That, thought Mandy ruefully as she hung up, was what she was afraid of.
As he walked down the corridor to take the phone call from Kay in his office, Mickey ran through all the possible reasons she could be calling.
He could hardly remember her contacting him at all when they were having an affair. It was usually he who had picked up the phone and suggested an assignation. As a mistress, she had been pretty undemanding, wanting nothing from him but sex. That Mickey could handle; it was when women got emotionally attached that he started to panic. Kay had been positively detached. Occasionally he had felt almost used. Not that he minded. It had been fun.
Until it had all gone wrong, of course. You couldn’t keep an affair quiet for ever in a place like Honeycote. Word had got out, ironically after they had decided to call it a day, and the shit had hit the fan. Lucy had gone running to James for comfort. Mickey, who had been a heavy drinker in those days, had lost the plot completely. Not only had he jeopardized his seemingly perfect marriage, but the bank was threatening to call in the brewery’s not insubstantial overdraft. Feeling the pressure, he had hit upon the idea of burning down the brewery and collecting the insurance. Luckily for him - or not so luckily, depending how you looked at it - he’d been so sloshed that he’d crashed into a wall en route to the brewery to carry out his dastardly deed, and had ended up in hospital for weeks. Even now he limped very slightly; and still got blinding headaches when he was tired or stressed. But everything had been all right in the end. There was nothing like being at death’s door for bringing out people’s forgiveness. There had been touching bedside reconciliations. Mickey had milked his invalidism for all it was worth, hoping that his misdemeanours would be overlooked in the light of his misfortune.
The tactic had worked. Lucy had forgiven him. While he was recuperating, Keith had come to the brewery’s rescue. And as far as he knew, Kay had emerged from the scandal unscathed, and had gone to live in Portugal with her husband, Lawrence. Mickey hadn’t heard from her from that day to this, and had barely given her a thought. She had been his last dalliance. The accident had frightened him, and made him realize just how special Lucy was. He’d been faithful to her ever since.
So he rather hoped it wasn’t sex Kay was after.
He picked up his telephone.
‘Mickey Liddiard.’
‘Mickey. It’s Kay.’ He remembered her voice. So clear and concise. And definite. Kay had always known exactly what she wanted. ‘I need to see you.’
‘Jesus, Kay. This is out of the blue. It’s been, what? Nearly five years?’
‘Give or take a couple of months,’ answered Kay. ‘Come to the Honeycote Arms at six o’clock.’
‘I don’t know if I can. I’ll have to check—’
‘I’ll be expecting you.’
The phone went dead. Mickey couldn’t help smiling. That was Kay. Everything always had been non-negotiable. He felt the tiniest little flicker of excitement, then spoke to himself sternly. He wasn’t going down that road again, not even if she was lying stretched out on the bed naked with a rose between her teeth.
He worked out he’d just have time for a shower and a change of clothes, if he wound the meeting up and put his skates on. After all, he didn’t want her thinking he’d gone to seed.
Five
Later that afternoon, Mayday barged into her mother’s kitchen through the back door without knocking, eyes blazing. Mason and Ryan watched in amazement, their forks loaded with turkey escalopes, grilled beef tomatoes and potato croquettes, as she laid into Angela, who was unloading the dishwasher.
‘How dare you tell Gran she should go into a home?’
Angela stood up, a floral mug in each hand.
‘Because I think it’s the right thing to do.’
‘You just want to shove her in there so you don’t have to worry. As if it’s you that worries anyway.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that. I’ve got your grandmother’s best interests at heart.’ Angela opened a heavily leaded glass cabinet and replaced her china carefully.
‘No, you haven’t. Gran would go mad in a home. She’d hate it.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Angela briskly. ‘Everyone thinks that. But after two weeks she’d be acclimatized.’
‘Brainwashed, you mean. They give them tablets.’
‘You’re always full of conspiracy theories.’
‘I’ve got friends that have worked in Coppice House. Trust me. They’re doped up to the eyeballs.’
‘I can’t leave her to look after herself. I’m worried sick about her.’
‘Out of sight, out of mind.’
‘If she’s too stubborn to do the right thing, then it’s up to her. I’m not putting my life on hold to look after her.’
‘No. Heaven forbid that you might have to do something for someone else.’
‘I don’t like your tone.’
‘I don’t like your attitude.’
Mother and daughter glared at each other.
‘You look after her, then. I’m quite happy to pay her nursing home fees. But I’m not running over there every two minutes. I’ve got my own life to get on with. Mason and Ryan need me.’
Mayday rolled her eyes. Her mother said it as if she was hovering over two babies in a pram. Mason and Ryan towered over her already, and they weren’t even fully grown.
‘Fine,’ she replied wearily. ‘I can visit Gran every afternoon, when the pub’s quiet. And I’ll see if I can arrange some home help. And maybe talk her into having Meals on Wheels.’
‘Good luck.’ Angela deliberately hadn’t gone down this route, knowing it was an option, but not the one she wanted.
‘How long will it be, I wonder?’ Mayday carried on. ‘Before you get bored with Mason and Ryan? Because you’re really not very good at looking after people when they really need you. First me, and now Gran. I hope for your sake that there isn’t such a thing as karma.’
And with that, she was gone. Angela looked over at her two sons, who were gawping at her.
‘Don’t listen to her,’ she told them. ‘It’s all the drugs she takes. It gives her a warped view of life.’
‘Mayday takes drugs? Cool! Can she get me some?’ said Mason, who was getting to a tricky age.
Angela scowled, then cleared away her sons’ empty plates, scraped clean except for blobs of superfluous brown sauce, and started stacking the empty dishwasher.
Elsie sat down in the Parker Knoll chair that Angela and Roy had bought her for Christmas. She couldn’t put it into the reclining position, as she would never be able to get up again - her fingers weren’t strong enough to manage the handle - but the chair was comfy nevertheless. She kept her head as still as she could so as not to disturb her hairdo. Mayday had spent hours rolling her hair round the curlers, then drying it and taking them out again. Elsie hadn’t wanted to tell her there was no point in her having her hair done, not even for her own self-esteem. She didn’t even look in the mirror any more. But she didn’t want to hurt Mayday’s feelings.
It was her dearest wish to see her granddaughter settled and happy. Mayday might have a wild streak, but Elsie couldn’t help feeling that she would take to family life like a duck to water. If only she could find a decent man. What she needed was someone like Bill. A gentleman to the end. But not dull. Strength, that was what you looked for in a partner. Silent strength. She chuckled. They’d have to be strong to manage Mayday. She’d had a string of suitors over the years, whom she treated with equal disregard. Of all of them, there was only one who Elsie thought deserved the time of day. Although he hadn’t been a boyfriend, but a friend, and the two of them were close even now. Patrick Liddiard had stood by Mayday through thick and thin, and Elsie thought he was wonderful. So good looking, with that glossy black hair and those blue eyes, like one of the matinee idols of her youth. And incredible manners. Always helping her to her chair, standing up if she came into the room - not like Mason and Ryan. They had no manners at all. They just scoffed
the contents of her biscuit tin in front of the telly when they came round, only just about acknowledging her when she took out her purse to give them a bit of pocket money. Patrick was a gentleman. But he belonged to another class. Mixed marriages rarely worked, even in this day and age. Elsie sighed, wishing there was something she could do to iron out this injustice for her beloved granddaughter. She knew there was a bond between Patrick and Mayday; she sensed it whenever she saw them together. But they were almost too close to see it for themselves. Mayday would only tell her not to be so soft if she pointed it out. ‘Patrick’s my mate,’ she would say. ‘He’s my best friend. You don’t marry your best friend.’
But you should, thought Elsie. Bill had been her best friend, after all.
She picked up the remote and pointed it at the television. It was a large one, with outsize buttons, which she prodded until she found the lottery numbers on Teletext. She’d forgotten to check them the day before. She scrabbled about on the glass-topped coffee table for her ticket, then scrutinized the numbers. She often wondered why she bothered, given the odds, but then people did win. Every week. And, as they said, you’ve got to be in it to win it. Her numbers were a combination of her wedding anniversary, house number and her date of birth. Nothing startlingly original. The trouble was, once you’d started, you couldn’t stop, because what if your numbers came up and you hadn’t bought a ticket? So once a week Mayday bought her ticket from the post office, together with a copy of Woman’s Own, and if Elsie didn’t check her numbers regularly it was because she didn’t really believe she’d ever win.
Moments later she scrabbled again on her coffee table for her glasses. Was she going mad? Arthritis she could cope with, but not insanity.
When Keith arrived home from the board meeting, Kitty and Mandy were sitting at the kitchen table in front of an enormous pile of wedding magazines, a pair of scissors at the ready. Sasha was swigging from a can of Diet Coke, giving her opinion. Ginny was slicing chicken breasts, grating ginger and chopping garlic in preparation for her easy Thai curry, a blue and white striped apron over her jeans. She came over to give Keith a kiss, holding her mucky hands in the air.
‘Supper in half an hour. Bad day, good day?’
‘Pass.’ Keith gave her a wry grin. Where would he start?
Mandy pulled out a picture and added it to her pile of possibles.
‘Um, Dad? You’d better steel yourself for some bad news.’
Keith’s heart started pumping. Had the surgery phoned? Or the hospital?
‘What?’ he asked nervously.
‘Mum’s coming over for the wedding.’
Keith breathed out a heavy sigh of relief. ‘That’s all right, love. She is your mother.’
Mandy made a face that Keith recognized meant trouble. ‘On Friday.’
‘Friday?’
Mandy nodded. ‘Someone’s got to pick her up from the airport. She wants to be part of the preparations, she said. As the mother of the bride.’
‘Well, in that case, thank goodness you’re getting married in six weeks, not six months.’
Ginny looked at Keith askance. It wasn’t like him to be so acerbic. But then, Ginny hadn’t actually met Sandra.
It was only now he had been separated from his wife for nearly five years that Keith wondered how he’d actually put up with her for so long. Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, he realized that Sandra had probably been bored rigid throughout their marriage. He had been brought up to believe that a woman should look after the house and home and the children, and in return he would bring home the bacon. It was a very simple equation that should have worked. Looking back, he had been completely misguided. It wasn’t his fault if that was what had been drummed into him. Perhaps the fact they’d only had one child had been partly to blame. There simply hadn’t been enough for Sandra to do. No wonder she had looked elsewhere for her amusement in the end. Keith had come home one day to find her disappearing out the front door with a raft of suitcases, accusing him of not paying her enough attention. He’d been aggrieved at first, then relieved. Not long afterwards, he had met Ginny, and the difference was astonishing. If Sandra was a bulldozer, Ginny was an old-fashioned bicycle with a basket on the front. At the thought of Sandra’s reappearance, he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He felt a bit peculiar. Was it stress? Or something more sinister?
‘Would you like a drink?’ Ginny was looking at him anxiously.
The threat of prostate cancer, a brewery teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, and the imminent arrival of his ex-wife?
‘I rather think I would,’ said Keith faintly.
Kay spent a long time deciding what to wear for her meeting with Mickey. She knew the value of first impressions, but she wasn’t quite sure, on this occasion, what image she was trying to project, if any. In the end, she decided on jeans. She put on enough make-up to hide the shadows under her eyes and liven up her complexion. Her tan had faded pretty quickly. Her hair was a disaster. She hadn’t had it cut or coloured since Lawrence died; it was nearly past her shoulders. So she brushed it out and twisted it up into a knot. She looked at her hands ruefully. No nail varnish. She really couldn’t be bothered. Her hands had become dry and chapped from the unaccustomed cold weather. She squirted a dollop of hand cream into one palm and smoothed in the soothing lotion.
Her stomach was churning. What the hell was the matter with her? She usually had nerves of steel, but the forest mushrooms on brioche she’d had for lunch felt as if they were about to reappear. It wasn’t too late to back out. She and Flora could climb back into her Micra and go back up the motorway to Slough. Her parents had told her repeatedly that they always had a place with them. But how could she spend the next few years in their spare room, on that soulless estate, looking for a way out?
She looked outside. Flora was playing with Poppy, Barney and Suzanna’s daughter. They were having a whale of a time on the pub’s wooden climbing frame, bossing each other around as only little girls can. As her daughter swung upside down, laughing, Kay saw a vision of the future she wanted for her. A happy English village existence, with a garden, and friends, and if not a pony then at least a puppy or a kitten. That wasn’t too much to ask, surely?
Get a grip, Kay told herself firmly. She knew her rights, after all. This was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
She heard a knock on the bedroom door. She took a deep breath, then strode across the room to open it.
Her stomach turned over when she saw him. He’d got older, of course he had, because at their time of life the years started showing. But age hadn’t made him any less handsome. His hair was slightly greyer at the temples, and there were a few more lines around his eyes. But those eyes still shone brilliantly, and the laughter hadn’t gone out of them.
‘Hello, Kay,’ said Mickey, and his voice sounded so warm, so familiar. It was a long time since anyone had been on her side, apart from her parents. Everyone she had come into contact with had been cold and detached, either bristling with officialdom or trying to disown her. Kay put her face in her hands and breathed in deeply to calm herself. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into Mickey’s arms, feel his strength around her and breathe in the Eau Sauvage she had once teased him for wearing because it was old-fashioned.
For heaven’s sake, she told herself crossly. It wasn’t as if she’d ever been in love with him. Their affair had been strictly physical; intermittent sex they had both got off on because they both had low boredom thresholds. They’d suited each other perfectly, because in each other they had found a means of getting the thrills they needed whilst knowing the affair would never spiral out of control, because neither of them were romantics. They were never going to invest any real emotion in their relationship and demand anything of each other. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Kay had been labouring under one tiny little misapprehension, she wouldn’t be here now.
‘Am I that hideous to look at?’ Mickey joked. ‘I haven’t aged that mu
ch, surely?’
She took her hands away from her face. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Sorry. It’s just . . . strange seeing you after all this time. Come on in.’
And she stepped aside to let him past.
Mickey hadn’t been sure what to expect when he saw Kay. He might have had an affair with her for . . . how long? A year? Eighteen months? In all that time he hadn’t kidded himself that he cared about her, or she him. They’d been in it for the frisson that only clandestine sex can give you.
So he was surprised, when he saw her, to feel shock. She looked tiny, vulnerable, her green eyes huge in her face. Kay had always seemed so tough. She was usually done up to the nines, chic and perfectly made-up. Today she had on jeans, loafers and a white shirt; none of her trademark gold jewellery, only a trace of mascara. Her blond hair was loosely pinned up in a slide, dark roots evident.
He followed her into the room. She smiled at him rather wanly.
‘I’m not sure how to tell you this. It’s probably going to come as a shock.’
Oh no, thought Mickey. AIDS. That was why she was so thin. And he definitely hadn’t ever used a condom with her. He knew that, because he’d never used a condom in his life. He thought quickly. If she’d infected him, surely he’d be ill by now?
‘Don’t worry,’ she was saying softly. ‘It’s actually quite a nice surprise. At least, I think so.’
She beckoned him over to the window. Outside, Suzanna’s daughter Poppy was playing on the pub climbing frame with another little girl.
‘That’s Flora,’ said Kay simply. ‘The one in the denim dress.’
‘Yours?’ asked Mickey.
‘And yours.’
There was a stunned silence. Then Mickey began to laugh. ‘Don’t wind me up.’
The expression on Kay’s face stopped him in his tracks. She wasn’t joking.
‘Do the maths, Mickey. We were never very careful, were we? I thought I couldn’t have children, remember? So I told you not to worry.’
Just a Family Affair Page 11
