Free The Long Weekend by Veronica Henry

painted a soft cream. She darted inside, greeting Mel, the landlord’s wife, with relief and more effusiveness than she usually managed. Mel she could handle. Mel was salt of the earth, the proverbial busty barmaid, Mimsbury born and bred. She had no airs and graces. She was no threat.
    Nevertheless, as they stacked the shelves with bottles and filled the ice buckets, she found herself asking, as casually as she could, about Nick and his brothers.
    ‘The infamous Barnes boys?’ Mel’s eyes widened. ‘Where did you meet them, then?’
    Her tone indicated that she was surprised Claire had come into contact with them.
    ‘At the train station. I had a go at them for running across the tracks when the barrier was down.’
    Mel grinned. ‘How did they take that?’
    ‘Actually, I felt a bit like the nanny, telling them off like that. But they were all over me afterwards.’
    Mel nodded knowingly. ‘They’re lovely boys, all three of them. They just get a bit high-spirited sometimes. When their mum was ill, they were positively feral, but they’ve calmed down a lot since. Grown up, I suppose.’
    ‘What was the matter with her?’
    ‘The Big C. It was terrible.’ Mel started unloading the glass washer. ‘They spent loads of time in here while Isobel was having her treatment,’ she continued. ‘Gerald, their dad, is a bit useless. A total charmer, but he didn’t have a clue how to look after them. He used to bring them in here for their dinner every night. Or just send them over with fifty quid. More money than sense. He should have got a woman in to look after them all.’ She went a bit misty-eyed. ‘I’d have done it.’
    ‘They live in the Mill House, right?’
    Mel sighed. ‘Wouldn’t you just die to live in a place like that? It’s my dream house. It’s not going to happen, though. None of them would look at me.’
    ‘Or me,’ laughed Claire in collusion, and Mel didn’t contradict her, thereby confirming her suspicions. The Barnes brothers were out of her league. As she laid out fresh towelling cloths on the bar, she felt relief. She wasn’t going to have to subject herself to the inevitable humiliation after all.
    By quarter to eleven she was done in. She was rushed off her feet serving breaded scampi, steak and ale pie and chips, and black forest gateau, for the restaurant was extremely popular on a Saturday night, and they managed to squeeze in three sittings. By eleven o’clock every table was cleared, and Phil told her to go to the bar for half a lager – waitress’s perks. All Claire wanted to do was to go home and crawl into the bath, to get the smell of cooking out of her hair and skin, but it was rude and unsociable not to take him up on his offer. She had just perched at the bar and asked for a splash of lime in her lager when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
    It was Nick. Nick, looking dishevelled in a white shirt with the collar turned up and the cuffs undone, and tight black jeans. Her mouth went dry.
    ‘I knew you wouldn’t come of your own accord,’ he grinned. ‘So I’ve had strict instructions not to leave until I’ve dragged you kicking and screaming.’
    Claire shook her head.
    ‘No way. I can’t come dressed like this.’ She indicated the polyester shirt and black skirt that was the pub uniform.
    Nick held up a bag, triumphantly.
    ‘We knew you’d say that, so we raided Mum’s wardrobe. You’re about the same size.’
    He pulled out a dress – a red silk shift, totally plain but beautifully cut.
    ‘I need a bath. My hair’s . . .’
    She held her hands up to her head in mock despair.
    He reached behind and pulled out the scrunchie that was holding back her curls, and ruffled his fingers through them till her hair fell to her shoulders.
    ‘It’s great. What’s the problem?’
    Claire searched for another excuse.
    ‘I’ve got no make-up.’
    Nick whistled to get Mel’s attention.
    ‘Mel – can Claire borrow some make-up?’
    Mel came over, eyeing the pair