Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  ‘It’s only something to bung up in the paddock in case it tips down,’ Mickey pointed out. ‘And it’s free.’

  ‘Don’t worry about money,’ said Sandra, holding up a perfectly manicured hand. ‘I’m taking care of everything. It’s my gift to the happy couple.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’ve had a little windfall, and I can’t think of anything better to spend it on than Patrick and Mandy’s wedding.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s very sweet of you. But I tell you what. Just so we don’t start treading on each other’s toes, why I don’t I take care of the arrangements for the daytime, and you can take charge of the evening? That’s when people are going to want to let their hair down, after all.’

  Sandra looked quite pleased with this arrangement.

  ‘What a good idea. That way we don’t have to keep swapping notes.’ In her hands she was clasping a white leatherbound folder with the words ‘Wedding Planner’ tooled on the front in gold. She laid it reverently on the kitchen table and took out a pen, scribbling furiously. ‘Don’t give the evening do another thought. The only thing we need to confer about is numbers.’

  She clapped the planner shut in satisfaction. ‘I need to check access. And power. We’ll need generators, I think. We can’t run everything off a plug in the stable yard.’ She smiled and swept out again.

  Lucy feigned wiping her brow in relief.

  ‘Thank God. I couldn’t bear it. She was starting to bang on about ice sculptures and chocolate fountains. If that’s what she wants she can have it in her bloody spiegeltent. Just as long as no one thinks it was anything to do with me.’

  Mickey looked at his wife admiringly. Lucy had a trick of getting her own way, very subtly. Almost letting people think that her ideas were their ideas. Christ, he loved her. His stomach twitched with anxiety. Patrick would be meeting up with Kay about now. They had decided it was best if Patrick dealt with her. If anyone saw Mickey with her, after all, tongues might wag.

  ‘I’ve never seen that in real life before,’ Lucy was saying.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Top to toe Chanel. Every single thing she’s got on. Top, trousers, shoes, belt, earrings . . .’

  ‘Do we care?’

  ‘No. But someone should tell her. You don’t dress from head to foot in the same designer. It’s incredibly naff.’

  Mickey gave Lucy a quizzical look. ‘It’s not like you to be bitchy.’

  Lucy sighed. ‘Maybe I’m just jealous. I bet she’ll wear Chanel to the wedding.’

  ‘You can too, surely? If you want to.’

  ‘We can’t afford it. Not after everything I’ve spent on this kitchen.’

  ‘Another couple of hundred isn’t going to make much difference.’

  ‘Couple of hundred?’ echoed Lucy. ‘Ha ha ha.’

  Mickey grabbed her by the arms. ‘Seriously,’ he said fiercely. ‘I want you to have whatever outfit you want. Just bung it on the credit card. We’ll deal with it.’

  Lucy looked at her husband warily. Was this guilt talking? It usually was with Mickey. The minute he started chucking money about was when the alarm bells started to go off. She racked her memory for clues. For signs. For giveaways. Nothing sprang to mind.

  ‘I better make everyone some lunch,’ she said finally, and wandered off to the fridge to see what delights it held. She still got a kick out of its pristine white interior and all the cunning little accessories - the can-holder, the chilled water dispenser, the wine rack. As she gazed at the contents, half of her was calculating whether she had enough tomatoes to do a pissala dière, while the other half wondered if she should be on her guard. It was all too easy to be distracted by the wedding. Was there something else going on?

  Bi-polar March had done its usual trick of starting off the day sunny and optimistic, then having a mood swing. The wind was driving across the wildlife park, miserable for its inmates, who were used to warmer climes. Kay gazed rather blankly at the three rhinos. They were quite charmless, she decided. They looked like enormous overweight women from behind, with their lumpy bumpy thick white legs and hefty bottoms. They had no redeeming features, not like hippos, who seemed cuddly in comparison, though the keeper had assured them that a riled hippo was not something to be messed with. She shivered, unaccustomed to the chill. Thanks to the fickle weather, she’d had to buy herself and Flora a new quilted jacket each from the saddlers in Eldenbury, which had eaten into her budget considerably.

  She and Flora had spent the past week drifting from one tourist attraction to the next. They’d been on a steam railway, to a quaint model village, a teddy bear museum, and now today the wildlife park - all things that Kay had never visited in the time she’d lived in Honeycote. But why would she have? They weren’t places you’d go to without children. In those days, she had wafted from hairdresser to restaurant to boutique, and then back to the hairdresser, little realizing there was another world out there.

  To her surprise, she’d enjoyed every moment of her discovery, relishing the time spent with her daughter. She even thought she might have put back on a bit of the weight she had lost, courtesy of a surfeit of cream teas and chips. It was rather like being on holiday. It was certainly a distraction from the fact that she had absolutely no idea what the future held for her. If the Liddiards decided not to play ball, she was stuffed. She was bluffing, after all. She had no intention of degrading herself and dragging them through the courts for money.

  She had come to one conclusion, however. She was going to do everything in her power to make sure she and Flora stayed in the area. The countryside was absolutely ravishing, waking up after the long winter, all buds and birdsong, the white lambs frolicking in the fields mirrored by fluffy clouds bouncing across the blue skies. Today might be a reminder of how ornery the English weather could be, but she knew it could change; that tomorrow she might wake up to a gentle sun coaxing out even more greenery. Besides, she liked the uncertainty. Portugal had been so relentlessly, reliably fine; it was like living with an eternal optimist. In the end, it got on your nerves.

  It wasn’t just the scenery that was luring her. She’d been into Eldenbury several times, and really did feel as if she was coming home to somewhere she belonged. It was so reassuringly familiar; even the sneaky car-parking space that she’d always used up by the library was still there. She realized with shame that when she and Lawrence had lived there, she had rather looked down on the little town, dismissing it as provincial and slow and slightly backward, always eschewing it in favour of Cheltenham or Bath or London. But she had changed. She had mellowed. She didn’t need glitz and glamour; she wanted a cosy, comfortable environment. And anyway, Eldenbury had blossomed in the time she had been away. Still very much the traditional Cotswold market town on the surface, it now harboured a few surprises when you dug a little deeper. So if you fancied a pair of sexy shoes or some exotic bath oil, you could find them amidst the rather more prosaic ironmonger, bookmakers and newspaper shops. It was an eclectic mix of the utilitarian and the exotic, and Kay thought it would suit her exactly. It was the perfect small pond in which to bring up her daughter.

  She saw Patrick coming along the path that led to the rhino enclosure, and allowed herself a smile at how out of place he looked, with his black cashmere sweater over a pristine white T-shirt. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine that he was hers; that he had come to join her and Flora and was going to whisk them off to the café for lunch. And later they would go back home, to a dear little cottage, and have a delicious supper together—

  Kay snapped herself out of her fantasy. Why was she torturing herself? Patrick wasn’t hers. This was a clandestine meeting set up to discuss a sordid situation, and Patrick would be going back to his beautiful fiancée as soon as he could make his escape. Besides, Kay didn’t want him. Not really - he was far too young. After everything she’d been through, his youth sat uneasily next to her. Five years ago, the difference h
ad been invigorating. Now it was just . . . depressing.

  Flora ran up and stopped several paces from them, eyeing Patrick warily.

  ‘Darling,’ said Kay. ‘This is one of Mummy’s friends. From when she used to live in Honeycote.’

  Flora moved closer. She was a pretty little thing, with dark curls and a snub nose and freckles. Patrick tried very hard not to scrutinize her for Liddiard traits, but there was certainly no trace of Lawrence whatsoever. He gave her an easy smile. A few years ago he wouldn’t have had a clue what to say to a four-year-old girl, but Caroline and James descended on them all so frequently that Patrick was now quite at home with small children.

  ‘Have you seen the white tiger?’ he asked. ‘I’ve come all this way specially.’

  Flora nodded her head solemnly. ‘He’s not white at all. He’s jolly dirty.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Patrick, feigning disappointment.

  ‘But he’s still nice,’ said Flora. ‘Come on. I’ll show you.’

  She ran off down the path, and Patrick and Kay fell into step alongside each other.

  ‘We’re having a board meeting on Tuesday,’ Patrick informed her. ‘I expect we’ll end up having to sell.’

  He tried not to sound too bitter, because it wasn’t just Kay’s fault that this was a probability, but she was forcing their hand rather.

  ‘As I said,’ Kay countered, ‘if I could find any other way out of my predicament, I would.’

  ‘I understand. I’d do anything to protect my family. As you know.’ He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I’ve found you somewhere to stay in the meantime. It’s the landlord’s accommodation at the Peacock Inn. We’ve had to close the pub, because it’s subsiding. But the flat’s perfectly safe; it’s over the garage at the back. It’s sitting there empty. We can’t put a proper tenant in there because we don’t know if we’re going to sell the pub, or do it up. But if you want it . . .’ He trailed off for a moment. It sounded so feudal, offering her a place to live that would keep her safely out of the way, but close enough to keep an eye on her. He wasn’t sure how she would take his offer.

  She was surprisingly grateful. ‘It sounds perfect.’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘It’s warm, at least. And Flora can play in the garden. But be careful of the river.’ He shoved his hands in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys. ‘You know where the Peacock is? Just outside Blockford, on the back road to Eldenbury. I went in and put the heating on, and checked all the appliances. The decor’s pretty grim, I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘But beggars can’t be choosers?’ Kay knew her remark was barbed, but she took the key off him. ‘Thank you.’

  They’d reached the white tiger’s lair. The beast lay there, staring balefully, quite unapologetic about the fact that his coat wasn’t Persil white, but rather tobacco stained.

  ‘See?’ Flora pointed, indignant.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Patrick. ‘He’s not white. He’s yellow. They should call him the yellow tiger.’

  Flora put her hands on her hips. ‘I think we should ask for our money back, Mummy.’

  Kay exchanged a wry glance with Patrick. ‘She’s her father’s daughter all right.’ She laughed, and stopped short.

  Patrick gazed into the middle distance, wondering why this observation annoyed him so much. If Kay was demanding money from Mickey, and they were falling over themselves to help her out of her predicament, then he rather wished she wouldn’t refer to Lawrence as Flora’s father.

  Kay sensed his disapproval. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Shit. What a mess this all is.’

  ‘Perhaps you and Dad should have thought about that five years ago.’

  Kay touched his sleeve. ‘You’re so fantastically good at being judgemental, Patrick. You must have a very clear conscience.’>

  Her tone was light, but the remark was extremely loaded.

  ‘Actually, I have.’

  ‘So it’s just been you and Mandy. For five years?’

  Patrick turned to her with a scowl. ‘It’s none of your business, but since you ask - yes.’

  ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘Not really. I’d have thought it was quite normal.’

  Kay’s lips twitched. ‘You can’t tell me you’ve always been a saint, Patrick. How else did you get to be such a tiger in the sack?’>

  Her eyes were mocking him, but Patrick stared her out, triumphing inwardly when she blushed and looked away. ‘Pure animal instinct, Kay. Right. I’d better go.’

  ‘Come and have a cup of coffee,’ she pleaded. ‘Or a sandwich. ’

  ‘I can’t. I’m meeting Mandy and her mum at Honeycote House. Wedding plans . . .’

  Kay was appalled to find tears suddenly springing up in her eyes. Of course he couldn’t wait to get away from her and go and join Mandy, who Kay remembered as quite stunning. But she just wanted to sit down for five minutes with another human being; someone who knew her. And chat. Not about anything in particular. She clenched her teeth together to stop herself from begging him for his company.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Patrick. ‘I think it’s best if I keep away from Flora for the time being. We don’t want her confused.’

  He gave her the most fleeting of kisses on the cheek and walked away.

  Kay watched him go, feeling as if she had been punched in the guts. She deserved his froideur, his immovability. She’d been a bitch, questioning him like that, even if she didn’t quite believe his reply. She took in a deep breath, to staunch the flood of hysteria that sometimes threatened to overwhelm her.

  Patrick was right. She and Mickey should have thought about what they had been doing. But had she been so wicked? Had she done something so evil? People were unfaithful every day of the week. And they got away with it. What was it she had done to deserve the grief and the hopelessness and the terror that was rising up in her gullet even now? It was almost like drowning.

  It was only the feeling of Flora’s little hand in hers that managed to calm her. For a moment she had been tempted to scale the fence and throw herself at the tiger’s mercy; he’d make pretty short work of her, she was sure. She’d be a mere canapé.

  ‘Hot chocolate?’ She managed to find her voice, and it was steady.

  ‘Where did that man go?’ demanded Flora. ‘He was nice. I wanted to show him the cheetahs.’

  Mayday woke up on her bedroom floor at midday, shivering. She gazed at the carpet, knowing that as soon as she moved the pain would kick in. She wouldn’t know the extent of the damage until she became vertical, so she lay as still as she could while she gathered her thoughts, trying to work out the reason she had got herself into such a disgraceful condition.

  The first thing she remembered was Elsie’s funeral. Her grandmother had been laid to rest yesterday. It was final. Mayday thought that was a pretty good reason for getting slaughtered. But what had happened? Had she got drunk at the wake and been carried home? She thought not. She scrabbled about in her memory bank. Patrick had come with her to the crematorium. And her mother’s house afterwards. He wouldn’t have let her get in a state like that. He’d have looked after her; he was—

  Shit. Mayday remembered the second blow of the day.

  Patrick was getting married. In less than six weeks. His marriage would mark the end of their friendship. Had she presumed that they would just drift on for ever, kindred spirits who shared an impenetrable closeness that was never questioned by either of them? No wonder she had wanted to drown her sorrows.

  She managed to raise herself up to a sitting position. She felt a tight band around the back of her head and an overwhelming desire to vomit. Which was hardly surprising; she could see the offending empty bottle in the corner of the room. Had she sobbed on Patrick’s shoulder? Drunkenly pleaded with him not to go ahead with his nuptials? She hoped very hard that she hadn’t. Mayday spent her life keeping her counsel and trying not to show her true feelings. It was the one reason why her mother enraged her so much, because Angela could always provoke her into showing her car
ds. She prayed that Patrick had gone before she had lost all reason.

  She was trawling around in her brain, trying to remember when he had gone, when the image of a lottery ticket glided past. She grabbed on to the memory. Why had there been a lottery ticket? She looked gingerly for clues. There was the broken teapot. That’s right; the lottery ticket had been inside.

  She moved her gaze slowly round the room, and saw it scrumpled up in the corner. She gazed at it, breaking out into a sweat, her very pores oozing Jack Daniels. A wave of nausea swept through her; even her bones felt sick. Keep it in or let it out? Mayday thought she was better off trying to get rid of it. Less work for her liver.

  Ten minutes later, her hair sticking to her face, her forehead soaked in perspiration, she thought she’d probably disposed of the last of her bender. She tried a tentative glass of water, praying that it would stay down and she could start to rehydrate. The last time she’d had a really shocking hangover, Elsie had brought her toast and tea in bed and had mopped her brow. She hadn’t been disapproving at all. Her grandmother was the least judgemental person she knew. Correction. Had known.

  Mayday remembered someone telling her the best hangover cure was a bowl of rice with seaweed and soy sauce. The rice soaked up all the toxins while the seaweed and sauce replaced the minerals. She got to the phone and managed to croak out her order. She didn’t bother with the seaweed. That was pushing it in the Cotswolds.

  ‘Can you bring me up a bowl of plain rice? And a bottle of soy sauce?’>

  Astonishingly, it did the trick. Mayday wouldn’t have thought she could keep anything down, but it made her feel a little bit stronger. She lay on the bed for twenty minutes while she assessed her recovery. She felt well enough to manage a shower. She stood in the scalding water for ten minutes, dousing away every last alcohol-soaked bead of sweat.

  She looked pale and red-eyed, but at least she was vertical. She did her hair in two long plaits, pulling on a black military-style button-through dress and a pair of old boots. Then she looked again at the ticket.