‘I forgot about the ring,’ he said. ‘I should have done that whole flip open the box thing . . .’
Mandy brushed his worries away with her hand. ‘Listen, I’ve got more rings than you can shake a stick at. Let’s save the money and put it towards the reception.’
Yet again she surprised him. Most women would be gagging for a rock. And how sweet that she instinctively seemed to know that money was tight. Patrick smoothed her hair in a gesture of affection, appreciating her unspoken consideration for the depths of everyone’s pockets. Or should he say shallowness.
‘Are you OK with us telling the others at lunch?’
‘Definitely,’ grinned Mandy. Patrick turned the keys in the ignition, slammed the car into first, and they whizzed off down the hill, their hair streaming behind them in the spring breeze, she in her Prada shades, he in his Raybans, the absolute picture of happiness.
It was going to be fine, Patrick told himself. He was going to marry the woman he loved, thereby bringing about the union of two families for the benefit of the business. It was terribly old-fashioned, but in some ways - despite his musical tastes and his dress sense, which were both bang up to date - Patrick was.
Minutes later, the car turned in through a pair of Cotswold stone pillars that seemed to be missing their gates and roared up the rutted drive, following the line of grass that grew through the middle before screeching to a halt before the front door. The house was glowing a mellow gold in the spring sunshine - it was large and rambling, with mullioned windows that begged to be peered through, a mossy roof, and stone as crumbly as home-made fudge. Of course, on close inspection a surveyor would have a field day, but to Patrick, who’d been brought here when he was barely as tall as the two urns that stood either side of the front door and held a cluster of primroses, it was perfect.
And one day it would be his. His fondest memories were of the kitchen at Honeycote House, of all of them together round the table. Him and Sophie and Georgina. He had always presumed that he would keep the Liddiard bloodline going. For a moment, he allowed himself a vision of his own offspring sitting round that kitchen table, bashing the tops off their boiled eggs. Then he jumped out of the driver’s seat and went round to open the door for Mandy. As he took her hand, his heart burst with pride, and he couldn’t resist taking her in his arms once again.
‘I love you,’ he murmured as he kissed her, running his fingers through her sleek, dark mane. Moments later the front door opened.
‘Ugh! Cousin Patch! Stop snogging!’ Henry stood in the doorway, his snub nose wrinkled with distaste, and Patrick and Mandy pulled themselves apart, laughing.
Ginny and Keith arrived bang on half past twelve, delightfully prompt as ever. Ginny was carrying a wicker basket stuffed with offerings - she had the knack of remembering things that no one had thought of. Not that Lucy ever forgot anything when it came to entertaining, but Ginny was super-thoughtful, without being saintly. Anyway, she’d been to the Liddiards’ enough times to know that things could get a bit, well, heavy on the drink front, and the children might be glad of a diversion.
‘I made some Rice Krispie cakes for the little ones. White chocolate, so they don’t get covered. And some homemade lemonade.’ There had been an incident once when a thirsty Henry had drained the dregs from everyone’s Pimm’s glass, with ensuing panic. ‘And I’ve brought a Wallace and Gromit video.’
‘You’re an angel.’ Lucy took the basket off Ginny and gave Keith a kiss. He was wearing a pale green lambswool sweater and beige cords, a totally different man to the be-suited, swaggering powerhouse that had arrived on their doorstep to collect his daughter five years ago. He was softer, more relaxed, and looked younger for it, though Lucy knew that beneath the gentle exterior were nerves of steel. Keith was the archetypal iron fist in a velvet glove. Lucy had given thanks over and over when he had taken the helm, for the brewery had been adrift on very dangerous seas. Keith had put them firmly back on course.
‘The twins might pop in later, if that’s OK?’ Ginny looked apologetic, as she always did when she was about to inflict her nubile and ebullient daughters on any social gathering.
‘Of course it’s OK. It would be lovely to see them.’
Kitty and Sasha were by Ginny’s marriage to David, a philandering dentist who had run off with his hygienist. Cruelly ousted from their family home as a result of the ensuing divorce, Ginny had come to Honeycote with the twins to make a fresh start, renting a tiny barn conversion in the village. Lucy had found her in the village post office looking woebegone, and had promptly adopted her as her latest cause. Lucy was always looking after neglected horses or abandoned dogs, but she specialized in people too, healing them and putting them back on their feet.
Now, Ginny was a changed person. She was no longer a victim. It had taken her a long time to recover from David’s selfishness and cruelty, but she’d had the last laugh in the end. David often appeared on her doorstep at the weekends, his daughter Chelsea in tow, desperate for assistance because Faith the hygienist was off shopping somewhere. Ginny hardened her heart. She let him come in and drink coffee and nodded politely while he bemoaned his situation, but she never gave him what he really wanted, which was to offer to look after Chelsea while he buggered off and did his own thing. In her previous incarnation as a doormat, Ginny would probably have had the little girl for the whole weekend, but she’d learnt the value of standing up for herself. Much to David’s annoyance.
As a result of this transformation, Ginny was also now running Mrs Tiggywinkle’s, an extremely successful business with an impressive turnover. When she first came to Honeycote, she had supplemented her meagre income by taking in ironing. Its immediate success soon led her to spot a gap in the market for good old-fashioned housekeeping. The area was stuffed with wealthy people who were so busy working that they were prepared to pay over the odds for someone to take on the running of their homes completely. Now, Ginny had a team of girls working for her who swooped in pairs through the front doors of the barristers and consultants and film producers and property magnates who disappeared off to London or Birmingham every day. Beds were stripped and replaced with freshly laundered sheets, every surface was swept, polished or dusted, taps, tiles and mirrors gleamed, wood was buffed with beeswax until it shone. Lightbulbs were replaced, loo paper and soap replenished, dirty towels and bathmats were removed and fresh ones put in their place, bins were washed out and bleached, every inch of grime was scrubbed from the insides of the ovens, fridges and microwaves . . . even the rinse aid and salt was topped up in the dishwasher. Finally, fresh flowers were distributed and each room lightly spritzed with a delicious citrus room spray. As the team left, they took with them any suits and dresses that had been left out to be dry-cleaned, the bed linen to be laundered, shoes to be polished and re-heeled, all of which would be returned immaculate within forty-eight hours. For this clients were willing to pay two hundred pounds a session, safe in the knowledge that they would come home to a pristine, sweet-smelling, well-stocked house.
Ginny called each client every week to make sure they were happy, to see if anything had been overlooked or to find out if there was any other detail she could add to her service. Suggestions came thick and fast from her wealthy and overworked customers. As a result, Ginny had already arranged delivery of consignments of fresh organic meat, fruit and vegetables, which would be unpacked by her team and put into the fridge or cupboards. Now she was expanding into weekend entertaining, sending girls round to lay up the dining tables, serve and then clear up afterwards. People were prepared to pay quite ridiculous prices for stress-free entertaining. Ginny paid her girls well, creamed off the top for herself and still had enough left over to keep reinvesting.
To keep up with demand, she had rented a unit on the industrial estate just outside Eldenbury, where her team of girls did the laundry and the ironing. She was considering bringing out her own range of room sprays, linen water and soaps, so even if you couldn’t afford her, your hom
e could smell as if you could. She already had a list of people waiting for her life-changing services. Clients phoned her regularly to say what a difference she had made to their lives, how uplifting it was to walk in after a hard day’s work and find the place spotless and a brace of organic sirloin steaks in the fridge.
Ginny’s daughter Sasha helped her in the business. Sasha was brilliant at training, as she knew every trick in the book herself, and was also on hand to step in should any of the staff call in sick. Which they rarely did, as they were well looked after, and Ginny was at pains to fit workloads around childcare commitments. Once a week she did a working breakfast for them all, with Danish pastries and freshly squeezed orange juice and the chance to swap notes, grievances, worries and suggestions - something Keith had introduced at Honeycote Ales and found very successful.
Thus it seemed Ginny had absorbed some of Keith’s grit and determination, while Keith had taken on board her happy-go-lucky attitude and sweet nature. They were a contented, easy-going couple who seemed to have the perfect work/life balance. Lucy adored the fact that they sometimes held hands, without being in the least nauseating.
Today, though, she thought Keith looked tired and worried, and Ginny rather subdued. Lucy bit her lip, hoping that it wasn’t the brewery that was the underlying cause. She’d had her suspicions of late, suspicions that were worsening because of Mickey’s cheerful reassurance that everything in the garden was rosy. Whenever he did that, she knew there was trouble on the horizon, and she suddenly felt rather guilty about her extravagance in the kitchen.
Determined that she wasn’t going to let this niggling worry spoil today’s lunch, Lucy pulled the joints of beef out of the Aga and left them to relax on the top for half an hour, then shook the roast potatoes in their tray. As she dropped handfuls of Gruye‘re into the sauce for the cauliflower cheese, she looked around. Everyone was chattering madly, swigging champagne and munching on the cheese straws she’d wisely put out to line their stomachs. Pokey the red setter circumnavigated the room gobbling up the plentiful crumbs, with Connie tottering behind trying to grab her tail.
Lucy picked up her own glass and took a sip, breathing a sigh of relief. All her hard work hadn’t been in vain. All the kitchen had needed was people.
Two fillets of beef and several pounds of potatoes later, everyone looked rather glazed. The magnificent feast and plentiful booze were taking their toll; eyelids were getting heavy and blood was pumping slowly as Lucy came in bearing the pavlova, which she had crowned with long, slim golden tapers. A raucous, drunken round of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ ensued, with Mickey pulling Henry onto his knee to help blow out the candles.
‘Make a wish!’ shouted someone, and Mickey obeyed, looking at Lucy and giving her a meaningful smile. She blushed.
‘What did you wish? What did you wish, Uncle Mickey?’ demanded Henry, jiggling up and down on his knee.
‘I’m not allowed to say, otherwise it won’t come true,’ Mickey told him. Besides, he wasn’t going to admit to hoping for cold, hard cash. It was so mercenary and unromantic.
Lucy sliced up the pavlova into thick wedges, the cream oozing from between the layers before she could get each slice onto the appropriate plate. Despite protestations of fullness, everyone managed a piece. As spoons scraped against porcelain, there were sighs of satisfaction.
‘What time do you think Kitty will get here?’ Mandy asked Ginny. ‘Because there’s something I want to ask her. Something important I want her to do for me.’
Patrick shot her a glance. She was positively bursting with the news. She looked back at him, as if begging him to divulge the information before she exploded. He supposed now was as good a time as any. He hadn’t wanted to overshadow Mickey’s birthday celebrations, but it would probably be some time before he could get this many of his family under one roof. And besides, he was excited too. He tapped his pudding spoon on the side of his glass.
‘Um, by the way, everyone. While I’ve got you all captive . . .’
Everyone turned to look at Patrick, puzzled. He wasn’t one for self-important announcements. He looked rather sheepish. He ran his hand through the lock of black hair that fell habitually over his eyes, a gesture that everyone who knew him recognized as a sign of nervousness. What did Patrick have to be nervous about?
He put out an arm for Mandy, and she slipped under it, looking rather coy herself. As he hugged her to him, she smiled up, glowing with adoration.
‘What’s that saying . . . in spring a young man’s mind turns to fancy?’ Patrick affected vagueness. ‘Well, there was so much spring in the air as we drove over this morning that it must have got to me. I stopped the car and did something rather rash. Rather . . . impulsive.’
He couldn’t resist a dramatic pause as he looked round the table.
‘I asked Mandy to marry me.’
There was a moment’s astonished silence, and then all hell broke loose.
‘Did she say yes?’ roared Mickey above the hubbub.
‘Of course I did!’ cried Mandy, as Patrick picked her up and swung her round. Georgina pounded the table in glee.
Keith got up from the table and came round to shake Patrick by the hand.
‘Congratulations. I’m delighted. I know you’ll look after her.’ His voice was slightly gruff, as if he was finding it hard to speak, and as he stepped away Patrick thought he saw the glitter of a tear in his eye.
‘Thank you . . . sir.’ He wasn’t one for deference, but the occasion merited respect. He felt sure that Keith’s congratulations were genuine.
Only Caroline was lukewarm in her enthusiasm, but luckily the soon-to-be-bride and groom weren’t aware of her mutterings.
‘I hope he doesn’t turn out like his dad or his uncle,’ she slurred into her glass. ‘These Liddiards look like a good catch, then they turn out to be utter bastards.’
‘If you can’t say anything nice,’ said Lucy icily, ‘then don’t say anything at all.’
Caroline looked at her with the aggrieved innocence of the totally sloshed. ‘You should know better than anyone,’ she riposted hotly. ‘Anyway, there’s no need to get all indignant. It’s obvious it’s only a marriage of convenience.’
There was an audible gasp from Ginny. Luckily only she and Georgina had heard Caroline’s spiteful remarks. Lucy was about to give her a piece of her mind, when Caroline diffused the situation by bursting into noisy sobs.
‘I’m sorry,’ she wailed. ‘They just look so happy. I can remember feeling like that once . . .’
‘Mummy,’ said Georgina firmly. ‘I think I should take Caroline upstairs to my room for a lie down. She needs a rest.’
Ten minutes later, Georgina collared Lucy in the pantry.
‘Mum, what’s the matter with Caroline? She looks really awful and she’s behaving like a spoilt child. And James is being a pig.’
‘She does give him a hard time.’
‘But he doesn’t do anything to help.’
‘James is old-fashioned.’
‘What sort of an excuse is that?’ Georgina looked outraged. ‘You don’t believe that lets him off the hook, surely?’
Actually, Caroline did look dreadful. Overweight, pale, spotty. Bloated. Her hair was lank and dull. Lucy remembered the voluptuous, flame-haired, feisty creature James had fallen in love with: karaoke queen, fearless horsewoman, career girl.
‘She’s got her hands full with the children.’ Lucy tried to reassure Georgie, who hated dissension of any kind. ‘It’ll get easier.’>
It was just a phase. And it would pass soon enough. Lucy remembered desperately trying to dry baby clothes on the Aga, getting up to feed Georgina in the cold of the night, then hoping to snatch some sleep before Sophie woke up at the crack of dawn. She remembered always feeling as if she had left her brain in another room, a permanent state of empty headedness. But before you knew it they were sleeping through, walking and talking, going to school, leaving home . . .
She knew that would
be no comfort to Caroline. And Georgie wouldn’t understand either. Dear Georgie. So matter-of-fact and positive. Everything to her was black and white. She had no real clue about what lay ahead of her, the grey areas, the dilemmas, the compromises.
Lucy decided she’d have to talk to James, if it was so obvious even to Georgie that things were badly wrong. Lucy carefully unwrapped the Brie from its waxed paper and prodded it experimentally. Perfect. Runny, but not actually running away. Just how everyone liked it.
She managed to corner James half an hour later, just as he was coming out of the loo that led into the back hallway. She blocked his way, arms crossed.
‘James. I’m sorry, I’ve got to say it, but your behaviour towards Caroline is unforgivable. Can’t you see she’s struggling? Give the poor girl a break.’
James stared back at her, his eyes cold.
‘I never wanted three children. Two was enough for me. She’s made her own bloody bed.’
Lucy took in a sharp breath of disbelief. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I do. We don’t have the room. I don’t earn enough money. It’s bloody selfish.’
‘You’re not telling me you don’t love Percy.’
James looked irritated. ‘Of course I love Percy,’ he snapped. ‘But I don’t like being cornered. I didn’t get the choice. Percy was a fait accompli. I don’t feel good about resenting him, I can assure you. But the bottom line, Lucy, is we can’t afford three kids. Caroline isn’t going to be back at work for at least another four years at this rate.’
‘Hang on,’ said Lucy. ‘You’re the one who keeps an Aston Martin in the garage.’
‘Why the fuck should I give that up?’ James exploded. ‘I love that car.’
‘James . . .’ Lucy wasn’t quite sure how to get through to him. ‘Being married and having kids is all about compromise. And making sacrifices.’
‘Do you really think you’re fit to preach to me?’ James sneered. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, your marriage doesn’t exactly stand up to scrutiny.’
Just a Family Affair Page 4
