The Weekend Away Read online

  We lived together for eight years until I finally moved in with Rob. And even after that we’d still see each other at least once or twice a week and speak on the phone all the days in between. But now I realise we go whole weeks without talking, and when we do speak I’m always distracted or having to hang up mid-sentence in order to deal with one baby-related crisis or another.

  If I’m honest with myself though, I wasn’t a good friend before I had Marlow either. Three years of failed IVF turned me into a grumpy-sore-arse, as my brother liked to tell me. I was depressed, and probably more than a little self-absorbed. Kate tried to be sympathetic but I could tell she didn’t really understand, not wanting kids herself and therefore unable to fully get why I was so down about not being able to have any.

  After Kate broke up with Toby six months ago, I did call her more often to check in, but Marlow was only a few months old and I was in the throes of breast-feeding and dealing with so many sleepless nights I felt like I was living at the bottom of a well. And besides, Kate acted so upbeat about the break-up that I honestly thought she was OK. She was doing a Kate – moving on, not looking back. But perhaps I failed to miss the fact it was all bluster – and maybe she isn’t doing as well as I had thought.

  ‘I’ve missed our girlie weekends,’ I say, linking my arm through hers.

  She turns to me and smiles, the sadness vanishing in an instant, making me wonder if I imagined it. Maybe I’m just projecting some of my own secret unhappiness onto her. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘How long’s it been?’

  I have to cast my mind back. ‘At least two years,’ I say, doing the sum in my head, ‘because I was pregnant last year.’

  ‘It’s longer than that,’ Kate says. ‘You were doing all the IVF. I think the last time we got away was maybe four years ago.’

  ‘It can’t be that long,’ I say, frowning, though I think she might be right. ‘Where did we go?’

  ‘Valencia,’ she says, not missing a beat.

  ‘Oh, yes, that was so lovely,’ I say, remembering the boutique hotel we stayed in with the four-poster beds and fireplaces.

  ‘Remember Paris?’ Kate muses. ‘We stayed in that crummy little hotel in the Marais.’

  I laugh. ‘God, I remember the chocolate mousse we ate in that little restaurant by the Place des Vosges – I’ll remember that for the rest of my life. It was the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.’

  ‘Don’t tell Rob that,’ she giggles.

  ‘You told that American at the table next to us that you spoke French—’

  ‘So he went ahead and ordered what you told him was duck and really it was pig face.’

  We burst into a fit of laughter at the memory.

  ‘You know that was a long time ago,’ I say, ‘because it was before smartphones and translation apps.’

  We lie there counting off all the places we’ve been together, starting with the Paris trip. We took the Eurostar. It was my first time and I thought myself oh so sophisticated. I even bought a beret from Accessorize so I could fit in with all the Parisian women. Then I saw how French women actually dressed and hid it in my bag. I bought a scarf instead but could never figure out how to tie it as elegantly as French women did.

  After that trip to Paris, Kate and I decided we’d go away for a weekend together every year for the rest of our lives, to a different city each time. We laughed that by the time we were in our nineties we’d have travelled the globe and would settle for two deck chairs on the Margate seafront. We made a promise and kept to it for years, each year seeing a slight bump up in the level of hotel we stayed at and the quality of the restaurants we ate at and the booze we bought at duty-free. But ultimately, it’s a promise I’ve failed to keep.

  ‘I’m sorry we haven’t managed to get away for a while,’ I say to Kate, a wave of guilt washing over me.

  ‘No matter,’ she says, squeezing my hand. ‘We’re here now. Let’s make the most of it.’ She rolls off the bed, grabbing her empty glass from the bedside table. ‘You take a nap and I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours so we can go out for dinner.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Wakey, wakey,’ Kate says, shaking me by the arm.

  I blink blurrily and struggle to sit up, feeling groggy and disorientated. The room is dark and when Kate switches on the bedside lamp, it takes me a second or two to get my bearings.

  ‘It’s nine-fifteen,’ Kate says. ‘Time to get up.’

  I yawn and swing my legs out of bed, ignoring my desire to roll over, pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. As my vision clears I see Kate’s ready to hit the town. She looks stunning, in a black mini-dress with ruffle sleeves and gold high heels that show off her tanned, toned legs. My stomach sinks a little as I contemplate the clothes in my own suitcase. I kept it sensible thinking we’d be walking a lot and sightseeing, knowing that Lisbon was a city built on hills. I didn’t bring any heels, only trainers and a pair of flat sandals, and I know I didn’t pack anything as fancy as the dress Kate’s wearing. I don’t own anything that nice for starters. Kate owns tons of gorgeous dresses, partly as she loves clothes and shopping and has the money to afford new things, but also because as a movie publicist she often has to go to premieres and after-parties and, like the Queen, she’d never be seen dead in the same thing twice.

  As Kate pours the last of the champagne into my empty glass, I unzip my bag and root through the contents: jeans, a sundress, a pair of shorts, a shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, a couple of T-shirts and last of all, my plaid, flannel pyjamas. There’s one semi-glitzy top with sequins from H&M, that I had thought I’d pair with my jeans if we went out to dinner, but I wasn’t expecting Michelin stars. I had figured we’d eat at small local places without a dress code.

  ‘I don’t know what to wear,’ I say to Kate, feeling frustrated and shoving my H&M top back in my bag. I wish she’d warned me she’d booked a posh restaurant.

  ‘Do you want to borrow something?’ she asks and before I can respond she’s out the door, shouting over her shoulder for me to follow her.

  Her room is no longer an oasis of white but looks like it’s been ransacked by a particularly desperate thief. Clothes and shoes are strewn everywhere. It was the same when we lived together. It used to drive me crazy how she’d leave shoes, coats, bags, dirty plates and mugs lying about the place, as though she had grown up in a stately home and was used to servants clearing up after her, when in fact she had grown up on a North London housing estate.

  When we clashed over it, Kate would explain that life was too short to spend time worrying about a bit of mess and would convince me it would be a better idea to go to the pub or out shopping. Eventually my own OCD would win out and I’d have to set about cleaning the place, and Kate, seeing me on my hands and knees scrubbing at the tiles in the bathroom, would grudgingly always join me, albeit grumbling. When she got a promotion and started to earn more, the first thing she did was pay for a cleaner once a week.

  Now I watch Kate hastily shove a few things back in her suitcase and slam the lid down, before picking up a dress from the floor and offering it to me. It’s a jacquard blue silk mini-dress and though I love it, I have zero doubt if I tried to get it on over my hips it would get stuck and a comedy skit would unfold of me trying to wriggle out of it like a grub forcing its way out of a cocoon. Kate sees my expression and tosses the dress back on the ground before picking up a maxi-length embroidered dress with a low-cut neckline.

  ‘Here,’ she says, holding it against my body, ‘try this.’

  I take it into the bathroom and shut the door, not wanting to strip in front of her. The dress, by a designer I actually recognise, slides on and much to my surprise looks quite good, though because of the spaghetti straps I have to take off my bra. I assume that will do me no favours, but luckily the empire line of the dress pushes my boobs upwards as effectively as an underwired bra. I have never worn a maxi dress but contemplating my reflection, I start to wonder if I need to rethink my style now I’ve
hit forty.

  The counter top is littered with serums, bottles, make-up and hair products, and I pick up a hair wand and think about the last time I bothered to do anything to my hair besides wash it and shove it in a ponytail or messy topknot.

  Kate pokes her head around the door. ‘Ah!’ she exclaims, walking in. ‘That looks great on you! You have to keep it.’

  I start to protest but she cuts me off. ‘No, I insist. It’s much better on you than me. Look at those boobs! They’re like watermelons! I’m so jealous. Maybe I should have a baby.’ She takes the wand from my hand. ‘Do you want me to do your hair?’

  ‘OK,’ I say. She moves my discarded things aside to plug the wand in. ‘Nice,’ she says, holding up my bra and tossing it to me.

  ‘Rob bought it for me for Valentine’s Day,’ I say, catching it. It’s a silk padded bra and though it’s a nude colour, which isn’t the sexiest, it is Agent Provocateur. Rob’s never been the best at buying gifts so I had to give him marks at least for that. Normally he gets me socks from M&S or an Amazon voucher or perfume that he’s obviously chosen because it comes in a fancy box, but which smells like something Joan Collins would wear.

  As we wait for the wand to heat up, Kate grabs an eyeshadow palette and a brush and starts doing my make-up. This is how we used to get ready before one of our big nights out, with me gamely letting Kate treat me as a canvas as she acted out her Picasso dreams. As she strokes the soft brush over my eyelids I realise how much I’ve missed getting glammed up. When I had a life, before Marlow, I used to spend fifteen minutes each morning following a skin-care and make-up routine; now I’m lucky if I remember to put on deodorant.

  After she’s done, Kate turns me towards the mirror and I startle, almost unable to recognise myself. She’s put a burnt orange colour along the edges of my eyes – not a colour I’d ever go for normally, but surprisingly it makes the blue in my eyes stand out. They look almost cobalt and whatever she’s dusted me with has given me a glow that has lifted my ghost-like pallor.

  ‘Yummy mummy,’ Kate declares with triumph.

  I flush a little at the praise. I haven’t thought of myself as sexy or beautiful for a long time – it’s hard to when your breasts are leaking milk and you have stitches in your vagina, but now I’m wondering if all is not lost and I might actually still have it, or if not ‘it’ then something. Standing next to Kate, I might not feel like Cinderella but I no longer feel quite like the ugly sister either.

  ‘I’ll get us an Uber,’ Kate says, reaching for her phone.

  A few minutes later, we leave the apartment and head down the three flights of stairs to the street, Kate clattering in her heels and me following behind in my sandals, checking the door is locked and that I have the address programmed into my phone in case we get drunk later and can’t remember where we’re going.

  My sensible mum gene was activated long before I had Marlow. I’m always thinking ahead and worrying about things, whereas Kate refuses to worry about anything that might not happen. Perhaps it’s down in part to personality but it’s also to do with my job. I manage HR for a big housing development company with hundreds of employees, or at least I did before I went on maternity leave, so I have to constantly make sure we’re following rules, that all the i’s are dotted and t’s crossed. Risk assessment is part of my job description and being organised is essential. Whereas Kate spends her life wheeling and dealing, massaging actors’ egos and wooing big-name studio heads. She has to constantly deal with crises and think on her feet.

  Thinking about work elicits a rush of excitement, though the excitement is immediately snuffed out by guilt. It feels wrong to admit, even to myself, that I can’t wait to get back to work. I thought I’d love maternity leave and though Rob and I planned for me to take a full year off after Marlow was born, I’m rather wondering if nine months would have been enough. It’s not something you can generally admit to though, that you’d rather be at work than taking your baby to monkey music or baby gym.

  I find refuge online sometimes among chat rooms of mums venting about the monotony of being a stay-at-home parent, and it makes me feel less alone, but I’m still not confident enough to share my frustrations with anyone in the real world. I’m afraid they’ll think I’m selfish and horrible, especially after the battle I went through to have Marlow.

  As Kate and I pass the door to the apartment below ours, it opens and a man steps out in front of us, blocking our way.

  ‘Hi,’ Kate and I say.

  The man, around thirty-five with thinning hair and wearing round artist-like glasses, looks us both over, unblinking as an owl.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. He holds out a slender hand to Kate. ‘I’m Sebastian, nice to meet you. I own the apartment you’re staying in.’ He speaks good English with only the faintest trace of an accent.

  ‘Right,’ says Kate, shaking his hand. ‘I’m Kate, this is Orla,’ she says, indicating me.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, shaking his hand.

  His gaze dips briefly to my exposed cleavage. It makes me flush a little, both self-consciously and also with a little pride. I can’t remember the last time a man looked at me in that way, not even Rob.

  ‘It’s just the two of you staying?’ Sebastian asks.

  I nod. ‘Yes, just us.’

  ‘You’re going out?’ he asks, though that much is pretty obvious.

  ‘Yes, for dinner,’ I say.

  ‘We better get going,’ Kate adds, impatiently, ‘our Uber’s waiting.’

  Sebastian doesn’t move. ‘Well, I just wanted to say hi. If you need anything, anything at all, let me know. I’ll be happy to help. I work from home and I am here all weekend so just come and find me if you need anything.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Thanks. We’ll let you know if so.’ I try to get past him but he doesn’t move.

  ‘If you want me to show you how to use the hot tub …’ he says in his slightly high, reedish voice.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ Kate says with a tight smile, pushing past him.

  I smile politely as I squeeze by. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Have a nice dinner,’ he calls after us.

  In the Uber Kate reapplies her lipstick using her phone camera as a mirror and I stare out the window, taking in the city by night, the illuminated castle on a hill and a dazzling bridge over the river, which looks exactly like the Golden Gate Bridge. There’s no mistaking Lisbon for San Francisco though. Lisbon is distinctly European. The buildings are a mix of baroque and roman and even gothic architecture. I know all this because I read it in the guidebook. The area we’re staying in, Alfama, is the old Moorish part of the city and it’s a maze of cobbled lanes that wind up and down several hills. It’s quite beautiful and I’m rapt by the magical feel of it, with its steep staircases, waterfalls of flowering pink bougainvillea and colourful brickwork. It’s like stepping back in time or into the pages of a fantasy novel.

  When she’s done with her lipstick Kate puts her arm around me and pulls me in close for a selfie. She turns to me and kisses me on the cheek, leaving behind a red mark she then has to rub off. After, she takes my face in her hands. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ she says, her tone and expression turning uncharacteristically solemn.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, bemused.

  ‘Good,’ she answers.

  I wonder at the sudden declaration of love and friendship. We do tell each other we love each other all the time, though I suppose not too often recently. She must be drunk. She holds her booze well but I do remember that once she’s two sheets to the wind she can get very emotional. It’s one of the giveaways.

  ‘You’re my best friend,’ she says. She says it forcefully, as though I might contest it.

  ‘You’re mine too,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Never forget that,’ she says, looking into my eyes in such a strange way that my laughter dies.

  Chapter Three

  We arrive at the restaurant, a candlelit place with a glass roof and
so much greenery it looks like a hothouse at Kew Gardens. Our waiter leads us to a white-linen-clad table in the back but Kate insists on a table in the centre of the room. She always likes to see and be seen, and I roll with it because I’ve decided that tonight I want to make the most of my freedom and have fun.

  ‘That’s better,’ says Kate, shaking out her napkin with a flourish and ordering a bottle of champagne.

  I bite my lip as I scan the menu and notice the prices. The champagne alone is eye-wateringly expensive at almost two hundred euro a bottle. Does it come in a gold-plated bottle? I’d be happy with Prosecco, which is only a quarter of the price and tastes, at least to my unrefined palate, exactly the same.

  ‘Dinner’s on me,’ Kate says, as though she’s read my mind.

  I start to argue with her. She’s already paid for the apartment and she upgraded our seats to business on the flight over. ‘Honestly,’ she says, reaching her hand over and squeezing mine. ‘We deserve it, and besides, Toby’s paying, remember.’ She winks at me and laughs.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘Won’t he be mad?’

  ‘Yes, but he doesn’t have a right to be after what he’s done.’ She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin, scanning the room. ‘And anyway, the lawyer says we’re going to screw him in the divorce so whether he pays now or later doesn’t really matter.’

  Toby owns his own events marketing company that stages big launches for brands as well as music events. I’m guessing he earns a very good salary, given the amazing penthouse flat that the two of them used to live in and the five-star luxury holidays he and Kate used to take every year to the Seychelles and the Caribbean.

  ‘He’s sold his company you know,’ Kate says, as the waiter comes over with the champagne in an ice bucket. ‘To an American agency. He’s going to make millions from it. My lawyer says he’ll have to give me at least half. Half of everything.’