Already enjoying the view was Keith Sherwyn. Mickey introduced them and excused himself for a moment – a judicious withdrawal so they could break the ice together. Both Mickey and Keith were dressed down in a sweater and cords; Ginny had panicked when she’d seen how casual the men were, but was relieved to see Lucy was more dressed up, in an orange silk skirt and a wrap-around cashmere cardigan.
Keith and Ginny chatted idly for ten minutes or so, about neutral subjects. Keith was very careful to avoid anything too personal. His heart had gone out to Ginny as soon as he saw her. Lucy had filled him in briefly on her background before she got there and he knew just how vulnerable she was probably feeling. He tried to hit the right balance in his chatter – enough so he wouldn’t sound like a self-centred bore and leaving enough room for her to contribute to the conversation without feeling obliged to tell him anything that left an open wound. He could see she was nervous – she was gulping back her champagne and she obviously wasn’t used to it, as her cheeks quickly became flushed. Keith made a note to himself to make sure she drank enough water at dinner. The Liddiards were useless at supplying water – he’d been a victim of dehydration after one of their dos often enough.
Inspired by the view they were looking out on, they discussed gardening, which they both confessed was an unknown area they would like to know more about, then moved on to the incredible diversity and immense usefulness of the village post office. Halfway through their conversation, Keith found himself quite smitten. She was sweet! The rather severe black and red outfit she wore was stunning, though he could tell by the way she kept pulling the velvet shirt across her chest that she didn’t really feel comfortable in it. Her face was soft and round, its slight plumpness disallowing the onset of wrinkles. She would once have been quite fair, guessed Keith, but her hair had now darkened to slightly lighter than mouse. It was her eyes that made her so pretty. They were large, round orbs lit up by millions of tiny blue prisms; fragmented chips of deep sapphire that sparkled like sunlight dancing on the Mediterranean sea. They were eyes that said you were fascinating. Eyes that laughed at all of your jokes, but not at you. Eyes that understood all your woes and promised to take them away –
Keith realized that he was in danger of gawping and tried to regain his concentration, bringing the conversation round to the point-to-point that was due to take place the following weekend in Kiplington, the village where he lived. Ginny admitted being terrified of horses, but Keith assured her that point-to-points were less about horses than drinking, gambling and socializing.
‘Honeycote Ales are sponsoring the last race, in fact. We always have.’
‘Wow.’ Ginny looked impressed.
‘It sounds very grand, but it’s only a couple of hundred quid prize money. We’re using it as an excuse to bung up a hospitality tent. Pimms and canapés. Basically it’s a bit of a PR jolly to advertise the fact we’re doing up the local pub.’
‘I saw it was being demolished.’
‘Not entirely, I hope. We’re due to open again in three weeks. Anyway, you must come on Saturday. Come as my guest.’
Ginny looked a little flustered, a little unsure, and Keith did his best to reassure her.
‘It’s all very informal. And great fun, I promise you. And we’ll picnic afterwards.’
Shit, thought Keith. I’ve done it. I’ve asked someone I genuinely fancy on a date. He prayed that he hadn’t pressured her into saying yes; he knew Mickey had filled up his glass twice while he’d been talking, so he was filled with Dutch courage. She’d seemed pleased enough with the invitation, though he hoped he hadn’t come across as a pompous git, waffling on about point-to-points when he’d only been to his first last year. And referring to Honeycote Ales as ‘us’. Was he entitled to do that? It wasn’t his great-grandfather that had hit upon the idea after all. Bloody hell, thought Keith. Who do I think I am? Bloody landed gentry?
*
In the kitchen, Lucy emptied a bag of Kettle Chips into a bowl and looked out of the window as an Aston Martin insinuated its way up the drive and drew to a halt next to Keith’s Land Cruiser. James, Mickey’s brother, and his wife Caroline had arrived. Lucy smiled as Caroline got out of the front seat, eager as ever to party, her post-natal curves defiantly poured into what was clearly a pre-natal dress. James was immaculate in a pale blue shirt and cream chinos. Then her mouth dropped open in horror as a tall figure emerged from the back seat, clutching a magnum of champagne.
‘Shit!’ wailed Lucy. ‘James has brought Tall, Dark and Hands. I’ll kill him…’
Tall, Dark and Hands was so called because of his height, looks and his inability to keep his hands to himself. Otherwise known as the Dishonourable Bertie, he was six foot three, with impossibly long legs clad in steel-grey velvet trousers, shiny black Chelsea boots and a voluminous white cotton shirt untucked at the back and undone at the cuffs. His mane of dark hair was swept back off his face. He looked like a pirate; a pirate that would have his very wicked way with you before making you walk the plank.
James apologized very prettily to his hostess for the gatecrasher.
‘I’m sorry. He came over this afternoon with a load of stuff for the shop, then we had a few drinks and… well, I didn’t think you’d mind, to be honest.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. He’s the last thing I need,’ she hissed. ‘I’ve got a guest for Keith. I was trying to set them up.’
‘I’ll tell him to keep his hands to himself.’
‘You’ll have to bloody chop them off first. You know Bertie – anything with a pulse is fair game. And poor Ginny won’t be able to cope.’
‘Who’s Ginny? Another one of your lame ducks?’
‘She’s not a lame duck. She’s very sweet. And she’s had a rotten time from her husband so the last thing I want is bloody Bertie abusing her.’
‘Who can’t I abuse? I promise to keep my hands off your daughters.’ Bertie slid an arm round Lucy’s waist and dropped a nonchalant kiss on her cheek. Lucy looked at him, as strictly as she could, because the most frustrating thing about Bertie was he made you laugh. You just couldn’t be cross with him. She thrust the bowl of Kettle Chips at him and told him to be useful. At least if his hands were full he couldn’t do anything else with them.
A few minutes later, Barney and Suzanna arrived, heralding the opening of even more champagne. Ginny had been nibbling at the Kettle Chips in a vain attempt to line her stomach, but it was a bit like shutting the barn door after the horse had bolted. She was relieved to see Suzanna was carrying three Tupperware boxes of canapés, which she’d brought by previous arrangement with Lucy.
‘I’ve been experimenting all week. If I don’t bring them, Barney and I will have to eat them all ourselves.’
Barney patted his stomach.
‘Thank God there’s a lot of hard physical work to be done, otherwise I’d be the size of a house. She makes me try out something new every day – puddings as well!’
Lucy arranged the canapés on a huge willow-pattern plate and led them through into the living room, where Mickey promptly filled up everyone’s glasses again and proposed a toast.
‘I can tell you, we’re not the only ones excited about the Honeycote Arms. The whole village is waiting with bated breath. So good luck!’
Suzanna and Barney fielded questions from everyone about how things were going, until Lucy intervened, protesting that it was their night off. Suzanna begged for a tour of the house and the gardens, so they were led off clutching their champagne.
Like everyone, the Blakes both fell in love with Honeycote House. It was so English, so uncontrived, so right.
‘Oh, Barney,’ sighed Suzanna, as she stood on the terrace, breathing in the scent of early roses. ‘Maybe one day we’ll have a place like this…’
Barney raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t the sort of house you bought, not in this day and age.
‘If this is what you want, you’d have to marry Patrick,’ he joked. Suzanna jabbed him in the rib
s with her elbow, grinning.
‘Not this big, maybe. Just a little one.’ She held up her thumb and forefinger to indicate how small.
Barney took another swig of his champagne. He could definitely get used to this new lifestyle. It felt about a million miles away from Twickenham. As Suzanna and Lucy plundered the herb garden for cuttings, he took in the view. After an exhausting week, it put everything into perspective. They’d definitely done the right thing, he thought.
*
In the living room, Keith had left Ginny to go and talk to James, and she panicked as the vulpine Bertie descended on her. His presence was most disconcerting. He smelled utterly delicious, making her feel quite faint. Her eyes were on a level with his chest, despite the two-inch heels on her boots, and she had to crane her neck to look up at him.
‘Tell me three interesting facts about yourself.’ The command would have seemed obnoxious coming from anyone else, but somehow he had an air of mischief that made this a perfectly acceptable opening gambit. All the same, she couldn’t think of a single one. He lit a cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. As she grasped around for something to say, he apologized. ‘Sorry. I’m being my usual aggressively over-the-top confrontational self. It’s because deep down I’m actually hideously shy. And I’ve never mastered the art of polite conversation. Just three facts will do. They don’t necessarily have to be interesting. Name, rank, serial number, that sort of thing.’
Ginny could tell that he’d realized his request had been an impossible one, that she couldn’t possibly have anything interesting to tell him about herself, so she rallied and did her very best.
‘OK. My husband’s run off with a woman half his age who’s about to give birth to his baby. I’m sharing a house that’s a glorified stable with my twin daughters. And this week I’ve discovered that I am officially unemployable.’
Bertie tutted as he surveyed her. ‘Has he realized his mistake yet?’
‘What?’
‘Your imbecile of a husband. If he’s gone for a younger model he’s only going to be in for GBH of the earhole. He’d have been much better sticking with you, I’m sure. You look fairly placid.’ He peered at her more closely, as if he was examining a racehorse for signs of bad temper before buying it.
‘Placid, but dull.’
‘Well, that’s his fault, entirely. It’s a man’s responsibility to bring out the best in a woman.’
Ginny’s eyebrows nearly shot through the roof. She wasn’t sure if Bertie was winding her up or not. He carried on regardless.
‘And I can’t believe you’re unemployable.’
Bertie was looking at her as if he’d happily pay her to undertake certain tasks. It was an unfamiliar feeling to Ginny, but she began to see what he meant about bringing out the best in a woman. She explained how she’d been scouring the local papers for gainful employment.
‘I could be a care assistant in a local nursing home, for a pittance. Or I could train to become a driving instructor, but I imagine that means I’d have to part with large sums of money at some point, as I presume I’d need a car. I could be a panel beater, only I’m not sure what one of those is. I could pack eggs or stuff chickens. Other than that, I am either too old, overqualified or underqualified.’
‘Who says you’ve got to work for somebody else? Start your own business.’
‘Doing what? I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘What are you good at?’
Ginny had to think long and hard.
‘Ironing. I’m fantastic at ironing.’
Bertie looked baffled.
‘No one likes ironing, surely?’
‘I do.’ Her third glass of champagne made Ginny passionately emphatic. ‘I love the entire process: taking a crumpled bit of rag and transforming it into a crisp, pristine item of clothing that looks like new. I love the smell of fresh laundry, the noise of the steam, the sense of achievement. And all the time you can be doing something else in your head – ’
God, she must be pissed. How boring could you get, lecturing somebody on the joys of ironing? But Bertie seemed interested.
‘There you are, then. I’m telling you, you could charge outrageous amounts for taking in people’s ironing round here.’
Ginny laughed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s not. You could do mine for a start. I love the thought of you running your iron over my wrinkled shirts, lost in a fantasy.’
Ginny could sense he was about to expand on his theory, but just then Lucy called them through into the dining room and the moment was lost.
10
At Honeycote Grove, Damien looked out into his garden gloomily. The outside lighting turned itself on automatically as soon as the sun began to fade from the sky, lighting up the ferns and the lilies that the landscape team had planted for instant effect. He could go and have a drink outside, he supposed. The heater blasted out enough warmth to heat the entire tenement block he’d been brought up in. But he couldn’t see the point.
He was in agony. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have a clue what move to make next. Ever since the night he had met her at the Honeycote Arms, he’d wanted to see Kelly again, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. Common sense told him to grasp the nettle, make a cold call, ask her out, but he couldn’t bear the thought of rejection, however polite.
What alternatives were there? Take her up on her offer to babysit? But then what? Drive round for hours? He supposed he could wait till she got here, then say his arrangements had been cancelled. But what if she then just wanted to go home?
He poured himself a vodka and knocked it back, then gave himself a stern talking to. He’d ring her up – her number must be the same as Rick’s – and be spontaneous.
‘I’ve got the new George Clooney DVD. Pirate copy from the States. Why don’t you bring round a Chinese and we’ll watch it together?’
No matter which way he said it, he sounded like a dork.
Lucy had cooked an enormous leg of spring lamb, served with dauphinois potatoes and roasted baby carrots with their green tops left on. Then a Moroccan almond cake scented with orange flower water, and caramelized clementines and thick dollops of crème fraîche. And a magnificent cheeseboard served at the same time, because she knew some people didn’t bother with pudding, some didn’t bother with cheese, and some would want both. There was a ripe Chaumes, unctuous under its velvety orange crust, a slab of Torte di Dolcelatte and a rather forbidding mature Cheddar.
It was simple food, thoughtfully prepared, but most importantly the serving of it was relaxed – there was no tension from the kitchen, no mad scramble to synchronize the dishes, it all just seemed to happen under Lucy’s vaguely languorous direction. Suzanna thought if she managed to impart some of this atmosphere into the dining room at the Honeycote Arms, she’d be well on her way.
Everyone was drinking furiously, except James, who was driving and seemed to be able to keep his head while everyone around him was losing theirs. In fact, he was very amusing, and kept them all in stitches with his description of marriage and fatherhood with the addition of six incontinent puppies thrown in.
‘I’ve got rid of three, through the shop. I sometimes wonder if I should go into dog-breeding, not antiques. Only three more to go.’
Caroline protested volubly. She thought they should keep one, but James put his foot down. Ginny, daring after her fair share of Gavi di Gavi, spoke up.
‘I’ll have one. You’ll have to tell me how to train it, because I haven’t a clue. But I’ve always wanted a dog.’
‘Come round and have a look. You can have the choice of what’s left and I’ll issue you with a full set of instructions. Anyway, there’s an old bat that does puppy-training in the village hall every Wednesday. She’ll soon put you straight.’
Ginny felt a surge of excitement. It was ridiculous, really, that the prospect of a puppy could be so thrilling. Or perhaps it was the whole evening that was making her feel the
way she did. Everyone was so charming – witty and interesting without being intimidating. The food was the best meal she’d had for – well, months, if you didn’t count her evening out with David when he’d taken her to the Petit Blanc to ‘discuss things’, when she hadn’t really noticed what she was eating because she’d been concentrating so hard on what she should say. She was actually getting a social life!
The meal finished with big lumps of home-made fudge that Lucy’s daughter Georgina had made, which they drank with heart-racingly dark, bitter coffee. Lucy made all the men move round a place and Ginny found Bertie sitting next to her. He’d been openly flirting with Caroline all evening, unashamedly trying to throw grapes down her cleavage, and she’d retaliated by retrieving the grapes and then feeding them to him. It was outrageous behaviour in Ginny’s eyes, but obviously par for the course, as nobody batted an eyelid and James didn’t seem remotely threatened. Ginny thought Bertie would be bored by the prospect of sitting next to her – she surreptitiously buttoned up her shirt in case he got any ideas about tableside netball – but he seemed genuinely pleased to be next to her.
‘Hello, Mrs Tiggywinkle.’
She felt sure she was being teased, but found she rather liked it. David had never, ever, teased her. He took life and himself and other people very seriously indeed.
Caroline was waxing lyrical over the joys of motherhood.
‘I thought I’d hate it. I thought I’d want to be back at my desk after six weeks, but the thought of work is horrendous. I love being a mum! I love having an excuse not to get dressed till midday. I love snuggling up with the baby in front of This Morning and giving him his feed. I want at least three more.’
She gave James a mischievous smile, but he refused to react, used as he was to Caroline’s drunken rambling fantasies. He knew as well as the next person she’d be grumbling like fury the next morning. Mickey passed round the port.
Making Hay Page 16
