Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  Mayday buried her head in his chest. ‘Not if you’re married we won’t.’ Her voice was muffled.

  ‘Why not? What difference does it make?’

  ‘Women don’t like their husbands having . . . close female friends.’

  ‘You don’t count, Mayday.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ she said sadly.

  He held her face in his hands. ‘You’ve been my best friend for ever. And you always will be. I tell you everything.’ For a moment he was tempted to confide in her, and tell her about Kay. He thought it might be interesting to get another woman’s perspective on it. But today wasn’t about him and his problems. Mayday had just buried her grandmother. He had to make sure she was all right. He pulled her to him and gave her a tight squeeze. ‘And I’ll always be there for you. Whenever you want me.’

  Mayday gave the merest shadow of a smile. ‘I know you will. I’ll be there for you too. Sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil it for you. It was a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  Patrick glanced at the clock on the wall. He was going to be late. ‘Look, I’m due for supper with Mandy’s mother any minute. Are you going to be OK on your own here? The staff know you’re back - make sure they look after you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m going to have something to eat and get an early night.’

  Mayday jumped off the bed. Suddenly she wanted him out of her room as quickly as possible.

  ‘In fact, I’m going to have a bath now, then get some chicken and chips sent up. Thanks for today, Patrick. You were great.’

  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then walked over to the bathroom. She leaned against the door frame. In her little black dress, her feet bare, her hair tumbling wild to her waist, she looked like a wraith from a fairy tale.

  ‘You’d better go, or you’ll be late. And you don’t want to incur the wrath of your future mother-in-law.’

  When Patrick had gone, Mayday threw herself back onto the bed and sobbed into her pillow for a good five minutes. Then she sat up. What on earth had got into her? She had never sobbed about anyone, ever.

  She told herself not to be silly. She was grieving for her grandmother, not Patrick. It was just that his revelation had shocked her, and triggered her outburst. Life was going to be strange without him, for she and Patrick were soul mates. Kindred spirits. She trusted him implicitly, understood him. And they’d carried that trust into bed with them. Mayday always took things further with Patrick than with anyone. She couldn’t help smiling at the memory of the things they had got up to over the years before Mandy. She liked to surprise him. And sometimes he surprised her, which nobody else ever did.

  Somehow, knowing that he was moving on to the next phase of his life made her realize just how empty her future was. She was twenty-eight years old. She was the manager of a hotel. Where now? Was she going to live over the shop for the rest of her life? She could conceivably move on, to another hotel - bigger, smarter, somewhere more exotic. But why would she want to? She was Eldenbury born and bred. She was comfortable here.

  She wanted a man. A man she could respect. A man whose babies she could have. And she knew in her heart of hearts that Patrick was the one. She was never going to find anyone who lived up to him.

  Mayday flopped back onto the pillows with a groan as she realized. She, Mayday Perkins, untameable wild spirit, flouter of conventions and shunner of tradition, was in love with Patrick Liddiard.

  As he drove towards Kiplington, Patrick reflected that Mayday had seemed rather upset by his revelation, which wasn’t what he’d expected. But then, she was probably overwrought. It had been a long and emotional day. Besides, she was probably right - in a way it was the end of an era, his getting married. Their friendship wouldn’t be quite the same ever again. But Mayday would get over it. She didn’t really need him. She had rafts of admirers, some secret, some overt. The county was stuffed with men who would leap chivalrously to escort her to social events, pull strings, do her favours. She often received flowers and love tokens. She had a special power that was bewitching. There would be plenty of people waiting to step into his shoes. Mayday, decided Patrick as he turned into the drive of Keeper’s Cottage, was the least of his problems.

  Mandy came out of the house to greet him.

  ‘Was it awful?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Pretty grim,’ he admitted, clambering out of the car. ‘How’s your mum?’

  Mandy put her head to one side as she considered her reply.

  ‘On top form.’ She smiled. ‘She can’t wait to see you.’

  Patrick slung his arm around her shoulder as they went inside, grateful for her uncomplicated warmth.

  ‘I love you,’ he said suddenly. ‘And thanks.’

  Mandy looked at him.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Understanding. About Mayday. A lot of girls wouldn’t take kindly to their fiancé scarpering off with another woman for the day.’

  ‘You were at a funeral.’

  ‘Yes. But all the same.’

  Mandy looked at him quizzically.

  ‘I trust you,’ she said. ‘So there’s no problem.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t.’

  Although that depended on your definition of problem, he thought darkly.

  In the kitchen, everyone was sitting round the table dipping strips of toasted pitta bread into blobs of hummus, music blaring, and several empty bottles on the table already.

  A woman leapt to her feet and threw her arms around him. He blinked. Was this really Sandra? In his head, he’d imagined that she’d put on weight, would be tanned and leathery and dressed in the lurid, spangly excess that was the uniform of Spanish ex-pats. This woman was slender and elegant. Except for the hefty diamond watch, she was almost restrained in her dress.

  He kissed her cheek obediently, astonished by its dewy softness. She squeezed his arms.

  ‘Patrick. You gorgeous, gorgeous thing. I thought you were saving yourself for me.’

  Despite himself, he gave her a wink.

  ‘Well, I knew I wasn’t in with a chance, so I thought I’d go for second best.’

  He couldn’t believe he could manage such light-hearted jesting, after the afternoon he’d had.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ he told Sandra politely, and she dragged him into the seat next to her.

  Ginny looked miserably into her saucepan. Why was Thai fragrant rice so bloody fickle? It was sitting there in a glutinous, congealed mess.

  ‘The rice is a bit . . . stodgy,’ she announced.

  ‘Never mind!’ fluted Sandra. ‘I never touch carbs after five p.m. Terribly bloating. Don’t you find?’

  She smiled brightly at Ginny, who held the saucepan in front of her stomach to disguise her spare tyre.

  ‘So,’ Sandra continued. ‘The wedding of the year. Have we decided on a theme yet?’

  ‘Theme?’ Mandy’s face screwed up in puzzlement.

  ‘I suppose given the location you’re going for Rustic Romantic rather than Urban Chic or Tropical Paradise. Though I have spotted a place where you can get potted palm trees if you fancy going for a Hint of Hawaii.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Patrick, ‘I think the theme we’re going for is plain old happy ever after.’

  Sandra clapped her hands.

  ‘Fairytale Fantasy!’ she crowed. ‘Jordan, eat your heart out. I happen to know where you can hire that pumpkin coach. And it’s not as expensive as you might think.’

  Six pairs of eyes looked at her in disbelief.

  Sandra picked up her glass. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anyone accusing my daughter of copying a jumped-up Page Three girl. We can do far, far better than that.’

  Patrick and Mandy exchanged glances.

  ‘Help!’ she mouthed at him frantically, and he gave her a wink. Sandra would calm down in a couple of days, he was sure.

  Two hours later, Sandra sat back in the front seat and shut her eyes. Patrick had very kindly offered to drive her back to Eversleigh M
anor in Keith’s car. They sped through the inky-black, winding lanes, Katie Melua singing softly on the sound system, just loud enough to stop the silence being an awkward one.

  She looked sideways at her daughter’s fiancé and felt a burst of pride. She couldn’t have chosen any better for Mandy. Patrick was chivalrous and charming, but without ever being arrogant or slimy, which Sandra knew was rare indeed. And he was quite stunning. Her mouth watered as she looked at his profile. The cheekbones, the dark brows, the hair that fell across one eye. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. He’d be masterful in bed, she was certain. She felt her pulse quicken at the thought.

  The image reminded her of Alejandro. She hoped he’d remembered to water her hanging baskets. She was no fool, Sandra. She knew he would have shipped in some dusky-skinned, sloe-eyed creature the minute he got back from dropping her at the airport; that they would be making the most of her luxurious villa, making love in her seven-foot bed, her wet room, by her infinity pool, feeding each other peaches from the tree and pizza from the carton. She couldn’t buy Alejandro outright. Only his body, to maintain her house and grounds and satisfy her sexual urges. Not his mind or his soul. She was paying for his services. She didn’t kid herself for a moment that he had any genuine feelings for her.

  Until now, it hadn’t bothered her. She was a successful woman. She had everything she wanted: a luxurious, five-star lifestyle. She made sure she enjoyed herself. And it was on her terms. If she didn’t want Alejandro in her bed for some reason, she sent him home at the end of the day, because it was nice occasionally to slob out and read magazines and not have someone cluttering up your headspace. The arrangement had suited Sandra perfectly.

  But tonight had brought something home to her. Seeing Keith at the head of the table, holding court, quietly reigning over the laughter and the chat, had shocked her. It was only to be expected that Mandy should adore him. But the twins were obviously incredibly fond of him too. And Ginny clearly couldn’t do enough for him. Even Patrick was deferential, and Sandra didn’t think one earned Patrick’s deference easily. Yes, Keith was a different man. King in his own home. And Sandra couldn’t help feeling piqued.

  What nettled her even more was the way Ginny so subtly made it clear this was her domain, and that she wasn’t threatened by Sandra’s presence. She hadn’t dressed up; she’d only been wearing jeans that she’d obviously had on all day. She’d made a bit of an effort for supper, but hadn’t pushed the boat out - the starters and the desserts were bought in, and she made no attempt to hide the fact. She’d obviously been reading a novel just before Sandra arrived, not rushing round making sure everything was perfect.

  Yes, thought Sandra, superficially she’d been made very welcome, but it was quite clear that she was an outsider. And she couldn’t help feeling bitter. Keith was her husband, albeit ex. Mandy was her daughter. She shouldn’t feel out of place. They were her family, not Ginny’s. She was the mother of the bride.

  She was bloody well going to restate her position.

  Sandra gripped the handle of her handbag until her knuckles were nearly as white as the soft leather. She’d known she was ready for a life change. A fresh challenge. And deep in her heart of hearts, she wanted a companion. Not a toyboy who was one step up from a gigolo but someone who really cared. She didn’t want to start again from scratch, either - hurl herself into the hideous mêlée that was singles clubs, dating agencies and lonely hearts columns.

  Why bother with that when she had her own husband who would do very nicely indeed, thank you? Never mind that he was an ex. Or that he had a live-in lover. Sandra was very good at seeing past minor details. As far as she was concerned, Ginny was a very minor detail indeed.

  Mayday sat on the floor of her room wearing an old Nirvana T-shirt, drinking the rest of a bottle of Jack Daniels mixed with coke. It was probably a mistake, hitting the bottle after the day she’d had. But hell, it was doing the trick. After one, she felt her shoulders relax. After two, the hazy images of the crematorium slid away. After three, she’d forgotten the smirk on her mother’s face and felt as if she was wrapped in a cocoon. Everything became slightly warm and fuzzy.

  After six, she began to weep.

  After seven, she defiantly drank the rest of the bottle down in one and slung it across the room.

  By now, she was angry. With everyone. Not just her mother. With the doctors who couldn’t do anything, who had constantly fobbed them off with painkillers that were ineffectual - at least, until you took the whole lot. With herself, for not seeing Elsie’s despair, for not reading the signs, for not doing enough. With bloody Patrick, for going off and getting married just when she needed him most.

  But most of all with her grandmother, for leaving her alone. For abandoning her so that she felt vulnerable. And leaving her a teapot . . .

  What the hell was she supposed to do with a teapot? How was that supposed to give her comfort and support during the coming years? All it did was remind her that her grandmother wasn’t there any more, make her aware that she wasn’t as strong and independent as she thought, and remind her that having Patrick beside her today made her crave him, desperately. That was why people got married; for the comfort she had drawn from his presence; the wonderful feeling that someone was there who cared and would do anything in their power to protect you.

  Mayday lurched across the room and picked up the offending receptacle from her dressing table. Patrick had unwrapped it carefully for her, not understanding that receiving nothing would have been better than this. Humiliation burned in her gullet as she remembered her mother’s self-satisfaction. She could imagine them all now, sitting round the table at Pantiles, planning what to do with their inheritance. A Caribbean cruise, a hot-tub on the terrace, proper central heating in the dog kennels so they could charge their unsuspecting clients even more . . .

  Mayday tried to be good and appreciate it. She tried not to resent the fact that her mother was walking off with a hefty windfall and would be crowing about it for weeks. She tried to tell herself that the teapot was symbolic, that to have it in her possession imbued her with the caring, nurturing qualities that her grandmother had possessed. But it stuck in her craw.

  She picked up the teapot and hurled it across the room. The smash was satisfyingly dramatic. But as the teapot bounced off the wall in a thousand pieces, Mayday suddenly felt sick. Even through her bourbon blur, she knew she was going to regret her actions, and that no amount of careful gluing was going to restore it.

  She sank to the ground, sobbing, desolation and regret washing over her. The room was starting to spin. She knew she couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard she tried to fix her mind to the task. She had drunk too much. Normally, she knew exactly when to stop. After all these years, she knew how to control alcohol and get the good times without the bad times. But very occasionally she forgot that you had to keep one step ahead of the demon, that it could get you when you were weak, when your defences were down. Yep, JD was laughing tonight. He’d got the better of her all right.

  The teapot lay there, its insides exposed, the china stained black with years of tannin. She gazed at it dully as it suddenly glided across the room, then returned to its rightful place as she refocused her eyes with a masterful effort. Amidst the shiny brown shards was a piece of paper. Mayday frowned and sat up. She wiped away the tears and snot, and grabbed it. Elsie must have left her a note. Perhaps some explanation for what she had done. Something that would give her hope, perhaps? Respite from her grief and guilt. She unravelled it hastily.

  It was a rolled-up lottery ticket. Last week’s. She remembered bringing it to Elsie last Friday. She bought her one every week without fail. Mayday scrutinised it for clues, but there was nothing written on it, no explanation, nothing to indicate that it had any significance. Elsie probably wanted her to continue doing her numbers, through some misguided superstition. But privately Mayday thought doing the lottery was for losers. She had no intention of carrying it on. She scrump
led the piece of paper up and let it fall amongst the shards of china, then curled up on the floor. Within seconds, she was asleep.

  Nine

  On Saturday morning, Mickey found Lucy in hysterics in the kitchen. He felt a momentary panic before realizing that the tears rolling down her cheeks were from laughter.

  ‘She’s even worse than I remembered,’ gasped Lucy, wiping her eyes with one of her brand-new French linen tea towels. ‘I don’t think I can cope.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Mickey.

  ‘Mandy’s mother. Sandra. She’s come for a “soyt” visit.’ Mickey looked blank. ‘A site visit, to you and me.’

  As if on cue, Sandra swept into the kitchen. She threw her arms open wide, a vision in wide-legged white linen trousers and a gilt-buttoned cardigan, a jaunty red scarf tied round her neck. Considering it was bitterly cold outside and they were landlocked, the nautical look was somewhat incongruous.

  ‘Mickey! Congratulations! I can’t wait! We’ll soon be related. Isn’t it marvellous?’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Mickey murmured in agreement as he returned her embrace reluctantly. He knew that the last time he’d seen Sandra he’d been a borderline alcoholic, but this woman looked markedly different from the one he remembered.

  ‘I was thinking about a spiegeltent. The top paddock next to the orchard would be perfect.’

  ‘A seagull tent?’ repeated Mickey rather stupidly. ‘I thought doves were the thing at weddings.’

  Sandra looked at him as if he was a dunce. ‘Spiegeltent,’ she repeated patiently. ‘It’s a magnificent mirrored marquee. Absolutely spectacular. Everybody who’s anybody has one.’

  Mickey looked at Lucy. ‘I thought we were using the beer tent. From the point to point?’

  ‘Well, we were. But . . .’

  She looked uncertainly over at Sandra, who wrinkled her nose.

  ‘I don’t think a beer tent really gives quite the sense of occasion.’>