buy a house here,’ he said finally. ‘As long as we’re careful.’
Laura looked across the terrace to see Dan walking towards them. She held out her hand, drew him to her.
‘Tony, this is Dan. Dan – this is my dad.’ Her heart gave a little jump. She had never said those words before in her life.
Dan grinned easily and sat down. ‘How’s it going?’
It was a rhetorical question. Dan never invaded anyone’s privacy. But Tony replied nevertheless.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Really . . . good.’
Dan looked at Laura. ‘I put an offer in on the cottage. Told them we’d need some time to get the money together. They’re going to let us know.’
Tony finished his Bloody Mary. ‘I feel like I should order champagne,’ he said. ‘It’s not every day I meet my daughter. But . . .’
He gave a shrug. Someone would see. Someone would mention it to Wendy.
‘It’s okay,’ said Laura. ‘I understand.’
Tony stood up. ‘And I need to go. I was only supposed to be popping out for the paper.’
Laura stood up too. They looked at each other, awkward for a moment, then she gave him a quick hug.
‘I’ll email you,’ she said.
And then he left, turning and raising his hand in a gesture of farewell that to any onlooker said everything, but nothing.
Colin watched as Chelsey walked back through the dining room, arms laden with a Sunday paper and magazine. His pulse rate rose. He felt strangely proud of her, and he was flooded with hope for her future. She was such a vulnerable little thing. He prayed that everything was going to work out.
‘Alison, this is Chelsey,’ he said as she plonked the newspaper on the table in front of him.
Alison smiled and leant towards her. ‘Hello, Chelsey.’
Chelsey didn’t miss a beat. She gave Alison a cursory glance, followed by a bright smile.
‘Hi,’ she said, before sliding on to the banquette next to Colin. She flipped a pink and sparkly magazine on to the table in front of her, tucked her hair behind her ears and began to read.
Colin looked around the dining room. He supposed everyone thought they were a normal family unit. Although perhaps not, if they’d seen him in the dining room with Karen the night before. Maybe they were all wondering what the story was. Trying to figure out which of the women was his wife. Either way, he didn’t care. Everyone had secrets. Some darker than others.
He turned to Alison.
‘Chelsey and I were planning to go to the beach today, if you want to come.’
Alison nodded. ‘That sounds lovely.’
‘And we also thought we’d stay on here for another couple of days.’
It might be easier, he thought, if Chelsey and Alison got to know each other on neutral territory, while he sorted out the legal side of things
Alison looked doubtful. ‘I haven’t brought anything with me. No change of clothes or toiletries. I even had to buy a toothbrush from the Spar.’
Colin shrugged her objection away.
‘We can pick some stuff up in town. There’s some nice shops.’
Chelsey glanced up from her magazine. She looked puzzled.
‘Are you his wife, then?’
She’d obviously been turning things over in her mind.
Colin looked awkward.
‘Yes,’ said Alison. ‘I’m Mrs Turner. But you can call me Alison, if you like.’
Chelsey considered this offer, then shrugged. ‘Okay,’ she replied, and went back to her magazine.
Colin and Alison looked at each other.
‘I’ll have to phone and cancel my tennis match for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I won’t be very popular, I don’t suppose . . .’
Trevor and Monique had set off on The Blonde Bombshell after an early breakfast. They wanted to take the boat further round the bay and explore some of the other towns on the Cornish coast. They’d moored in a tiny little harbour and got out the Sunday papers and a bottle of wine. The boat rocked gently in the water as they sat in peaceful companionship. In an hour or so they would head for shore and find somewhere for lunch.
After a while, Trevor looked up to see Monique standing on the port side of the boat. She was looking at her bloody phone again. He put down his paper and came over to her.
‘There’s no signal here, love.’
‘I know.’ She looked down at the phone. It was positively prehistoric by today’s standards, clumsy and big. ‘But I’ve been thinking . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘I think we’ve come to a turning point in our lives. We’ve got exciting times ahead. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Definitely,’ Trevor agreed.
‘If I’m going to make something of this, I’ve got to accept . . .’ She paused, struggling to find the right words. ‘I’ve got to accept that Jamie isn’t going to come back. I’ve got to stop hoping.’
Trevor could hardly bear to look at the pain that came into her eyes; the way her mouth drooped with grief, just as it had the day they had discovered Jamie had gone. He put an arm around her.
‘You should stop torturing yourself,’ he agreed. ‘You check that thing ten, twenty, a hundred times a day, just in case.’
The phone was symbolic. A talisman. But its hold over Monique had become disproportionate.
‘I just want him to know I’m here.’ Her anguish cut through him. ‘I’m his mum. I just want him to know . . .’
‘He knows, love. He knows that you’re always here for him.’
Trevor had no way of knowing this was true. He had no more idea than she did what Jamie’s state of mind was, but it didn’t cost him anything to reassure her.
Monique was running her fingers over the screen.
‘It’s the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. The last thing I look at before I go to sleep. I know there’s never going to be a message. But I can’t help looking. Just in case.’
Trevor wanted to rip the phone out of her hands and throw it over the edge of the boat. But it had to come from her. Intervention wouldn’t help. It was a step she had to take on her own.
‘He’ll always be able to find us if he wants to,’ he told her. ‘But you should stop torturing yourself.’
‘I know . . .’
‘This is your life, Monique,’ he told her. ‘We don’t get another chance. You need to start living it again. We’ve got so much we can do. I’m so proud of you, and I know you can do great things. But you can’t live like this any more. You have to move on. I know it’s tough, babe.’
Tears glistened on her cheeks. He wanted to wipe them away. He never wanted her to cry again. He couldn’t believe a human being could have so many tears inside them.
The sea stretched endlessly before them, nothing else between them and the horizon. The phone barely made a splash as she dropped it in. Who knew how deep the water was here? Hundreds of feet. How long, Trevor wondered, before it finally settled on the sea bed, burying itself in the sand, where it would stay silent for ever?
He held Monique tight, her slight body shaking with sobs. He wanted to squeeze all his love into her, enough love to fill the gaping hole he knew was still there.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispered. ‘It’s okay . . .’
Sixteen
Brunch morphed seamlessly into Sunday lunch, with barely any time to make the transition. Guests lingering over their pancakes were urged out as politely as possible so the dining room could be laid up again. The chalkboard went up with Sunday’s special: roast rib of beef. They could have booked the restaurant three times over, as optimistic passers-by flooded in to see if there was a table available.
By three o’clock, Claire was exhausted. She wasn’t officially supposed to be working in the restaurant, but she liked to oversee it when they were at full capacity. That was the difference between a well-run place and a bad one, how they coped when they were stretched, and an extra pair of eyes could mean a happy customer rather than a disgruntled one.
Things were calmer now. Guests were drinking coffee or finishing their wine. Claire came back out to the reception area, worried that it had been somewhat neglected. There was a young mum fast asleep on the sofa. Claire had seen her and her husband at lunch doing battle with their young baby. Little Plum, at nine months, had the entire restaurant in the palm of her tiny, shrimp-like hand as soon as she arrived. A vision of pink loveliness with a riot of white-blonde curls, dressed in a broderie anglaise blouse and OshKosh dungarees, she had the staff at her beck and call. Her exhausted parents were nevertheless doting. Now her mother was in a postprandial slumber, a copy of Country Life open on her lap.
Plum looked up at Claire from her place on the floor, surrounded by toys and a beaker of juice. She wrinkled her nose and raised her arms. Claire bent down to scoop her up, and as she lifted the warm, soft bundle, something moved deep inside her.
She stood stock still, gazing into Plum’s solemn eyes with awe, confounded.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she laughed, jiggling her up and down. ‘What have you started, you little dollop?’
Plum giggled in response, waking her mother, who jumped to her feet with profuse apologies, mortified to have fallen asleep on her watch.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Claire, handing Plum back to her. ‘You’re supposed to be on holiday.’
‘There’s no such thing as a holiday with babies. Honestly, running a bank was a picnic compared to this.’ The woman’s reply was heartfelt as she rolled Plum on to her back on the sofa and waggled her feet until she shrieked with laughter. The joy her daughter brought her clearly outweighed her exhaustion and the fact that her life had been turned upside down.
As Claire walked away, she tried to ignore the seismic wave that had shaken her to the core. It was too terrifying to confront alone. It hadn’t come from her mind, but from somewhere unknown inside her. A primal urge that she did her best to bury. It was echoing something Trevor had said to her yesterday, about starting a family.
She couldn’t hide it from herself any longer. It was time to face up to the fact that this should be her next priority. As she stood there, the realisation hit her, almost taking her breath away. Was this how it happened to everyone? One day you were going about your business, and the next the urge to procreate swept all other considerations aside. Bloody hell, as if she wasn’t confused enough already, Mother Nature had decided to stick her oar in. How was she supposed to throw motherhood into the equation?
There had been another clue lately, when she’d had a late period. Normally this would have thrown her into a state of panic, and she would have rushed off to the doctor or the chemist for something to allay her fears. Only this time she had felt a sense of calm, even intrigue, and was surprised to find herself disappointed when she finally came on a week late. She hadn’t dwelled on it at the time, but now she pulled it out of her mental filing cabinet as evidence of her train of thought.
She hurried back through the dining room and straight through the double doors into the kitchen. Fred and Loz were winding down with a beer while they did the last of the clearing up.
Luca was writing up the evening menu. He looked up as Claire approached.
‘We need to talk.’
He put down his pen. ‘Sure.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s take a bottle of wine out on to the terrace.’
She shook her head. ‘Not here,’ she said. ‘In private.’
As soon as they walked into their bedroom, more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Claire felt claustrophobic. As she looked round, she realised that her whole life was effectively contained in here: although she and Luca had the run of the hotel and all the benefits that brought, this twelve-by-twelve room was the only bit of space she could call her own, and even then she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t going to be interrupted by a chambermaid or a night porter at any time. A constant supply of fresh, fluffy white towels was no replacement for privacy. If she wanted to gossip with a girlfriend, yes, of course she had staff to bring her any variety of coffee she fancied, with home-made shortbread, but the chances of her confidences being overheard were high. She could never have an off day, or look any other than her efficient best. It didn’t seem to bother Luca, who behaved exactly as he liked and didn’t care a jot what anyone else thought. But Claire found it wearing she realised now.
‘So . . . what is it?’ Luca demanded. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘I want a home,’ she told him. ‘If we’re going to get married, and we’ve got all these grandiose plans, I want us to have a house of our own, filled with our own things; a place where I can be myself.’
Luca shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s perfectly reasonable.’
‘I can’t even have a snarly PMT moment here without raised eyebrows; I can’t come down to breakfast in my pyjamas, turn my music up loud, sing along if I want to, dance if I feel like it. Even leaving a banana skin on the table and having it still there two hours later would be a luxury!’ As she spoke, Claire realised that any trace that she existed was wiped up after her by a crack team of staff eager to prove their housekeeping skills. She had trained them well. So well that a forensic team would find it hard to prove that Claire had even set foot inside the Townhouse.
‘Hey, calm down.’ Luca put his hands on her shoulders, laughing. ‘Where’s all this coming from?’
‘I don’t know!’ She did know. Of course she did. And more important than the house was the other thing. If that didn’t fit into Luca’s life plan, then there was no point. ‘Yes, I do,’ she finished. ‘I want . . . a baby.’
The silence that followed seemed endless. Luca’s face was totally blank.
That was it. She’d thrown down the gauntlet. He was going
to run a mile. Of course he wouldn’t want a baby. He was sniffy about having them in the hotel, let alone letting one invade their life.
And then suddenly, he smiled.
‘That’s amazing,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That’s wonderful,’ he reiterated.
‘But . . . how can we?’ she blurted. ‘With everything that’s going on? A hotel in London . . . running this place . . . And how are we going to afford a house of our own?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Claire.’ Luca picked up her hand. ‘Stop thinking so much about things. Of course you should have a baby. We’ll manage. People do it all the time. It’ll be tough, but anything worthwhile always is.’
He drew her towards him and held her in his arms. ‘We’ve never talked about it properly, but I’ve always just assumed we’d have a family. It’s the natural thing to do. And if now’s the right time, then . . . so be it.’
He stroked her hair. Claire melted into him.
‘I didn’t know I felt like this. It just came over me. I suddenly realised what it was I wanted. I mean, I love the hotel, and of course I’m excited about the London thing, but—’
‘Claire, you don’t have to explain. I get it. A baby. A gorgeous, laughing baby who looks just like you. It’s perfect. We’ll sort all the other stuff out as we go along. It’ll all fall into place.’
He kissed the corner of her mouth, moving his hands over her shoulders, entwining his fingers in her hair. She felt the familiar warmth spreading inside her, and slid her hands round his waist, pushing them up under his shirt, feeling the velvet skin underneath.
‘Maybe we should start practising now,’ he murmured, dropping hot kisses on her neck. They walked backwards towards the bed, falling on to it in a tangle of limbs.
‘What about the hotel?’ she gasped. ‘We should be getting ready for afternoon tea . . .’
‘Bugger the hotel,’ he replied, undoing the buttons on her blouse. ‘Let them eat cake. There’s plenty of it . . .’
Seventeen
The Long Weekend Page 28