Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

The train pulled into the station at Evesham and she jumped off. With her head down and a baseball cap pulled over her eyes, she went out into the car park and scanned it anxiously. He was there, sitting astride his bike. Her stomach gave a lurch. He hadn’t seen her yet. There was still time to bottle out, turn round and jump on the next train home. It was an enormous risk, and Mandy wasn’t used to living dangerously. But the whole point of the exercise was to push herself and see what she was missing.

  Her pulse quickened as she strode decisively through the car park towards him, and as he smiled at her, lazily, just with one corner of his mouth, she knew she’d made the right decision. She took the helmet he held out to her, slung her leg over the saddle and nestled into him. As the bike roared through the car park and out on to the main road, heads inevitably turned, but by now Mandy wasn’t worrying about being seen. The speed, the closeness of Rick’s body and the anticipation of the weekend ahead gave her an incredible rush that was worth going to the gallows for.

  Ginny woke the next morning with a thundering headache and a boiling torrent of guilt roaring through her veins. Bertie was out for the count. She slid very carefully out from under his proprietorial clasp. She couldn’t see her clothes anywhere. She wrapped a towel round her for decency and went in search. Eventually she found the trail of evidence: her bra and knickers were hanging over the side of the chaise longue, on which she vaguely remembered being stretched out.

  She scrambled into them hastily. She found her car keys, trying not to think about the fact that she was bound to still be too pissed to drive. She’d seen at least three empty bottles on her search, but she didn’t care. She had to get away, back to the peace and solitude of her own bed and some sort of sanity. She scooped up Hope, not quite able to meet her eye. She couldn’t explain to the little dog why she’d been housed in Bertie’s scullery overnight and had to have cat food for supper. She thought about leaving a note for Bertie, but didn’t have a clue what to write. Thanks for a fantastic shag?

  By some miracle she got back to the barn safely and let Hope out of the boot. She could barely walk up the path; her legs had been like jelly in the car. She’d hardly had the strength to use the pedals. Giddy with lack of sleep, she thanked God that the twins had stayed the night at David’s. She couldn’t have stood their questioning. She wouldn’t have been able to fob them off. She had ‘rogered senseless’ written all over her. She fumbled to get her keys into the lock and pushed open the door. Stumbling inside, something on the floor of the porch caught her eye. It was a little gift basket full of soothing items. Attached to it was a note: ‘Wishing you a speedy recovery. Keith.’

  She picked up the basket with shaking hands. What the hell was she thinking of? She was being courted by the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful man she’d ever met; a man who’d shown her the utmost consideration. And she’d repaid him by spending the night having rampant sex with the most notoriously unstable, unfaithful, unsuitable man in the county – probably the country.

  Not only that, but Keith must now know she had been lying to him on the phone the night before, for she obviously hadn’t been in when he came round to drop off his gift.

  She couldn’t think about it. She had to have a shower. No, a bath, to wash away her aches, her bruises, her guilt. Her hip bones were bruised where Bertie’s had dug into hers. She was covered in rashes: on her cheeks, where his five o’clock shadow had chafed her. And her inner thighs… She shuddered with the memory, wanting to shut it out, but at the same time wanting to relive every agonizingly ecstatic moment.

  She poured half a box of Radox under the taps, then slid into the punishingly hot water. All she craved was a fresh pair of pyjamas, her own sheets and sleep. Sleep that would help her escape from her torment; sweet, healing oblivion from which she hoped, desperately, she would wake with an answer and some sort of absolution.

  Was it a crime? She hadn’t plighted her troth to Keith, or whatever you called it. They weren’t an official item. But what constituted official?

  No matter how hard she tried, Ginny couldn’t really justify what she’d done. However she explained it to herself, it just wasn’t very nice. And Ginny had always been just that. Nice.

  Eventually the bath became cold and the tank was drained of hot water. She climbed out of her cocoon and put on her dressing gown; her pink towelling dressing gown that was twelve years old but she couldn’t bear to throw away because it was big and cuddly and made her feel safe.

  A banging on the front door made her jump out of her skin. Whoever it was, she didn’t want to answer it. It might be Keith, demanding to know where she’d been the night before – though she knew he’d never ask. Or it might be Bertie…

  She couldn’t hide. Her car was there: whoever it was knew she was in, because they were persisting. She took a quick look in the mirror, but couldn’t meet herself in the eye, then hurried downstairs.

  It wasn’t Keith. Or Bertie. It was David, with a small, howling bundle of rage and a desperate expression.

  ‘I’ve just dropped the twins off at the pub for their lunchtime shift,’ he explained. Then rather desperately, holding up the baby: ‘I don’t know what to do. I can’t get her to take her bottle.’

  Life was weird, thought Ginny.

  ‘Chelsea, I presume,’ she said, and stood aside to let the two of them in.

  Fifteen minutes later, she had managed to establish some sort of order. She’d discovered that David was trying to feed the week-old Chelsea stone-cold milk straight from the fridge.

  ‘Faith says she’s got to learn. She says there’s no reason on earth why babies need their bottle warm. It’s a question of getting used to it.’

  Faith had, apparently, gone shopping with her mother to buy some new clothes. For herself.

  ‘She won’t touch her maternity stuff now. And she can’t quite get into her pre-pregnancy clothes,’ explained David, who’d been left in sole care. Faith seemed to think that, as he’d already raised two perfectly healthy daughters, he could manage on his own. But he was in total despair. The car seat was a mystery. He hadn’t even attempted to unfold the pram-cum-pushchair-cum-stroller. The changing bag was full of all sorts of mysterious items that he couldn’t identify.

  Ginny warmed the bottle in a jugful of boiling water, then sat with Chelsea in her lap while the little baby sucked contentedly. She turned to talk to David to see he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He’d been up all night, apparently, even though he’d done a day’s work at the surgery. Surely that wasn’t fair, thought Ginny indignantly, then wondered why she was sticking up for him. He’d made his bed – if he didn’t get to lie in it, then that was his problem.

  She popped the baby on her shoulder and paced round the living room, rubbing her back until the required little burp. It was almost as if it was yesterday that she’d done the same for her girls. She could tell by the sudden dead weight that Chelsea had gone off to sleep, just like her dad.

  Patrick arrived in good time at the Star and Garter Hotel on Saturday morning. The auction was to begin at midday – to the minute, the details had said rather sternly. There were several lots being sold off: a couple of pony paddocks, a building plot, a bungalow with an agricultural covenant and a cluster of barns for conversion. Little Orwell Cottage was the last to come under the hammer. He was given a bidding number – fifty-five. He’d tried to see some omen in this allocation, but couldn’t.

  He went to the bar and got himself a drink. Just half a pint. He didn’t want his judgement going all over the shop. He recalled James’s advice. James, who had been to more auctions than anyone he knew had had hot dinners, and had made a successful living out of it. Enough to finance this venture, anyway. He impressed upon Patrick that the important thing was not to get emotional; to look upon it as a business proposition, to fix a top price in your head and not to go beyond it for any reason whatsoever. Whatsoever.

  Patrick was determined to heed his advice. They’d taken a long hard look at the economics: ev
en done out to the highest specification, the cottage was too tiny to ever command much over two hundred thousand. There was no scope for extension to the sides or the back – it was an end-of-terrace that backed on to someone else’s land, with only a pocket hanky at the side for a garden. So Patrick’s top price was a hundred and fifty. He just had to hope and pray that no one else had set their heart on it.

  James had offered to come with him. But somehow Patrick didn’t want his uncle there holding his hand. This was something he had to do on his own. He took his seat and watched the room filling up with people, and whiled away the time trying to second-guess their reason for being there. The auctioneer in his owlish glasses was self-explanatory, as were his minions, who immediately began busying themselves with paperwork, looking self-important. A trio of farmers, who looked as if they’d been called away in the middle of milking, were no doubt curious about the prices that the barns were going to reach, with a view to selling off their own surplus farm buildings. A young, cocky-looking lad, sporting construction boots and clutching a tiny mobile phone, was probably a builder looking for development opportunities and with cash in his pocket. A couple of suited types looked like professionals being sent to bid on someone else’s behalf.

  Then a mousy-looking girl came in, late twenties, with a navy round-neck jumper, floral skirt and obligatory pearls and hair band. She had the details of Little Orwell Cottage in her hand. She sat down nervously, eyes darting round the room. And Patrick knew instinctively that here was his opposition. That she had fallen in love with Little Orwell Cottage too. That she’d already worked out which Designers Guild fabric she was going to have for the curtains in the sitting room. Moments later she was joined by a pink-faced bloke of about her own age. The socking great sapphire on her left hand told Patrick they must be engaged to be married, and had Little Orwell earmarked as their first home.

  Well, dream on, he thought. They weren’t fucking having it. It was his. His and Mandy’s.

  When David woke up with a start half an hour later, Ginny was looking down at Chelsea with a strange expression.

  ‘I was just wondering’, she said, ‘if you’d rather she’d been a boy.’

  David looked horrified.

  ‘Of course not! What an awful thing to say.’

  Ginny shrugged.

  ‘I just wondered if you’d always secretly wanted a boy. And you left me because I couldn’t ever give you one.’

  ‘No. No! The girls were always all I’d ever wanted.’

  ‘I see. It was just me that wasn’t.’

  Guilt and tiredness were making Ginny carpish and self-pitying. How dare David waltz in here, dump his love-child on her lap and go off to sleep?

  ‘That’s not fair – ’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Ginny felt every right to be outraged. ‘I don’t think you know the meaning of fair. I don’t think it was particularly fair of you to run off with someone half my age. When the only thing I was guilty of was cooking and cleaning and ironing and bringing up your daughters and doing your filing and paying your bills and all the things to do with your business that you found beneath you – ’

  ‘You never said you were unhappy.’

  Ginny took in a deep breath.

  ‘I wasn’t. I was quite happy doing all of those things. It was you, obviously, that was unhappy.’

  David looked very shamefaced.

  ‘No, Ginny. I wasn’t. Looking back I think what I was is a tiny bit bored. And Faith came along and brought back some adrenalin into my life. Gave me a reason to look in the mirror. All very shallow, I know…’

  ‘Sex. It was about sex, wasn’t it?’

  After her night with Bertie, Ginny now understood. She recalled a moment, at the height of her ecstasy, when she’d genuinely thought that was the only thing that mattered. It was an incredible, all-consuming, all-powerful feeling. She wondered what would have happened if the tables had been turned. If, instead of David meeting Faith, she had met Bertie and been unable to resist. Would it have been her telling David she was sorry, that their marriage was over because she’d found sexual gratification…

  David was talking.

  ‘I was never unhappy with you, Ginny. I loved you. And I still do. In fact…’ He swallowed, and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you came at me with a carving knife, but I’d like to try again.’

  Ginny looked at him in disbelief.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re really serious. Don’t tell me you’ve thought it through.’

  ‘I miss my girls. I miss the fun we all used to have. They’re always on their guard when they come to me. Faith… inhibits them.’

  ‘What about Faith? What does she think about all of this?’

  ‘She’s got no rights. We’re not married. I’ll support Chelsea, of course. And I’ll buy her out of the house. It would mean us living in Cheltenham, because of the surgery…’

  ‘David. You can’t do this to me.’

  ‘Think about it, Ginny. We can rebuild our life. Better than ever before. You’re free now the twins are at college. You can do what you like – not other people’s bloody ironing.’

  He gestured dismissively at the empty baskets.

  ‘I like my ironing!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake. You’ve got a good brain, woman. Use it.’

  ‘What about Chelsea? How can we rebuild our life with a baby in tow?’

  ‘Faith’s got her down for full-time nursery as soon as she’s six weeks. I’d only have her at weekends. Or every other weekend.’

  Ginny raised her eyebrows. She knew Faith’s type. Any excuse to dump Chelsea and run.

  ‘And how are you planning to buy her out?’

  David didn’t quite meet Ginny’s eye.

  ‘You’ve still got your share of the house, haven’t you?’

  Ginny gasped. He was serious. To have thought it through to this extent. A wave of light-headedness came over her; too much bed and not enough sleep, as the old saying went.

  ‘I can’t deal with this, David.’

  ‘Ginny…’

  He came towards her, with his arms outstretched. Shit. He was going to kiss her. And for a moment it was very tempting. To fall into his familiar arms. After all, she’d never actually fallen out of love with him. Not officially. After he’d left, she’d trained herself not to care, but she’d never really convinced even herself.

  She tried to picture their life. The twins would love to live in Cheltenham – they’d both be finished at the college in Evesham this summer. It was a lively town: lots to do and see. If they joined forces, life could be easy again. She thought of the knickers hanging on the line in the tiny bathroom upstairs – they took ages to dry. There wasn’t room in the kitchen for a dryer and Ginny didn’t like hanging them on the rotary line outside as it was too close to the road for comfort. She didn’t like the thought of passers-by inspecting their smalls, and possibly being tempted to pinch them.

  Then she thought to herself – hang on a minute! She hadn’t struggled for the past few months to build a new life for her and the twins, only to capitulate at David’s whim. They’d got a lovely new home, they’d settled into the village, the girls each had a job which they seemed to love and seemed to be good at – even Sasha! – and they’d made a host of new friends. Added to that, Ginny had discovered that, far from being the mousey little housewife she’d thought she was, she was very eligible indeed. Last night had been proof enough of that.

  As if on cue, the telephone shrilled indignantly, vying for attention. Flustered, she snatched it up, moving to the other side of the room, as far out of David’s earshot as she could manage. She panicked when she heard a voice, as rich and as dark as a Columbian coffee bean.

  ‘You ran off. I wanted to bring you breakfast.’

  ‘I can’t talk. I’ve got someone here.’

  Chelsea gave an indignant howl.

  ‘I’m not even going to ask,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Don’t,’
said Ginny. In a minute, she thought, I might wake up, and everything will be back to normal.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Don’t toy with me, Bertie,’ she replied, a trifle harshly. ‘I’m tired of being picked up and put down at other people’s convenience, for their own amusement.’

  ‘That’s not what you think, is it?’ Bertie sounded hurt.

  ‘Yes, I do, actually,’ she replied. ‘So can you give me a bit of space? I’m a bit confused at the moment…’

  ‘Is that a don’t call me, I’ll call you sort of a thing?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and hung up.

  David looked at her questioningly.

  ‘You look a bit… flustered.’

  ‘Just a tricky client,’ she assured him. Which wasn’t a total lie. But the pinkness of her cheeks told David that he wasn’t the only one in the running.

  The wait for Little Orwell Cottage to come under the hammer seemed interminable to Patrick, but eventually, at twenty past one, the time arrived. The room had thinned out a little bit, but most people seemed to stay on. Patrick prayed that it was because they had nothing better to do on a Saturday than watch other people part with their money.

  ‘And here we have a delightful farmworker’s cottage; ripe for renovation. Very desirable.’ The auctioneer looked round sternly, in case anyone should disagree with his diagnosis, and opened the bidding. It began briskly, slowing down once it went over a hundred and thirty-five, until eventually it was down to Patrick, the young builder and the mousy girl and her pink fiancé.

  At a hundred and forty the builder dropped out, obviously seeing any hope of a profit margin evaporate into thin air. Patrick kept on bidding, impassive, unemotional, trying not to flicker every time the bids went up by another thousand. Forty-eight. Forty-nine.

  It was down to him. He put up his card for his last bid – a hundred and fifty – hoping and praying that his counter-bidders had the same ceiling. He thought they probably did. Pinky was looking even pinker and little droplets of sweat had appeared on his forehead. It didn’t look as if he was going to top Patrick.