Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  For a moment he indulged in a fantasy involving six figures and a tour, followed by a hit album. It wasn’t impossible. Kitty was fantastic; he’d written a great song. He contemplated the chaos that would occur if that was the outcome of today’s meeting with Jez. What would happen to the pub? What would happen to his contract with Honeycote Ales? Would they sue? He allowed himself a little smile. It wouldn’t matter if they did. He’d be a rock and roll star.

  He didn’t ask himself what would happen to his marriage. He didn’t want to think about it, so he concentrated on falling into a troubled sleep.

  He woke with a start five minutes outside Paddington, when the conductor announced their imminent arrival. He had a trickle of dribble coming out of one corner of his mouth. He wiped it away hastily and went to buy a packet of Extra Strong Mints and a Coke. Then he found a cab and asked the driver to drop him on Tottenham Court Road so he could wander through the maze of Soho streets until he got to the record company.

  He breathed in deeply. After the relentlessly fresh air in Honeycote, it felt good to breathe in filth and fumes. He almost got a hit off it. He walked through the little streets, looking in all the windows: shops specializing in all manner of things – film posters, vinyl records, an off-licence with a staggering display of absinthe, the usual sex shops which had their mind-boggling products proudly on display, sushi bars with plastic seafood. He felt almost over-stimulated, assaulted by so many images.

  He arrived at the office at five to eleven – uncoolly early, but he didn’t care. The place had certainly smartened up since he’d last been here. Then the walls had been painted black and pink with tattered posters, the reception desk littered with empty cans of Red Stripe and ashtrays. Now he felt sure lighting up a cigarette would be frowned upon; the receptionist looked sleek behind her curved maple desk with its state-of-the-art phone system.

  Jez came down to reception to greet him personally. Barney was amazed at his transformation – he’d obviously undergone a serious make-over. He’d always had shockingly bad teeth, but now he displayed a dazzling row of pearly-white porcelain. Gone also was the misguided New Romantic look, which Jez had always got slightly wrong, and in its place was a well-cut suit with a black T-shirt underneath. The ponytail, too, had been sacrificed. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the rather effeminate giggle, Barney wouldn’t have recognized him.

  He greeted Barney with much over-enthusiastic backslapping and hand-shaking, which Barney went along with. He’d always considered Jez a bit of a prat, but he had a certain thick-skinned enthusiasm and dogged determination that got things done. Together, they went up to his office, which in itself was evidence of his success. There were plush carpets, an enormous desk and leather seating banked all the way round the edge. Chrome-framed album covers lined the walls. In the old days, Jez had been surrounded by piles of demo cassettes and fanzines and begging letters and draft contracts. Now his desk was clear, apart from an ominously blank notepad and pen.

  Jez steepled his fingers and looked at Barney gravely.

  ‘I don’t mind telling you’, he began, ‘that I am majorly, seriously excited. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Everyone’s falling over themselves to find the next Dido.’ He picked up a remote control. ‘Let’s listen.’

  He played the demo Barney had sent him through the sound system he’d got rigged up in his office. There was no doubt about it – she was spine-shiveringly good, and it sounded fantastic on the expensive speakers.

  ‘So. Do you reckon this girl could do it? Could she handle it?’

  ‘Can anyone?’ Barney threw him a cynical smile. Jez picked up his pen.

  ‘Describe.’

  Barney shrugged.

  ‘Pretty – very. Unusual. Good bone structure. Sort of… kittenish. And a bit quirky. She’s got her own style. Romantic. Looks as if she’s been in the dressing-up box.’

  ‘Not too Björk, I hope. No dead swans?’

  Barney shook his head.

  ‘Tits?’

  Barney thought of Kitty’s small, round breasts. How perfectly they’d fitted into his hands. Her nipples that had turned hard with desire under his lips –

  ‘I’ve got no idea,’ he said primly.

  Jez laughed nastily. ‘Don’t try and tell me you’re not shagging her.’

  Barney looked indignant. ‘No, I’m not.’ He might have shagged her, but he wasn’t shagging her. There was a difference.

  ‘Oh yeah. I forgot. You’re a happily married man.’

  Jez managed to make it sound as if no such thing existed.

  ‘So tell me, Barney. How do you see yourself fitting into the picture?’

  Barney was immediately on his guard. He didn’t like Jez’s tone of voice. The slight sneer that had always made him itch to punch him on the nose. It was all coming back to him now.

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘Because I’m going to make it plain to you from the start. If we’re going to deal with this girl, we want a clean package. A solo artist. Not a young girl with a middle-aged Svengali attached to her.’

  Barney sat back in his chair, shocked by Jez’s bluntness.

  ‘No need to be offended. We can do a deal. An introduction fee.’

  Barney crossed his arms.

  ‘And a publishing deal, of course. I take it you wrote that track? It’s got you written all over it and it’s fucking good. We’ll need more of the same. But don’t get any ideas about this being a duo.’

  He looked Barney up and down disparagingly. Barney wished for a moment he’d made more of an effort than jeans and a suede jacket, but he hadn’t wanted to arouse any suspicion when he left Honeycote. Jez was looking at him as if he was wearing bicycle clips and socks with sandals.

  ‘Because you’re not exactly an icon, are you? It would have been all right if you’d stayed in the industry. Blokes over thirty-five can still hack it if they’re legends in their own lifetime. Like… New Order, for example. But you’d be starting from scratch, or as good as. It would be, frankly, embarrassing. Stick her on Top Of The Pops with you and they’d think you were her dad.’

  ‘I’d forgotten what an arsehole you are.’ Barney got up to go. He held up a hand in sarcastic farewell. ‘Adios.’

  Jez didn’t flinch.

  ‘Don’t be an arsehole yourself, Barney. I’ve got the demo. How long do you think it’s going to take me to find her?’ Jez grinned. ‘In fact – what a fantastic idea. I’ll get this sent out to every radio station in the country. We’ll have a nationwide search.’ He gestured with his hands. ‘Where’s Kitty? We’ll have it fly-posted everywhere – on the tube, at every bus station, outside every club… She’ll be famous before she’s even started. Brilliant. Pop Idol in reverse – the star’s already born; we’ve just got to find out where she is…’

  Barney felt quite ill. Jez was right. It was a completely brilliant idea, and he’d played right into his hands. But one thing was for sure. He wanted nothing more to do with it. He hadn’t felt that feeling for so long – that feeling of rage mixed with fear; that feeling of knowing you were being exploited yet desperately wanting to realize your dreams. Dreams that someone else had control of.

  Jez did have the grace to look a little contrite.

  ‘I’m sorry, Barney. But you know me. I tell it like it is. I always have done. That’s why I’m still here.’

  He was right about that. He still remembered Jez coming to see him to tell him he was off the tour, that the band was going on without him. He gave a resigned sigh.

  ‘If you’re really interested, I’ll talk to her. See what she wants to do. It’s up to her.’

  ‘Tell her to get in touch. No promises, mind. I’d want to stick her in a studio, put her through her paces. Then we’ll see.’

  Jez saw him back down to reception. As Barney was about to go through the smoked-glass doors, he put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  ‘I just want to tell you, Barney. That band were nothing wi
thout you. I don’t mind admitting it was the biggest mistake of my career, kicking you off the tour. But that’s rock and roll, as they say.’

  Was that supposed to be a consolation, Barney wondered, as he made his way out into the stifling Soho hubbub. The hubbub that had seemed so exciting and stimulating when he arrived, but that now threatened to choke him with its fumes and increased his headache tenfold.

  Having spent the morning in torment, Patrick made his way to the Honeycote Arms. He had to get out of the brewery: if Elspeth gave him one more curious gaze, brought him one more cup of coffee or simpered over him once more, he would kill her. And he wanted to see Suzanna. He couldn’t think who else to talk to, even though it was rather ironic that she was the one person he could think of who would understand the agony of unrequited love. He didn’t think she’d mind him crying on her shoulder. They hadn’t parted enemies.

  Suzanna was horrified by his appearance. He told her flatly what had happened, that Mandy had dumped him, and was gratified when she took him in her arms and hugged him, a big, all-enveloping, comforting embrace for which he was very grateful but that nearly made him cry.

  ‘Come on. You need something to eat.’

  Suzanna got them some carrot and sweet potato soup from the kitchen, and some crusty rolls, and they sat at a table. Marmite sat at their feet, hoping for the odd morsel to drop his way. Patrick struggled to swallow anything. His insides were churning. He put his spoon down in defeat.

  ‘Shit, Suzanna. What am I supposed to do now? It was my mistake, I suppose. I went charging ahead with everything, had it all mapped out, just assuming it was what Mandy wanted too.’

  Suzanna shook her head in amused disbelief.

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it? We all seem to want something we can’t have.’ She laughed, a trifle hysterically.

  ‘I’m glad you can laugh.’ Patrick wasn’t able to see the funny side yet.

  ‘Sorry.’ She put her hand over his. ‘I really am, Patrick.’ She paused for a moment. ‘If it’s any consolation, I think it’s too late for me and Barney. I think I might have blown it.’

  They both dwelt in silence for a moment on their respective plights. Patrick looked up with a smile.

  ‘If Barney kicks you out, I’ve got a room going spare. I’m going to need a lodger to pay the mortgage.’

  He hadn’t addressed that one yet. He’d only got a few days to find the money. And secretly, in the back of his mind, he’d been hoping that Keith might bail him out, once he knew that Patrick and Mandy were engaged. Hah! Fat chance of that now. He’d have to go grovelling to his relations instead. Sell his car, probably. What a mess.

  The door to the lounge bar opened – they’d forgotten to lock up. Two men came in. Stocky, dressed in jeans and black leather bomber jackets. Not the usual Honeycote Arms clients. Patrick stood up.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry – we’re closed.’

  The men didn’t stop. They carried on till they were right by the table.

  ‘We open again at six – ’

  Patrick stopped. Somethingwasn’t quite right. The taller of the two held his hand up, as if to tell him to be quiet.

  ‘We don’t want a drink. We want cash.’

  Suzanna was surprised to find herself calm. She stood up and fixed them with a charming but firm smile.

  ‘It’s all in the safe, I’m afraid. We haven’t got the combination.’

  This was true. Only Barney knew the number. The takings for the entire weekend were sitting in the safe, waiting for him to take them to the bank.

  ‘Bollocks.’ The shorter one turned to Patrick. ‘You’re the gaffer. You must know it.’

  ‘I’m not the gaffer. I don’t have a clue – ’

  ‘Then maybe this will remind you.’

  One of them produced a baseball bat from behind his back and brandished it threateningly. Instead of being frightened, Suzanna felt filled with fury – how dare they march in here like this?

  ‘Look – he’s not my husband. He doesn’t know the combination. We’ve got no way of getting in, OK? So just piss off.’

  ‘So where is he then? Your husband?’

  ‘I don’t know. London. He won’t be back till… tomorrow.’

  ‘You’d better phone him, then.’

  The thug reached over the bar and picked up the pub handset, tossing it to Suzanna. He gave her a look that said he meant it.

  With trembling hands, she punched out Barney’s mobile number. A warning hand grabbed her wrist before she could put the phone to her ear.

  ‘Remember, no funny stuff. Don’t try and warn him. Just get the number.’

  Something in his cold eyes told Suzanna he meant business. She nodded wordlessly and put the phone to her ear, listening to the ringing tone.

  Barney jumped out of the cab at Paddington and made his way into the station. He eyes sought out Eldenbury on the timetable. Platform six. Shit – the train was about to go. He could see them closing the barrier. He ran for it as his phone began to trill. He ignored it – he’d miss the train if he answered it. He rushed past the guard without showing him his ticket and pulled open the door of the carriage just as the last whistle went.

  Suzanna hung up the phone and shook her head.

  ‘He’s not answering. He’s probably in a meeting or something.’

  The thug looked agitated.

  ‘Bloody well try him again.’

  Hearing the bloke’s harsh tones to his mistress, Marmite came rushing forwards with a little warning growl.

  ‘Shut up, mutt.’

  A huge booted foot drew back and kicked out, catching the little dog square in the chest and sending him flying through the air.

  ‘You bastard!’ Suzanna flew at the man in a rage.

  ‘For God’s sake, Suzanna – just sit down!’

  But Patrick’s warning was too late. The bloke reached round and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her round, then put a burly arm across her to pin her to his chest. She was screaming and struggling.

  ‘Shut up, bitch.’

  ‘Leave her alone!’

  With a superhuman effort, Patrick pushed the table aside and lunged across the room to Suzanna’s defence, but suddenly found his chin connecting with something cold and hard. The baseball bat. There was a sickening crunch. There goes my nose, thought Patrick, as he flew backwards through the air, and his head hit the limestone floor with an ominous smack.

  Barney fell into an empty seat with relief. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to see who’d rung. It was the pub’s number. He put it back into his pocket. They’d ring again if it was important.

  His hangover had dissipated, just leaving him totally knackered, and he didn’t have the adrenalin he’d had on the journey up. It was the slow train and the miles seemed to drag by. He hadn’t had time to buy a paper or a magazine. He was left with nothing but his thoughts for entertainment.

  He’d been an idiot to think even for a minute that picking up where he’d left off all those years ago was going to be a remote possibility. In just one meeting, that had lasted barely an hour, he remembered all the shit that went with it, the constant insecurity and battling to keep one’s place in the pecking order. Thanks Jez, he thought ruefully. You’ve done me a favour.

  Trouble was, what he was going back to wasn’t any more enticing. For a start, he had Kitty to face. He was going to have to be very gentle with her, but he thought she’d understand. They had no future together. There was, after all, only one woman he’d ever loved.

  Suzanna. The words of an old Clash song went through his head – should he stay or should he go? Of course, it wasn’t a serious question. He wasn’t going to walk out on Honeycote Ales. But he and Suzanna had to make a decision.

  The way he saw it, they had three choices. They could carry on as they were, running on parallel lines, slowly destroying each other. But that would ultimately spell disaster. A pub depended on the chemistry of the people running it. It wouldn’t take long before people detec
ted a rift between them, souring the atmosphere.

  They could admit defeat and set each other free by going their separate ways. But Barney felt that way everyone lost: him, Suzanna, Honeycote Ales, all the people that had contributed to what was on its way to being a success.

  The third option was to sit down and try and make a proper go of it. Talk everything through, in practical and emotional terms – the past, the present, the future. It would be painful, but they couldn’t run away from that. Surely it would be worth it? And they shouldn’t discuss it in the light of an argument, but when they both felt calm and strong. The trolley went past with some rather unappetizing cans of beer, and for a moment Barney was tempted. But he thought not.

  If he was going to have the final showdown with Suzanna, then he’d better do it sober.

  Mandy sat in the travel agents in Cheltenham biting the side of her nails with impatience as the girl tried endless permutations on the computer before finally coming up with a convoluted timetable of planes and stopovers that would, God willing, have her in Sydney by Friday. She slid her credit card over the table top decisively.

  It was what she should have done all along. She should have gone to Australia with Sophie and Ned on day one. She would have saved herself and Patrick so much pain. She couldn’t go back to him now, not after what she had done. She couldn’t expect forgiveness.

  This would be a new beginning. The start of life on her own, without anyone else to influence it. She’d see new places, meet new people, open her mind, take some risks. Then, once she’d lived a little, maybe she’d feel equipped to make decisions about the rest of her life.

  Her father would understand, she was sure. And she was happy that she could leave him on his own now. He seemed very keen on Ginny. Mandy was pretty sure they were going to be an item and the last thing she wanted was to cramp her father’s style by being a gooseberry in her own home.