The Long Weekend by Veronica Henry

the gladioli into a square vase and positioning it carefully on the desk. She was definitely still flustered, her cheeks pink. Angelica had never seen her fazed, not by the most difficult customer, not even by Luca at his most ornery. She always remained cool, serene, dignified.
    ‘Are you okay?’ asked Angelica.
    ‘Yes.’ Her voice was too careful to be convincing.
    Angelica surveyed her. Claire took a deep breath to calm herself.
    ‘I’m fine. Honestly.’ Her eyes flicked to the clock. ‘Actually, no. No, I’m not. Let’s have a drink.’
    ‘It’s not even midday.’
    ‘Who cares? It’s a bank holiday weekend. There are no rules.’ Claire tweaked the last flower defiantly and led the way through into the bar.
    Astonished, Angelica followed her. This was totally out of character. Claire might occasionally succumb to a glass of wine at the end of a long day, but unlike Luca, alcohol wasn’t her automatic solution to a problem. But here she was, determinedly pulling a bottle of house white from the fridge at half past eleven in the morning. Who was that guy? Angelica wondered.
    The bar wasn’t huge – there was enough room for a dozen people at the most to have pre-or post-dinner drinks; they didn’t want to waste valuable dining space – and it was chicly stark in comparison to the more opulent reception area. The walls were white, adorned with bronze and silver casts of fish skeletons by Abigail Fallis, and the chairs were covered in slubby turquoise linen.
    ‘If we sit here, we can see if anyone comes in.’ Claire indicated the two chairs nearest reception. Angelica took a glass from her and sat down, not quite sure how to play this unusual turn of events. She took a tentative sip of wine; she wasn’t a great drinker, and when she did, she favoured sugary alcopops. She shuddered slightly as the sharp tang of gooseberry hit her taste buds.
    ‘So,’ she ventured finally. ‘Who was that?’
    She knew she was prying. She didn’t think there was much chance of Claire confiding in her. She wasn’t the type to share her personal life.
    ‘He’s an old boyfriend.’ Claire took a grateful glug of Sauvignon Blanc. ‘My first boyfriend. I haven’t seen him for . . . twelve years?’
    She didn’t know why she was questioning the length of time. She knew exactly how long it had been.
    Eleven years and five months.
    The phone rang, breaking the moment. Claire looked irritated.
    ‘Five minutes’ peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask?’
    Angelica stood up.
    ‘I’ll get it.’
    Claire watched her go. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. There was so much to organise. Getting sloshed at this time in the morning really wasn’t going to help her get through the day. She was usually so conscientious – it was counterintuitive, this behaviour. But shock did that to you, she supposed, as she raised the glass to her lips and took another shot of coolly delicious anaesthetic.
    Eleven years, five months and twenty-seven days.
    Nick Barnes stood in the middle of the room he had been shown to on the third floor. He barely noticed it, although normally he would have fully appreciated its understated luxury – the fat goose-down duvet, the chic supersized sisal carpeting, the Bose iPod dock. He dropped his bag at his feet and walked through into the bathroom for a pee, again hardly seeing the mother-of-pearl mosaic tiles and the range of Molton Brown accessories.
    What bloody awful timing. This was absolutely the worst thing that could have happened, the eventuality he had dreamt about so many times. And how ironic that it should happen on his stag weekend. Someone up there was having a laugh. Not that Nick believed that there was someone up there. He had stopped believing anything like that a long, long time ago.
    He checked his watch. The other guys would be here in a couple of hours. He’d wanted to make the journey down on his own; use the time to get his head together. Little realising that any