Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Weird,’ said Suzanna.

  But she got up light of heart. It just went to show you, they did belong together after all.

  Sybilla and Piers arrived at midday, throwing Suzanna into more panic, but Sybilla insisted they were here to help. Piers, who was taking a rare and much-appreciated day off, was looking redder-faced and longer-suffering than ever. Sybilla looked fabulous. Blooming, in a huge Brora cashmere sweater and leather maternity trousers. Suzanna smiled to herself. Only Sybilla could have found leather maternity trousers.

  ‘I want a personal guided tour. Straight away.’

  Suzanna tried to protest that she had mountains of things yet to do, but Sybilla insisted that as Suzanna now had two extra pairs of hands, she could afford ten minutes to show them round.

  As much as they could, Barney and Suzanna had left the building to speak for itself. The lounge bar had kept its traditional feel, but was much lighter than before. The flagstones gleamed and the beams had been stripped of their black stain to reveal lighter coloured wood beneath. The walls were limewashed almost-ochre; hops had been hung over the bar and a huge blackboard listed bar snacks and wines available by the glass. A pair of distressed leather sofas faced each other across a stout, low coffee table smothered in the daily papers and up-to-date magazines: Horse and Hound and Country Life as well as Vogue and Elle. Barney was hoping to attract a clientele for elevenses: they would serve good coffee and tempting pastries to lure mums on their way back from the school run or people who worked from home and wanted a break. As well as the usual chairs and tables, and stools at the bar, there were a couple of high-backed settles in discreet corners for those who wanted a drink in privacy.

  Barney went behind the bar and carefully poured himself and Piers an inaugural pint with a sense of ceremony. Then they went through into the dining room. Again, the flagstones and the beams had been revealed, but the overall atmosphere had much more impact.

  Suzanna had to admit that the effect on the walls had been achieved by luck rather than judgement. She’d had an image in her head and no idea how to recreate it technically. She’d wanted to get away from the traditional red so favoured by dining rooms that it had become almost a cliché, yet she still loved the warmth and cosiness it brought; the way it acted as a perfect foil for candlelight and intimacy. She’d eventually hit upon a deep coral, a dead flat oil the colour of lobsters and scallops at their very richest, a glorious mix of dark pink and orange and red which, by the painstaking layering of different colours, had finally been perfect: vibrant in summer yet cosy in winter, a welcoming hue that should have been shocking yet felt absolutely right.

  At the windows were hung simple blinds, wide ticking stripes of charcoal grey and cream on stout wooden poles with big fat acorn finials. The tables were farmhouse planks, stained dark and burnished until they shone, flanked by ladder-backed rush-seated chairs that had been chosen for their comfort more than their looks – it was important for customers to want to linger. The glasses were huge, as were the plates, just thick white china, flanked by black-handled bistro cutlery. On each table was a squat, square metal vase, stuffed with moss and cream roses tinged at the edge with the same coral as the paint on the walls.

  Along one wall was a huge butcher’s block, on which were to be displayed the desserts and cheeses, and a mammoth iron fruit bowl that overspilled with grapes, apples, pears, figs and oranges. Above that was an ornately carved wooden mirror that reflected the entire room. Wrought-iron sconces, softened with amber droplets, distributed a warm light that could be turned up or down from a switch on the wall, with the addition of fat church candles on each table and windowsill.

  Two huge unframed canvases hung on opposing walls – one resembling a Dutch still life, an extravagant plateau de fruits de mer whose colours cleverly echoed that of the walls; the other a very impressionistic nude lolling on a chaise longue, a glass of wine in her hand. James had lent them from his gallery, happy for them to be hung there, and if a customer chose to buy one – which no doubt they would – another would be found to replace it.

  The finishing touch was a rusty cast-iron pig with wings. As large as a cat, with its appreciative snout in the air like a Bisto twin, it was positioned by the till, the slot in its back waiting for tips.

  Warm, rich, rustic, simple, stylish – it was an environment that enhanced rather than interfered with the senses. Because, as Suzanna had impressed upon her workforce, it was all about relaxation and enjoyment. They weren’t striving for an elaborate award. Just a reputation for being somewhere that people could guarantee eating slightly better food than they could create in their own home, safe in the knowledge that nothing they asked for (within reason) would be too much trouble; that if they wanted a doggy bag or a taxi home or a digestive biscuit to dunk in their coffee, they would get it.

  Sybilla gave a sigh of absolute contentment.

  ‘It’s utterly divine. Completely perfect. You are both absolute geniuses.’

  Neither Barney nor Suzanna could wipe the grin off their face, as the memory was still fresh in their minds of total mayhem only three weeks previously, when it seemed as if order would never be restored in a million years.

  They then showed their guests upstairs to the bedrooms, which, explained Suzanna, had been a miracle in themselves, so low was the budget. But she had surpassed herself with her ingenuity.

  Sea-grass matting was laid up the stairs, along the corridor and throughout all the bedrooms, which immediately gave a sense of uniformity and space. The walls were painted in a deliciously rich buttermilk which reflected the light. At a fabric warehouse she’d found reams of checked mulberry silk on sale for a ridiculous two pounds a metre – it had been, apparently, a cancelled order from a large hotel. There was just enough for floor-length unlined curtains and a bedcover in each room. To continue the colour scheme the architraves and skirting boards were picked out in a darker shade of damson, as well as the curtain poles, lamp stands and a job lot of cheap picture frames from the market. Suzanna had found some old fifties annuals in a second-hand bookshop and pulled out the comic strips, which she’d framed up and hung on the wall in order. The effect was nostalgic, quaint and very striking. She had trawled charity shops and bought up as many paperbacks that were in mint condition as she could find – Dick Francis, Agatha Christie, as well as some more intellectual tomes – to provide each room with a little bit of brain candy to make up for the fact that they couldn’t afford to equip them with their own TVs just yet.

  Everyone had agreed that white bathrooms were the best, and although they couldn’t splash out on elaborate power showers they found the plainest suites they could. Piles of fluffy white towels were an absolute necessity. Pretty glass bottles were filled up with supermarket’s own-brand bubble bath and shampoo, fresh candles were put into candlesticks and each bath was equipped with its own rubber duck.

  In time, they could replace the polyester duvets with goosedown and the sheets with Egyptian cotton, install entertainment centres and satellite TV. In the meantime, the bedrooms were comfortable, and looked fresh and stylish and a little bit quirky. No one would exactly suspect the hand of Anoushka Hempel, but anyone fancying an illicit bonk or a romantic getaway in the Cotswolds would be perfectly satisfied.

  Sybilla clapped her hands in delight, and even Piers, who rarely spoke or expressed an opinion chiefly because he wasn’t allowed a word in edgeways when his wife was around, pumped Barney’s hand in enthusiastic congratulations and kissed Suzanna on the cheek.

  Sybilla chucked her overnight bag on their bed and rubbed her hands together.

  ‘Right,’ she declared. ‘Show me what I can do. I can handle anything except raw liver.’

  Suzanna gave her a big white pinny and got her to cut out pastry motifs to top the miniature pies she’d made. They were samples of what they were going to be serving in the bar. They wanted to keep the bar menu as simple as possible so as to concentrate on the restaurant, and Suzanna had hit upon the idea
of a range of pies which she hoped would soon create a dedicated following. Pies were easy to prepare, easy to serve and everyone liked them. She’d even devised a ‘Vale of Evesham’ pie for vegetarians, crammed with peas and asparagus and purple sprouting broccoli in a local blue cheese sauce.

  She gave Sybilla the templates – fish for the fish pie, rooster heads for the chicken and asparagus, and cow horns for the beef in Honeycote Ale – and left her to get on with it while she worked through her checklist.

  At six o’clock that evening, as Sybilla rubbed shimmering, sparkly body lotion on to her back and arms, Suzanna shivered with excitement. She’d resolutely decided to be glamorous tonight, as it was probably one of the few chances her future customers were going to get to see her tarted up. Henceforth she was going to be chained to the stove in her chef’s whites and rubber clogs. So she’d chosen a pale blue Ghost dress, floaty and asymmetric, and sandals with a single silver-beaded strap across the front.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ moaned Sybilla, who’d also gone for Ghost, but black.

  ‘So do you,’ said Suzanna, and kissed her friend. It had been fun having her around. She’d missed female company lately. Not that she went as far as sharing any of her dilemmas with Sybilla, but somehow the sense of expectation was greater with a girl. She was in a party mood. She took a slug of the champagne Sybilla insisted they have while they got ready, even though neither of them had made much inroad into it. But it had given them a sense of occasion nevertheless.

  ‘I’m nervous,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got no reason to be,’ said Sybilla. ‘It’s going to be a huge success. Piers is seriously impressed. And not much impresses him, I can tell you. What time’s kick-off?’

  ‘The invitation said seven,’ replied Suzanna, looking at her watch, ‘but I don’t suppose anyone will get here till nine. If they come at all.’

  She couldn’t have been more wrong. By twenty-five past seven, Barney had to close the doors to any more guests until people started leaving.

  It was heaving! Absolutely everyone who had been invited had come, even the vicar. All the old regulars, everyone from the brewery, people that Barney and Suzanna recognized from the village, including batty Coral from the post office, and hordes of people from the point-to-point. Some had dressed up for the occasion, some had come straight from work, whether it be in the fields or in an office. Some had just fallen off the train from London. From sixteen to sixty, every age was represented. And they were all quite determined to enjoy themselves.

  There was cava, Pimms and, of course, Honeycote Ale flowing on tap. For canapés, there were the little mini pies, as well as crostini topped with smoked trout, goat’s cheese or air-dried ham, all locally produced. And beautiful flat baskets filled with quails’ eggs and asparagus and tiny salt-encrusted new potatoes to dip in a bowl of saffron sauce. And strawberry tartlets. Suzanna had planned to fill the freezer with the leftovers, but at this rate there wasn’t going to be a single crumb left.

  Damien hadn’t been able to resist going to the opening. Thick, glossy invitations had arrived for all the residents of Honeycote Grove, who, with their wads of money, would obviously be target clientele. He’d welcomed the opportunity to go and have a look at his future investment first hand. He’d been so busy over the past couple of weeks, tying up all the loose ends with Marco Dinari, but he was now a free agent. It was time to focus on his next conquest.

  He also allowed himself to think about Kelly. He’d banished her to the back of his mind temporarily, knowing that he would be too preoccupied to concentrate on her properly, for this was one relationship that he didn’t want to screw up.

  He asked Rick, super-casually, if he’d ask Kelly if he could take her up on her offer to babysit. The message came back that she would be delighted.

  ‘She’ll be glad of the extra cash. She’s saving up for her own place. She can’t stand sharing with me any longer.’

  It was true. Poor Kelly. She was working all the hours God gave at her salon. Then she insisted on coming home and doing the housework, cooking Rick a proper meal and doing his washing, even though he told her repeatedly not to bother. She was so like his mum it wasn’t true. And she would be so ideal for Damien. He was doing a valiant job as a single father, but it was obvious he needed a woman about the place. When he stood in the kitchen he always looked a bit panicky. And Kelly would adore Honeycote Grove; she’d keep it as clean as a new pin.

  Kelly was indeed delighted with the prospect. She’d got home from the salon at six, showered and changed into a pink fleece and tracksuit trousers. She didn’t blow-dry her hair for once, just left it to dry naturally and tied it up in a butterfly clip. When she saw Damien, she couldn’t help wishing she’d made a tiny bit more effort. She’d forgotten how gorgeous he was. Not that he’d be interested in someone like her. And anyway, you couldn’t turn up to babysit in lurex and stilettos. He might as well see her at her worst. The only way was up then.

  He was incredibly courteous. Showed her where everything was; told her to help herself to anything she wanted from the fridge and to be firm with Anastasia about bedtime.

  ‘I won’t be late,’ he promised.

  He wasn’t going to stay long. Just enough to get the lie of the land. He didn’t want to make himself too conspicuous, or get too close. The better you knew people, the harder it was to shaft them.

  Anyway, he wanted to get back, so he could talk to Kelly. Get to know her. Maybe even tentatively ask her out. Though he wasn’t sure if he had the courage quite yet.

  Sybilla had to go to the loo. Again. The baby was perched right on her bladder and she couldn’t stop peeing.

  The ladies’ loos had been another of Suzanna’s inspirational labours of love thrown together on the cheap. The walls were painted a soft bluey-purple, the colour of butterfly wings; the louvred doors on the three cubicles were painted lavender with glass doorknobs – Suzanna had spent hours making sure no one could peep through the slats while someone was having a wee, and had been happy that unless you were a real pervert you were unlikely to be able to catch a glimpse. A row of Venetian-style boudoir mirrors hung over the sinks, which had been sunk into a slab of marble from Bertie’s reclamation yard. The illusion of luxury was granted by bottles of hand lotion on an old Singer sewing machine they’d topped with the remaining marble, and a vase of fresh freesias.

  Sybilla admired her friend’s handiwork. It infuriated her that Suzanna had the knack of pulling things together without paying through the nose, or making it look like a bad episode of Changing Rooms. She thought of her own house in Richmond and shuddered at the bills Piers footed, yet still the decor was never quite right. It felt too done. There was no doubt about it, Suzanna had talent oozing out of every pore. Sybilla was immensely proud of her friend’s achievements.

  There was something not quite right, though. She sensed Suzanna was jumpy, and it wasn’t just first-night nerves. If she didn’t know her better, she’d have said she was coked out of her brain. But Suzanna didn’t do that kind of thing, she was pretty sure. Well, she never had done in London, and Sybilla doubted it was the sort of thing you got lured into in the depths of the Gloucestershire countryside, despite what the tabloids hinted about the young prince’s recreational activities.

  She washed her hands, checked her bump in the mirror for signs of growth since earlier that evening, touched up her lippy and went off to find Piers who, it had to be said, was enjoying himself enormously. He was even talking about getting a weekend cottage in the Cotswolds. She was just heading down the corridor when she saw a couple up ahead. She stopped dead when she realized it was Patrick and Suzanna. They were very close, heads together. She shut her eyes. She didn’t want to see what might happen next.

  But curiosity got the better of her, and she opened her lids just wide enough to see them kiss. Not a full tongue snog, granted. But not a meaningless peck on the cheek either.

  ‘Right, young lady,’ she muttered to herself grimly
. ‘We’re going to have words, you and me.’

  Damien had heard rumours via Rick via Mandy, that the Honeycote Arms had gone substantially over budget. Which wasn’t really all that surprising – there was a rule that refits always took longer and cost more than you ever accounted for, no matter how realistic your estimates. But that was good – the further they were in debt, the less he’d have to do to fuck them over.

  Annoyingly, thought Damien, he could smell success in the air. The place was rammed. OK, so most people were happy to turn out to the opening of an envelope if there was a sniff of a free drink, but he had to admit that the atmosphere inside the pub was infectious. It was very stylish, but not in the least off-putting, which gave it a broad appeal. And the wide range of people that had turned up proved that: young, old, trendy, conventional, wealthy, ordinary, townies, countryfolk – and they all looked comfortable rubbing shoulders with each other. Damien wasn’t used to this concept. All of his establishments had a very specific target clientele: either young, style-conscious urban types or dirty old businessmen, both of whom he knew how to divest of their spare cash.

  He spent the evening usefully, doing a bit of judicious snooping. There were so many people in the place, so much going on, so much being drunk, that nobody noticed him accidentally wandering into the kitchens and having a nose round, quickly assimilating the names of their chief suppliers. A quick phone call to intimate they were bad payers would soon foul up their credit. The odd extra order here and there over the next few months would screw their accounts up. A customer with salmonella – he thought he could arrange that, together with the threat of a lawsuit. Rumours of food poisoning were always the kiss of death in the catering trade.

  He looked at Barney and Suzanna, who were circulating amongst their guests, both looking ecstatic, high as kites. For a moment, Damien couldn’t help feeling a little niggle of guilt, which was rather unusual for him. He told himself it was a dog-eat-dog world; that you had to play dirty to get what you wanted. The Blakes were naive if they thought it was just a question of shoving a decent bit of grub on to a plate and having pretty waitresses. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling rather like a bully swiping someone’s sweets in the playground. Perhaps he was going soft?