He watched the Mouse put a pleading hand on her fiancé’s arm. Big limpid eyes gazed into his. Pinky gave a frown of irritation, indicating they’d reached their limit.
‘Going once.’ The auctioneer, satisfied that there were no more bids, was about to close the sale. It was down to Patrick.
The Mouse leaned into Pinky’s ear and whispered urgently. Patrick could see her simultaneously digging him in the ribs with her elbow. Pinky looked pained. He, too, obviously knew the golden rule.
‘Going twice…’
The Mouse shot Pinky a look of pure evil. The prospect of facing her wrath was clearly too terrifying, and Pinky thrust his card defiantly in the air.
‘A hundred and fifty-one. I’m bid a hundred and fifty-one. Do I hear a hundred and fifty-two?’ The auctioneer, enjoying the drama of the moment, looked around the room.
Fuck, thought Patrick. This was the point at which he was supposed to bow out gracefully. But then he thought – what the hell? For the sake of another two grand… He’d bloody kick himself if the Mouse and Pinky got it for a hundred and fifty-one. So he put up his card coolly and casually, holding it between two fingers as if the whole carry-on was too boring for words.
The auctioneer recognized his bid and the Mouse looked round indignantly. She gave another furious dig with her elbow and the long-suffering Pinky matched his bid. A hundred and fifty-three.
Right, thought Patrick. This was war. If he couldn’t have Little Orwell Cottage, then he’d bloody well make sure Pinky and the Mouse paid over the odds for it. He stuck his legs out in front of him, crossed his arms and languidly raised his card into the air once more, as if he really had better things to do with his time.
When David had gone, after she’d patiently shown him how to strap Chelsea into her car seat safely, Ginny sat down on the sofa with a sigh.
What on earth was happening to her? She was being wooed by no less than three men. It was completely and utterly preposterous. How on earth was she supposed to choose?
In fact, did she have to?
Because the more Ginny thought about it, the more she thought she didn’t want to rush into anything. Not a serious relationship, in any case. She wanted the chance to get herself back on her feet, establish herself, decide who she was, before she committed herself again. There was no point in wasting twenty years on one marriage then hurling yourself into the next relationship before you’d even got over it and worked out what you wanted.
Her head was whirling. Why was life so complicated? Because there was too much choice, that was why. On the television. In the supermarket. The likes of her mother, she thought, had had it easy. OK, life might have been rather humdrum. But at least it had been safe and predictable. Other than dithering between whether to have cling peaches or pear halves for pudding, Ginny didn’t think her mother had ever had to make a really important decision. There wasn’t a lot to be said for being a millennium woman. You were accountable every bloody step of the way.
Well, she wasn’t going to be forced into making any decisions. She decided that what she really needed to do was take it easy this weekend. It had been a mad social whirl recently and she thought she’d like a nice domesticated couple of days, slobbing about the house with no make-up on, and perhaps spending some time with the girls. They could go to the movies or something.
She did have to do one thing first. She had to apologize to Keith. He didn’t deserve to be treated like that. She dialled his number and, coward that she was, was thankful when his answerphone clicked in.
‘Keith – it’s Ginny. I’ve got an apology to make. I behaved appallingly towards you yesterday. The truth is, I was a bit down in the dumps and had a bit too much to drink at a friend’s. I didn’t think I’d be a very good dinner date. But I must apologize for fibbing. And thank you so much for the basket – it was lovely…’
Hoping he’d be mollified, she took the phone off the hook, put on her grey flannel pyjamas and took to her bed, knowing that she could sleep in peace for at least three hours before the twins finished their shift at the pub.
*
As they began the dizzying descent down into Woola-combe, Mandy gripped on even tighter as Rick took the hairpin bends. They passed a clutch of hotels, whose developers must have been dishing out backhanders left, right and centre, so unattractive was their architecture. But then she gave a gasp as the sea came into view; crashing surf fronted by a magnificent blonde beach. Because it was still only May, and the forecast had been gloomy, there were scarcely any visitors, just the usual crowd of intrepid surfers who tipped up whatever the weather. And because of that, there was a sense of smug glee amongst those who had made the effort as the dazzling sunshine brazenly contradicted the weather report.
They followed the coast road, climbing higher and higher, the view becoming ever more dramatic, until they reached the entrance to the campsite. As far as Mandy could see, it was just a field. In the distance she could make out a breeze-block building which apparently housed the loos and showers. Rick found where his mates were pitched – their tents were up but empty.
‘They’ve obviously hit the beach already. Let’s get the tent up and then we can join them.’
He started pulling stuff out of the panniers. The tent was packed tightly into a small sausage-shaped bag. ‘It’s a two-man tent. Or one man, one woman. No ensuite, I’m afraid. Or central heating. It’s all pretty basic,’ he grinned, ‘but as we won’t be spending much time here, it doesn’t matter.’
Mandy tried not to think too much about being in such close proximity to him for an entire night as she followed his instructions and valiantly drove the pegs into the ground. She racked her brains, but she didn’t think she’d ever been in a tent before. She’d only ever done four- or five-star hotels, hotels that were fairly anonymous and alike in their provision of fluffy white towels and complimentary shower caps. It was definitely going to be a weekend of firsts.
They spent the afternoon on the beach at Croyde, the surfing Mecca: miles and miles of golden sand, with the sea an irresistible playground filled with bodies. They hired boards and wetsuits, and for two hours they frolicked in the surf. Rick was incredibly patient, showing her how to wait for the opportune moment to ride the wave. She’d never laughed so much. She’d never had so much fun, even if she hadn’t quite managed to get the hang of it.
By five o’clock Mandy was exhausted and starting to get cold. She went back on to the beach and dried off, put on some warm clothes, then sat with her arms wrapped round her knees and watched as Rick and his friends got down to some serious surfing. For more than an hour she feasted her eyes on his physique, as he rode the waves like some sort of Greek legend.
All too soon they were enjoying the very last moments of daylight, and sat with a crowd of his friends sharing a few beers and cigarettes as the sun went down. She was introduced to endless people, who all greeted her as if they’d known her all their lives.
Once the sun had finally gone it was off to a local bar for more beer and tequila and pool. Nobody seemed to worry about food, but Mandy didn’t care. She was far too full of adrenalin to eat. She’d had a wonderful day. Exhilarating yet relaxing. She’d tested her physical limits, but found it had unwound her to an incredible extent. The sun had warmed her through to the marrow of her bones, which ached with a delicious tiredness. She could still taste the salt of the sea on her lips, her skin, her hair.
Eventually they were all kicked out of the bar and they wandered back to the campsite. She slithered inside the tent and lay on top of her sleeping bag, arms behind her head, waiting for Rick to come back from having a pee. She let her thoughts wander lazily, images scudding before her closed eyes like clouds across a sky, with no particular direction. Chilled wasn’t the word. She supposed the beer had helped, and a couple of drags on the spliff that had been passed round. She had no worries, not a care in the world. She hadn’t thought about Patrick all day. She’d almost drifted off when Rick reappeared, startling her.<
br />
‘Are you warm enough?’
Mandy nodded. Rick zipped up the tent and crawled into his sleeping bag.
‘You should sleep like a log tonight. All that sea air.’ He smiled, and leaned over to kiss her. She shut her eyes, ready for the incredible fullness of his lips on hers.
But they merely brushed her cheek. Then he stroked her head, a rough but caring gesture, and turned away.
‘Night.’ He burrowed down and, folding up his sweatshirt for a pillow, nestled in for the night.
Mandy was incredulous. Was that it? Were they really just mates? Had he brought her here just to teach her how to surf? Was she just someone for him to show off to? Didn’t he fancy her? Had there been a point at which he’d decided she wasn’t for him? Was it because she hadn’t got the hang of surfing quickly enough? Was she too fat? Too thin? Too boring? Was he gay? Was she supposed to make the first move? Or had she misinterpreted the reason for the trip? After all, men and women could be friends without shagging. All his surfing friends seemed to muck in together – although there were some couples that were obviously items, there was an easy, non-sexual camaraderie between all of them, a bond between people who clearly just wanted to have fun.
Was she wrong to want sex with him? Well, yes, of course she was, because she was already spoken for. She was betraying Patrick. But in her mind this weekend was supposed to be a test. This was an unexpected twist, however. She’d assumed, somehow, that sleeping together would be a natural progression for her and Rick, with no obstacles in the way. She’d come down with that expectation.
Now she felt filled with desolation. She unzipped her sleeping bag and got in. The feeling of relaxation she’d had earlier had totally dissipated. Anxiety and doubt flooded back through her. And she felt cold. Longing for the warmth of the body that lay so tantalizingly close to hers, she hugged herself until she finally fell asleep.
It might have consoled her to know that, next to her, Rick was in torment, too. He’d thought it was going to be so easy. He thought he’d be able to screw her without a conscience. He was the king of casual sex, after all. Ricky No Strings, one girl had called him.
So why the hell couldn’t he go through with it?
A hundred and fifty-eight thousand pounds. James was going to absolutely kill him, for flagrantly ignoring his advice. But Patrick didn’t care. What was another eight grand, in the scheme of things? He’d find it somehow. He’d signed the paperwork with a shaking hand and driven home as high as a kite. He didn’t tell anyone about his purchase. He wanted Mandy to be the first to know.
That night, he could barely get to sleep for excitement. He couldn’t wait for Mandy to get back the next day. He thought of texting her on her mobile, then told himself to be patient. He’d drive her out to see it the next night. He tried to imagine the look on her face. She’d absolutely love it, he knew she would.
20
On Sunday morning Mandy woke up filled with resolution. Despite having difficulty getting to sleep the previous evening, the sun and the sea had awarded her a good night’s rest, and she decided optimistically that today was going to be on her terms. She slid out of the tent and went to find the loo. Then wished she hadn’t. The campsite might be a picturesque location but it hadn’t been chosen for its amenities. And most of the people who’d made their way here the night before had clearly missed their aim. She managed to brush her teeth in the sink and wash her face in cold water, but she didn’t risk the shower, which looked as if it was encrusted with verruca possibilities. Never mind, she thought. She’d spent so much time in the sea yesterday, she wasn’t exactly dirty. Then she got on her mobile. By nine o’clock she was satisfied. She slid back into the tent and tickled Rick under the chin.
‘Wakey wakey.’
He sat up, confused and gorgeous, his skin already tanned the colour of toffee. Mandy wished fervently that he’d hurry up and put his top on.
‘Come on, you. Today’s on my terms. We’re going riding.’
It was worth it for the look on his face. But it was the perfect revenge. Yesterday she’d felt so uncoordinated, as if she would never master the art of surfing, while Rick rode the waves as if he owned them. Now it was her turn. She’d found the number of the local riding stables and had booked them in for a ride across the dunes.
The stables weren’t far, and they were quickly kitted out with boots and safety helmets. Then the young girl that was going to escort them led out their horses. Mandy was on a nice-looking grey, fine-legged and eager to go. She thought of Monkey at home. Keith had promised to throw him some hay and top up his water. She felt a tiny little pang of guilt at duping her father. This wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined she’d be spending his money…
Rick’s horse was a big, fat coloured mare with staring blue eyes and white lashes. Possibly the least attractive animal Mandy had ever laid eyes on. She stifled a giggle as Rick surveyed the horse in horror. The girl defended the animal stoutly.
‘This is Patsy. No more dangerous than sitting on the sofa in your own front room. And just as comfy. She’ll look after you.’
Rick looked doubtful, but climbed on to the mounting block and hoisted himself on to Patsy’s broad back. Their escort leaped on to a game little chestnut and led them off down the lane.
Mandy had to admit that Rick took to riding quite well. There was nothing more levelling than putting a novice on a horse; nothing like it for turning an otherwise lithe and streamlined human into a sack of potatoes. But the girl had been right – Patsy was as comfy as a sofa, and even when she broke into a trot Rick seemed to manage.
They rode through the village, the clopping of hooves on tarmac the only sound as it was still fairly early Sunday morning. Even the most avid surfers were still sleeping off the excesses of the night before. Then they left the road and cut across to the dunes, the horses happy to go at a gentle, ambling pace, so they could enjoy the incredible beauty of their surroundings. The long grass rustled softly in the early morning breeze; the horses kicked up the sand and in the distance the sea made its way tentatively inwards along the shore.
All the while, Mandy looked longingly at the beach. Their escort, seeing she was an experienced rider, relented. She was given permission to gallop back to their starting point along the sands, while Rick was escorted back across the dunes at a more sedate pace.
As she headed towards the water’s edge, Mandy could feel her horse’s muscles bunching up underneath her in anticipation. He was looking forward to the thrill as much as she was. She could feel butterflies in her tummy – she knew once she’d let go there would be no stopping him.
‘Easy, boy. Easy.’ She kept him under control until the moment when she wanted him to go, when they became as one. He danced on the spot in frustration as she gathered up her reins, then kicked him on. Flat out for the entire length of the beach, she leaned over his neck, urging him on, the ultimate freedom, the ultimate partnership. Better, thought Mandy defiantly, than sex.
She came back to Rick at a sitting trot, eyes shining, and he looked at her with a renewed respect. He trusted the waves, understood how they worked, was happy to ride them. Never, in a million years, could he trust half a ton of muscled sinew that had a mind of its own. But Mandy, it seemed, didn’t give it a second thought.
Touché, he thought admiringly, as they returned to the stables and he slid off his mount, wincing in agony as his feet hit the ground.
Barney and Suzanna dragged themselves reluctantly from their beds as late as they could on Sunday morning. They were both running on empty. The success of the opening night had ensured a constant stream of diners and drinkers that first weekend. The restaurant had been full to bursting, with those who hadn’t booked unable to get a table on spec. Adrenalin got them through it; only Sunday lunchtime to go and they could relax. They were due to have the evening off. Toby was going to look after the bar with one of the barmaids, Melissa, and the dining room was closed. However, it didn’t look as though they were going t
o be collapsing in an exhausted heap full of mutual self-congratulation and elated relief. They were each feeling tense with guilt, the little secrets they were hiding from each other needling their consciences. It wasn’t long before they were bickering like overtired toddlers about a series of mishaps that had occurred in the dining room the night before. Mishaps that hadn’t actually ruined anyone’s evening, but that needed ironing out. Being tired and defensive, neither of them wanted to take the blame.
‘I’m stuck in the kitchen. I don’t see how I can be held responsible for a waitress not knowing guinea fowl from corn-fed chicken.’ Suzanna regretted the carping tone of her voice, but she was filled with nerves. Lunch was fully booked, and the ovens had proved temperamental at best over the past few days.
Barney clenched his fists in frustration.
‘Suzanna – I can’t go on like this much longer.’
‘Neither can I,’ she snapped back.
Barney put his head in his hands, then looked up.
‘Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe we’re not cut out for this. It’s making us both miserable.’ As he spoke, Barney knew that it wasn’t the pub that was making them miserable; that they really hadn’t given it a chance. But it was easier to displace the blame than address the real issues that lay unresolved between them, like sharks basking in shallow waters. ‘Perhaps we should just forget it.’
‘Yes. Maybe we should.’ She spoke with a quiet, measured menace that struck a chill into Barney’s heart. She walked out of the room and he punched the wall with frustration.
He was going to get tough. Why should he constantly sacrifice himself in the hopes that their marriage was going to repair itself? If he didn’t put himself first, he was going to be left with nothing when it all fell apart. Then he felt overwhelmed with sadness. They should be enjoying this. He and Suzanna should be slipping away quietly this evening to congratulate themselves. He imagined a riverside walk in Stratford, a quiet supper, then home to bed for a much deserved night’s sleep, preceded, of course, by sleepy, contented love-making.
Making Hay Page 34
