Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, the paternity issue is strictly between us. I’m never going to say a word to anyone. On paper, I’ll say the father is Ronald McDonald, if that’s what it takes. But from Flora’s point of view, her father is Lawrence, and that’s the end of it. She won’t ever know the truth.’

  ‘Some people will have to know,’ Patrick pointed out. ‘Because Dad and I can’t magic up the money between us without some sort of explanation. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my short little life, it’s that it’s usually easier to stick to something resembling the truth.’

  She sat back, closing her eyes, and he saw dark shadows. A tiny bit of him wanted to scoop her up, put her into bed, smooth her hair . . .

  ‘As long as you understand that my first and only loyalty is to Flora. I’m not doing this so I can go and whoop it up at your expense. Whatever you give me is for her benefit, not mine.’>

  Somehow, he believed her. Whereas initially he’d had a vision in his head of her gleefully cackling and dashing off to a BMW showroom with their money, now he saw a different picture.

  She was getting up. ‘I must go and make sure Flora hasn’t woken up. She’d panic if I wasn’t there.’

  Patrick jumped to his feet. ‘Kay—’ He stopped her as she walked past. He put a hand on each of her arms, feeling the very bones through her shirt. If he squeezed her, she’d snap. ‘I don’t know what else we can do to help. Can we find you a cottage, or—’ He sounded so bloody patronizing. He’d better just shut up.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I’ll probably go back to my parents for a week or so while I think about things.’

  ‘How do we contact you?’

  She looked a bit blank, as if she hadn’t given it much thought. ‘Don’t call Mum and Dad. I’ll get a mobile, I guess.’

  ‘Call me at the brewery. Leave your number.’ He pulled one of his business cards out of his pocket. ‘And don’t worry about the bill here. I’ll sort it out with Barney.’

  She frowned. ‘Won’t he think it strange?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell him that you’re a Michelin inspector in disguise.’

  ‘I didn’t think they were open to bribes. And I thought you believed in telling the truth.’ A playful smile. A flashback to the old Kay.

  ‘Not all the time.’ He managed an impish grin back.

  They stood for a moment, no words between them. Former lovers, in a situation so complicated and alien that close physical contact was now almost impossible. Both of them felt the pull for a second, but both resisted. Patrick, because his loyalty was to his own family. And Kay, because she had to protect herself.

  As he drove through the narrow back lanes to his cottage, Patrick decided he was going to have to shut his mind to everything that had just happened and focus on the wedding. It wasn’t fair to spoil it for Mandy. In fact, he decided, it would be good fun to discuss their plans over a bowl of pasta and a bottle of wine. He felt rotten about dismissing her earlier. She wasn’t to know about the can of worms that had just been opened, after all.

  As he dropped his car down into second gear to get it up the steep hill that led to Little Orwell, his mobile rang. He glanced at the screen in irritation. It was Mayday, which was odd. She wasn’t in the habit of phoning him. Intrigued, he pulled over to the side of the road for a second, letting the engine tick over.

  ‘Hey!’

  All he could hear on the other end was a choking sound.

  ‘Mayday?’

  ‘It’s Gran,’ Mayday sobbed. ‘She’s killed herself. Oh, Patrick. I just don’t know what to do.’

  That, thought Patrick, was tonight’s plans out of the window.

  ‘Why didn’t she say something?’ There was desperation in her wail. ‘I’d have done anything for her. Anything!’

  ‘Of course you would,’ soothed Patrick. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the hotel. I couldn’t stand it at Gran’s any longer. My bloody mother’s milking it for everything she can get.’

  Patrick could believe it. The few times he had run into Angela he couldn’t get away fast enough.

  ‘I’ll come over as quickly as I can.’

  ‘No. No. You don’t have to. I just wanted someone to talk to.’ There was a large sniff. ‘I think I’ll just go to bed.’

  ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘The arthritis, I suppose. She couldn’t stand it any more. She must have been in such pain. And she never complained. She took all her painkillers in one go.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Patrick trailed off. He hated platitudes.

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best, you mean?’ Mayday was always quick to pick up what he was thinking.

  What was he supposed to say? ‘You know what your gran was like. She knew what she was doing.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ Mayday’s voice cracked. ‘Fuck it, Patrick. She was the only person in the world I really cared about.’

  He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear how small she sounded. Feisty, ballsy, crazy, one-off Mayday, who never let anything or anyone get to her.

  ‘Give me half an hour.’

  He’d nip home, explain what had happened to Mandy. She’d understand.

  ‘Honestly. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you a huge favour.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Will you come with me to the funeral?’

  Patrick didn’t hesitate. ‘Of course!’

  ‘I don’t trust myself not to punch my mother. I know she’ll be weeping and wailing and gnashing her teeth all the way through the service. And she didn’t give a toss, Patrick. All the silly bitch will be worried about is getting her hands on the money. I need you with me to stop me throttling her. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Mayday, of course I don’t. And any time off you want - don’t give the hotel a second thought. I can send someone over to sort it out.’>

  ‘I’d rather work. It’ll give me something else to think about.’

  Patrick could relate to that.

  ‘Well, if you change your mind . . .’

  ‘I probably won’t. But thanks. I know you mean it.’

  She sounded calmer.

  ‘Go and have a bath and have a whopping brandy sent up from the bar,’ Patrick ordered. ‘Get a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Yeah.’ There was a small pause. ‘Thanks, Patrick. You’re a real mate.’

  Patrick tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and leant back for a moment. He thought about Mayday’s granny, who he usually met when he dropped Mayday off after a night out. He remembered eating delicious rhubarb pie in her back garden one Sunday, its crust crisp and glistening with sugar. He’d caught Elsie looking at him with a strange expression, a curious mixture of interest and perspicacity, and the smile she’d given him when he met her gaze had been meaningful. Almost as if she was giving him a clandestine sign of her approval.

  It was horrible to think she was dead. He’d known she was poorly, and that Mayday worried about her incessantly. As usual, because it seemed to be his default setting at the moment, he felt guilty, but what more could he have done? Surely it was enough that it was he who had lobbied to make Mayday the manager of the Horse and Groom? That had given her a substantial salary, which in turn she’d been able to use to help her grandmother. How far did paternalism and duty extend? He couldn’t add finding a cure for arthritis to his to-do list.

  Whatever he did, thought Patrick gloomily, he ended up feeling as if everything was his fault. And who, he wondered, ever worried about him?

  Half an hour later, Mandy was waving a piece of paper under his nose to try and attract his attention.

  ‘Patrick! You’re not listening to a word. Lucy and I think buffet, not sit down, so we don’t have to worry about nightmare seating plans. And we’re going to get Suzanna to do the food. What do you think?’

  He stared back at her rather blankly.

  ‘Mandy,
I’m really sorry. I’m going to have to go out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something’s come up that I think I should have dealt with.’

  ‘What? What can be so urgent all of a sudden?’

  Mandy wasn’t the volatile type. She was very even-tempered. But there was a definite flash of irritation in her voice.

  ‘Mayday’s granny killed herself last night,’ Patrick explained. ‘I ought to go and see if she’s all right.’

  Mandy looked baffled.

  ‘Surely it’s too late? Surely she’s dead?’

  ‘Not her granny. Mayday.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mandy looked down at her lists, crestfallen. ‘That’s awful. Of course you’ve got to go.’

  ‘She hasn’t really got anybody else to look after her. You know what a total cow her mother is.’

  ‘It’s OK. I understand.’

  She started tidying away her paperwork. Patrick couldn’t imagine how she could possibly have so much already, when he had only proposed to her on Sunday.

  ‘Look,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve already told you. Do whatever you think is best. Between you and Lucy, it will be wonderful.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ she said sadly. ‘It’s no fun if you don’t join in too.’

  He gave her a hug. ‘Let me just drive over to the Horse and Groom. Make sure Mayday isn’t about to jump out of the window. I really should, as her mate. And her boss.’

  ‘I know you should. I’m not complaining. Honestly.’

  He pulled her in close, pressing his lips against her soft, shiny hair. She had every right to complain. Most women, he knew, would have a screaming fit if their fiancé had walked out of planning their wedding to console another woman. But there was more to Mandy than that. She wasn’t the clingy, possessive type, and he admired her for it.

  ‘I’ll be an hour. Max.’

  ‘No. Make sure she’s OK. The wedding’s not going anywhere. ’ She gave him a little mischievous smile. ‘I’ll save it all for you. Don’t think you’re going to get out of it that easily.’

  ‘You know I’ll be happy with whatever you decide. As long as I don’t have Henry stumping up the aisle in velvet knickerbockers with the ring on a tasselled cushion. Or anyone in a nasty shiny hired morning suit with an acrylic cravat. Or a hideous archway made out of balloons . . .’

  Patrick had been to enough of Honeycote Ales’ employees’ weddings to know that all of these things were a possibility. Mandy giggled.

  ‘What about,’ she ventured, ‘personalised metallic confetti?’ Patrick clicked his fingers and pointed at her. ‘Spot on.’ He scooped up his car keys. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Outside, he got back into his car and gave a huge sigh before putting the keys in the ignition. He’d genuinely thought on Sunday that he was taking control of his life. Now, it seemed that every female he had ever come into contact with was clamouring for his attention. He saw Mandy waving to him from the kitchen window, then draw down the blind. He longed to be back inside with her, laughing over the hideous gimmicks in her wedding magazines. But for the second time that day, he steeled himself for an awkward encounter with a former lover. He was, he decided, coming back as a monk.

  Eight

  Friday morning dawned as grey and dreary as only England in late March can muster.

  In the Horse and Groom, Mayday woke with a lump of grief in her throat. She’d arranged to have breakfast sent up to her room the night before, but when the knock came on the door, she couldn’t bring herself to answer it. She wouldn’t be able to speak. She certainly wouldn’t be able to eat. She lay there until room service went away, hoping that her staff would get the message that she wanted to be left alone, and that they wouldn’t pester her to make sure she was all right. They had been golden all week, all of them, running the hotel like clockwork, with none of the usual spats and quarrels and mini crises.

  For several moments she debated not going to the funeral at all. Her grandmother wouldn’t know. For all that she pretended to dabble in the mystic arts - one of her party tricks was telling fortunes - Mayday was actually a confirmed atheist and didn’t believe in an afterlife. Death was death and that was it, so Elsie would be totally oblivious to her absence, and Mayday didn’t care what anyone else might think. She would have preferred to spend the day going for a long walk, alone with her memories. It was only the thought of Angela taking centre stage that forced her out of bed and into the shower.

  At Keeper’s Cottage, Keith woke with a knot of worry in his stomach. Getting out his cheque book had brought about the desired speed, but now the day of judgement had arrived all too quickly. It seemed there was no perfect timescale where the threat of cancer was involved. On Monday he hadn’t been able to bear being at the mercy of the lumbering NHS with its endless waiting lists. Now he wasn’t sure if he could cope with the swift efficiency of going private. His biopsy was at midday, which meant by the end of next week he would know his fate. The prospect was so daunting that he hadn’t given any thought whatsoever to the fact that he was picking his ex-wife up from the airport afterwards.

  Ginny came into the bedroom with a cup of tea. He felt a rush of fondness for her. As far as she knew, he was off to Warwickshire to meet his financial adviser, not to have a needle shoved up his rectum. When he knew that they had something to worry about, that’s when he would tell her. There was no need for Ginny to be on tenterhooks waiting for his test results. Besides, the very last person he wanted to find out that he might be ill was Mandy. It would only spoil the run-up to her big day. And Keith knew that the only way to keep a secret was not to burden anyone else with it. Not that he didn’t trust Ginny. But she might be tempted to tell Mandy, thinking she was doing the right thing. So he was going to save her from temptation.

  He shot into the shower, then went over to his wardrobe. If he was pretending to go to his financial adviser, then he would have to wear a suit, though what he really wanted to wear was comfort clothing. Reassuring clothes that would tell him everything was going to be all right.

  Oh God. What if it wasn’t? Keith had read all the leaflets. The cancer could be localized in the prostate. Or it could be starting to feel its way out, tentatively exploring the rest of his body. Or it could have hitched a lift in his lymph nodes, or be settling in his bones. Metastasizing. That was the technical term. Could he feel the ache of metastasis?

  Of course, it could be nothing . . . a mere plumbing problem. Unattractive as that diagnosis was, he would jump for joy to be told he merely had an uncooperative pecker.

  ‘What should I do for supper tonight?’

  Ginny was looking at him anxiously. He tried to focus on what she was saying, but somehow the evening meal paled into insignificance.

  ‘Anything. Sandra isn’t interested in food.’

  She never had been. All through their marriage, it had been all she could do to get a meal on the table. Sandra had always made it quite clear that she had better things to do than keep house. It was only since living with Ginny that Keith had discovered that food could be a shared pleasure. Not just the eating, but the purchasing and the preparation. But today, he couldn’t summon up so much as a flicker of enthusiasm. Usually he would be making all sorts of suggestions, looking up what was in season, in his Nigel Slater Kitchen Diaries, then trotting off to his cellar to find a decent wine to match.

  Ginny’s face clouded over at his lack of response.

  ‘I wanted to do something special.’

  ‘Honestly. Don’t bother. Sandra will be too busy talking about herself to notice what’s on her plate.’

  He forced himself to go and give Ginny a kiss. Just a perfunctory peck. He didn’t want to get too close. If he felt her warmth, her softness, he might be tempted to confess all, so great was his longing for reassurance. He had to keep his distance.

  He remembered to grab his briefcase for authenticity.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Ginny.

  ‘What?’ He looked at h
er in alarm. Had she guessed? Had he given something away?

  She stepped back slightly, startled by his reaction. ‘Everyone needs good luck, don’t they? When they go to see their financial adviser?’

  He managed a grimace. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied carefully, hating the lie. But it was so much better than the truth. He bolted to the safety of his car, where he could stop the charade. He started up the engine, then wondered exactly what he was going to do for the next three hours. Even if he took the most scenic route possible, the hospital was only just over an hour away.

  In Puerto Banus, the sun was out, and Sandra Sherwyn sang happily to herself in her wet room, letting the scalding water trickle over every inch of her body as she examined her precision bikini wax for stray tufts. There were none. Her girls knew better than to leave so much as a millimetre of stubble. Her bush was as well-tended as Wimbledon Centre Court in June. The same went for the rest of her body, which was faultless for a woman of her age. Not that you could rely on other people for maintenance. You had to put the spadework in yourself, which was why she had in front of her an array of loofahs, body brushes, pumice stones and salt scrubs.

  An hour later she was exfoliated, moisturized, coiffed, made up and dressed to kill. As a final touch she stepped into a cloud of Marc Jacobs. The droplets settled reverentially upon her shoulders and nestled in her cleavage.

  ‘Alejandro,’ she purred at the inert figure in her bed. ‘I’m ready for you to take me to the airport. And I don’t want any funny business at the check-in. No lingering goodbyes. I know six weeks seems like a long time, but it will fly by, I promise you.’

  As Alejandro turned and threw back the sheets, then stretched, for a moment she was tempted to undo all her handiwork, just for the pleasure of feeling that hard cock one more time. He put one hand on it and grinned.

  ‘What do I do with this?’

  She raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Strap it to your leg,’ she suggested sweetly. ‘Now come on.’