So he did. He’d moved out and into Faith’s ‘apartment’, which Ginny had found a rather pretentious name for a couple of hundred square feet divided up by plasterboard in an old mill by the river. She’d been shellshocked and dumbfounded that he’d taken up her challenge; that nearly twenty years of devotion could end in rejection. And it wasn’t as if he hated her. But what Faith had to offer was so much better. Ginny had given up her career – quite willingly, admittedly – to run the family home, bring up the twins and give David all the practical support he needed to build up his practice. Now all that counted for nothing. The practice was a success, finally. The twins were practically grown up. And he was off, in his yellow MGF.
You only had to look at Faith to know why. She was young, firm, gorgeous – she’d got him between her nutcracker thighs and fucked the sense out of him. Ginny had toyed with the idea of trying to seduce him back, but the prospect of donning slinky underwear and coming on to him was rather humiliating. If that was what it was all about, it was too late. If all those years of devotion counted for nothing, and it was just down to sex, then she was sunk.
She wondered what Faith wanted out of it. David was quite good-looking, quite fit, quite successful, quite well off – but not very any of those things. Chemistry, perhaps, had a lot to answer for. Doing something you shouldn’t be doing probably had a bit to do with it as well. Maybe now it was bona fide, and David had had permission to move in with her, things wouldn’t seem so exciting.
David wasn’t pushing for divorce. So Ginny didn’t either – the thought of a divorce filled her with horror and failure. And anyway, what if he changed his mind? She’d have him back, she knew she would, because she had a strong sense of family. And she wasn’t one of those people who snipped the crotches out of their husband’s best trousers. She was stoical, passive, and wanted to get through the whole scenario with a minimum amount of pain.
Little Polly Positive, that’s who she was. And secretly she quite liked the fact that it obviously annoyed David she was being so calm, because it made him look worse. And she bet it annoyed Faith, because she wouldn’t be able to understand Ginny’s reaction, or rather lack of it. In fact, she rather thought she was in the driving seat at the moment. He’d played all his cards and she’d played none. Only because she didn’t have any, but he wasn’t to know that.
By the time she’d finished outlining the horrors of the past few months, Ginny felt drained. Unusually, Lucy didn’t offer mounds of sympathy or advice. Ginny was used to friends exclaiming what a bastard David was, or how she was mad for letting him walk all over her, or how she should get herself straight to the best divorce lawyer in town. She found it insulting – it was all right for her to brand her husband a swine, but she really didn’t want anyone else pointing it out to her as it made her feel worse, not better. And she was perfectly capable of picking up the Yellow Pages and finding a lawyer if she needed one.
Lucy was in fact the first person to offer anything Ginny considered remotely constructive. An invitation.
‘Come for supper – next Saturday. I’ve asked the people who are taking over the Honeycote Arms. And my brother- and sister-in-law. And our partner, Keith.’
‘I’d love to.’
As Ginny left, insisting that she could walk home, it would do her good, Lucy watched after her thoughtfully. It really was about time Keith came out of his shell. And Ginny was perfect. Kind, gentle, quite pretty in a natural sort of way, not money-grabbing – the complete antithesis of Keith’s ex-wife, in fact. She wasn’t sure if Ginny was ready for any romantic involvement. She suspected that despite the brave face she was putting on things her wounds were probably still quite raw. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the company of another man. And Keith was a gentleman. Having spent more than a year now with him in close proximity, of that Lucy was quite certain.
As she walked back to what she didn’t quite yet consider home, but was hoping she soon would, Ginny had a spring in her step. Her morning with Lucy had restored her faith in human nature and had given her the strength to realize that after all that had happened she was entitled to a bit of fun. She decided she was going to reinvent herself, make a few changes – and not be afraid of them. She had a blank canvas after all. The twins were pretty self-sufficient and she’d got if not money then all the time in the world to do whatever she wanted.
The meeting at the brewery went better than anyone could have expected. Its primary purpose was to make sure that everyone was singing from the same song sheet, and it was clear they were. They all agreed that, while the builders were ripping the place apart, it was probably best if they stayed out of the pub. In the meantime, Keith and Barney would be based at the brewery setting up the nuts and bolts of the operation, while Patrick and Suzanna, as the creative team, were to go out and source furniture, fixtures and fittings, as well as suppliers for the restaurant.
The longest debate they had had was finalizing the philosophy behind the food. Suzanna stood up to speak, and Barney felt proud as she voiced her feelings, knowing that this sort of thing was anathema to her.
She was adamant that quality and consistency came before novelty, and felt the formula was quite simple: rustic English fare, simply prepared, with the flavours speaking largely for themselves, with as much produce sourced locally as possible and preferably organic. As a premise it was not startlingly original, as more and more restaurants were taking up these very principles. But it seemed a logical brief to follow in what was, after all, a typical English country pub, and was in keeping with the legacy of Honeycote Ales as well. Pacific Rim, Thai fusion and Caliterranean wouldn’t really sit that easily with most of their target customers – though Suzanna wasn’t averse to the odd influence creeping into a dish here and there if she felt it appropriate.
She spoke passionately, her eyes shining as she described a sample menu: a rough game terrine served with onion chutney followed by a simple, pink rack of lamb or a fresh pea risotto paired with corn-fed chicken and wild mushrooms. The emphasis, if anything, was to be on vegetables. She felt that too many places knocked themselves out devising enticing main courses, only to offer garlic-infused mash and green beans as an accompaniment. Suzanna wanted to exploit the fact that they were perched on the borders of the Vale of Evesham, with its cornucopia of fresh fruit and vegetables. Every meal should automatically be served with at least five different side dishes that were included in the price: dishes whose colours and flavours would be bold, robust and daring, yet at the same time subtle. Sweet potato purée clashing with ruby-red chard. Bright orange Vichy carrots and deep emerald spring greens. Purple sprouting broccoli and chunks of yellow pumpkin. And fruit inspired puddings: cider apple crumble, cherry crème brûlée, pear and almond tart. And a local cheeseboard.
By now, everyone’s mouth was watering, and so it was agreed: Modern English Rustic, if they were pressed to describe it in three words. But otherwise, Suzanna insisted on the freedom to serve whatever she felt was appropriate given whatever local produce was seasonal and available. A market-driven menu that was chalked up daily. Nothing pre-prepared, nothing frozen, nothing out of season imported from foreign climes.
Keith closed the session with warm thanks.
‘I feel as if I should take everyone out for lunch,’ he said, ‘but unfortunately there isn’t anywhere decent to eat round here.’ He beamed. ‘Yet.’
Patrick came out of the meeting feeling as if a great weight had fallen off his shoulders. He’d been nervous about meeting the Blakes. It had been Keith and Mickey who had interviewed them, and although they had each individually reassured Patrick that the couple were spot on, Patrick had had his doubts. People from London could be so snotty, so patronizing, and were perfectly capable of going off on a tangent with ideas that might work in Notting Hill or Soho but just didn’t cut the mustard in the depths of the Cotswold countryside. It was a fine balance, introducing sophistication whilst retaining the rough edges that provided a certain charm.
He’d hoped he wasn’t going to have a battle on his hands. Now, he felt reassured. Suzanna was an absolute honey and Barney seemed like a good bloke. He should have trusted Mickey and Keith’s judgement.
He decided to find Mandy and see if she was all right. She’d been very quiet at their meeting this morning and Patrick wanted to reassure her. And apologize if he’d been a bit curt. Nerves always made him brusque. He knew he’d been a bit on edge over the past couple of weeks, since Keith had told him what was on the cards. But now he was feeling more confident. He wanted to make it up to her.
She wasn’t in her office. Elspeth looked at him with wide innocent eyes and said, in her little girl’s voice that didn’t fool Patrick one bit:
‘I don’t know where she’s gone. She was here earlier.’
Elspeth knew perfectly well Mandy had gone to take the artwork for the bottle labels to the printers, but she relished any chance to dump her in it. If anyone should have been in charge of PR, it should have been her. She’d been at Honeycote Ales for five years, not five bloody minutes.
Damien was elated as Rick drove him back up the motorway that afternoon. The signing of the contracts with Marco Dinari had been at twelve and, to his surprise, Marco hadn’t tried to reduce the price at the last minute. He knew there was probably a reason for this, that Marco knew something that he didn’t, or perhaps he was trying to legitimize wads of dirty cash and this was the quickest way to launder it. But he didn’t care. He was finally shot of his grubby little empire. And it felt good: as if he’d undergone some financial colonic irrigation. He was cleansed. Legit.
The car slid into Eldenbury at about half past two. Another half an hour before Anastasia’s first day at school would be finished. Rick parked up on the side of the road and Damien decided to kill the time by exploring the little town. He hadn’t really had a chance to get to know his neighbourhood yet.
He came to rest outside an imposing square building with a dark green sign proclaiming JAMES LIDDIARD ANTIQUES. In the window was something that quite took his breath away. A rocking horse. A stunningly beautiful dapple-grey rocking horse with a real horse-hair mane and tail, flared nostrils and a red leather saddle and bridle.
He pressed down the brass latch with his thumb and pushed open the door. There was a discreet buzz as he entered the hallowed surroundings. This was a proper antique shop; not a shop full of people’s unwanted junk. There was silence apart from the reassuring tick of an exquisite grandmother clock, cavorting shepherdesses depicted on its face. Damien gave a muffled cough, in case the buzz hadn’t alerted the shop’s owner to his presence, then went over to examine the horse. It was a triumph of craftsmanship, intricately detailed. Damien imagined it would only take the tiniest grain of magic dust to bring it to life, then laughed at himself for being fanciful. He was soon brought back to reality. Attached to the horse’s bridle was a price tag, boldly demanding the sum of four thousand pounds in thick-nibbed black ink.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’
He turned to find a man, presumably the owner, standing behind him. Damien reckoned he was about ten years older than he was, immaculately dressed in a window-pane check suit and silk tie. The man held out his hand.
‘James Liddiard. Please feel free to browse. I’m here if you’ve got any questions.’
Damien shook James’s hand. It was obvious that this was the sort of bloke people in Honeycote looked up to. He screamed good taste and understatement. Well, thought Damien. He couldn’t go wrong if he furnished the rest of his house in here. You could mix modern with antiques. He knew that, because he read World of Interiors at his hairdressers.
Damien carried on looking. He chose a beautiful writing desk with lots of little drawers. A painting of Venice, shining with golds and blues. And a round oak table, which would look fantastic in his hallway with nothing but a simple vase of lilies, just like the ones James had on his desk.
He wandered back over to the desk, where James was leafing through a Christie’s catalogue. On the wall behind him was a colour photocopy of what looked to Damien like a basket full of Anastasia’s Beanie Babies – ridiculously furry, fat-pawed little creatures. The sign indicated they were free to good homes.
‘What are they?’ he enquired politely.
‘Bitsers,’ answered James, and when Damien frowned, not recognizing the breed, he laughingly explained. ‘Bits o’ this, bits o’ that. My Labrador bitch got out one night.’
Damien thought about it. A dog might be fun. Anastasia would certainly love a puppy. And more to the point, Nicole hated dogs with a passion. Was terrified of them, in fact, after an unfortunate childhood incident with a neighbour’s Doberman. If anything was going to keep her away, it was a dog. More than locks and bolts and intruder alarms or remote-controlled gates.
Then he thought no. Dogs needed care and attention. He didn’t know what the immediate future was going to bring. He didn’t want to have to worry about getting back in time before the dog had crapped everywhere. The rocking horse was a much better option. It wouldn’t need any attention at all.
‘No, thank you,’ he said decisively. ‘But I would like the rocking horse. And there’s a few other things.’
James tried not to blink in amazement as Damien coolly pointed out the desk, the painting and the table, then took out his chequebook, wrote the full sum in the box and asked, politely, if it was possible to have it all delivered at the weekend, once the cheque had cleared.
‘Are you local?’
‘I’ve just moved into Honeycote Grange.’
James gave a knowing nod. ‘No problem.’
Damien noted that James didn’t flicker, gave no indication that Damien’s address meant that he had more money than sense or taste, just promised to have it all delivered to him on Saturday morning.
In fact, James was rather nonplussed at not having to negotiate. He’d have put any money on this fashion victim in the Dolce and Gabbana (he only knew because the label was stitched to the outside of his sleeve) trying to knock him down. Never mind. That was certainly the easiest twenty grand he’d made in a long time.
James had taken the decision not to follow his brother into the family business before he’d even left school. He never wanted to be in a position to have to undermine or overrule the somewhat wayward Mickey. It would only end in tears. He’d gone into antiques instead and done astonishingly well. Proper antiques, not the junk that masqueraded as such these days. He mostly dealt with a list of regular, private clients, many from abroad. The shop was really just a glorified showroom, serviced by an insatiable supply of tourists who usually only bought glass or china.
It was rare that a walk-in dropped such a huge amount of money like that. James was delighted. He’d never before had to worry about money, only having to please himself. Not that he worried now, as such, but he’d recently married and had a new baby. And his wife, Caroline, a one-time career girl, showed no signs of wanting to go back to work. So he bent over backwards to be charming to Damien. Nothing was too much trouble. Christ, thought James, I’ll carry the rocking horse up there on my own back if I have to.
Now that, thought Damien as he left the shop, was a true gentleman. James Liddiard hadn’t looked down his nose and thought he was any better than him. He’d treated him like an equal. He looked at his watch and realized there was only five minutes before Anastasia finished. He slipped into the bakery, bought a gingerbread man and went to wait amongst the cluster of mothers outside the red door of Hazlehurst, hoping against hope that Anastasia hadn’t been marginalized by her classmates like their parents had marginalized him.
He needn’t have worried. As Rick drove them back home, Damien listened with a smile on his face as Anastasia excitedly recounted her day to him. She told him about finger-painting and learning to count to three in French and a story about a mouse that was a ballerina and a girl called Phoebe who was sick at lunch and yucky macaroni cheese and yummy jam sponge and managing her first forward roll in the gym. Any fear
s he might have had about Hazlehurst being the right choice were soon dispelled. She’d had a wonderful day, and finished off by asking if her friend Emily could come for tea. Damien agreed that Emily could come that very weekend if her mummy said yes, and had a warm feeling in his heart as he thought about Anastasia and Emily clambering over the rocking horse.
Later, Rick came in from hosing down the Merc. Damien offered him a Bud Ice, which he gratefully accepted, and the two of them sat on the decking outside the French windows while Anastasia collapsed on to her beanbag in front of the telly, chewing on her gingerbread man.
Damien had decided he was going to have to take Rick into his confidence. He had nothing to lose by confiding in him, and he could control how much information he gave him. And the lad had just the right amount of discretion, just the right quota of initiative, to make him useful, but not a threat. Kelly had hinted that he was a bit of a drifter, but that was down to his age and the fact that he was devastatingly attractive to women. After all, why spend your best years slogging your guts out when you could waft around picking up casual jobs and equally casual fucks? It had never been an option for Damien, as he wasn’t blessed with the same raw ingredients as Rick, but he could see how tempting it would be to rest on one’s aesthetic laurels.
Damien was slightly concerned that he felt the need for a confidante. To him it indicated a sign of weakness. But he was on unfamiliar territory. He’d been cock of the roost on his previous patch, he’d known the rules and the key players. Now he was in uncharted waters, and he needed someone to guide him. He also felt certain Rick could be instrumental in the next phase of his master plan.
For Damien, buoyed up by the success of the day’s deal, had a dream. He wanted to open a hotel, a countryside playground, but not one of those genteel and gentle sprawling country hotels that the Cotswolds was already so good at. He wanted to create something funkier and more stylish, where relaxation and stimulation went hand in hand, where one could indulge one’s fantasies and get a quick fix. Somewhere that combined buzz with bliss. Not somewhere traditional, staid and stuffy, where one did battle with obsequious staff and silver service, but somewhere that encompassed chic, clubby élan with decadent luxury. Somewhere that successful young entrepreneurs like himself could recharge their batteries; somewhere celebrities could escape to safe in the knowledge they could relax and be pampered away from the cameras; a hotel that was on the ‘must visit’ list of everyone who was anyone.
Making Hay Page 12
