‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘He won’t. He can’t manage the kids. I’m still up and down all night with Percy. James wouldn’t cope.’
Lucy was astonished. How could fiery, assertive Caroline let James walk all over her like that? She couldn’t believe how diminished the girl was. Once, Lucy had almost been intimidated by her. Caroline had been a force to be reckoned with: a ruthless career girl, assertive, extrovert and confident. Now she was a shadow of her former self. Not even a shadow. It was astonishing what hormones could do.
Hormones, combined with sleep deprivation and drudgery. If anyone needed five days in Puerto Banus, sleeping and eating and soaking up the sun, it was Caroline.
‘Right,’ Lucy said firmly. ‘This is the plan. Percy is coming home with me. Give me two nights, and I promise you he will sleep through. But first, you’re going to go and have a long hot bath while I get the kids dressed. Then we’re going to get this place cleaned up.’
Caroline blinked slowly, not sure if she was believing what she heard. ‘You’d really do that for me?’
‘Of course. What else have I got to do with my time? Go on. Go and have a really good long soak.’
She turned Percy round to face her and met his baleful eye. ‘You, young man, are coming with me and we are going to have no nonsense.’ She was rewarded with a huge toothless grin that made her heart melt. She tutted. ‘You have got no idea how much trouble you’ve caused, have you?’
Percy carried on beaming. Caroline wiped her eyes.
‘I love him so much,’ she said in a voice that was tight with tears. ‘But it’s so bloody hard . . .’
Lucy wasn’t sure if she was talking about James or Percy. But she didn’t ask.
Upstairs was no better than the kitchen. Toys and clothes were strewn along the corridor, the beds were unmade, the linen badly in need of changing. The children’s bathroom was thick with grime, wee all over the loo, footprints all over the floor, grubby towels chucked everywhere. Lucy ran a bath and stuck Percy and Constance in together, then tackled what she could whilst keeping them in view. She coerced Henry into picking up all the toys - she had to resort to bribing him with a fifty-pence piece, which made her realize he was in danger of turning into a grasping little horror, but he managed it in the end.
Thankfully, by the time Percy was dried and dressed in a fresh new outfit, he was ready for his morning nap, which enabled Lucy to stick Constance in front of a video, strip the beds and stick on a wash, put a pile of towels ready to go in next, and get all the breakfast things into the dishwasher by the time a subdued but slightly more presentable Caroline appeared.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and dissolved into tears again. ‘What a card-carrying bitch. I just feel so . . .’ She couldn’t even find the words. ‘I feel like a total failure. I feel as if everyone hates me. James. And the children. I can’t help feeling they’d be better off without me.’
Lucy put her arms round her and held her tight as she cried and cried.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ she soothed. ‘We’ll get it sorted. I promise.’>
Mickey got the shock of his life when he got home that evening to find Lucy dancing round the kitchen to Van Morrison with a beaming Percy on her shoulder.
‘Meet the lodger,’ she said happily.
‘What?’
‘I’m baby-whispering,’ she explained. ‘I’m training Percy to sleep. It should only take two nights. You don’t mind?’
Mickey was speechless. Lucy went over to the Aga to stir her white sauce. Percy stared at him over her shoulder, his fist in his mouth, his expression saying firmly, ‘Hands off, she’s mine’.
‘Caroline’s in a terrible state,’ Lucy told him. ‘She hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep since Percy was born. She’s practically psychotic, poor thing. I had to go and see your brother. Tell him in no uncertain terms that she needs a break.’
‘I bet he loved you for that.’
‘I don’t know what he’s thinking of. The poor girl’s on her knees. And he just sits in that shop of his drinking coffee and flicking through Country Life. I’m sure he doesn’t sell any furniture.’
Lucy looked at Mickey fiercely, as if he was somehow to blame. He decided it was best to keep quiet. He didn’t want to give Lucy any hint that James was in financial straits, because she might start looking at the bigger picture.
‘Never mind,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’ll be nice to have a house guest. We’ll sort you out, young man.’
He tickled Percy under the chin and was met with an unblinking stare, as if the little boy was telling him he knew exactly what his game was.
As Lucy shifted Percy onto the other shoulder and flung some chopped parsley into her sauce, Mickey remembered how easy she had always made it all look. The kitchen had always been full of children in various stages of development, but it had never stopped her doing anything. She’d always been able to give them her undivided attention but get on with life. The mistress of multi-tasking. And she’d always looked stunning. Never tired or drawn or grubby. She was a natural mother and homemaker, wife and hostess. Perfect, in other words, thought Mickey ruefully. Which was why she’d found life so hard recently. With all the children effectively gone, her role had been totally diminished. Now, with Percy in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, she was herself again. Juggling effortlessly.
He felt sick.
How did life do that? He had just allowed himself to feel a modicum of relief. Robert Gibson had called to say he knew of someone who was seriously interested in the brewery. A cash buyer. He was going to send over their proposal the following week. Mickey had pictured a big fat cheque, a proportion of which he could use to pay off the big, fat skeleton in his cupboard. He’d be free at last.
‘What do you think, Micks?’ Lucy was saying. ‘I’m still not too old. Madonna did it. Cherie Blair did it. What do you think, Percy? Do you fancy a little cousin to play with?’
Mickey prayed Lucy was only flirting with the idea. She didn’t really mean it, surely? But how the hell would she feel if she knew that he already had what she was clearly longing for? Another child, who was living less than five miles down the road. Mickey shivered as he realized how easy it would be for Lucy to bump into Kay and Flora, but he could hardly tell them not to go out. He knew Kay was doing her best to keep a low profile, because she didn’t want their deal to go sour. But it could happen.
He’d get on the phone to Robert straight away. Tell him to hurry up the deal. They’d negotiate down on price if they had to, just to get it in the bag as quickly as possible. Then he could pay Kay off. And there was going to be an important condition. That she moved as far away from Honeycote as possible.
Fourteen
Mandy stood on the doorstep of Little Orwell Cottage. Beside her was a bulging weekend bag, filled with most of her summer wardrobe: little dresses and jewelled flip-flops, several swimsuits and bikinis, wispy chiffon kaftans - enough to cover every eventuality on a sun-drenched hen weekend. She scanned the road anxiously, waiting for Caroline’s car to appear over the brow of the hill, hoping that for once her future sister-in-law would be punctual.
Half of her was excited about the trip, but the other half felt quite ill at the thought that, when she came back, her wedding would be only a few days away, even though Lucy and Sandra had taken over the preparations for the reception entirely. It was stressful enough worrying about all the other details - flowers, bridesmaids, hymns, present lists - not to mention the dilemma of her appearance.
She had tried on her wedding outfit the night before, in total secrecy, with just Kitty. They had made sure that everyone else was out, because the last thing they needed was interference. And it had been perfect - there were just a few little alterations to be made, but Kitty could do that when they got back from Spain.
‘Just don’t eat or drink too much,’ she warned. ‘I can take it in, but I can’t let it out.’
So the dress was wonderful. Bu
t there was still hair, make-up, jewellery, shoes and underwear to coordinate. She’d booked an entire day at the Barton Court spa on Thursday - manicure, pedicure, bikini and leg wax, eyebrow threading, eyelash extensions . . . Mandy sighed. There was no excuse for looking less than perfect these days.
Patrick came out of the house and slid his arms round her waist.
‘Now I hope you’re going to behave,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard about these hen weekends.’
‘Course I will.’ She grinned. ‘I just want to get some sun, and have a good night out on the town. What are you going to do?’>
‘I might go to London on Saturday. Do some shopping. I want a new shirt and some decent shoes.’
He couldn’t quite look her in the eyes as he spoke. She peered at him, concerned.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Only you seem very quiet these days. You haven’t really been yourself.’ She bit her lip anxiously. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you? Only if you are, just say . . .’
Patrick felt an utter heel that she should think that. He knew he’d been subdued and preoccupied, but he couldn’t tell her why. Or maybe he should? She was going to be his wife. There should be no secrets. But it wouldn’t be fair to James and Mickey. They’d all agreed to keep the deal quiet for the time being.
‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘the wedding’s the only thing that’s keeping me going at the moment.’
Her face lit up with relief, and she flung her arms around him. ‘I can’t wait to be Mr and Mrs Liddiard!’
‘I wish it was just us going away for the weekend,’ he murmured into her neck.
‘I could say I was ill,’ she suggested huskily. ‘We could book into a hotel somewhere . . .’
Patrick gently disengaged himself from her embrace as Caroline’s car appeared on the horizon.
‘You can’t let the others down,’ he said. ‘Have a fantastic time and I’ll see you when I get back.’
At Keeper’s Cottage, Sandra had arrived to wave everyone off. The girls were still upstairs bickering over what clothes to take. Ginny was packed and ready, so she made Sandra coffee. They sat rather awkwardly in the kitchen. At least, Ginny felt rather awkward. Sandra seemed quite at home, radiant in a yellow shift dress that showed off her toned arms, courtesy of fifty lengths of her pool every morning. Ginny was glad she was wearing a cardigan that covered up her bingo wings.
Sandra beamed brightly over the top of her coffee cup. ‘I just wanted to say, Ginny. If you wanted a little bit of a . . . lift for the big day?’
‘Lift?’ Ginny was baffled. Was Sandra offering her drugs?
‘As stepmother of the bride. You know . . . all eyes upon you. You might be glad of a little bit of a boost.’ Sandra smiled kindly. ‘It’s quite painless. And any untoward swelling will have gone down by next Saturday.’
Ginny stared at her. Then the penny dropped. ‘You’re saying I need . . . work?’
Sandra sighed. ‘Why has it become such a dirty word? And why is it such a stigma? Why are women so afraid to give themselves a little helping hand? We can’t turn back the years, but we can stop the ageing process in its tracks—’
‘I’m perfectly happy with my face as it is, actually,’ retorted Ginny. ‘I think a few lines here and there give it character.’
Sandra considered Ginny’s statement. As her breath went in her eyebrows went up in disbelief. ‘Well, you’re one of the lucky ones. Not everyone is so confident at our time of life.’
Our time of life? thought Ginny indignantly. She was a good ten years younger than Sandra, who was giving her a rather patronizing smile, as if to imply that one day she would come to her senses and realize she was a wrinkled old bag.
‘I’ve had grown women weeping with gratitude in my clinic.’ Sandra informed her. She passed a hand over her own skin, rather lovingly. ‘It’s life-changing, Ginny. I don’t want to force you into anything, of course. But if, while you’re over there, you feel tempted, just pick up the phone to the clinic. Marie-Claire will look after you. Complimentary, of course.’
She dived into her handbag and handed Ginny a brochure.
‘Take a look through. There’s always lip-plumping. For the bee-stung look.’ She cocked her head to one side and surveyed Ginny critically. ‘You’re a very pretty woman. Giving nature a little nudge is nothing to be ashamed of. I like to think of it as enhancing. Enhancing one’s attributes.’ She picked up her coffee cup. ‘It’s so hard to be a woman these days. We have to be all things to all people. In the kitchen, in the boardroom, in the bedroom . . . There’s nothing wrong with asking for a little help.’
Ginny set her own cup down on the table, rather too hard.
‘I’m just going to go to the loo,’ she said with gritted teeth. She couldn’t bear to sit in the room with the woman a minute longer. She fled up to her bedroom and sat on the bed, clutching the brochure. What a cow! But out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and a little bit of her wondered if Sandra was right. When she looked at her reflection these days she didn’t like what she saw. There was a dullness to her skin. And her eyelids did look a bit droopy. The skin under her jawline wasn’t as taut as it could be. Her blond hair was going darker, which meant the threads of grey that had started appearing shone out along her parting.
She sighed. It was downhill all the way now. Watching the twins blossom and bloom and sparkle brought it home all the more. Their skin was soft, with a sheen to it that no amount of jabs or infilling could bring. They had a shine to their hair that Ginny knew no masks or conditioners could bring to hers. They had a lustre, a brightness, a glow. And she had to admit she was jealous. No, not jealous, for she didn’t begrudge her daughters their beauty, not for an instant. Envious? What was the point of envy? It just made you bitter and twisted. Surely it was better to accept that your time was over and embrace the signs of ageing? Not like the likes of Sandra, who were in desperate denial, fighting it to the bitter end.
Though she couldn’t deny that Sandra did look good. In a line-up, it might be hard to tell which of them was the older. OK, so the Sharon Osbourne look wasn’t what she would go for herself - it was far too glamorous and high-maintenance - but Sandra was definitely eye-catching: her brow smooth, the skin taut across her cheekbones and jawline. Eyes bright and dewy. Hair sleek and glossy. Nails beautifully polished. Ginny looked down at her own hands. They were dry and chapped, the nails ragged. She often had to stand in when her girls were off sick, and she didn’t bother with rubber gloves when she cleaned. And now she was paying the price.
Oh dear, she thought. She had committed the cardinal sin in this image-conscious era. She had Let Herself Go. She probably wasn’t eating as well as she should at the moment, which meant that she had lost weight in the past couple of weeks, but at her age, ironically, weight loss was ageing. Losing that subcutaneous fat added years. Throw in the greying hair, the unkempt hands, the fact that she never wore anything but jeans and it was no wonder Keith couldn’t muster up enthusiasm for any bedroom action.
Ginny wondered sadly whether a woman was ever allowed to be comfortable in her own skin. When you were young and in your teens, you wanted to look older. In your twenties, you didn’t appreciate your relative youth - Kitty and Sasha, who were in their prime, were riddled with neuroses and insecurities about their looks. Then the baby-rearing years passed in a blur of stretch marks and spare tyres and hair loss. When you’d just about got over that, and were clawing back your confidence and self-esteem, then your husband left you for a younger model, sending you spiralling back down to square one.
Ginny thought there had been a small window when she had felt sexy and confident, just after she’d moved to Honeycote and first met Keith. She remembered one particular day, when her ex-husband David had turned up to moan about his lot, and she’d caught him looking at her rather longingly. She’d felt invincible that day. She’d got over her divorce and got herself a new man. She knew her eyes had been sparkling
, that her bum had looked fantastic in her new jeans, that her choppy bob had made her look, in a good light, a tiny bit like Meg Ryan.
She didn’t feel like Meg Ryan any more. Not at all. She fingered Sandra’s brochure thoughtfully. Maybe she needed to get a grip on herself. Keith had been rather gruff in his goodbye this morning. There had been a moment when she sensed he wanted to say something important to her, but he hadn’t. He’d told her to enjoy herself and scuttled off to the brewery.
Ginny sighed. If he was going to tell her it wasn’t working, that it was all over, he would probably wait till after the wedding. Maybe she had some time to pull herself together. Or maybe she was a lost cause . . . ?
‘Mum! Caroline’s here!’ Kitty was shouting up the stairs.
She wished fervently she wasn’t going. She was going to look ridiculous, trailing round Puerto Banus after Mandy and the twins - even Caroline had fifteen years on her. She would look like some ageing chaperone, dogging their every footstep in case they fell into temptation. She imagined them being ushered into a pulsating, glittering nightclub and the bouncer putting up his hand to stop her, denying her entry on the grounds of lack of youth, lack of beauty. As she pictured the humiliation, her guts twisted inside her. It wasn’t too late to pull out. She’d tell them she had a stomach upset.
‘Come on, Mum!’ Kitty was at the door, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘We’re going to miss the plane if we don’t hurry.’
Ginny sighed. There wasn’t time to demur. Not now. Maybe a break was what she needed. It would give her a few days to look at herself, examine her life, try and put her relationship with Keith into perspective. She tucked Sandra’s brochure into her handbag and picked up her case with a sigh. It contained a couple of linen skirts, some t-shirts and a cotton dress. A frumpy middle-aged woman’s wardrobe. But then, that’s what she was.
Just a Family Affair Page 26
