The Long Weekend (10 page)

And, thankfully, the rest of the family took to her. She wasn’t made to feel like a black sheep, like some commoner who wasn’t good enough. Felix and Shrimp treated her like a sister, teasing her but also protecting her: one of them would always give her a lift if she needed it and Nick wasn’t available; they made her cups of tea, lent her their big fleecy sweatshirts when she was cold, and their favourite CDs so she could play them in her Walkman on the way to college.

And Gerald, who adored female company, was delighted to have another woman about the place. With his dark soulful eyes and thick hair that was just starting to grey, he had the air of a devil-may-care roué, and he played up to the role. He was an incorrigible flirt, with a battery of outrageous remarks, and was rarely to be found without a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. But Claire soon worked out that it was just an act, that he was all talk, and was utterly devoted to Isobel.

When Claire revealed that she had subsisted most of her life on offerings from Fray Bentos, Crosse & Blackwell and Heinz, Gerald took it upon himself to educate her. Gerald was obsessed with food and wine, and didn’t understand why the whole world didn’t feel the same. Having a keen student meant he could run riot with his culinary expertise. He fed her plump olives coated in fine herbs, and fat, juicy
boquerones
, and Venezuelan dark chocolate. Soft, oozing Vacherin and piquant Dolcelatte. He made her crab linguine and Irish soda bread and coq au vin. Claire was gratifyingly appreciative, while the rest of the family rolled their eyes. They had been brought up with Gerald’s passion, learnt that he needed praise like a small child for each of his offerings, but her relish was genuine.

And if food was a revelation, wine was an epiphany. She discovered – or rather Gerald did – that she had an extraordinarily refined palate. He loved nothing better than to open a bottle of something new for her and ask her for tasting notes. Since she hadn’t been brought up drinking wine, she was a total novice, and her reaction was always unaffected. ‘Play-Doh?’ she would suggest, and Gerald would bark with delighted laughter.

She found the family business fascinating. Melchior Barnes (there was no Melchior – Gerald had simply rather liked the name when he set up the company fifteen years ago) was housed in a canal-side warehouse in Sandleford, a nearby town made up of genteel antique shops, delicatessens and boutiques. They supplied wine to restaurants and hotels, as well as discerning individuals. They also imported the finest Cuban cigars. Gerald was the sales director and spent his life schmoozing clients old and new, luring them to tastings and urging them to be ever more experimental in their choice of wine. Felix and Nick dealt with the practicalities – the ordering, the storage, the delivery.

‘What we really need, though,’ said Gerald one day, staring at Claire, ‘is a marketing director. We should be sponsoring events, getting our name out there, going to wedding fairs, setting up a wine club . . .’

‘You don’t mean me?’ she said.

‘Why not? It would be perfect for you. You’re creative, imaginative. You love wine. You’re far more organised than any of us.’

‘I haven’t even finished my A-levels yet. I can’t be a director.’

Gerald did the habitual Barnes wave of the hand, which summarily dismissed any fears.

‘You’ll be finished by June. You can start in the summer.’

Something inside Claire urged caution. It really did smack of having all her eggs in one basket. So much of her life was already taken up with the Barnes family. For a moment she felt slightly smothered.

‘Surely you need someone with experience?’

Gerald flapped her objection away.

‘I can train you up. How hard can it be? You’re smart. You get what we’re about. Learn on the job.’

Claire looked sceptical.

‘Can I think about it?’

‘Of course. I don’t want to railroad you into anything.’

But that was the trouble with the Barnes family. They did railroad you into things, without you even noticing. You got swept along by their enthusiasm, their infectious
joie de vivre
, and before you knew it, they had you exactly where they wanted you.

Isobel shared the family trait. Claire knew that boyfriends’ mothers could be tricky and jealous and manipulative, but nothing could be further from the truth in Isobel’s case. She welcomed Claire with open arms, becoming a combination of sister, best friend and mum. And subtly and tactfully, she masterminded Claire’s transformation from drab student to siren, encouraging her to develop her own style, luring her into shops she would never have dreamt of going into, urging her to try things she would never normally try.

‘Of course you can wear a dress that short. You’re only seventeen and you’ve got amazing legs.’

‘Go for the pink. Grey’s so drab. Pink makes you look an absolute angel.’

‘Have two. If you like it, have two.’

Of course, it helped that quite often Isobel was picking up the tab. Not that Claire expected her to – she was happy to pay her own way from what she was earning at the pub – but Isobel was embarrassingly generous, and seemed to get as much of a thrill out of buying for someone else as she did for herself. Until now, Claire’s uniform had been jeans, but in Isobel’s world jeans were for gardening. It wasn’t that she was overly dressy, but she loved beautiful clothes, pretty things, looking nice, and she was quite determined that Claire should be the same. And Claire found that she enjoyed this new, more feminine version of herself. Superficial it might be, but it made her feel good to walk into a room and be greeted enthusiastically, be showered with compliments.

This was what having a proper mother felt like, thought Claire. It wasn’t that her own mother didn’t love her, of course she did, but she never took any real interest in her, or wanted to spend time with her. Whenever Claire was at home, she felt like A. N. Other member of the household, an independent being who came and went regardless of what everyone else was up to. There was usually food in the cupboard or the fridge, but the meals they had were still mostly out of a packet or a tin or the freezer section. Claire tried to cook some of the dishes she’d picked up from Gerald, but her parents were politely uninterested. There was no enthusiasm. So she spent less and less time with them, and sometimes she thought that perhaps they were relieved to have her off their hands.

Isobel insisted on asking her parents to supper, and Claire couldn’t think of any way of getting out of it that didn’t make her seem rude or cruel. It was excruciating, watching her drab, passive mother and father in the riot of the Barnes kitchen, trying to make polite conversation about whether they were going to the open-air concert at Highclere Castle (no), where they were going on holiday (nowhere), and were they joining in the open garden scheme in August (not a chance). Claire squirmed with embarrassment at her mother’s shapeless blue cardigan and drawstring trousers; her father’s supermarket trainers. Both Isobel and Gerald battled valiantly; plied them with delicious food and delicious wine that was totally wasted on them. Claire knew that the Meursault was heading for thirty quid a bottle, and it might as well have been Blue Nun as far as her parents were concerned. For a moment she hated them for their introspection and their lack of social skills, and then she hated herself for feeling that way. They were her parents, after all, and they had never been unkind, and it was hardly their fault that they weren’t like Isobel and Gerald.

She knew she’d changed, and she wondered if they had noticed. Claire suddenly felt visible. Alive and sparkling and visible, having done her best to keep herself unnoticed for most of her life. And with this new lease of life came confidence. She felt like a someone, and not a nobody. And if, perhaps, she feared that without the Barnes she would go back to being a nobody, she never vocalised it.

By the time her A-levels were nearly over, Claire knew that working for Melchior Barnes was her destiny. She hadn’t found an alternative that offered a life anything like as challenging or exciting. And so it was decided that after her exams she would take up the post of marketing director. Her future was mapped out. She knew that before long she and Nick would get married. They’d even, one idle afternoon, decided on their children’s names. Tabitha for a girl; Archie for a boy.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans for all of them.

One afternoon Claire finished college early and headed straight to the Mill House. She knew Nick wouldn’t be home yet, but she had learnt to treat the place as her own. She would make herself a cup of tea, read a book in the garden for an hour or so, then go up to his bedroom to wait for him.

Isobel was at the kitchen table. She looked up as Claire came in, but she didn’t smile. Claire stopped in the middle of the room. Isobel always smiled.

‘What is it?’ she asked, feeling cold dread claw its way up her spine.

Isobel didn’t reply. There was a terrible stillness to her. She pressed her lips together, and Claire could see they were trembling. She stepped forward. Whatever was wrong with Isobel, it wasn’t an accident, or something that involved another member of the family. It was something private; something personal.

‘Isobel?’ She bent down towards her and slid an arm round her shoulder. The older woman felt fragile, her shoulders bony under her cashmere sweater. She sighed and rested her head against Claire, and a tangible weariness emanated from her.

‘I couldn’t beat the bastard,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t fucking beat the bastard.’

Claire frowned. Isobel rarely swore. She sat down in the chair next to her, took her hands in hers, rubbed her thumbs over the backs of them in the hope of giving some comfort.

‘What bastard?’ she asked. ‘Who?’

Isobel’s eyes sought hers. Her gaze was piercing, the bright blue made even brighter by unshed tears.

‘You’re absolutely not to tell the boys. Or Gerald. I trust you, Claire. They won’t be able to cope. They couldn’t last time. I can’t put them through it again. This is my battle . . .’

‘Of course I won’t tell them.’ Claire felt a black cloud on the horizon. It loomed, menacing, threatening to engulf them all.

‘I don’t know if Nick told you . . . I had cancer about four years ago.’

Claire frowned.

‘He has told me, yes. But he’s never really talked about it.’

‘No. Well, it was a pretty awful time. And none of us handled it terribly well. I was very ill, obviously, and Gerald just . . . fell apart, and the boys ran amok.’ She breathed in, as if to compose herself. ‘I had surgery, and the dreaded chemo, and it was grim, grim, grim. I genuinely did just want to roll over and die. And I think they all thought I was going to. You hear such amazing stories of families pulling together and being brave in the face of illness, but it nearly destroyed us.’ Isobel put her hands on the table, as if to give herself support. ‘Eventually I came through it, but it took me at least another year to regain my strength. I knew my hair would never be the same again.’ She ruffled her blonde pixie crop ruefully. ‘I used to have a golden mane that Barbie would kill for. Maybe it was nature’s way of telling me I was too long in the tooth for big hair.’

‘It suits you like that.’

Isobel just rolled her eyes.

‘Hair isn’t really the issue here.’ She paused. Claire shivered. The cloud was pressing in. ‘I’ve known something wasn’t right for the past few months. I’ve been an ostrich about it. Because I can’t go through it all again. And the boys can’t. And Gerald absolutely can’t.’ She looked up. ‘I went to my consultant last week. He sent me for a scan. I had the results today.’

She didn’t need to tell Claire any more.

‘Oh, Isobel . . .’

She half stood to go and hug her, but Isobel put her hands up.

‘Please. Don’t. I’ll go to pieces. And they’ll all be back in a minute. I’ve got to keep it together.’

She was tightening her fists into little balls, squeezing at the pain.

‘I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. But I only heard this afternoon. And I want you to promise me, absolutely promise me, that you won’t say a word. I’ve got to find my own way to deal with this and I don’t want any of them to know. They’re all that matters to me and I don’t want them to suffer any more than they need to.’

‘But they’ll want to know. They’ll want to help. You can’t go through this on your own.’

Isobel gave her a penetrating look.

‘Yes I can. That’s what I’m choosing to do. I’m appealing to you, as someone who loves Nick, and hopefully the rest of us, to be my ally. And sometimes my alibi. I’m going to need you to be both.’

Claire’s stomach felt as if it was full of oily black diesel. She had no idea how to handle a situation like this. Her life had been so dull, so ordinary: until now she had never experienced drama or crisis. She adored Isobel, almost as much as she adored Nick. She had been so kind to her, so generous, so loving – almost, although she never said anything so corny, treated her like the daughter she had never had. So Claire owed her support.

‘Of course. I’ll do whatever you want. And I won’t say a word.’ She hoped she could talk her round eventually. Isobel was obviously still in shock from the news. Given time, she would see that this was not the way to deal with what had happened.

‘Thank you.’ Isobel grabbed her hands and squeezed them tight. ‘It’s very important. I’m going to deal with this. This is my problem . . .’

‘But surely they’ll know? Surely they’ll notice?’

Isobel didn’t answer. She looked away.

‘They mustn’t know. You must promise.’

Her tone was flat. And final.

Claire swallowed.

‘Okay. I promise . . .’

The enormity of what she’d done overwhelmed her. How on earth was she going to keep her word?

Six