Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  ‘If you want to cry,’ he whispered, ‘then you should. It doesn’t matter.’

  Mayday turned and buried her head in his chest. He held on to her tightly, not sure if she was crying or not. As the music ground to a sudden halt, she came up for air, breathing deeply to keep herself calm. A single track of tears had fallen from each eye. Patrick took out his hanky and wiped them gently away.

  ‘You’re OK,’ he whispered. ‘The worst bit’s over.’

  Afterwards, they walked back to the car holding hands. Mayday watched with narrowed eyes as Roy escorted Angela back to the Mercedes, Mason and Ryan shuffling along behind.

  ‘I don’t want to go back to my mum’s,’ said Mayday defiantly. ‘It’ll be all she can do not to crack open the champagne. I bet that house is worth the best part of two hundred and fifty thousand now.’

  ‘You’ve got to go, for your granny’s sake. If you don’t, your mother will have won.’

  Mayday sighed. Patrick was right. Which was why she had asked him to come with her. Mayday knew she could trust him to keep her on the straight and narrow.

  In the past couple of years, Eldenbury had gone from being a rather staid Cotswold market town with a plethora of antique shops to a veritable shopper’s paradise. There was a deli to rival Fortnum’s, a fantastic shoe shop stuffed with jewel-encrusted sandals and a mouth-watering array of pastel loafers, Twig, the to-die-for florist, a hairdresser who could change your life with a single snip of his scissors, and now a wonderful boutique that sold gorgeous clothes with not too terrifying prices.

  Ginny stood in the middle of the cavernous changing room and sighed. First she’d tried on a pink linen dress that was far too long. Then a pair of cropped trousers that merely showed off the fact that her legs were like milk bottles. A washed-silk khaki skirt just looked boring even though it had zips and pockets in unusual places. She was on the verge of tears when the assistant held up a cherry-red dress in fine jersey.

  ‘I know it looks nothing on the hanger, but it takes off pounds. And years.’

  Reluctantly, Ginny took it off the hanger and slipped it on. She was astonished to discover that the assistant was telling the truth. The dress gave her a subtle cleavage, skimmed her tummy, and was just the right length to make her look a decent height if she wore her black suede boots. It was probably a little more dressy than she had meant to go for, but time was ticking by.

  ‘I’ll take it.’ She thrust it back at the assistant and went to get dressed again. Then she bought hummus and olives from the deli, a hefty bunch of freesias from Twig that smelt heavenly (she wouldn’t tell Sasha where she’d got them from), and a couple of tarts from the bakery. Ginny thought she’d got the amount of effort she was making just right. Enough to be polite, but she wasn’t going to stress herself out. Sandra was going to have to accept her as she was.

  She was about to get back into her car when she remembered coconut milk. Shit. You couldn’t make a Thai chicken curry without it. She thundered back up the high street to the deli again, bursting in through the door with a red face.

  ‘Tell me you do coconut milk,’ she pleaded. She really should calm down for a second and make sure there wasn’t anything else she’d forgotten. Take a leaf out of Lucy’s book, she scolded herself.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the man behind the counter. ‘We don’t stock it, I’m afraid.’

  The Spar shop up the road definitely wouldn’t. Bugger. She’d have to call in at the supermarket. That was going to take another twenty minutes out of her schedule. She was never going to get the house in order, prepare the meal and get herself ready in time to look languidly, casually welcoming when Sandra walked in through the door.

  Keith did a double take when he saw his ex-wife striding through the arrivals gate at Birmingham Airport. When she’d walked out on him she’d been middle-aged, rather brash, heavy on the make-up and in serious need of a colour consultant, favouring lurid corals, fuchsias and emerald greens.

  Standing before him was a different story. Sandra’s hair was artfully streaked to ash blonde, in a graduated bob that was long in the front and short at the back with a wispy fringe that framed her face. Her skin was glowing, her eyes wide and bright. She seemed taller. Definitely thinner; much, much thinner. She was wearing a cream trouser suit with a soft lace camisole underneath. She even smelled different; her previous perfume had been cloying and unsubtle. It had stayed on the bedclothes and the furniture long after she had gone. Now she just smelled . . . expensive.

  Keith wasn’t a fool. He knew that there had been expert hands at work on her transformation, and it hadn’t just been brought about through diet, exercise and a decent hairdresser. But he had to admit she looked fantastic.

  She smiled. Her teeth had always been rather discoloured, and there had definitely been too many of them. Now they were white and even.

  ‘Hello, Keith.’

  The one thing no one had been able to address was her voice. Strident and grating, it seemed at odds with the vision in front of him. It reminded him, no matter how buffed and polished she looked, this was still Sandra: the pushy, overbearing woman who had walked out on him five years ago because he was boring. Worse, who had walked out on Mandy at a vulnerable age.

  She took his hands in hers and surveyed him like an aunt surveying a long lost-nephew. ‘How are you?’

  Apart from the fact that I’ve had someone rummaging about in my jacksy all morning? thought Keith. ‘Very well,’ he replied heartily. ‘Very well indeed.’

  Sandra put her head to one side. ‘Our little girl,’ she said dreamily. ‘Who would have thought it? It doesn’t seem yesterday, does it? Since she popped out.’

  Actually, thought Keith, it seemed like several lifetimes. And popped wasn’t quite the right word either. Mandy had been breech, and there had been enough blood and screaming to last him a lifetime. It had put him off sex for months.

  He took her luggage trolley chivalrously, noting the soft monogrammed white leather of her selection of cases, holdalls and suit carriers.

  ‘How long are you staying, exactly?’

  Sandra laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not staying with you. I’ve booked myself into Eversleigh Manor.’

  Keith raised an eyebrow. Eversleigh Manor was a couple of villages away; the owners did very discreet but expensive bed and breakfast.

  ‘For the weekend?’ he asked.

  ‘Not just the weekend! Until after the wedding. I need to be on hand for my daughter.’ Sandra dimpled at him. They gave me a good discount for staying so long. I told them they’d hardly know I was there; that I’d be as quiet as a little mouse. Between you and me, I think they were glad of the cash.’ This last remark was in a confidential tone. Keith looked at her in disbelief as she prattled on. ‘I must say, we should consider the manor for the reception venue. They’re moving into weddings. The lady of the house does fantastic cakes.’

  Keith was astonished. She knew more about what was happening on his own doorstep than he did.

  ‘I think we’ve agreed on Honeycote House for the reception, ’ he ventured.

  ‘Have we?’ Sandra arched her brows. ‘I don’t think anything’s set in stone.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the invitations have already gone out.’

  ‘I think you’ll find they haven’t. Mandy promised to wait until I arrived before firming anything up.’

  The automatic doors parted and Sandra stepped out into the grey afternoon. She looked up into the sky critically.

  ‘I suppose we’re in with a chance with the weather in May,’ she commented. ‘But I might just mention that I have several friends with sumptuous hotels in Puerto Banus who’d be very happy to do Patrick and Mandy a deal.’

  At Pantiles, Angela was playing the dutiful grieving daughter very well, shaking hands with friends of Elsie and murmuring thanks for their condolences. Mason and Ryan hovered uncertainly with plates of egg sandwiches, obviously desperate to get to the Xbox on the huge plasma screen in the corn
er of the front room, but even they knew that wouldn’t be appropriate. Roy was passing out cups of tea and tins of Boddingtons and glasses of sherry, very sensibly keeping his head down.

  Patrick and Mayday stood by the fireplace, surrounded by Mason and Ryan’s motocross trophies.

  ‘I want to propose a toast to Gran.’ Mayday looked determined. ‘That service was so impersonal. It could have been anyone’s funeral.’

  Patrick looked at her sternly. ‘It’s a lovely idea. But don’t say anything you might regret,’ he said. ‘I know it’s tempting, and your mother needs a good slap, but be gracious. For your grandmother’s sake.’

  Mayday looked at him for a moment, scowling, then her face softened and she grinned.

  ‘You’re right, you bastard. As usual.’

  Mayday stepped forward into the room.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . .’

  Angela’s head whipped round, her features set in a mask of suspicion. Mayday smiled serenely once she knew she had the room’s attention.

  ‘All of us in here knew my grandmother. Elsie. So I just wanted to take a few seconds to remember who she was and what she was about. You will all know that she was the most thoughtful, considerate, unselfish and giving person on the planet.’ With a masterful effort, Mayday managed not to look sideways at her mother as she said this. ‘It’s obvious now that she was in a tremendous amount of pain. And it’s typical of her that none of us knew how much. She never complained. I just hope they’re looking after her up there, my brave little Gran. Though if I know her, she’ll be making the angels a cup of tea and passing round the custard creams.’

  There was a ripple of laughter combined with a certain amount of surreptitious eye-wiping. Mayday had managed to make her little speech sound touching rather than mawkish, which made it all the more moving.

  ‘So please raise your glasses - or your teacups, which as we all know was her preferred tipple - and join me in a toast. To Elsie.’

  There was a resounding echo as everyone repeated her words, and a smattering of applause. Angela kept her smile fixed firmly to her face as she moved over to her daughter. Patrick moved forward to Mayday’s other side.

  ‘By the way . . .’ Angela reached into her handbag. ‘Your grandmother did leave you something after all. It seems very appropriate, in the light of your speech. So you might as well have it now.’

  She held out a stout little brown teapot, the one that had sat on Elsie’s range for as long as anyone could remember. Mayday took it wordlessly. Angela smiled, and the gleam of triumph was quite evident in her eye. All those hours you spent with her, she seemed to be saying, and all you got was a teapot.

  ‘Have you got something we could wrap it up in?’ Patrick asked politely. ‘It would be an awful shame to break it.’

  Angela scuttled off and came back with some bubble-wrap and a plastic carrier bag.

  ‘I hope you think of her whenever you use it,’ she said, in a quavering voice.

  Mayday couldn’t bring herself to reply.

  By half six Ginny felt confident and had regained the ground she had lost. The Thai curry was bubbling away nicely, the wine was chilling, the table was laid, the freesias were in a vase on the breakfast bar. She sat down with the latest Zadie Smith, hoping to look engrossed when the visitor arrived, although she had seriously struggled through the first few pages.

  Sasha came in and stopped in her tracks. She looked Ginny up and down in dismay. ‘Mum. What are you wearing?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Whoever told you red was your colour?’ Sasha had never been one to mince her words. ‘You look like a beef tomato.’

  Ginny felt her chin start to tremble.

  ‘The assistant said it was slimming.’

  Sasha’s face said it all.

  Ginny fled up the stairs, tears stinging her eyes. She ripped off the dress and hurled it onto the floor. She felt rising panic as she heard Keith’s car in the drive. She tugged on her jeans, all her false confidence evaporating. She’d bolstered herself up with ridiculous props - expensive flowers, an extravagant outfit, a book she knew she was never going to get through - but the truth could not be disguised.

  ‘Mum, I didn’t mean to be mean—’

  ‘I know you didn’t. I’d rather you were honest.’ Ginny hastily buttoned up a pale blue linen shirt and tucked it into her trousers.

  ‘I just think you should be yourself. You don’t need to try and impress Mandy’s mum.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to impress her. I just felt like wearing something new.’

  ‘It’s a lovely dress. But . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It makes you look as if you’re trying too hard.’

  Ginny sighed. Exactly what she hadn’t wanted.

  ‘You’re right. Best just stick to the usual boring frumpy stuff. No point in giving her the wrong impression.’

  ‘Mum. You’re gorgeous as you are.’

  Sasha put her arms round her mother and gave her a squeeze. Ginny smiled wanly. So gorgeous Keith couldn’t wait to scuttle out of bed in the morning. So gorgeous he pretended to be asleep at night. Sandra was going to know the truth: that her ex had landed himself a podgy, middle-aged frump who didn’t have a clue how to dress and couldn’t cook for toffee either.

  She put on her boring brown loafers.

  ‘Stop,’ said Sasha. ‘Put those boots back on.’

  ‘I can’t walk in them.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  Ginny was used to obeying her daughters, so she pulled on her boots. Sasha undid two buttons on Ginny’s shirt and pulled it out of her waistband. Then she rushed out of the room and came back in with a chunky necklace made of several strands of brightly coloured beads. She put it on round Ginny’s neck.

  ‘There,’ she said, satisfied. ‘That looks really cool. But not like you’ve rushed out and bought a new dress to impress your husband’s ex.’

  Ginny winced. Sasha had always had an uncanny knack of hitting the nail on the head. She forced herself to look in the mirror. Her daughter was right. The necklace gave her a lift, an edge, the heels gave her height. She managed a smile.

  ‘Where would I be without you?’ she asked.

  Sasha looked distastefully at the discarded dress.

  ‘You are so taking that back tomorrow,’ she said. Ginny laughed shakily and put it back on the hanger.

  ‘Come on,’ said Sasha. ‘Let’s go and meet the she-devil.’

  Even though he knew he was due for supper at Keeper’s Cottage, Patrick felt duty bound to escort Mayday up to her room after the funeral. He was fairly certain it wouldn’t matter if he was late, though Keith would probably be desperate for an ally. Between Sandra and Mandy and the twins, all the talk would be of the wedding.

  Mayday’s rooms were at the top of the hotel - a large living and sleeping area, with the bathroom off. She’d had it redecorated since the last time he’d been in here, and again it hit him just how Mayday had changed. Gone were the wine-dark walls, the smell of incense, the swathes of Indian material, the crazy ornaments. Instead the walls were a deep sea green, at the windows were fluttering gold organza curtains; on one wall was an enormous canvas smothered in lilies, flanked by two verdigris candelabra. The wall facing boasted a Venetian mirror which had the effect of doubling the room’s size. There was still a strong sense of theatre, for Mayday loved the dramatic. But she was undergoing a metamorphosis, from a young girl who needed to make a statement by shouting it loud, to a woman who just left a whisper, but whose memory somehow stayed even longer.

  He threw himself into a large battered leather armchair by the window, watching as Mayday slung her astrakhan coat onto a tailor’s dummy she had fished out of a skip. He realized he hadn’t mentioned the wedding to her yet. He watched as she unzipped her boots, kicked them off, then flopped onto her bed, sinking down onto the silk eiderdown with a sigh.

  ‘By the way,’ said Patrick, ‘I forgot to tell you. Mandy
and I are getting married.’

  Mayday lay still, staring at the ceiling. She shouldn’t care. But she did. She felt as if she were falling from a great height. Her throat tightened; she could barely speak.

  ‘Oh,’ she managed. ‘When?’

  ‘Second weekend in May.’

  ‘That’s . . . only a few weeks away.’

  ‘I know. We decided there was no point in wasting any time.’>

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  Mayday sat up, her legs curled under her, her beehive coming unravelled.

  Patrick shrugged. ‘Keith’s getting cold feet about Honeycote Ales. I’m worried he’s going to sell his share. But he won’t if I marry Mandy. So we might as well get on with it.’

  ‘That’s an awful reason to get married. That’s so cynical. That’s a bloody business arrangement—’

  Patrick held up a hand. ‘Hang on. It’s not as if I don’t love her. We were always going to get married.’

  ‘Were you?’ Mayday looked at him, her eyes like saucers. ‘Were you really? Because you’ve never told me that.’

  ‘We live together. We love each other.’ Patrick was aware that his voice didn’t sound as confident as it should.

  ‘Marriage is for ever, Patrick.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘You’re not doing this for you. You’re doing it for Honeycote Ales. Like everything you do.’

  ‘Is that so wrong?’

  ‘It is if you’re sentencing yourself to a marriage you don’t believe in.’

  ‘Trust me, Mayday. I believe in it. Mandy and I will be very happy.’

  Mayday reached up and pulled out the rest of the pins in her hair. It tumbled down past her shoulders, wild and unkempt. Her face looked very small amongst the tresses as she surveyed him mournfully.

  ‘I hope you will.’

  ‘Hey.’ Patrick came over to the bed and sat beside her. He curled an arm round her shoulders, and sensed her tense slightly. ‘It’s not going to change anything. We’ll always be mates, you and me.’