Damien smiled at her reassuringly.
‘A man’s got to have a social life, hasn’t he?’
He shut Kelly’s door, then pressed the remote. As the gates to Honeycote Grove opened, and the security lights came on, Kelly smiled to herself as she drove her little car out. She could get used to this lifestyle, no problem.
Damien watched her leave, then waited until he was quite sure the gates were shut again. Fuck. If Nicole had got his number, then she wouldn’t be very far behind. He’d have to be very careful. Very careful indeed.
After the party Keith dropped Ginny off home. The twins were helping clear up; they’d walk back together later. Gentleman that he was, he saw her right to the door.
‘Perhaps we could go somewhere quieter next time. Actually have a conversation,’ he joked.
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Friday night, maybe? I’ll give you a ring.’
‘Great.’
Ginny wondered if she should ask him in for coffee, but she knew the barn was in a bit of a state. Not that it should matter, but it did.
Keith leaned forward to kiss her goodnight. She turned her head imperceptibly to the side, so he got her on the corner of the mouth. He lingered a second too long and drew back to assess the look in her eyes. Ginny looked away hastily with a little smile and stepped back.
‘Good night, then.’
Keith tried very hard not to look hurt and smiled bravely. He lifted a hand in farewell.
‘Good night.’
As she watched his retreating back, Ginny bit her lip. Why hadn’t she let Keith kiss her? He was so lovely; treated her like an absolute princess. She’d kissed Bertie all right, and he’d treated her like a slut.
That was the problem. Bertie. Just when she thought she’d got him out of her system and forgotten him, he’d turned up again, confusing her. If he hadn’t gone and turned her inside out she’d have been quite happy to ask Keith in, she knew she would. But now all she could think about was that warm finger tracing its way down her spine…
If she kissed Keith, that meant commitment. And that meant she’d have to repel any advance Bertie made quite firmly. Not that he was going to make an advance. Or was he?
Ginny tried to pull herself together. She’d just have to make sure she wasn’t in when he dropped his ironing off. If he dropped his ironing off. When had he said? Tomorrow? Oh God, she couldn’t bear it. It was just like being a teenager again.
It was gone half past one before peace reigned once more at the Honeycote Arms. Everything was washed and gleaming and put away ready for the first day of trading tomorrow. The staff had all been thanked and paid a few quid extra for good will, and had gone home. Barney’s parents and Iris and Sybilla and Piers had gone upstairs to bed. Barney and Suzanna, who’d hardly drunk all evening, sat down with a bottle of champagne to toast their incredible success. It had gone better than either of them had dreamed. Cars had been parked all the way down the high street. It had been standing room only inside the pub. The restaurant was booked three weekends in advance.
‘We did it.’
‘We did.’
They grinned and clanked glasses, drinking a toast to each other. Then Barney put his glass down and looked into Suzanna’s eyes. She met them and smiled. He pulled her into his arms and she nestled into him. He kissed the top of her head, then led her upstairs by the hand.
But Suzanna couldn’t do it. She couldn’t make love to Barney while she was thinking about Patrick. It was too tacky for words. She tried to banish Patrick’s image from her mind and concentrate. But she couldn’t summon up the magic.
Barney felt her tense beneath him; sensed her reluctance. Almost her revulsion. Abruptly, he rolled off her and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
‘What is it?’ Suzanna looked confused.
‘If it’s that much of an ordeal’, he said with gritted teeth, ‘then forget it.’
He threw back the duvet and got back into bed, pulling the covers over him. Horrifed, Suzanna tried to tug them off him.
‘Barney!’
He turned and snarled at her.
‘It’s OK. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to.’
Suzanna felt filled with shame. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she make love to Barney? It wasn’t just because of Patrick. She could have shut her eyes and pretended; fantasized. People did it all the time.
Suddenly, she realized. It was because she was afraid; afraid that if they made love she’d get pregnant again. Even if they were careful, there was always still a chance. And she didn’t think she could face it: the guilt, the betrayal of Ollie. And the fear, the terrible gut-wrenching fear of it happening all over again.
Hours after Suzanna had gone to sleep, Barney lay seething. All the support he gave her, all the love, the time, the patience, the care… He was only human. He was a bloke, for God’s sake. How long was he expected to go without sex? He understood that it might be an ordeal for her. But they were husband and wife. He wanted to make love to her. He didn’t think he was asking too much. Or maybe he was? Was he a monster for wanting sex? It had been over eighteen months. Even after Oliver had been born, they’d been at it after three weeks. But after he’d died… nothing. Just the big freeze. He wasn’t even sure if he was capable any more. He’d had the odd furtle with himself, when the urge had got more than he could bear, but he didn’t really like doing it. Anyway, it wasn’t just about sex. It was about feeling close to someone, that wonderful togetherness…
It wasn’t going to bloody happen.
He couldn’t believe that they’d got so far. On the surface, they’d built a new life for themselves. The pub was on track – he didn’t think the endless praise they’d received that evening was hollow. They lived in a beautiful village, with friendly neighbours; they had a tailor-made social life. Even Marmite was perfect. Why couldn’t they make it work?
Beneath the surface it was all a sham. He felt hurt that he obviously repelled Suzanna so much. And he didn’t think he could live in a marriage without physical love. It had once been such an important part of their relationship. Did that make him shallow?
At least it had made his mind up about one thing. Barney had been agonizing over whether to send off Kitty’s demo all week. He’d managed to track down his old manager, who was still working for the same company. It had only taken a phone call to get his e-mail address. He’d even transferred the track on to his computer so he could send it as an attachment. But something had been holding him back. It was a can of worms that he wasn’t sure he wanted to open.
But now? Bugger it – he didn’t care any more. He’d e-mail it to Jez first thing in the morning.
18
The next day, because she knew that otherwise she would jump every time the doorbell rang or the phone went, Ginny took the twins into Cheltenham to buy something for baby Chelsea – or Arsenal, as Sasha insisted on calling her. It was odd watching her daughters cooing over little romper suits and matching hats for their half-sister. The half-sister that was no relation whatsoever to Ginny. She tried not to feel excluded when they piled up the presents in Baby Monsoon – pink ballet slippers with rosebuds on the front, a dear little angora cardigan, a T-shirt embroidered with flowers, a tiny floppy rabbit for her to clutch in one fist. The bill was whopping. At least four baskets of ironing.
Two of which, as she had feared, expected, hoped, dreamed, were waiting just inside the porch when she got back that afternoon, with a hastily scrawled note in extrovert black italics: ‘When you’re ready. Bxx.’
She resolutely ignored them for the rest of the day, because she knew once she’d done them she would have to contact him.
On Friday morning the twins left for college, and Ginny felt extraordinarily flat. David was picking them up that afternoon and taking them back to Cheltenham to see the baby, and they were going to stay the night. Though Sasha kept insisting if she looked anything like her mother, Chelsea wou
ld be the ugliest baby on the planet, Ginny knew they were excited, and it made her feel more out of the picture than ever.
She decided to tackle Bertie’s ironing. If she left it any longer, she would look unprofessional: she prided herself on a forty-eight-hour turn-around, and she wasn’t going to let Bertie think she couldn’t manage. He might, after all, prove a valuable customer. A basket a week at twenty quid was not to be sneezed at.
She felt like a bit of a pervert going through his laundry. Even though she had permission, it still felt like snooping. And it was a sensual experience. The clothes were all beautiful, in fabrics that were delicious to the touch: Sea Island cotton and poplin and silk. All absolute buggers to iron, of course. But Ginny enjoyed her task, especially when she came to his Liberty lawn boxer shorts at the bottom. It was most disconcerting, trying to be professional about ironing a man’s undergarments when you couldn’t stop fantasizing about what went inside them. But then Ginny suspected that was exactly why he’d put them in there. Out of sheer mischief, because he knew the effect it would have on her.
She sprinkled them liberally with lavender water, let her iron glide over the creases until they were as crisp and immaculate as the day he’d bought them, then folded them neatly on top of the other clothes.
By ten o’clock, she’d finished. She decided to drive by the Dower House and drop it off. Then she’d have the rest of the day to do whatever she liked. Convincing herself he’d be out, she put on the stonewashed cornflower-blue sweatshirt that she knew full well brought out the colour of her eyes and pinched some of Sasha’s raspberry lipgloss.
*
Bertie was wrenched from his sleep by the sound of Ginny’s Shogun coming down his drive. Shit! She was bringing back his ironing. He shot out of bed, pulling on a shirt and jeans and managing to brush his teeth before he went to answer the door. Luckily he was the type who suited not having a shave – it made him look even more piratical and attractive. Still, he was cross with himself. He’d meant to get some order into the place before she’d arrived, but he’d become engrossed in a Nicolas Cage action adventure movie the night before and had then gone straight to bed, resolving to get up early. But his curtains were so heavy that daylight never filtered through into his bedroom, and at half past ten he was still unconscious.
She looked sweet, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with some sugary pink lipgloss on that made her look about twelve, clutching her Mrs Tiggywinkle basket.
‘I’m just making coffee. Come and join me.’ She protested, as he knew she would, but Bertie insisted. He didn’t know why, but he felt like the wicked wolf in some fairy tale, luring the innocent maiden inside.
Too late, he remembered just what a hideous state the house was in. He and some friends had trashed the place the weekend before he’d gone to France two weeks ago. He’d been knackered by the time he’d arrived back at the Dower House earlier in the week; had spent the last two days at work taking delivery of everything he’d picked up on his trip. He’d been meaning to have a bit of a clear up this coming weekend. Bugger Mrs Titcombe for being so narrow-minded. It wasn’t as if anyone had asked to screw her on the billiard table. He really would have to get round to finding someone else.
He saw Ginny looking up at a stag’s head in the hallway. Someone’s G-string was hanging ceremoniously off one of its antlers. Bertie hastily led her through into the kitchen, which he soon realized was a mistake. Ruminants bedecked with scanty underwear were nothing compared to the squalour that lay inside. In the unforgiving sunshine of a glorious May morning, it looked like a Camden squat. The cats were up on the counter, tails curled like question marks, starving hungry. They’d already licked clean every plate and bowl they could find. Bertie hastily found a box of Go Cat and shook some out on to the floor.
God, he was never going to get her into bed now. The filth was a total turn-off, and Bertie could see Ginny was horrified but trying to pretend not to be. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, not quite daring to meet her eye. No one in their right mind would drink out of any receptacle that had come out of this kitchen without first being vaccinated for tetanus, cholera and hepatitis at the very least.
‘It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ he said, lamely. She struggled to know what to say.
‘Um, I’ve seen worse.’
‘Have you?’ he said hopefully. She tried not to laugh.
‘When I was a district nurse in the backstreets of Birmingham.’
Bertie was offended.
‘I’ve been away. And my cleaner left me – I haven’t got round to getting another one…’ Bertie trailed off. There was no excuse. He was a complete and utter slob. He gave her a winning smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’d give me a hand?’
She looked totally affronted, and Bertie backtracked hastily.
‘I mean, just point me in the right direction. I haven’t got a clue where to start.’
‘It’s not exactly rocket science.’
He picked up her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles in a rough gesture that made her quite weak at the knees. He grinned at her beseechingly.
‘Two pairs of hands would be better than one, don’t you think? And then we could have lunch.’
Despite herself, Ginny felt herself melting, even though she knew this was always how he got his way. But hell – what was the alternative? More ironing? She knew damn well she’d only come here this morning in the hopes of seeing him. She was hardly going to turn down his offer.
‘Go on, then,’ she grinned.
‘What?’
‘Show me where the Hoover is.’
Delighted, he took her through into the utility room and showed her the upright Hoover that had been a part of the house ever since he could remember. There was a canvas bag on the side that swelled up as soon as you turned it on. The accompanying noise was deafening. Ginny looked at it in disbelief.
‘This should be in a museum. Haven’t you heard of a Dyson?’
‘Mrs Titcombe never complained.’
A hunt for cleaning things unearthed some smelly old dishcloths, a rancid mop and a half-empty bottle of bleach.
‘I’ll nip to the supermarket, shall I?’ suggested Bertie.
‘Do you know what to get?’
He looked a bit unsure. Ginny pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down, hunting among the debris for the back of an envelope. Bertie produced a pen from inside his jacket, which was straddling the back of another chair. She wrote him a list, then explained how he would have to insert a pound into a curious device on the shopping trolley which would allow it to be released from its chains, warned him not to join the shortest queue because it would be the nine items or less checkout and there would be a riot if he had more, and gave him her loyalty card so she could have the points added on. He looked utterly baffled, but seemed quite cheerful at the prospect.
Bertie found the supermarket, parked, and followed Ginny’s instructions on how to extricate a trolley from its mates. He cruised up and down the aisles, intrigued. He watched in horror as a young woman battled with her trolley, which was laden with a mass of writhing limbs: a tiny baby with a globule of snot bubbling from one nostril, an enraged toddler screaming next to it and a grubby-faced urchin hitching a ride on the end, lobbing every brightly-coloured box within arm’s reach on to their pile of shopping, which consisted of ready meals, oven chips and tins. Bertie watched, fascinated, as their mother plugged the toddler’s mouth with a dummy, swiped the head of the three-year-old, wiped the baby’s nose, extricated all the unwanted items from the basket and still managed to steer her trolley in a straight line, which was more than Bertie could. He reflected that this must be real life, that the nightmare she was undergoing probably wouldn’t end when she got home, that there would probably be some slob of a husband waiting for her in a stained vest who’d give her a good clout if she forgot his lottery ticket.
Eventually he found the cleaning agents aisle. He remembered the days when his mother was still alive; w
hen he used to help the woman that did. She carried with her an all-purpose tin of Vim that did for sinks, floors, loos and work surfaces. Now he was faced with a dazzling array of products, in any number of strengths, flavours, easi-pour, easi-grip, non-drip, no-run, refill, April-fresh, lemon zest, anti-bacterial, disinfectant, antifungal, antiseptic, de-scaling, de-moulding, non-scratch – the list went ever on. He cruised up and down for a while before getting out his phone and dialling home. Ginny answered, breathless.
‘I’ve been stripping the beds.’
Bertie shuddered to think what she might have found, then got on with the task in hand.
‘I’m completely flummoxed. What smell do we want to go for? I’d like to think there was some sort of continuity. I mean, do I plump for a zesty lemon freshness? Or a waft of alpine meadow? Or a sort of piney undertone?’
‘Lemon, definitely. Everything else smells like an old lady’s knicker drawer. Stick to citrus flavours. You can’t go wrong.’
Bertie loved the way that Ginny knew, and was so definite. He set to filling up the trolley. Soon he had bleach, under-rim cleaner, bath-cleaner, tap-scourer, oven-cleaner, washing powder, fabric conditioner, dishwasher powder, furniture polish, air freshener, fridge-cleaner, floor-cleaner, packets of dishclothes, dusters, scourers and a funny metallic thing that promised miracles, a new mop and bucket, and two pairs of rubber gloves.
The phone had rung three times on his way round. Once for light bulbs – three screw-fitting 60-watt, five bayonet-fitting 100-watt, pearl effect. Once for candles. And loo paper, luxury white Andrex, twelve-pack.
Finding a counter that was spit-roasting chickens, Bertie remembered his promise to treat her to lunch, so he bought one, adding a French stick, a packet of rocket and some vine-ripened tomatoes. Bertie couldn’t cook but after years of living out of delicatessens he knew what to buy. He didn’t need to get wine. The cellar was groaning.
By the time he got back Ginny was in the utility room sorting out piles of sheets and pillow cases and towels. She immediately put the first lot on for a boil wash, the implication being that all his linen harboured disease-ridden germs that needed obliterating. And it probably did.
Making Hay Page 30
