At last, the train insinuated its way into the station, and they joined the queue for a cab. Mayday gave the driver the address of the hotel. Ten minutes later, they pulled up outside Claridge’s.
‘What are we doing here?’ Patrick frowned. He’d expected some faceless chain hotel with anonymous bedrooms.
Mayday looked rather bashful. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
Patrick looked at her suspiciously. It was very unlike Mayday to be coy. She was always totally upfront.
She gave him a rather tentative smile. ‘My gran left me some money.’
Time stood still for a moment while Mayday made up her mind whether to tell him the truth. Once the secret was out, there was no going back. She’d told herself all along that she didn’t want to buy him. She didn’t want his attitude tainted by the lure of filthy lucre. Yet she longed to give him a taste of the life he could have with her. Pulling up at Claridge’s was only the beginning.
Perhaps she could give him the taste without the whole truth.
Half the truth. She’d tell him half.
‘Not a fortune. Just enough to have a bit of fun with. So I booked us in here.’ She hugged him in excitement. ‘I’ve got us a suite. On the top floor.’
‘Mayday, you shouldn’t have done that. You should have spent it on yourself.’ Patrick felt mortified. After the horrible time she’d had recently, Mayday deserved a treat.
‘This is on myself. I’ve always wanted to stay at a posh hotel, only there’s no point in me coming on my own. It would be miserable. With you it’ll be fun.’ She flashed him one of her conspiratorial smiles. ‘Anyway, I’m planning to go wild in Harvey Nichols this afternoon. Come on.’
He couldn’t argue, as she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him into the foyer. Patrick was aware that the tophatted doormen were looking at him askance. But he smiled to himself and followed her.
‘Mr and Mrs Perkins?’ the receptionist was saying.
Mayday looked at Patrick, not sure what to say. He gave a nod.
‘That’s right,’ he said, slipping an arm round Mayday’s waist. It would be far too complicated to explain that in fact this was his stag night. A little thrill went through him. He didn’t think he’d ever done this before, checked into a grand hotel under an alias. As the porter swept up their minimal luggage, Patrick took Mayday’s hand and followed him to the lift.
Inside, he stared at their reflection surreptitiously while Mayday chattered to the porter. More than ten years, they went back together. He supposed that this would be the last time. Mayday was right. If you were married, you couldn’t have a close relationship with another female. Even platonic. And to be honest, platonic and Mayday were mutually exclusive. Just looking at her now made him want to take her in his arms, with her husky voice, her wicked laugh, her dancing eyes. But he wasn’t going to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. After all, hadn’t he learned the lesson from his own father that you can’t have your cake and eat it?
Keith sat in his private room in his hospital gown. There was five minutes to go before they took him down to theatre. He was astonished to find that instead of the sick panic he had felt for the past few weeks, he felt rather calm. In fact, he was almost looking forward to his operation. There was something rather reassuring about the momentum of the admission procedure, the way everything had been taken out of his hands, the way everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing. It was far away from the experience he had imagined, the one you read about in the papers. He had envisaged lost medical notes, interminable waits and staff contradicting each other, culminating in someone whipping out a kidney instead of his prostate. But that, he supposed ruefully, was the benefit you got from writing out a cheque.
Sandra was sitting in the chair next to his bed, reading the Daily Telegraph. Most surprising of all, she had added to his sense of serenity. Her brisk, businesslike manner made it impossible for him to fret; she simply wouldn’t allow it. His heart had sunk at first when she had appeared at Keeper’s Cottage earlier that morning, and he had rued his weakness in telling her about his illness - he had kept his trap shut for so long, only to cave in at the eleventh hour. But now he was enormously grateful for her presence. She seemed able to second guess his every anxiety and put it to rest. She had already demanded a precis of his predicament from Mr Jackson.
‘I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Something might have been lost in translation.’
Mr Jackson had obliged, with good humour. No doubt he was used to dealing with the likes of Sandra on a daily basis. Then she had proceeded to demand a change of room: one with a tranquil view of the sloping lawns at the back rather than the car park.
‘We don’t want to look at all the other patients coming and going, thank you very much,’ she told the receptionist.
Then she had ticked off his lunch requirements for the following day.
‘Roast chicken, I think, don’t you? Lamb can be a bit fatty. But you’ll need something decent - it’ll be your first proper meal for more than twenty-four hours. Then apple crumble. Cream or custard?’
There was quite simply no question that he wouldn’t be here.
Keith felt treacherous thinking it, but he couldn’t help feeling that Ginny would not have instilled the same confidence in him. She would never demand an audience with the consultant, or get his room changed. She would be anxious, awkward, and he would be able to see only too clearly the fear in her eyes. He was, he realized, grateful for her absence.
He looked over at his ex-wife and felt a sudden rush of gratitude for her strength, realizing that he had never really appreciated it. He had never asked her for support during their marriage. He had forged his own way, kept his worries to himself, made all the decisions unaided. What might have happened to them if he had been less insular? If they had been a partnership instead of two separate entities drifting off in different directions?
Then again, maybe Sandra had only become the success she was because they had separated. Maybe being alone was what had given her the drive. Keith reflected that he would never know what might have become of them. It was too late for regret. Far too late. He might not even have the chance to eat the lunch she had chosen for him, let alone atone for his mistakes.
But he couldn’t go down to theatre without saying something.
‘Sandra?’
She looked up from the paper with a smile.
‘I just wanted to say . . .’ What did he want to say? Not too much. It wouldn’t be fair, if he didn’t survive, to start unburdening his feelings now, when there wasn’t enough time.
‘You don’t have to say anything.’ Her voice was gentle, and full of understanding.
‘Yes, I do,’ insisted Keith. ‘I wanted to say . . . thank you.’
That was enough. He didn’t have to be specific. He could have just meant thank you for the Dan Brown and the barley sugar. But he hoped she understood that in amongst those two words were a hundred others.
‘We’re ready for you, Mr Sherwyn.’ A nurse swept in, followed by a hospital porter.
Sandra jumped up, took his face in her hands and kissed him.
‘I’ll see you in a couple of hours,’ she said, gazing into his eyes.
Keith felt his heart turn over. He couldn’t be sure why. Whether it was because he was about to be wheeled off to meet his fate at the hands of Mr Jackson, or because he had a glimpse of the past, the chirpy, upbeat girl he had married all those years ago.
‘I . . .’ The words stuck in his throat. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘I’ll be here,’ she promised.
Sandra sat back down to wait. The paper lay at her feet, discarded. It had been a mere prop. Only now could she afford to let her façade slip. She felt quite nauseous with anxiety. It had taken her so long to realize what she wanted, and now he might be taken away from her. A trifle self-consciously, she clasped her hands together in prayer. She couldn’t remember the last time she had done this, but surely it was worth p
utting in a call to the powers that be?
‘Dear God,’ she murmured, ‘please let him be all right.’
In downtown Puerto Banus, the marina shone and sparkled and the sunlight bounced off the gleaming white yachts that rose and fell gently in the water. Everywhere there were tanned bodies, crisp linen, elegant high heels, diamanté-studded sunglasses, the wink and glitter of diamonds, shining manes of hair, wrists bearing serious watches. The air was warm and filled with a thousand scents, fresh coffee, foreign cigarettes, frying garlic - the smell of luxury, pleasure and money all mingled into one.
The hen party had spent the morning ooh-ing and aahing. The shops were cruelly tantalizing, displaying clothes and shoes and handbags that almost made them weep with desire. Versace, Herme‘s, Chanel, Ralph Lauren: it was like the pages of the glossiest magazine come to life. They were now having lunch ahead of an afternoon’s shopping in Zara, Mango and El Corte Inglés, where they would buy pale imitations of the clothes they had been drooling over.
They sat outside at a pavement café, munching on char-grilled squid and people-watching, making up stories for the glamorous couples that passed by their table.
‘This is the life,’ breathed Sasha. ‘I could live here happily.’
‘You’d soon get bored,’ her mother told her.
‘You’ve got to be joking!’ Sasha looked back at her, incredulous. ‘This is heaven.’
Ginny had to admit that the glitzy setting did suit her daughter, and that their table was getting admiring glances from male passers-by. Yet again she felt like the elderly chaperone. She didn’t want to put off any potential suitors. She didn’t want to cramp their style.
She knew she shouldn’t have come. She should have stayed at home and built bridges with Keith. They could have gone to Stratford together: they still had to choose a wedding present for Mandy and Patrick. She wondered what he was up to. She pulled her phone out to give him a ring, then remembered that she hadn’t done whatever complicated thing it was that meant she could make international calls. In fact, her phone probably didn’t work abroad at all. It was old-fashioned and out of date. Just like she was. She tossed it back into her bag.
‘I think I’ll go back to the villa and have a siesta,’ she said, ‘if we’re going to be out until all hours this evening.’
The truth was she didn’t fancy trailing in and out of the shops with them all. She would either be called upon to give the twins superfluous reassurance or money, both of which she felt ill-inclined to bestow when they needed neither - they would each look stunning in a bin bag and she knew perfectly well David had slipped them a wad of cash before they went away.
‘Aren’t you going to come shopping?’ Kitty looked concerned.
‘To be honest, I’d rather lie by the pool and read.’ Ginny spied a taxi and waved her hand in the air.
Half an hour later, she was stretched out on a teak sun lounger by Sandra’s pool, but she couldn’t relax. What was the matter with her? She sighed. She needed to get a grip. She couldn’t put a damper on everything for the rest of her life. There was quite a bit of it left, after all. She shifted onto her stomach, trying to get comfortable. The problem was she wasn’t happy in her own skin any more. She didn’t feel as if she belonged. She was the first to acknowledge that she wasn’t in the first flush of youth, but why did she feel the need to melt into the background all the time? It didn’t happen to everyone when they hit middle age, after all. Look at Lucy Liddiard: still confident, gorgeous, stylish - Lucy would be happy to be out with the girls, shopping and lunching and giggling. As would Sandra . . . Sandra, who was the wrong side of fifty and positively radiant. Ginny just felt grey and lifeless and boring.
As she lay there debating her dilemma, becoming increasingly miserable, Sandra’s advice - to ‘give nature a helping hand’ - kept coming back to her. Gradually it dawned on Ginny that perhaps there was something in it. According to the papers and magazines, everyone was doing it. And if it made you happier with yourself, then why not? She burrowed in her handbag for Sandra’s brochure, which she’d meant to bin at the first opportunity. She leafed through it carefully, looking at the photographs, reading the testimonials. Maybe Sandra was right? She should give it a go. And if she didn’t like it, if it didn’t do anything for her, she needn’t bother again. On the other hand, if it was a miracle, then she’d be stuck with top-ups every six months for the rest of her life. But then, she was earning money, proper money. Why shouldn’t she spend it on something that made her feel better?
Gingerly, she picked up the phone and dialled the clinic.
‘Mrs Sherwyn told me to expect your call,’ the efficient manageress informed her, and Ginny felt a flash of annoyance. Then she thought, bugger it.
‘Yes,’ she replied crisply. ‘I’d like to book some treatments, please.’
Ten minutes later she put the phone down. Marie-Claire had agreed to block out two hours of her time on Monday in order to have a proper consultation and then proceed with whatever treatment they decided Ginny needed. She’d been very reassuring.
Ginny stretched in satisfaction, yawned, and picked up her Maeve Binchy, having long given up on Zadie Smith. Some time later, she awoke to find Alejandro standing over her. She sat up, hastily covering herself with a towel.
‘I’ve come to prepare some tapas before you go out tonight,’ he smiled. ‘To line the stomachs. It will be late before you eat.’
Ginny looked at her watch. She’d been asleep nearly two hours. ‘The girls should be back any minute.’
Alejandro spied the brochure on the table beside her. He picked it up, frowning. ‘You don’t need this.’
‘I so do,’ she laughed in reply, sounding like one of her daughters.
‘You want to look like Mrs Sherwyn and her friends?’ he demanded. ‘They all look the same.’
He affected a rather surprised look with a pronounced pout, and Ginny collapsed into giggles.
‘Sandra looks bloody fantastic,’ she told him. ‘I don’t care what anyone says. I’m going to give it a go.’
Alejandro shook his head sadly. ‘Crazy.’
He dropped the brochure back on the table distastefully and walked away. Ginny shut her eyes. She wasn’t going to argue. How would someone like him have any idea what it was like, to feel long past your sell-by date?
Patrick wasn’t a great one for shopping. He and Mayday had agreed to go their separate ways and meet up at tea time. He headed for Jermyn Street, and had done everything he needed after one hour. He bought himself a pair of Oliver Sweeney Chelsea boots, highly polished with a lime-green lining. They would go perfectly with his morning suit but he’d be able to wear them with anything afterwards. And he topped up on some new shirts from Thomas Pink. With at least another hour to kill, he treated himself to a new haircut and a wet shave at Trumpers. He sat in a mahogany-lined cubicle, while the barber worked up a lather of soap on his skin with a badger brush and set to with a terrifyingly sharp razor. Afterwards, he felt as if the top layer of his skin had been taken off, but he couldn’t deny that his complexion looked about ten years younger. And his hair was cut to perfection; layered short into the neck but keeping the fringe and top long. Another week would take the newness off it. He gave his reflection a rueful grin. He would do.
He made his way over to Knightsbridge and found Mayday in Harvey Nichols, burdened down with carrier bags.
‘Have you spent all your money?’ he asked.
She smiled, thinking that it would take more than an afternoon to get rid of her prize money. Though she hadn’t done badly. She’d booked a personal shopper, and been surprised to find how much she had enjoyed them bringing her outfit after outfit that fitted the brief she’d given. For the first time in her life she experienced the cut, the fabric, the finish and the detail that went with designer clothing, and was amazed to find how much she relished it. She had always enjoyed expressing herself through what she wore, but this lifted dressing up to another level. And the as
sistants had loved attending to her, with her rock-chick looks, her wild hair, and her attitude that meant she could get away with outfits that most customers shied away from. She had come out of the dressing room elated, her bags stuffed with Temperley, Sass & Bide, Stella McCartney, Matthew Williamson and Alexander McQueen. Not to mention a raft of boots and shoes.
There was just one more detail to complete the makeover.
‘I want some new perfume,’ she announced. ‘I’ve worn the same thing for years and years. I want a change. Choose something for me, Patrick.’
Patrick was unnerved by the challenge. Mayday had smelt the same for as long as he could remember: Thierry Mugler’s Angel, with its heavy, seductive scent of vanilla. Patrick couldn’t imagine her smelling of anything else. But he liked the idea of choosing a new perfume for her, as if he was in some way branding her. She led him through to the cosmetics hall, where the search began in earnest. They worked their way through the different counters, spritzing clouds of cologne and eau de toilette onto little strips of cardboard, breathing in the myriad fragrances: musk, pepper, amber, jasmine, bergamot, mimosa, lily of the valley, honeysuckle, ginger, ylang ylang, basil, sandalwood, patchouli, orange blossom. There was a concoction for every type of woman, from sophisticated to youthful to carefree to wanton. Patrick needed something that captured a mass of contradictions.
In the end, he chose from Annick Goutal. The subtlety of her fragrances seemed to evoke rather than dictate emotion, with a haunting after-effect. Mayday’s heart was thumping as he dabbed his final choice behind her ears, on her wrists, and on the beating pulse in her neck. The smell of Turkish rose enveloped her, making her feel quite giddy as the words on the bottle repeated themselves to her over and over again.
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