The Long Weekend (40 page)

Nick was standing in the doorway.

For a moment they stared at each other.

‘I was just going,’ said Claire. ‘I came to say . . . good luck. For the wedding . . .’

Gerald was looking between the two of them.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Nobody answered him as Nick stepped into the room towards Claire, not taking his eyes off her face.

‘It’s been cancelled.’

Claire’s heart was thumping.

‘The wedding’s been cancelled. I’ve just been to tell Sophie I can’t go through with it.’

Claire put a hand to her mouth.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

Nick looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept.

‘I woke up this morning and realised . . . you’re the only person I’ve ever loved. Sophie is . . . wonderful, but we never had that special . . .’ He waved his hands helplessly in the air, unable to explain. ‘That whatever-it-is. The thing. The thing Dad and Mum had. The meant-to-be-together thing. Some couples have it and some don’t.’

He stared at her.

‘I told her I couldn’t marry her,’ he said. ‘I told her I couldn’t marry her if I was in love with someone else. Even if that someone else didn’t want me.’

‘But I do want you,’ said Claire. ‘Luca and I . . . it’s all over. I came to tell you . . . just in case there was a chance . . .’

They each took a step forward. They were only a foot apart.

‘I was coming back down,’ he told her. ‘I was going to get straight back in the car. Beg you to think again. But you beat me to it.’

He grabbed her, pulled her to him.

As they embraced, Gerald gave an awkward cough.

‘Excuse me. I’d better . . . go and put the mower away.’

They didn’t notice him as he slipped through the French windows. They hugged each other tightly, not speaking, not even kissing, just holding on as if they were never going to let go again.

Trevor was right. As predicted, Luca walked back into the Townhouse later that afternoon. He looked drawn, grim-faced. He walked straight past Angelica and into the office.

Angelica brought him a brandy. He was sitting at Claire’s desk, staring into space. He knocked it back in a single gulp.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And I apologise. My behaviour was inexcusable.’

His tone was stiff – Luca wasn’t the sort who apologised easily – but Angelica recognised an olive branch.

‘It’s okay.’

‘And I suppose you’d better consider yourself acting manageress.’

He’d obviously come up with a game plan during his absence. And realised he couldn’t manage without her.

‘In that case,’ she replied, ‘you’re going to have to give me a rise.’

He looked at her sharply. ‘You’ll be lucky.’

She shrugged. ‘Fine. Find someone else then. Just don’t expect me to show them the ropes.’

She looked down at him. Somehow, the spell had been broken. The hold he’d had over her was gone. He was no longer the stuff of her fantasies. She’d taken what she wanted from him; she’d fulfilled her dream. And now he just seemed ordinary. Less than ordinary: a weak, foolish, not very nice man, albeit wrapped up in a beguiling package that she had been stupid enough to fall for.

Did she feel guilty? About betraying Claire? No, she thought. Claire had known all along that Luca wasn’t the man for her. She hadn’t needed proof, but Angelica had given it to her anyway.

If it hadn’t been her, she reasoned, it would have been someone else.

She’d done Claire a favour. Given her the courage to follow her heart.

She took the glass off Luca.

‘Come on,’ she said briskly. ‘You need to get back in the kitchen. You can’t wallow round here feeling sorry for yourself.’

She walked out of the office. She wasn’t going to let him use her. If she had a raise in salary, maybe she could afford to move out of home. Get a flat for her and Dill. Give him the life he deserved. It would be tough, but with the extra money she was earning, she’d be able to manage.

They didn’t need anyone else, her and Dill.

Clare and Nick were walking hand in hand through Mimsbury. It was, thought Claire, as if she had never been away. She could be eighteen again.

Eventually they reached the church. Nick opened the gate and led her up the path through the perfect English graveyard. The oldest and most precarious stones had been carefully repositioned and laid flat. The grass was kept just the right length: not too manicured, but not so long that it looked unkempt, and just enough to let any wild flowers peep through. Birds sang in the nearby trees and the air was filled with the scent of blossom. It was the perfect place to be laid to rest because it looked just that: restful.

Isobel’s stone was in plain white marble with hand-cut lettering, and simply bore her name and the dates of her birth and death, with no unnecessary adornment or sentiment.

‘She wouldn’t have wanted anything tacky or over the top,’ said Nick.

‘Of course not.’ Claire stood in front of the stone, her head bowed. She didn’t want to speak, or pray. She just wanted to remember, without any guilt, the vibrant and beautiful wife and mother that Isobel had been. At last, in the quiet of the graveyard, with no sound but the birds and the wind rustling the trees, she felt a calmness and tranquillity she hadn’t felt for years. And she hoped that wherever she was, Isobel felt the same, because although what she had done might not have been right, she deserved to rest in peace.

‘I still miss her.’ Nick broke the silence. ‘I still miss her every day. I’m never going to stop wishing she was still here . . .’

‘Hey.’ Claire turned and put her arms round him, pulling him in close, trying to absorb some of his pain. She knew how close Isobel had been to her boys, how strong the bond had been between them, and she hoped that one day, if it ever happened, she would share the same connection with her own children.

‘It would have meant a lot to her, you coming here today.’ Nick’s voice was muffled, still buried in her shoulder. ‘She adored you, you know.’

‘I just hope I can live up to her,’ replied Claire. ‘Be as good a mother as she was.’

‘You will be,’ said Nick. ‘I know you will . . .’

Afterwards, they wandered back to the Mill House. They didn’t speak much – they didn’t want to break the spell with mere words. Instead, they went into the garden, and Claire sat down under the weeping willow next to the river. Nick went inside to make a cup of tea.

While he was waiting for the kettle to boil on the Aga, he went up to his bedroom and opened his dressing table drawer. In there was a small box. Inside it was a ring. Isobel’s engagement ring. She had left it to him, again with a note.

I hope this ring brings as much happiness to the girl you love as it did to me
.

He looked at it, as the light from the window glanced off the white diamonds. He remembered it on Isobel’s hand. She never took it off.

He hadn’t given it to Sophie. When he had proposed, he had taken her to a small jeweller in Sandleford and they had chosen a ring together. For some reason, it had never felt the right thing to do, to give her Isobel’s ring. It had stayed in the back of his dressing table drawer all this time.

Isobel had meant it for Claire. He knew that. Today wasn’t the day to give it to her, though. They needed some time to get over the momentous decisions they had both made in walking away from Luca and Sophie. A proposal today would be inauspicious. Indecently hasty. The ring had been there for twelve years. It could wait a while longer. And he thought how happy Isobel would have been to know it was going to find its way to its rightful owner at last.

He snapped the lid shut and put the box back in the drawer, then went back down to the kitchen, finding the teapot, making the tea, putting chocolate digestives on a plate.

When he came back out, ten minutes later, he found Claire curled up on the blanket, fast asleep in the sunshine. He put the tray on the grass and sat down next to her. A few minutes later, he too was fast asleep.

It had been a long weekend.

I
would swap a fortnight’s holiday for four long weekends away in a heartbeat. Just as I always prefer starters to the main course in a restaurant, I love the immediacy and intensity of a weekend away – the piquant taste of a new place, the need to discover everything you can about it in a short space of time. I love the urgency and the fact you are not in a place long enough to tire of it. It’s like meeting a fascinating stranger at a party. You are left wondering, wanting more.

I have several tricks to enhance the perfect long weekend. The first, if you can, is to beg, borrow, steal – or, more prosaically, simply hire – an open-topped car. There is nothing like throwing the roof off, turning up the music and putting your foot down. Even if you are only going to Weston-super-Mare, it feels like an adventure. Tie on your Hermès, stick on your Ray-Bans and let the wind run through your hair!

Make a holiday playlist for your journey. Give it a theme – music relevant to the destination, or to the occasion, or songs that start with the same letter as the place you are going. Anything as long as it puts a smile on your face – the soundtrack to the weekend.

Beautiful luggage is an absolute prerequisite. Don’t just chuck everything in a tired hold-all. A small but perfectly formed overnight bag will make sure your packing is focused but spot on. Most of the department stores do a good range – I bought my raspberry red leather bag in Debenhams five years ago and it is still as good as new.

Clothing will obviously have to be appropriate to the season and the destination. However, wherever you are going, luxury nightwear is paramount – most of us take time over and pride in our daily appearance, but how many of us let the standards drop come night-time and stick on scruffy old pyjamas or a tatty T-shirt? A weekend away is the perfect excuse to invest in a sumptuous silk nightdress, revelling in its softness as it slithers over your skin. Trust me, it will make you feel like the most glamorous film star.

I also have a special going away perfume: one that makes me feel like someone else, not a harassed working mother. It’s like slipping into another guise, just for forty-eight hours. Whenever I splash on Dior’s Escale à Pondichéry, I know I am on my way to an adventure.

On a practical level, I always research the best restaurants where I am going and book ahead. I don’t want to leave anything to chance and end up disappointed. For me, food and wine is usually the focus of a weekend away, and I don’t want to end up with second best.

I have one other rule. No work. No laptop, no Internet, no phone calls, no Twitter, no Facebook. Either of you.

Reading List

All the books below could be read over a long weekend – they are all less than two hundred pages. It’s wonderful to have the chance to curl up and read in peace on a weekend away – but don’t become too introspective, unless you are both avid bookworms!

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
– Muriel Spark

Animal Farm
– George Orwell

Breakfast At Tiffany’s
– Truman Capote

The Woman in Black
– Susan Hill

The Great Gatsby
– F. Scott Fitzgerald

Bonjour Tristresse
– Françoise Sagan

The Lover
– Margeurite Duras

The Turn of The Screw
– Henry James

August Is a Wicked Month
– Edna O’Brien

Seaside Playlist for
The Perfect Long Weekend

To the Sea – Jack Johnson

The Sea – The Doves

The Sea – Morcheeba

Fell in Love at the Seaside – The Kooks

Amongst the Waves – Pearl Jam

Rockaway Beach – The Ramones

Martha’s Harbour – All About Eve

At the River – Groove Armada

Pure Shores – All Saints

On the Beach – OceanLab

Scallops And Black Pudding With Celeriac Purée