Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  Ask him what if…

  Ask him what if she and Patrick were finished. What then?

  21

  By late Sunday afternoon, Bertie couldn’t bear waiting for the phone to ring any longer. He’d patiently read the Sunday Times from cover to cover, drinking coffee out of his sparkling bone china, made himself a sandwich for lunch, then lolled in his hammock for an hour. By half four he’d reached screaming pitch, so he drove over to Honeycote House, where he found Lucy lying on a rug on the lawn in her bikini, writing to Sophie. He flopped down next to her.

  ‘I need you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Lucy was concentrating on her letter, only half listening.

  ‘I want you to organize a tennis match. And invite Ginny.’

  Lucy’s eyes flickered towards him in amusement.

  ‘And you, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course. No point otherwise.’ He smiled winningly. ‘Please?’

  ‘Bertie – you can’t play tennis on our court. With the best will in the world, it needs thousands spending on it. Thousands we don’t happen to have. So much as I would love to help…’

  Lucy bent her head and continued her concerted scribbling. Bertie lay on one side watching her, his head resting in one hand. She made a charming picture as she chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully. She looked half her age, her body as slender and as toned as any twenty-year-old, her tortoiseshell curls escaping from their ribbon.

  Bertie had often wondered about Lucy. Was she really as angelic as she seemed, as she was rumoured to be? Bertie didn’t think it was possible. He didn’t believe her claim of the other night, that she’d only ever slept with Mickey. If it was true, Bertie thought it was a crime. Besides, he had his suspicions about Lucy and James. He’d seen looks pass between them on occasion, looks that went beyond the companionship shared between a brother- and sister-in-law. He wondered if she was corruptible. He tugged playfully at the string of her bikini top until it came open.

  ‘You’ll get a line.’

  Lucy didn’t bat an eyelid. The top still covered her modesty, just. Encouraged by her lack of resistance, Bertie traced his fingers lightly down her spine. In the drowsy heat of the afternoon sun, it was a delicious moment filled with promise. As he danced his fingertips over her skin, he held his breath, a smile of mischief playing on his lips.

  The trouble was, Bertie didn’t have a conscience. He’d gone forty years without ever needing one. No one had ever been in a position to reprimand him: his mother had indulged or ignored him, his father just ignored him. He’d had no respect for authority at school. He’d only really ever worked for himself. There’d been no one on hand throughout his life to teach him right from wrong. So even though his head was stuffed with romantic notions about a life of bliss with Ginny, he would have thought nothing of pleasuring Lucy Liddiard in the privacy of her own garden. If she’d shown the slightest inclination, that was. Bertie wasn’t in the habit of actually forcing himself upon women, though it wasn’t all that often that they resisted his advances.

  Lucy, however, was made of sterner stuff than most. By this time his fingers had reached the waistband of her bikini bottoms.

  ‘Bertie,’ she murmured, rather wearily. ‘Fuck off. If you want something to do with your hands, go and make a cup of tea.’

  Bertie headed off towards the kitchen obediently. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought.

  Lucy shook her head in exasperation, thanking God that Sophie was thousands of miles away and that Georgina was hopefully still too young to attract Bertie’s attention. He was incorrigible. Once again, she hoped against hope that Ginny hadn’t succumbed to his charms. No matter how well-intentioned Bertie believed himself to be, it would end in tears.

  Barney, against his better judgement and in total defiance of all his own rules, had spent the rest of the afternoon getting pissed as soon as the pub was closed. He’d started off sharing a bottle of wine with Jonty. They’d had a drunken, philosophical conversation about the minefields of marriage, both agreeing that you couldn’t win. Jonty was bemoaning Meggy’s hormonal hysteria and her complaints that he was never at home to help her with the children.

  ‘She moaned when I was a farrier because I was out all hours, and now she’s moaning because I’m a chef. I can’t help it if my hours are antisocial – that’s when people want to eat!’

  Privately, Barney thought he’d be in for less grief if he went straight home after his shift without staying on to get drunk, but he didn’t say anything. He knew Jonty was a bit of a lad, but part of him sympathized. Sometimes the demands upon men were too great, and the only answer was a session with your mates. It was what had kept the brewing industry afloat for all these centuries.

  When Jonty had finally dragged himself away, Barney carried on, rather ill-advisedly. He found the bottle of Havana Club that he’d half drunk the night he’d recorded with Kitty, and poured himself a substantial slug. On top of the wine, it provided him with a little cloak of protection against the memory of his row with Suzanna. His row? Drink convinced him that it had been her bloody row. He hadn’t wanted an argument but she’d been determined. Another thing, he and Jonty had agreed, that women were so good at.

  He flicked on his computer to check his e-mails, then froze. Still stung from his rejection the night of the opening, he’d sent an MP 3 file of his recording with Kitty to his old manager. He’d told himself he’d never hear back, but there was an answer from Jez already. Bloody hell. He hadn’t expected that. His hand hovered over the mouse and he clicked on ‘Open’.

  Twenty minutes later Barney, in a drunken elated blur, trotted out of the pub. He had to see Kitty – tell her what had happened. Jez’s reply had merely said ‘Wow!’ and left his mobile number. Barney had called him before he’d had time to think. They’d had a brief, businesslike conversation, with Barney trying his best to sound sober. They arranged to meet the next day at Jez’s office in Soho.

  He staggered down the high street in the direction of Tinker’s Barn. When he got there, he was glad to see Ginny’s car wasn’t there. He liked Ginny, but he wanted to see Kitty on her own to break the amazing news to her. He didn’t want to share the moment with anyone else. It was their moment of glory. He grabbed the twisted ring of iron on the front door and rapped hard, praying she’d be in. He didn’t know where he’d go if she wasn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of going back to the Honeycote Arms.

  By some miraculous twist of fate, she was in. She came to the door, still damp from her bath, a red silk kimono around her and her hair wrapped up in a towel. Whatever she’d been bathing in smelled absolutely delicious, like the bottom of a child’s sweetie bag – Refreshers and jelly babies and parma violets all mixed together. Barney leaned drunkenly against the door jamb. He wasn’t sure how his words were going to come out: they were muddled enough in his brain. Could they make it to his mouth? He gave what he hoped was a charming smile, to cover up his inebriation.

  ‘We’ve got something to celebrate…’ He stumbled over the doorstep. ‘Got anything to drink?’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ she smiled, watching him lurch over to the sofa.

  ‘No such thing as enough.’

  She pulled open the fridge and found a half-bottle of white wine. She poured each of them a glass, then walked over to Barney.

  ‘Here. It’s probably filthy – Mum’s no connoisseur – ’

  ‘Don’t care.’

  He put out his hand and she guided the glass into it. She sipped her drink demurely as Barney downed his in one.

  ‘So – what is it we’re celebrating?’

  ‘I managed to track Jez down. I sent him what we’d done. He works for a big record company. He loved it. He thinks you’re mind-blowing…’

  She sat down to digest the news, looking at him, puzzled. She didn’t seem able to take it in.

  ‘What?’

  Barney realized he wasn’t being all that coherent.

  ‘O
ur demo. The track we recorded. He played it and he loved it.’

  ‘Shit.’ Her eyes were as wide as saucers. ‘I don’t believe it. That’s amazing.’ She paused. ‘What does it mean, exactly?’

  ‘I’m going to go and meet him tomorrow. See what he’s got in mind. If he’s that keen – other people will be too. We don’t have to jump straight into bed with Jez. We can just use him as a sounding board.’

  ‘Barney – that’s fantastic.’

  She came and put her arms round him. And kissed him. Just a little peck.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Then she looked into his eyes, her own eyes sparkling, and kissed him again. Only this time he felt her body pressing up against his, her little cat’s tongue probing open his lips and her warm hands sliding up under his T-shirt. The sweet, sugary scent of her warm skin taunted him; haunted him. He groaned a groan of despair, hopelessness and unrequited lust that came from the very depths of his soul. He felt her fingers stroke his neck and started at the intimacy. It was so long since he’d been touched; so long since he had felt anything remotely resembling affection. He nuzzled his way in further, not wanting to express his feelings verbally, just wanting to immerse himself in her softness.

  He could feel her breasts under the silk of her gown. He put out a tentative hand to cup one and felt her nipple stiffen under his touch. She let out a little whimper of pleasure. Without taking her lips from his she tugged at the belt of her gown until it undid. It fell open, revealing nothing underneath but a minute pair of pants. She was urging him on, her lips everywhere, her thighs parting as she pulled him to her, her hands on his back, nails digging in.

  He was lost. There was no going back. He was amazed to find that everything was still in working order, after all that time, not to mention after all that booze. The sex was frantic, passionate. An onlooker would have found it hard to decide who was the more desperate. Each of them was totally lost in the physical pleasure, barely aware of each other, ruled by their needs.

  ‘Oh my God,’ groaned Barney as the long-forgotten sensation swept over him, sweet as it ever had been. She sat up, cheeks flushed, her hair now drying into its familiar snaky curls. She looked like some pre-Raphaelite nymphet, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

  ‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ said Barney, lying on his back exhausted.

  ‘Why not?’ She leaned over him, her hair tickling his chest. ‘I think it’s just what we deserve, after all that hard work.’

  She was positively purring, rubbing herself over him. God, she was wild. She was kissing his chest, trailing her hair all over him, working her way downwards. He’d have to be inhuman to resist, he told himself. Never mind the fact that he hadn’t had sex for eighteen months, no man in the universe could turn this down. It didn’t make him weak. It didn’t make him evil. Oh God… As she took him in her mouth, he panicked inwardly. This could be embarrassing. But, unbelievably, within moments he was ready again. Happy with her handiwork, she slithered back up his body and pulled him on top of her.

  As he plunged back into her with gay abandon – may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb – he caught sight of her discarded knickers on the floor next to him. Tiny, pink, with a logo on the front – ‘Little Miss Naughty’…

  Suzanna sat in a car park overlooking Broadway Hill until the sun finally slipped down over the horizon.

  She knew that the time had come when she had to make a decision, once and for all. Patrick’s words went round and round in her head, and the more she thought about what he’d said the more she realized he was right. He’d been an infatuation; a straw she had clutched at because she’d been too much of a coward to do things the hard way. The right way. She looked at the bare facts as objectively as she could. Two things were very obvious.

  Oliver wasn’t going to come back, ever, and nothing she did was ever going to change that.

  And she and Barney had too much together to be apart.

  She remembered their first morning in Honeycote, when they’d woken up with such hope. And everything they’d achieved had exceeded their wildest dreams. They’d kept within the deadline and hadn’t gone wildly over budget. The Honeycote Arms was an unqualified success, after just three days. The praise and the compliments they’d had heaped on them told her that; the bookings they’d already had confirmed it. It was an incredible achievement.

  And then she remembered the pact they’d made. That it was all to be done in memory of Oliver, as a tribute to him. Is that what Ollie would have wanted – a tribute that had cost them their marriage? She thought not.

  She pulled her cardigan round her. It wasn’t cold, but she was shivering. She was afraid. The time had come for her to face up to what she knew was the only answer, if she and Barney were going to come out of this with their marriage intact.

  She had to have another baby.

  Deep down she had always known that this was what she had to do. She just hadn’t had the strength to face up to it before. Even now, she wasn’t sure she was quite ready. But at least she was able to consider it as an option. Until now, it had seemed an impossibility. The wounds were too raw. The guilt was too fresh.

  The problem was, she and Barney had been floundering without a purpose. They’d made the mistake of thinking the Honeycote Arms could be a distraction from their grief. But all along they’d been kidding themselves; avoiding the solution. She supposed she was being unfair: having another child wasn’t a decision that could be made lightly. It had to be made at the right time. For some it might be straight away; for others, never. But now, Suzanna thought she was nearly ready.

  She decided she would give herself three months. Three months to get her head round the idea and build herself up, both physically and emotionally. Three months to detox, give up drinking and smoking and start taking her folic acid. Three months to cement their success at the Honeycote Arms, and train up Jonty, so that he could pick up the reins whenever necessary.

  And three months to build up her relationship again with Barney.

  Maybe they could buy a little house. She didn’t really like the idea of living over the shop permanently, and a pub wasn’t really the right environment for a child. There were plenty of gingerbread houses along the high street in Honeycote. They could sell their place in Twickenham. They’d be able to afford something quite decent. And although it would be tough being a working mum, there were enough people around to give them support. And Iris. She thought how thrilled her mother would be. Iris had never broached the subject with her daughter, but Suzanna thought it wouldn’t be fair to deny her the chance of another grandchild. Maybe it would even give Iris the impetus to move down here too. The prospect filled her with a warm glow: the thought of her own little family flourishing in Honeycote, being part of the community. Belonging. Capturing that sense of warmth she’d felt so strongly at Honeycote House, only for themselves…

  The sun had set completely by the time Suzanna started up her car engine. And this time when she shivered, it wasn’t with fear, but excitement. And she found she wasn’t frightened any more.

  Filled with a sudden sense of urgency, vaguely aware that they might be interrupted at any moment by Kitty’s mother, which even in his drunken state he knew wasn’t advisable, Barney was tugging his clothes back on clumsily. Watched by a laughing pair of eyes, he felt rising panic.

  ‘We shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Why not?’ She seemed unashamed and defiant. Barney prayed she was only teasing.

  ‘Listen,’ he slurred. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone about this.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘No one. Not even your sister.’

  ‘Definitely not my sister. She’d only be jealous.’

  Barney was anxious to clear the air.

  ‘I didn’t mean to take advantage.’

  She ran an affectionate finger down the side of his cheek.

  ‘Don’t worry. You didn’t. I’m big enough to know what I’m doing.’ She kissed him reassuringly. �
�If it makes you feel happier, it never happened.’

  Barney smiled at her gratefully.

  ‘I’ll let you know what happens tomorrow. But we might have to wait for the right moment to talk. Not at the pub. I’ll… contact you.’ He was making this sound more like subterfuge than was necessary, but in the dim recesses of Barney’s brain there was a little voice telling him that this situation could have its tricky moments, and he was anxious to avoid trouble.

  But as he tottered out of Tinker’s Barn and made his way back to the Honeycote Arms, he was amazed to discover that he didn’t feel guilty. Not in the least. He’d technically been unfaithful. Twice. And all he could think was he didn’t know why he’d waited so long.

  *

  Behind him, Sasha gently shut the door and leaned against it, bursting into gales of laughter. She couldn’t believe that Barney had walked straight into her trap. She giggled at the thought of Kitty’s whiter-than-white image now being soiled. That would teach her to be so bloody judgemental; always spoiling Sasha’s fun with her puritanical admonishments. She chortled at the thought of the chaos that would be unleashed.

  Her mobile bleeped. There was a text from Jonty. He was in the pub. Did she fancy meeting up?

  Huh, she thought. He didn’t want to buy her a drink, she was sure of that. He was getting too eager. He’d have to realize that any action he was going to get was on her terms. She texted him back to say she was washing her hair. Which wasn’t a lie. It had dried into wild snaky curls like Kitty’s and it was going to take her bloody ages to straighten it. And anyway, two men in one night was too much even for Sasha.

  Keith came to pick Mandy up from the station where Rick had dropped her earlier. She had to go through the same rigmarole of making sure she waited on the London side so as not to arouse suspicion. Deception was so exhausting, but then she wouldn’t have to go through these charades much longer.

  In the car, she gave Keith a very brief outline of her weekend in London, remembering that the best thing when you were lying was to say as little as possible. Over-elaboration always caught you out.