Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  What was the significance? Why had her grandmother left it rolled up in the spout? She supposed she should check the numbers, just in case. She walked carefully over to her laptop, which was linked into the hotel’s computer system. It seemed to take hours to boot up. She fumbled with the mouse, peering at the letters on the ticket that gave her the lottery’s web address. They swam around, swapping with each other, but eventually she managed to pin them down.

  She checked and re-checked, but even in her inebriated condition there was no denying it. The numbers matched. The piece of paper in her hands was worth a cool five million, four hundred and eighty-three thousand, six hundred and ninety-four pounds.

  And twenty-three pence.

  Patrick came back to Honeycote House to find Mandy, Sandra and Lucy poring over a plan of the house and gardens and adjoining fields spread out on the kitchen table amidst the remains of lunch.

  ‘I thought we could put some tents up in the bottom paddock,’ said Lucy, wielding a black felt tip. ‘For anyone who doesn’t want to drive home. A bit like Glastonbury. We can do bacon rolls the next morning.’

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought we were just doing tea on the lawn.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Lucy pointed out, ‘if you’re going to go to any bother, you might as well go the whole hog. And if everyone’s made an effort to dress up, they’ll be a bit cheesed off if all they get is a cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich.’

  ‘I don’t want to go on about it,’ said Sandra. ‘But money is no object.’

  ‘It’s not about money,’ said Lucy firmly. ‘It’s about giving a sense of occasion. We can do that without breaking the bank.’

  Patrick cut himself a slice of tomato tart and peered over Mandy’s shoulder. ‘It looks like a military operation.’

  ‘It is, let me assure you.’ Sandra’s voice was stern. ‘And don’t worry, you’ll be getting your orders.’

  Patrick winced.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Lucy hugged him. ‘All you have to do is turn up. We’re taking care of everything.’

  Patrick caught Mandy’s eye and she gave him rather a despairing glance, rolling her eyes towards her mother and shrugging her shoulders as if to say ‘What can you do?’ He cut another slice of tart and wandered off to find his father.

  Mickey was in the pantry mixing up a jug of Pimm’s. He didn’t look up. He was too busy chopping mint, which he threw in on top of the mound of cucumber and orange slices already swimming in the amber liquid. Patrick marvelled that his father could be so preoccupied by a simple task when their whole existence was in jeopardy. But then that was Mickey: master of the displacement activity. Patrick envied him the trait.

  Mickey filled up the rest of the jug with lemonade, judging the right amount with an expert’s eye. ‘I’m trying to perfect the recipe,’ he said. ‘I thought we could have Pimm’s when we get back from the church. If we go straight onto champagne everyone’ll keel over. And it’ll be refreshing if it’s a hot day—’

  ‘Everybody’s obsessed with this bloody wedding,’ Patrick complained. ‘The only ones who aren’t are me and Mandy.’

  ‘Shut up and try this.’ Mickey poured him a glass, then looked towards the door to see if there was anyone on the horizon. ‘How was Kay?’

  ‘Bitter,’ pronounced Patrick.

  ‘I’ll stick some more lemonade in.’

  ‘Not the Pimm’s. Kay, you idiot. She was . . . edgy.’

  ‘Bound to be. Did you give her the keys to the Peacock?’

  ‘Yeah. She seemed pleased.’

  ‘I hope you told her it’s the best we could do.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘She understands. I don’t think she was expecting us to conjure up a bijoux thatched cottage straight away.’

  Mickey grimaced. They both knew that the Peacock was only a stopgap, but did Patrick have to keep hammering it home?

  ‘The kid’s sweet, by the way.’ Patrick looked at his father for a reaction.

  Mickey stayed stony-faced. ‘I don’t need to know that. I’m just worried about the money. I’ve been thinking,’ he went on, sotto voce. ‘Sandra’s obviously rolling in it. Why don’t we . . . we could . . . how about . . . ?’ He trailed off rather lamely, then rallied. ‘I thought we could tap her up for a few quid. Well, more than a few.’

  One look from his son gave him the answer. ‘You have absolutely got to be joking. There is no way I want to be beholden to that woman. She’d have us by the balls for the rest of our lives. It’s bad enough that she’s subsidizing the wedding—’

  ‘Well, that’s up to her.’ Mickey was indignant. ‘There’s no need for any of it, if you ask me. But I just thought . . . we could say it was a loan. For a new plant for the brewery or something. She wouldn’t miss it.’

  ‘No way. We’re going to find our own way out of this mess.’

  Mickey sighed. It was hard dealing with Patrick when he took the moral high ground. He personally didn’t have any problem whatsoever with divesting Sandra of the cash she was so quick to tell them she had. Cash she’d made stuffing people’s foreheads with botulism, for God’s sake. But Patrick wasn’t playing ball.

  ‘Fine. Well, we better go and see Robert Gibson on Monday, then. See exactly where we stand.’

  ‘Why does he need to know?’

  ‘He’s our solicitor. It’s what he’s there for. To protect our interests.’>

  ‘I don’t want everyone knowing our business.’

  ‘Robert’s not going to tell anyone, is he?’

  Mickey knew only too well how discreet Robert was. He’d confided in him on several occasions. And Robert was wise. He might only be a small-town solicitor, but it was surprising what he came up against. The Liddiards’ sordid little secret was a mere drop in the ocean compared to some of the scandal Robert had dealt with.

  Patrick scowled. ‘Robert can’t make Kay and Flora vanish off the face of the earth, can he? Even if he can come up with some legal loophole that gets us out of it, we’re morally obliged to help them.’

  Mickey put his hands up. ‘I know, I know. I’m not trying to wriggle out of it. I just want to know what’s . . . normal in these circumstances.’

  ‘Normal?’ Patrick looked at him witheringly. ‘There’s nothing normal about it, Dad.’ He drained his Pimm’s and banged the empty glass down on the work surface. ‘Too much lemonade, if anything. And not enough mint.’

  Kay stood in the middle of the flat, utterly dismayed. Flat was a misnomer. It was more of a bedsit, with a small kitchenette leading off the living area, a windowless shower room no bigger than a cupboard and a bedroom that was entirely taken up by a double bed, with no room for a bedside table let alone a wardrobe or a chest of drawers. But it wasn’t the size that bothered her so much as the smell. Damp mixed with something that smelled like leaking gas, as well as rancid cooking fat, stale cigarettes and some sort of ghastly rose-scented air freshener that someone, presumably Patrick, had squirted round in a vain attempt to cover it all up.

  She walked into the kitchenette. The lino on the kitchen floor was peeling. Last year’s calendar hung from a drawing pin. The window was filthy, smeared in grease.

  ‘Is this our new house?’ Flora looked extremely doubtful.

  ‘Um . . . it’s just somewhere to stay. For the time being.’

  She couldn’t cave in now, even though she felt cold panic closing round her chest. Her mobile rang. She stared at it.

  ‘Mummy! Your phone!’

  She picked it up cautiously. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is it OK?’ Patrick sounded worried. ‘I know it’s a bit grim, but I didn’t really have the chance to do anything about it. I’ll come over tomorrow and help you clear it out. I’ll bring over some bedlinen and crockery and things. And a telly.’

  ‘It’s a dump,’ Kay agreed. ‘But it’ll have to do. Where else can I go?’

  She walked through the living area. The cheap rubber-backed carpet was splattered with stains of indeterminate origin - curry,
coffee, vomit? A bare light bulb hung from the centre of the room, swinging as ominously as a hangman’s noose. The walls were covered in blown vinyl that someone had tried to paint over with a sickly green.

  ‘I can send someone round in the week to paint it out,’ Patrick offered. ‘But you’ll have to make yourself scarce while they do it.’

  Kay stopped by the window. Outside she could see the pub garden: a soft green lawn dropping down to a river bank, sprinkled with daffodils. It was quite stunning, but all she could feel was despair. Yet again she was being reminded that she was a shameful secret. Even a poor relation would have been allowed to stay on site while the place was redecorated. But not Kay and her illegitimate brat.

  ‘Do you know what, Patrick?’ she asked softly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll bloody well do it myself.’

  She put down the phone and turned to Flora, who was looking at her uncertainly.

  ‘Let’s go down to the river,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I bet there’ll be ducks.’

  Patrick switched off his phone and shoved it in the glove compartment. He didn’t want it trilling unexpectedly, in case it was Kay calling with a litany of complaints. Although in a funny way he trusted her not to cause trouble. Well, any more trouble . . .

  He knew he was allowing himself to get sucked into her predicament. But what sort of a person would he be if he didn’t care? Kay had once been his lover, and Flora was his own flesh and blood. It was his duty to look after them.

  Of course, strictly speaking it should be Mickey doing the worrying and the running around. But Patrick didn’t trust his father to cope first-hand with this delicate situation. He’d either upset Kay, or fall in love with her - either way he wouldn’t be able to keep her presence a secret because he was a blundering fool incapable of covering his tracks. So it was up to Patrick to sort it, on top of everything else.

  He walked into the kitchen at Little Orwell Cottage. It was tiny, but idyllic, with its pale green Shaker cabinets and limestone floor. He and Mandy did their best to keep clutter to a minimum, because the last thing either of them wanted to do at the weekends was tidy the house. As a result Patrick sometimes thought the cottage felt unlived in, after the chaos he was used to at Honeycote House. But in other ways it was an antidote to the turmoil of the brewery and his family, a sanctuary that was always reliably just as it had been left. He never came back to find uninvited guests or impromptu parties or blazing rows. Patrick needed that little bit of calm in his life. He was particularly grateful for it now. He found the little table in the kitchen laid for the two of them; he could make out two thick steaks waiting on the side in their greaseproof paper, and smell potatoes baking.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out tentatively.

  Mandy bounded into the kitchen, throwing her arms around his neck.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ she cried. ‘I just want you to myself tonight. My mother is driving me nuts. And please - can we talk about anything but weddings?’

  Patrick hugged her to him. She’d obviously just come out of the shower and she smelled delicious, of some tropical paradise - passionflower and coconut and melon. It reminded him of one thing they hadn’t discussed yet.

  ‘Anything but,’ he agreed. ‘Although, I did wonder - maybe we should think about our honeymoon?’

  Mandy giggled, releasing him from her grasp.

  ‘I’m surprised Mum hasn’t organized that for us as well.’ She went over to the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of white wine. ‘I can’t believe it. She’s been here less than twenty-four hours and she’s completely taken over. I thought Lucy was going to wig.’>

  Patrick took the bottle from her and opened it with the state-of-the-art corkscrew he’d had attached to the work surface. They might have kept gadgets to a minimum, but some things were absolutely essential.

  ‘Don’t panic. In a few weeks’ time it’ll all be over and we can just be plain old Mr and Mrs Liddiard. And you’ll probably be bored rigid. Stuck with me for the rest of your life.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ Mandy was emphatic as she took her glass of wine from him. ‘It sounds like heaven.’

  She went over to the cooker and put a heavy-bottomed skillet on to heat.

  ‘By the way, how’s Mayday?’

  Patrick realized with shame that he hadn’t given his friend a thought all day. How long would it have taken him to pop into the Horse and Groom and check up on her? He couldn’t admit to Mandy that he’d forgotten.

  ‘She’s OK,’ he said carefully. ‘A bit tied up with all the red tape. There’s a lot to organize.’

  ‘Poor thing.’ Mandy slipped the steaks into the pan, where they gave a satisfying sizzle.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Patrick looked over at his soon-to-be-wife as she moved around the kitchen. He wondered what she would say if she knew the truth about the family she was marrying into.

  Hopefully, once the Kay problem was sorted, that would be it. They could embark on their married life with a clean slate. No more skeletons, no more illegitimate relatives, no more blackmail.

  Later, after supper and a second bottle of wine, as they made love on the living-room floor, oblivious to the thriller on the television that had failed to grab their attention, Patrick felt in his heart that it was all going to be all right. None of what was happening was of his making. He had a clear conscience. He could only do his best. And he loved Mandy - no one could take her away from him. Even if the brewery collapsed, and Kay did her worst and destroyed his family, he and Mandy would still have each other.

  Shock, it seemed, was an even more effective hangover cure than rice and soy sauce.

  Mayday sat in the chair that Patrick had sat in the afternoon before, staring at the red numbers, her head totally clear.

  She was a millionaire. A multi-millionaire.

  She’d phoned the lottery hotline earlier that day to check the numbers. They had confirmed the amount and were sending someone down with the cheque. A woman who was specially trained to deal with lottery winners, who could put her in contact with financial advisors, legal advisors, anything Mayday wanted. Yeah, she thought cynically. They’ll all be queuing up to give me bloody advice and get their hands on my money.

  They’d asked her if she wanted any publicity.

  ‘Absolutely, definitely one hundred per cent not,’ she’d replied.

  The last thing she wanted was for her mother to find out.

  For now she understood. Her grandmother had found the means to protect her from beyond the grave. She’d hidden the ticket in the symbolic teapot, knowing this was the one way that Angela wouldn’t get her hands on it. And knowing that Mayday would be financially secure had given Elsie the courage to take her own life. This knowledge made Mayday feel overwhelmed with yet more grief. Yet, she told herself, the money would have gone no way towards relieving Elsie’s pain. She owed it to her grandmother to enjoy it. Spend it wisely.

  There was, of course, one person she was desperate to call and share the news with. But she couldn’t pick up the phone to him. Not now. To protect herself, Mayday knew she had to keep Patrick at arm’s length.

  Subconsciously, she’d always known that she and Patrick had no future together. Hadn’t she said as much to him the very first night they met? She was, after all, no better than hired help, even though she was no longer a mere barmaid, but management. Mayday was no fool. She knew these things still mattered. That Patrick Liddiard marrying Mayday Perkins, the scrubber from the council estate at the wrong end of the village, would have sent shockwaves through Eldenbury society.

  She remembered his twenty-first birthday party. He’d given her a smart, engraved invitation, and she’d laughed. The parties she went to didn’t merit official invitations. He was adamant that she should come. She could remember her dilemma even now. She hadn’t wanted to stand out at the party. She’d wanted to belong. She’d wanted to be one of those shiny-haired, white-teethed beauties in their strapless silk ballgowns, careless and confident, st
ill stunning even when they were cross-eyed with too much punch. But she couldn’t wave a magic wand and become one of them. She didn’t have the genes or the bloodline. So she’d turned up at midnight in a PVC minidress that was laced down the front, and bondage boots. And even though she had been the object of much admiration, even though legions of drunken boys were fighting for her attention, even though Mr Liddiard himself had dropped an admiring kiss on her shoulder, she knew it was only because she was a novelty. She knew that because the girls snubbed her. She could sense them whispering behind her back, scandalized by her outfit. And the mothers visibly shuddered, grateful that their daughters didn’t dress like that, and praying that their sons didn’t get off with her. She would never, ever belong. She was rough trade, and it had left a lasting bitter taste in her mouth.

  It was ironic, she thought, that it would be scandalous for Patrick to marry her for love, yet somehow it was OK for him to marry Mandy for money. For Mandy had passed the unwritten test. Mandy was acceptable, even if her money was slightly shiny and new, because she had been to the same school as Patrick’s sister, Sophie, and had thereby been elevated up the class system.

  Mayday knew Patrick as well as she knew herself. He could protest all he liked, but she knew his forthcoming marriage was primarily a political move, not one motivated by passion. Yes, he was probably fond of Mandy in his own way, but he was very measured when he spoke about her. His eyes didn’t sparkle. It depressed Mayday to think of him chained to someone he didn’t really love, all because of that bloody brewery.

  He was obsessed with Honeycote Ales. None of the other Liddiards seemed to care much; they just saw it as a meal ticket. But Patrick took such pride. Only he seemed to appreciate the value of their heritage, the fact they had brewed beer for the locals for nearly two centuries, that they were an intrinsic part of the geography and history and economy and had a reputation to uphold. It was a point of honour for him to keep the flag flying. Mayday knew that the brewery would only collapse over his dead body; that he would fight tooth and claw to keep it afloat and preserve the integrity of the Liddiard name. She thought about all the times he had confided in her, about the fire in his belly and the passion in his eyes. She was privy to all the secrets, the strategies, the bank balance, for he trusted her implicitly. Sometimes, it was as if he was describing an illicit affair to her, asking her advice about what he should do. Now, as she sat scrutinizing the ticket that was to change her life, it occurred to Mayday that Honeycote Ales was Patrick’s real love. Why else would he be prepared to sacrifice himself?