The Long Weekend (23 page)

He shivered as a cloud glided in front of the moon and the water below turned black. He walked over to the minibar and pulled out a miniature of brandy. As the fiery liquor hit his throat, he thought about Luca and Claire. He was pretty sure Luca had taken the bait. He would make a lousy poker player, thought Trevor, who had taught himself to read people very well over the years.

No, it was Claire who was the weak link. Claire who had reservations. Claire who needed to be worked on. There was something holding her back. Trevor wasn’t sure yet what it was. He needed to get her on her own; gain her trust in order to allay her fears.

And maybe, just maybe, taking her into his confidence was the way to do it. He looked over to the Provençal sleigh bed, piled high with bedding and pillows and cushions that were as soft as a cloud, where Monique lay as still as Sleeping Beauty. She hated anyone knowing their business. Of course, close friends from the time knew, but anyone they met now, through either business or pleasure, was kept from the truth, and that included Luca and Claire. It wasn’t relevant, argued Monique. There was no reason for people to know. Trevor had always respected her wishes – anything to help her cope – but now he felt the time was right to let Claire into the secret. Monique need never know.

In a room two floors above, Nick sighed and looked at his watch. One thirty-eight. He should have been long asleep by now, but it wasn’t going to happen. He threw back his duvet, got out of bed and stood by the window, watching as the moon slid shyly out from behind a cloud, like a girl appearing from behind a changing room curtain. He thought about leaning out of the window and having a cigarette. It wouldn’t, he knew from experience, set the smoke alarm off. But somehow he didn’t want to break the rules in Claire’s hotel. Maybe he’d go outside, take a walk in the fresh air and clear his head. He’d drunk a fair bit tonight, though not a ridiculous amount by stag-weekend standards. Nevertheless, the melancholy that a surfeit of cocktails, wine and tequila shots often brought was settling in. Melancholy, disconcertion and paranoia.

In the bed next to his, Gus turned, then sat up. Bugger, thought Nick. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

‘What’s up, mate?’

‘Can’t sleep.’

‘You’re not getting cold feet?’

It was a jovial question. Nick didn’t reply. It wasn’t a question of cold feet. It was far more complicated than that.

He looked over at Gus, who was staring at him quizzically. He and Gus had been firm friends for five years. Okay, so they didn’t have the history of someone you’d grown up with, someone you’d been to school with, but they’d done a few business deals together that had required a certain trust. He was pretty certain he could take him into his confidence.

If Felix or Shrimp was here, they might know what to do. They knew the story, after all. But he wasn’t seeing them till Thursday, and he couldn’t call either of them at this time of night, out of the blue.

‘I don’t know what to do, Gus.’

‘Hey.’ Gus swung his legs out of bed. ‘Last-minute nerves. You’d be weird if you didn’t have them. It’s a pretty big step.’

‘It’s not last-minute nerves.’

The tone of Nick’s voice made Gus frown. ‘Then what?’

‘The girl who owns this hotel? Claire?’

‘The pretty one? With the . . .’ Gus indicated lots of hair with his hands. ‘You haven’t got a crush, surely?’

‘She was . . . my girlfriend. I was going out with her when my mum died. We broke up. It was all pretty messy.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Gus nodded, pretty sure there was more to come.

Nick looked at him, anguished.

‘She was the love of my life. What can I say? And here she is. A week before I’m due to get married, she walks back into my life.’

Gus flopped back on to the bed with a groan.

‘Don’t say it’s made you have second thoughts.’

‘Of course it has!’ Nick turned away from the window and started pacing the room. ‘She’s never been out of my thoughts, Gus. Even now, twelve years later. I think about her hourly. About where she is, what she’s doing, who she’s with. And now I know . . .’

‘Well, okay. So now you know. She’s well and happy. She’s got a pretty hot boyfriend . . . partner . . . whatever. And now you can move on. Put it to bed.’

‘It’s not as easy as that.’

Nick came and sat on his bed so that he was facing Gus.

‘I’ve told her . . . she’s got the weekend to decide. If she wants to come away with me, I’ll cancel the wedding.’

‘You can’t do that, Nick!’ Under any other circumstances, the indignation on Gus’s face would have been comical. ‘You cannot do that. What about Sophie? No way can you do that to her . . .’

‘Why not?’ Nick stared at his friend. ‘Surely it’s better than marrying her when I’m in love with someone else?’

Gus looked scandalised. Nick wished he hadn’t told him. After all, he wasn’t going to say anything Nick didn’t already know. Gus’s input would only add to his dilemma.

‘But you love Sophie!’ Gus insisted. ‘You can’t just stop loving someone, just like that.’

‘Yes, but there’s love, isn’t there? And then there’s . . .’ Nick trailed off, not sure what to say without sounding like an idiot. ‘
Love
. With a capital L.’

Gus stood up and walked over to the minibar, pulling open the fridge door and peering inside until he found two miniature bottles of Jack Daniel’s. He twisted off the lids, handed one to Nick, and knocked his own back almost in one.

‘Over a hundred guests.’ He spoke finally. ‘Everything’s arranged. A new flat, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to be moving into a new flat . . .’

‘We haven’t exchanged. It’s not too late to pull out.’

Gus stood with the bottle two inches from his mouth, too outraged to drink.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you? You really have thought this through.’

‘Have you any idea what it’s like when someone you love disappears from your life? Vanishes completely, overnight. You wonder every day for the rest of your life what has happened. You don’t just say
oh well
and forget it. It taints everything. It . . . haunts you. There hasn’t been a day when Claire hasn’t been the first person I think of when I get up . . .’

‘Shit,’ said Gus. ‘This is bad.’

He chucked the empty miniature in the bin.

‘So what does she think?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Nick miserably.

‘You must have some idea. You must . . . know if she was pleased to see you or not. I mean, was she . . . polite? Or does she feel the same? Did you fall into each other’s arms?’

‘Well, no, not in front of everyone. But . . .’

Nick decided it was better not to confess too much more.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on. You can’t give me half the story.’

Nick chewed the inside of his cheek and looked out of the window.

‘She came up here before dinner. It was pretty obvious she felt the same.’

‘By pretty obvious, you mean . . .?’ Gus peered at him, eager for further clues. When Nick wouldn’t look him in the eye, the penny dropped. ‘Oh my God. You shagged her.’

‘Don’t say shagged.’

‘Jesus, Nick. You’re a week away from your wedding day. This is not good.’ Gus looked as distressed as any best man might be on hearing such news. ‘So what’s your plan?’

‘I’m waiting for her to decide. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it properly.’

‘No – only long enough to get your leg over.’

Nick looked exasperated. Gus held up his hands.

‘Sorry, but I can’t help thinking that this is some kind of eleventh-hour fantasy shag—’

Suddenly Gus found Nick grabbing the front of his T-shirt, twisting the fabric and holding his fist at his throat.

‘It’s not a fantasy shag, okay?’ growled Nick. ‘She’s the love of my life.’

Gus fixed him with a glare, and removed Nick’s hands, putting his own on Nick’s shoulders instead.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Repeat after me. She
was
the love of your life.
Sophie
is the love of your life. Sophie, who is on her hen night right now. Sophie, who loves and adores you. Sophie, who is going to be at your side on Saturday, saying
I will
. . .’ He released Nick, moved away, started looking for his clothes in the chaos. ‘We should leave right now. I’m taking you with me.’

He grabbed his jeans and started putting them on.

‘Don’t be an idiot. Neither of us can drive for a start. We’re well over the limit.’

Gus stopped, letting his jeans fall to his ankles. ‘I’ve just realised. This is totally my fault. I chose this place.’ He put his hands to his head in semi-drunken despair.

‘It’s fate,’ said Nick.

‘Bollocks,’ said Gus. ‘It’s a pain in the arse, is what it is.’

Nick sat back down on the bed.

‘So what do I do?’

Gus kicked his jeans away.

‘You’re in love with the idea of being in love. You’ve been swept up by the romance of it. Get a grip, Nick.’

Nick looked at the floor. If only he could. If only he could talk to Claire, talk things through with her. About the past. The present. Their future.

But Luca didn’t look like the sort of guy who would take kindly to his girlfriend’s ex knocking on the door in the middle of the night for a heart-to-heart. And he couldn’t screw things up for Claire. After all, if she didn’t feel the same as he did, she had a life to get on with. And Nick loved her enough not to burn her bridges.

If she wanted him, she’d come.

Eleven

C
laire woke even earlier than usual the next morning, just after dawn. She knew there was no point trying to get back to sleep, so she pulled on her sloppiest clothes and went down to the kitchen to make herself a latte with a double shot of espresso to offset the fact that she felt light-headed from tossing and turning all night. And before Luca got any ideas about sleepy early-morning sex . . .

She stood on the terrace with her coffee, dressed in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, shivering in the damp morning air. An eerie mist hung over the harbour, but high above it, the sun was nudging its way through. In another half-hour it would have won the battle and the mist would reluctantly evaporate, revealing the boats and the village on the far shore. It was going to be glorious.

She pulled out a chair and sat down, putting her bare feet up on the wooden railings and curling her fingers around her mug. The only signs of life so far were the seagulls, though it wouldn’t be long before the first of the fishermen set sail. She looked round at the terrace, the most perfectly positioned vantage point in Pennfleet, with its view out to sea and back down the river, the lushness of the trees on the opposite bank softening the view and making it even more magical.

There was no doubt about it. It was the perfect venue for a wedding reception – they’d had a few here already. They would put up a huge canopy sail over the terrace. The railings would be entwined with greenery and cream flowers and swathes of organza. They would have a jazz trio playing Billie Holiday; a long table groaning with
plateaux de fruits de mer
and a towering pavlova instead of a wedding cake, studded with plump fresh raspberries and drizzled with white chocolate. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t planned it all out in her mind’s eye in the past: all girls fantasised about their perfect wedding, didn’t they, even if they didn’t admit to it? She had never imagined that hers would become an eventuality.

Or that come the day it would be the last thing she wanted . . .

She twisted the ring on her finger. How could she get out of wearing it? She couldn’t say it didn’t fit, that she was afraid it might fall off, because it fitted perfectly. She took it off and rolled it between her fingers. She could drop it. She could drop it on the decking and it would roll between the cracks and fall – plop! – into the water underneath. She could feign distress. It would be easy enough.

As the early-morning sun finally broke through, it caught the pinky-brown of the diamonds. She would never have guessed that Luca had such perfect taste in engagement rings. When had he bought it? she wondered. When had he made the trip to a jeweller, pored over the selection he had to offer until finally choosing this one? How long had he been planning a proposal? She had seen no sign of it coming. He hadn’t so much as hinted.

Luca, who always kept her on his toes. Luca, who she had never entirely trusted, because he was clearly a rogue, though that was what had attracted her.

Everyone had warned her off him. Men and women alike. Everyone adored him, because he was great company, the original party animal, but they were all too clear about his shortcomings. He was described variously as a player, a wolf in wolf’s clothing, as being only interested in himself. A pisshead and a philanderer. A loose cannon. Bloody impossible. A nightmare.

‘He’ll chew you up and spit you out and you’ll never get over it,’ warned a girl who had known him a long time. Claire just smiled. She’d got over much worse than maltreatment by a jack-the-lad who thought he was God’s gift. If anything, it made the challenge more enticing. She’d gone ahead and done the classic good-girl thing, of thinking she could tame the bad boy.