Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  He’d quickly come to the conclusion that the area around Honeycote was a perfect location. It was only an hour and a half away from London, yet surrounded by exquisite countryside that would yield great opportunities for sport: golf, hunting, shooting, even polo. Inside the hotel would be a spa, a library, a cinema, a casino, a nightclub. Maybe even one day a recording studio and edit suites.

  It was to be an amalgamation of different influences. The Hotel du Vin in Bristol had the right feel, a stunningly eclectic mix of old and new. Babington House in Somerset had the right philosophy and client base, being beloved by the arts and media crowd. Damien wanted to take all of these ingredients, put them in a pot and create something even more ambitious. There was only one thing holding him back. Money. He might be a success, but this was without doubt a multi million-pound venture. And he didn’t want a partner. Damien hated compromise and was unflinchingly focussed and single-minded.

  The only partner he would ever have considered was Nicole. If things had gone smoothly, they could have had a great partnership. When things had gone well between them, they’d understood each other perfectly. They had the same tastes, same drives, same appreciation for the beautiful things in life. He imagined for a moment a picture of them in the press release, smiling at the bottom of a sweeping staircase, welcoming a posse of A- and B-list faces to the dream they had created between them. It would have been so gratifying; a million miles away from the back streets of Bristol they had been dragged up in. They would be living proof that you could do whatever you wanted in this life, as long as you had the drive and the determination.

  Annoyed with himself, Damien shook himself out of his reverie. He was never going to get anywhere if he kept dwelling on the past. Nicole was beyond redemption; she’d pushed the self-destruct button. There was no point in looking back. He had to look forward. And he could do it on his own. He knew he could. He’d doubled his turnover every year for the past five years. And now, thanks to Marco Dinari, he had money burning a hole in his pocket. What he needed, if he wasn’t going to pay hideous amounts of capital gains tax, was a stepping stone. All he needed to do was to make that money work for him. And to that end he had an idea.

  He was going to drive the revamped Honeycote Arms into the ground. Make a hostile takeover bid. Fatten it up a little bit and add it to his portfolio, which he would then use to attract investors safe in the knowledge that it was underpinned and that he had collateral to keep the bank happy.

  Of course, there were hundreds of other places he could have chosen to fatten up. Cheltenham was full of propositions. But after just a short time in Honeycote, Damien was burning to do something that would make all those snotty locals sit up and take notice. Everyone loved a restaurateur, regardless of their background. Everyone wanted to walk into their local and be acknowledged by the owner. It would give him no end of pleasure to watch all those people who had sneered at him over the past few days grovel for recognition, for a table, for a kind word from their host…

  Although, Damien thought, he didn’t actually want to lord it over them. He’d be no better than they were if he did. He just wanted to belong, to feel wanted, to feel respected. He wouldn’t treat them in the same way he’d been treated. He wanted to create a hub of warmth; a focal point for the village first and foremost, but also a ‘destination’ pub, somewhere that was spoken of in hallowed tones. Somewhere that got write-ups in the Sunday papers and was booked up for months… He wanted to apologize charmingly to Coral from the post office when she came in to find the place fully booked, then magic her a table from nowhere and enjoy her grovelling to him for evermore.

  But first, he needed to know more about Honeycote Ales. With no local knowledge, he wasn’t sure where to start asking questions, and besides, he didn’t want to arouse anyone’s suspicions. Rick, with his background and contacts, was the perfect spy, and Damien knew for sure he had no loyalty to the Liddiards.

  He outlined his proposition casually, as if it was a mere fancy. Which at this stage, it was.

  ‘Can you find out the state of play for me? How things are fixed financially? Who’s in the driving seat? Who holds the purse strings?’ He paused. ‘I’m just curious, really. Quite fancy myself as the landlord of the local.’

  He grinned disarmingly, knowing he wasn’t fooling Rick for a moment.

  Rick surveyed Damien thoughtfully. He’d seen the sort of joints he was running; seen the people he was dealing with. Damien might look like a ponce in designer clothing, but he was tough. He was big league. And while Rick fancied himself as a bit of a ducker and diver, he was small-time in comparison. He had the odd mate who dealt in dope and Es; knew people who could get you a dodgy MOT or some knocked-off Quiksilver gear. But Damien was potential cement overcoat territory. Did he want to get involved?

  Then he remembered his parents’ devastation when they thought they were being faced with eviction. How his mother had had to go to the doctor for sleeping tablets because she hadn’t had a wink since the day Mickey Liddiard had dropped his bombshell. How he’d had to carry his dad upstairs after he’d pumped dry the huge bottle of Bells that hung at the end of the bar. How Kelly’s face had crumpled when she hadn’t realized he was looking, when she’d seen Mandy Sherwyn in the front of Patrick Liddiard’s car – the place that had once been hers. And surely this would be the perfect revenge on Patrick? If he could be instrumental in engineering his downfall… The trouble was, Rick wasn’t quite sure how he was going to go about getting the information Damien wanted.

  Suddenly the memory of Mandy at his parents’ leaving party came back to him. How she’d shivered involuntarily under his touch. Surely she was the key? My God – it was perfect! He could use her to get the information he needed, then Patrick would lose the Honeycote Arms and be made to look a fool in front of his family and his prospective father-in-law into the bargain. Talk about an eye for an eye!

  Rick turned to Damien with a smile.

  ‘Sure – I can find that out for you. No problem.’

  Damien told him that he didn’t care what it cost him; that if he had to spend any money in the process, just to keep his receipts and he would be reimbursed.

  8

  From her office window the next morning, Mandy watched Suzanna Blake slide into the front seat of Patrick’s car. She didn’t look too much of a threat. Skinny, yeah, but not glamorous – she was wearing khaki carpenter cords, a denim jacket and a baseball cap. With her she had a battered old leather satchel that presumably contained her plans for the pub. As Patrick got in beside her and put the key in the ignition, she began talking animatedly, using her hands to describe something. Patrick listened intently, with a smile on his face, nodding in what looked like agreement.

  Mandy swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in her throat. Whenever he was with her these days there always seemed to be a crease between his brows. He never seemed to laugh. He was laughing now, at something Suzanna had said. He threw the car into reverse, backed up and roared out of the car park.

  Mandy burst into tears.

  She turned away from the window, hurt, frustration and humiliation welling up inside her. She must be premenstrual. It wasn’t like her to feel so defeatist. But she wanted it to be her in the car with Patrick, not some husky-voiced creature from London who she’d already heard the lads in the brewery describe as a ‘fit bit’. Not that she was threatened by Suzanna. She was old, for a start. Well over thirty. And she didn’t think Patrick was the type to go for an older woman. But she wanted to be making plans with him, throwing ideas around, stopping off for lunch and inspiration at some out-of-the-way little country pub.

  There was someone coming up the corridor. Mandy quickly ran a finger under each eye, praying her tears hadn’t smudged her mascara, and turned to see Elspeth, with her smug little smirk, holding out a letter Mandy had given her to be posted.

  ‘There’s a couple of spelling mistakes. I wondered if you’d noticed? And if you wanted them changed?’

&
nbsp; Mandy gritted her teeth and smiled.

  ‘Thanks. If you don’t mind.’

  Maybe she was useless. Maybe they would be better off without her and her silly little ideas. Maybe all they needed was Elspeth the Human Spellchecker. She should have gone with Sophie to Australia after all.

  She’d had an e-mail from Sophie and Ned this morning. They’d gone out to Australia just after Christmas, and had pleaded with Mandy and Patrick to go with them. Of course, it was out of the question for Patrick to go – there were too many changes afoot at the brewery. But Mandy could have… her dad had told her it would do her good. But she didn’t want to be a gooseberry. She looked at the photo they’d e-mailed, the two of them standing laughing on a beach, nut brown and hair bleached from the sun and the salt of the sea.

  Mandy slammed down the lid of her laptop and picked up her bag. She didn’t know where she was going, but she needed some time to think. No one would notice. Her father was waxing lyrical somewhere in the bowels of the brewery, showing Barney Blake the wonders of beermaking. And Patrick certainly wouldn’t be worried where she was. He hadn’t even bothered to come and say hello to her that morning. For a moment she thought about taking her mother up on her offer then shuddered. Things weren’t that bad, but she needed some space to get her life into perspective; try and put a finger on where it had all gone wrong and maybe find a way to get things back on track.

  She whisked past Elspeth.

  ‘If anyone wants me, I’m on my mobile.’

  She knew that would annoy her. Elspeth liked to know everything that was going on.

  Suzanna felt bubbles of excitement rising up in her throat. She couldn’t believe what was happening: that she was being whizzed along a country lane in an open-topped sports car on a beautiful spring morning, and that it could actually be classified as work. Today Patrick was taking Suzanna ‘off-piste’ in order to start tracking down suitable suppliers. First stop was a nearby dairy farmer who was diversifying into local cheeses, and who’d had the initiative to contact Patrick with an invitation to come and taste.

  They came out on a long, narrow road that stretched as far as the eye could see, flanked on both sides by enormous fields topped at the very edges by ancient trees. Patrick grinned, dropped the car down a gear and put his foot down. Suzanna screamed with excitement. She felt sure they were going to take off any moment. They could go so fast because the road ahead was totally clear – the only remote danger was if a foolhardy rabbit rushed out. Eventually they slowed and came to a crossroads. Patrick looked sideways, a trifle sheepish.

  ‘Sorry. I always have to do that.’

  ‘That was amazing. It’s a wonderful car.’

  ‘It was my grandfather’s. Dad’s not really into cars, so he gave it to me for my eighteenth.’

  Suzanna hid a little smile. Patrick said it so casually, as if people were always given vintage motorcars for their milestone birthdays. But somehow, he managed to get away with it. Suzanna had had a basinful of young men born with silver spoons in their mouths when she’d lived in Oxford, and had never found them an attractive proposition. But Patrick seemed different. She was sure he could be an arrogant and patronizing little sod if he felt like it, but at the moment he seemed charm personified. Even Barney, who was usually very wary of public-school types, seemed to think he was a good bloke. She was glad they were to be a team. She knew she sometimes needed the voice of reason when she got carried away, and she couldn’t always take it from Barney. Patrick could provide her with an objective opinion if she became over-enthusiastic. Suzanna knew her weak spots were her passion and her complete inability to budget. It was only Barney’s tight control over her pricing policies, and the fact that he rigorously checked every quote before she sent it out, that she’d managed to make a profit from Decadent Dining.

  As wide and flat and uncluttered as the scenery had been, now it became twisty and windy and hilly and dotted with exquisite cottages and manor houses and farm buildings. Again, Suzanna felt filled with disbelief that anyone actually lived here, and exclaimed how lucky they were. She was surprised that Patrick disagreed.

  ‘The grass is always greener. I’m sure if you asked half the people round here, they’d give their eye-teeth to live in London.’

  Suzanna wrinkled her nose.

  ‘I don’t miss it. Not a bit.’

  ‘So why did you decide to move to the darkest depths of the countryside? Really?’

  Suzanna looked at him, startled by the line of fire. He carried on smoothly.

  ‘I know the official party line. The bollocks you gave on your application form. Lifelong ambition to run a pub blah blah blah.’

  Suzanna swallowed. She hated lying. But she supposed it was only by omission.

  ‘It was for Barney, really. He hated working for his father. I suppose it was a question of now or never. He didn’t want to die an accountant.’

  ‘Understandable.’ Patrick nodded. ‘And you were happy to drop everything and go with him?’

  ‘Isn’t that what marriage is all about?’ said Suzanna lightly.

  ‘It’s a pretty drastic move.’

  ‘It’s a challenge. Anyway, I’ve done every canapé in the book six times over. A hundred and one ways with flaky pastry. I was getting stale.’

  They’d pulled into the farmyard by now, and Patrick turned to look at her. Suzanna didn’t meet his gaze. He had interrogator’s eyes, clear blue and perspicacious and piercing, eyes that would make you confess to things you’d never even thought of. Instead she jumped out of the car, eager to christen her wellies before Patrick could dig any deeper.

  *

  Mandy was batting along the back lane that would eventually come out on the road home. She felt better already now she was free of the claustrophobic confines of her office. She fished about on the passenger seat for a CD. Destiny’s Child – ‘Survivor’. It was her current battle hymn.

  She only looked down for a second, to press the right track number. When she looked back again at the road ahead, she saw a car had come to a halt in front of her. She slammed on the brakes, gripped the steering wheel and prayed.

  It was funny. Bashing into a car didn’t sound like it did on the movies. It was a flat thump, with no melodramatic crashing noises that went on for several seconds after impact.

  Mandy slumped over her steering wheel and wept. She’d only had the car five months. It was a second-hand VW Beetle, the new kind, silver, and she’d borrowed the money off her father. She was paying him back two hundred pounds a month out of her salary. It was her pride and joy; her personal space. And now, not only had she ruined that, but God knows what damage she’d done to the car in front. Someone was getting out of the driver’s seat. She braced herself for a confrontation, winding down the window, and looked into a pair of smiling grey eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry – I didn’t see you,’ she stammered.

  The bloke shrugged. He was only young, dressed in a black suit with a white T-shirt underneath.

  ‘It’s only a car. Are you hurt?’

  Mandy, who’d been prepared for a haranguing, was surprised he was bothered about her and not what she now saw was a Mercedes. Shit. Why couldn’t she have gone into the back of a Nissan Micra?

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Why don’t you reverse it up so we can look at the damage?’

  Mandy’s hands were shaking so much she couldn’t start the ignition, so she let the bloke do it. She stood helplessly by, clutching her handbag, feeling like a total girl.

  The front of her car was crumpled. The Mercedes was untouched. Mandy burst into tears for the third time that day.

  ‘My dad’s going to kill me.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’ He ran an expert hand over the front. ‘You could get that bashed out, no problem.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I’ve got a mate who could probably sort it out for you. He works at a garage in Evesham. It’d probably cost you fifty quid.’ He grinned.
‘It saves the bother of filling out insurance forms. And you won’t lose your no-claims.’

  Mandy looked at him, frowning. His face seemed familiar. That slightly-too-long hair that touched his collar and should have looked effeminate, but only made him look more masculine. That mouth.

  ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere…’

  ‘My parents used to run the Honeycote Arms.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She smiled. ‘How are they?’

  Like you give a fuck, thought Rick. ‘Very well. Glad to be out of it, really. They’ve settled into the B&B; Dad’s got his fishing rod out…’

  Mandy wasn’t really listening. She was looking at her car, worried.

  ‘Will you phone your friend?’

  ‘Sure. In fact, why don’t you get in your car and follow me? He should be able to do it on the spot. No one will ever know.’

  Mandy followed the Mercedes carefully into Evesham, making sure that she kept well back from his bumper so as not to repeat her earlier performance. They eventually pulled into an industrial estate, finally drawing to a halt outside an enormous car workshop. There was noise and smells everywhere: oil, exhaust fumes, Virgin radio, bashing and hammering, fag smoke, engines being thraped, jokes and insults being exchanged. Men in blue boiler suits ran hither and thither. Mandy hung back, shy and embarrassed, while Rick sought out his mate and showed him the damage.