The Long Weekend (33 page)

For some reason, this made Colin feel worse than if she had reacted badly. To hear that he was no better than most men, when he had always prided himself on being the perfect husband and father, cut deep.

‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘that was then. Almost a lifetime ago. What’s it got to do with now?’

She looked straight at him across the table. Alison was no fool. She knew there was more; that he hadn’t just lured her down here to get his infidelity off his chest.

Colin steeled himself. He needn’t think that her initial acceptance meant he was going to get an easy ride.

‘You know I love you,’ he told her. ‘The affair was . . . a blip. I came to my senses and ended it, and it made me realise how much you mean to me.’

Alison raised her eyebrows. Colin ploughed on.

‘By then you were . . . on the road to recovery, and things seemed to sort themselves out. You’ve made me very happy, Alison. I’m proud of our marriage. And our kids. And everything we’ve achieved.’

‘But?’ Her smile was only a half-smile. ‘I’m guessing there is a but?’

Colin nodded. His guts were turning to water. This was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do in his life. For a moment he regretted choosing the restaurant for his confession, but he’d hoped it meant Alison wouldn’t overreact. She wasn’t one to cause a scene in public.

He chose the least emotive and most succinct words he could.

‘There’s a child.’

Alison recoiled.

‘What?’ Her voice was suddenly shrill. The next table looked over. She lowered her voice. She hated scenes, and unwanted attention. ‘What do you mean – a child?’

‘My . . .’ What word could he use? Mistress? Lover? ‘The woman I had the affair with became pregnant. She had a daughter.’

‘A daughter?’

‘Yes.’ Colin glanced down at his plate. He felt as low as it was possible to feel. ‘I’m sorry.’

Alison put her hands to her head and stared at the table. He couldn’t see her expression, until she signalled to the waiter to bring her another drink, then looked at him. Her face was deadpan.

‘I suppose the woman’s turned up out of the blue, demanding money?’

‘Not exactly.’ He had to come clean. He had to tell her everything. It was only fair, given what he was going to ask. ‘I’ve always . . . er . . . honoured my responsibility.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been giving her money.’

Alison sat back in her chair. ‘So . . . for all this time, without me knowing, you’ve been paying for your . . . your . . .’

She floundered for the right word. Colin put a hand on hers.

‘Yes. I’ve been paying maintenance. And I see her once a year.’

Alison seemed to deflate before him, as if her bones had been pulled out of her like blocks from a Jenga tower.

‘And the mother?’

‘Yes. She comes too. But there’s no . . . there’s nothing between us.’

‘Am I really supposed to believe that?’

‘Alison, I’m being a hundred per cent honest with you here.’

‘After years of sneaking off behind my back?’

He could hardly bear the look of hurt in her eyes.

‘It wasn’t something I wanted to happen.’

She looked away from him. She seemed baffled, a deep crease between her eyebrows.

‘Why are you telling me all this now?’

He was silent for a moment. He wondered about bottling it altogether. Alison didn’t need to know the full story. He could talk to Karen. More money would probably help. Karen was the sort of woman who saw things differently with a cheque in her hand.

But then he thought about the little girl upstairs. The fantastic day they’d had together. Simple pleasures, but they had been such huge ones to Chelsey. He didn’t want to send her back to a life of fast food and a latch key.

He owed it to her. None of this was her fault.

‘Her mother’s . . . not well. She can’t cope. Basically, she’s done a runner and left me with Chelsey.’

‘Chelsey.’ Alison spoke the name with flat distaste. ‘Is that what she’s called? Did you choose the name together, you and . . .’ She trailed off. ‘You and . . . what is her name?’

‘Karen.’

‘Karen.’ She spat the name out like an unwanted mouthful of food.

Colin couldn’t read Alison’s face. It was flat; expressionless. Her eyes seemed dead. At least she hadn’t thrown her drink over him. At least she hadn’t screamed at him. He had to take advantage of her momentary calm to limit the damage.

‘The thing is, Alison, none of this is Chelsey’s fault, and she needs me. She needs a good home. She needs someone who cares about her. She needs . . . stability.’

‘By which you mean her mother is unstable?’

‘Yes. Yes, I think she is. I think she’s probably depressed.’

Alison bit her lip. ‘Like I was, all those years ago? Do you remember? When it was all I could do to get up and face the day, because I just wanted to fall into a black hole. Do you know how many times I thought about swallowing a bottle of tablets? Or driving into a brick wall?’

‘Alison—’

‘But I didn’t, and you know why? The one thing that kept me going was you. You were so kind and caring and loving and supportive. You got me through it. But all the time—’

She broke off as the waiter approached with their drinks and put them down.

‘Are you ready for me to take your order?

‘Not yet,’ Colin snapped. He never snapped at waiters usually.

The waiter melted away.

Alison looked up and took her fresh gin and tonic. She seemed to have composed herself.

‘Look,’ said Colin, ‘we could rake it all up. We could spend all night throwing recriminations at each other. It wasn’t easy for me either. And I made a mistake. A big mistake. But I’ve never been unfaithful to you since.’

‘How do I know that?’ She was becoming bitter now.

‘You have to trust me.’

She stared right at him. He could imagine all the questions whirling round in her brain. Questions he had no idea how to answer for the best. The problem was, he had to make some sort of decision. ‘Alison, I need to decide what to do. Chelsey’s upstairs—’

‘What?’ Alison slammed her glass down. ‘My God, Colin. How much more can you humiliate me?’ Her voice was low as she spoke, but the venom in it was undeniable. ‘You drag me down here to air your dirty linen in a full bloody restaurant—’ Colin flinched; Alison rarely swore ‘—and then you tell me the child’s upstairs? Do you think that’s fair on me, to put me under that kind of pressure?’

‘Of course I don’t!’ Colin was desperate to keep the nightmare under control. ‘But I didn’t have any choice. I had to tell you what was going on. I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. I’ve got to decide what to do with Chelsey, because her mother has made it clear that it’s my turn.’ He could feel the sweat breaking out under his arms.

Alison’s tone was hostile. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to welcome some little cuckoo into the nest?’

‘She’s not a cuckoo,’ said Colin. ‘She’s my daughter. And I know you’re angry. Of course you are. You have every right to be.’

‘What about Michelle and Ryan? What are they supposed to think? What are you going to tell them?’

‘Michelle and Ryan have got their own lives now.’ Colin was firm. ‘And I think, given time, they’d understand.’

‘Do you?’ The puzzlement in Alison’s eyes had cleared. She could see everything all too clearly. ‘By making me the enemy, I suppose? Telling them their mother wasn’t fit for purpose so you had to play away?’

‘Absolutely not!’

Alison spread her hands. ‘That’s effectively what you told me. I was a wreck, so you had to turn to Karen.’

‘I was wrong,’ said Colin. ‘I’m not denying that. But I can’t change what’s happened, Alison, and there’s a little girl involved. A little girl who’s had a pretty tough time.’

He stopped. Alison was staring down at the table, tears in her eyes.

‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She bent down and picked up her handbag.

‘I can’t do this here,’ she told him. ‘I’m going home. You do whatever you think is right. She’s obviously your priority. I can’t argue with that. As you’ve pointed out, it’s not
her
fault.’

‘Alison – don’t go. At least have dinner. Let’s talk it over.’

She shook her head.

‘You’ve had time to think about this. Nearly twelve years. I’ve had all of twelve minutes.’

She stood up. Her chair scraped against the slate floor, setting Colin’s teeth on edge.

‘Will you phone me?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘I am sorry. This isn’t easy for me.’

Pain flickered over her face.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it is.’

And she turned and walked back through the dining room, her head held high.

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.