Free The Long Weekend by Veronica Henry Page B

because it turns out he’s a bit of a brainbox. Mum and Dad don’t know how it could have happened, because they haven’t got a qualification between them. Dad says he’s just a professional pisshead, and Mum . . .’ He paused for a moment. ‘Mum’s just Mum. She’s never been interested in a career. She says she’s never met a happy career woman.’
    ‘How very . . . post-feminist of her.’
    Nick looked sideways, not sure if Claire was winding him up.
    ‘She’s probably right,’ Claire added hastily. ‘I’m not sure that my mother’s happy. And her work is the only thing that matters to her.’
    ‘What does she do, then?’
    ‘She’s a scientist. A physicist. I have no idea what she actually does. I didn’t get her brains, or Dad’s. I think I’m a bit of a disappointment to them.’
    ‘That’s sad.’
    Claire shrugged.
    ‘I’m used to it. They’re not horrible or anything.’
    ‘No . . .’
    ‘Just . . . not very interested.’
    ‘That’s cruel, to have kids and not take an interest in them.’ He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘How could anyone not be interested in you?’
    Claire felt her heart start to melt, just a little, like an ice cream that’s being eaten too slowly.
    ‘They care . Of course they care. But they just don’t understand art or poetry or music . . . any of the stuff I like.’
    Nick made a face. ‘They sound . . .’
    ‘Boring?’ Claire laughed. ‘They enjoy a lively debate on quantum physics.’
    ‘And do you?’
    ‘Um . . . no. I gave up science as soon as I could. Which didn’t thrill them, but as Dad said, you can lead a girl to science but you can’t make her think.’
    ‘Wow.’ Nick looked disgusted. ‘You’d better not introduce me.’
    ‘It’s okay. They let me go my own way. It’s cool.’
    ‘But . . . lonely. You seem lonely.’
    Claire bristled. She realised she painted a blacker picture of her life than it really was.
    ‘I’m not. Honestly. They do love me. And I love them.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘And if I seem lonely, it’s because I’ve left all my mates behind. I don’t know anyone here.’
    They’d arrived outside the house. It was lit up from the inside, loud music spilling out on to the road. Claire stopped, suddenly overcome with nerves.
    Nick took her hand.
    ‘Hey. It’s okay. After tonight, you’ll have more friends than you know what to do with.’
    Claire’s mouth felt dry. This had been a really bad idea. Given half a chance, she’d turn tail and run barefoot up the road back to her mum and dad right now. Flop on the sofa, flip on the ancient telly, make them a cup of tea, raid the biscuit tin . . .
    ‘Come on.’
    He could sense her disquiet, but he wasn’t going to give her the chance to bolt. She screwed up every last drop of courage as he led her over the bridge. The river swirled underneath, dark and cool and dangerous. She could hear the mill wheel turning, scudding through the water. He pushed open the front door, led her through a hall that could comfortably have accommodated her own lounge with room to spare, and then into the kitchen.
    It was mayhem. Unashamed mayhem. There must have been thirty people, all talking, laughing, drinking. A girl in a short swishy black skirt and long black boots stood on the kitchen table, dancing an improvised flamenco to the sound of Spanish guitar on the sound system, flicking her hair back and forth provocatively. A Rubenesque woman sat in a huge armchair dandling a baby – he paddled his feet in the air, seemingly oblivious to the noise and the hour. A birdcage hung over the table, and in it an orange canary sang along to itself. A set of folding glass doors at the back opened out into the garden, where lanterns led the way to the river’s edge. More people were spilling out of the doors, laughing, drinking, dancing on the terrace.
    And in the middle of it all was the most beautiful woman Claire had ever seen. Tiny, fragile, with a white-blonde pixie crop, wearing an