Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  Was this a message from him to her? Or was it just a coincidence? He was probably blissfully unaware of the irony.

  Ce Soir ou Jamais.

  Tonight or never.

  By the time the girls came back, Ginny realized she’d made a terrible mistake. Falling asleep in the Mediterranean sun had been asking for trouble, even though she had slathered herself with sun cream. She was burnt to a crisp, her head was throbbing and she felt sick.

  ‘I’ll have to give this evening a miss,’ she announced in the kitchen glumly, sitting on a barstool with her head in her hands.

  The others groaned in protest. But she stood her ground.

  ‘Honestly. I feel dreadful. And I don’t want to start bleating that I want to go home at eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Alejandro! Tell her she’s got to come.’

  Alejandro paused in the middle of slicing up the tortilla he had made to keep them going. He looked at Ginny and frowned. ‘You’ve made the tourist’s worst mistake,’ he chided. ‘You underestimate the strength of the sun.’ He held a hand over her bright red chest. ‘I can feel the heat from here.’

  If Ginny could have gone any redder, she would have.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ she insisted. ‘No one wants to see Lobsterwoman out on the town. Anyway, you’ll have more fun if I’m not in tow.’

  ‘Just come for the meal. It won’t be the same without you,’ Mandy begged.

  Ginny had been so sweet and supportive to her over the years, and had made her dad so happy. Mandy was mortified to think she might feel surplus to requirements. Besides, she didn’t want things to get too wild, and without Ginny there to keep the others in check she might lose control. She wasn’t too worried about Kitty, but Sasha and Caroline were equally unmanageable when their blood was up.

  Ginny, however, could not be persuaded.

  Alejandro nodded his approval.

  ‘I think you are very wise to stay behind.’ He pulled a sharp knife from the drawer and started hacking up lemons, squeezing the juice into a tall glass jug. ‘Go and get ready, girls. You haven’t got that long to make yourselves beautiful.’

  And he ducked as an indignant Sasha threw a lemon at his head.

  Two hours later, the four girls lined up in front of Ginny for inspection. They each looked stunning and totally different. Mandy, cool and sharp in embroidered white linen trousers and a turquoise crocheted vest. Kitty, bohemian in a pink baby-doll dress emblazoned with skulls. Sasha, glitzy in a backless mini sheath. And Caroline, voluptuous in a bias cut Missoni-style striped halter neck that displayed her staggering cleavage. The sun had kissed them all. They were golden and glowing, filled with champagne bubbles and laughter.

  Then Sasha and Kitty produced a customised tiara for Mandy - a concoction of tulle, pearls and twinkly fairylights to show she was the bride-to-be.

  ‘It’s got to be done, Mandy. Every girl has to be humiliated on her hen night,’ Sasha told her. ‘Just be grateful that it’s not a hat with condoms swinging from the brim.’

  Mandy gave in with good grace, then got her own back by producing sparkly hot-pink Stetsons for them all to wear as members of her hen party.

  ‘I knew there was no way you’d let me get away with it,’ she grinned at the twins. ‘And I wasn’t going to be the only one to stand out in the crowd.’

  ‘You won’t stand out in Puerto Banus,’ Alejandro assured them. He was used to seeing hordes of strangely dressed girls prowling the streets. By the end of the night they were usually incoherent and legless - he had often found half-dressed fairies and fallen angels slumped in the gutter, their shoes in their hands. He just hoped this lot had more self-control, but in case they didn’t he had already warned his network of friends to look out for them, and make sure they didn’t get into any trouble. Puerto Banus might be a party town, but it sometimes ended in tears.

  ‘I will drive the girls to the restaurant,’ said Alejandro. ‘And you, Ginny - you must drink some of my lemonade and take one of these. It will settle your stomach and clear your head.’

  Alejandro handed her a glass filled with lemonade and a tablet.

  ‘Then go to sleep. Just for an hour. I will wake you when I come back. You will be better, I promise.’

  Sasha giggled. ‘I don’t know if we should trust Mum and Alejandro alone together.’

  Ginny rolled her eyes. The prospect of the two of them getting up to anything was utterly preposterous.

  ‘Have a fantastic evening,’ she urged, kissing each of them. ‘I am watching Keanu Reeves on Sky and going to bed early. See you at dawn.’

  As soon as they had gone, she flopped onto the sofa with a sigh of relief. The last thing she had wanted was to dress up and spend the evening drinking in hot, sweaty, crowded bars full of beautiful young people. She flicked on the television, then swallowed the pill Alejandro had given her, enjoying the tart coolness of the lemonade as it slid down her throat. She shut her eyes, deciding she would have a nap for half an hour until he came back. Then she’d have a quick supper and an early night so she could make the most of the next day, when hopefully the effects of too much sun would have worn off.

  Alejandro couldn’t help grinning as he drove along the coast road and dropped down towards the marina. The sun was still shining, the windows were down, the music was blaring and the girls sang along. As they hit the streets, he got envious glances from passers-by - and whistles and waves that the girls returned. They had only shared one bottle of champagne between them before going out, but he did wonder if they’d had anything else, their spirits were so high.

  The thought led him to a fleeting moment of guilt. Should he have given Ginny that tablet? Surely one little pill wouldn’t hurt. If he didn’t drop one himself he could keep an eye on her. It would make the job so much easier, after all. It would be like plucking one of the ripe peaches off the tree in the garden. Otherwise it could be tricky. Alejandro knew he was irresistible to most women, but Ginny had an aura of anxiety and uncertainty that he knew from experience was inhibiting. It might take him days to break through her shield. Whereas his little white dove would have her cooing and billing. She would enjoy it.

  After all, it wasn’t called Ecstasy for nothing.

  Alejandro pulled up outside the bar he had chosen for them to start their evening. There was a cocktail lounge and a restaurant serving proper Spanish food, not the ersatz crap that so many establishments now churned out for the tourists. His friend Pedro, the doorman, came rushing forward to open the doors for the girls, and they emerged like superstars.

  ‘Come in with us,’ Kitty begged Alejandro. ‘Come and have a drink.’

  ‘No, no, no - it’s a girl’s night.’

  ‘You can be a token hen,’ insisted Sasha. ‘We’re not sexist.’

  But Alejandro stuck to his guns.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ observed Pedro, amazed Alejandro was passing up the chance to chaperone them.

  ‘Gotta work. But look after them for me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t take my eyes off them.’

  Pedro watched admiringly as the bride and her cowgirl cohorts filed into the bar. Alejandro gave him the thumbs up then got back into his car. For a while he sat there, wondering if what he was about to do was the right thing. Then he thought of the money. Sighing, he switched on the ignition. That was the thing about life. It was always money dictating to you in the end. Making you do things you didn’t want to do. Turning you into a person you didn’t want to be. Even Raoul, slimy though he was, probably didn’t want to be a drug dealer deep down. They were all in the same trap.

  Patrick decided to go for a walk while Mayday got ready for dinner.

  He didn’t want to invade her space. He knew from Mandy that girls spent a long time agonizing about their toilette. Besides, he felt a little bit awkward. He would never have worried before, but he sensed a change in her that was unfamiliar. A curious mixture of both vulnerability and confidence. She carried herself differently, somehow. She w
as more subtle, more mysterious. Womanly, Patrick decided. Yet there was an underlying fragility to her that unnerved him. Mayday had always been so robust. He decided that she was probably still raw from her grandmother’s death. He could almost pinpoint the change in her to the day of the funeral. The problem was he wasn’t quite sure how to handle this new Mayday. The old one had been so easy: up front, no strings. Patrick could have left her behind with no conscience. But suddenly . . .

  When they’d got back from shopping, he’d watched as she’d laid her purchases out on the bed, admiring them, stroking the rich fabrics. She was wearing the scent he had chosen. The smell got right inside his head, intoxicating him, as it occurred to him that he would never see her wear half of these clothes. Who would get the benefit? Who would watch her drop them to the ground? He knew Mayday had no shortage of admirers. It had never bothered him before. Now, Patrick realized with unease that he was jealous. Jealous of those unknown suitors, those rivals for her affection, the fact that someone else might undo her buttons, peel off her stockings . . .

  Shit. This had been a mistake. As soon as they had pulled up at Claridge’s he should have put his foot down. It wasn’t what he’d envisaged at all. He’d just anticipated a bit of malarkey with an old mate. Now, here he was, burning with feelings that had ignited when he least expected it. This was turning into something special. Something meaningful.

  A week before his own wedding.

  He left the hotel and walked briskly around the block. A gentle evening sun was shining, and the city was starting to fill up as people drove in for their Saturday night’s entertainment. Sleek cars glided by, some with tinted windows, some with chauffeurs, and Patrick couldn’t help but be curious as to how the passengers had reached their position in life. He wandered down Bond Street, eyeing window after window of exquisite luggage, ice-white diamonds, gilt-framed masterpieces - everything so ridiculously out of reach that the journey couldn’t fail to make one feel depressed and deprived, unless one had the strength of mind to realize that it was all meaningless rubbish, and that those who could afford to shop here were not necessarily happier than anyone else.

  Mandy, he knew, would be in seventh heaven. She’d be pressing her nose against the glass, admiring the shoes, the dresses, the jewels. She adored her labels, and drooled over them in her fashion magazines every month. But to her credit, she had it in perspective. She’d focus on her key purchases, the one item of the season that she couldn’t live without - a handbag, a pair of shoes, a trench-coat - and would save up for it. And once she’d acquired it, she appreciated it and looked after it. She never made mistakes, or rushed on to the next purchase, but artfully managed to mix her prestige pieces with high-street basics. As a result, she always looked a million dollars. Patrick wondered fondly what she was wearing tonight . . .

  By the time he returned to the entrance of Claridge’s, he chided himself for being distracted by Mayday. He was about to marry the woman he loved, for heaven’s sake. He was just being a typical bloke, unable to resist what was underneath his nose. He should just walk away, but he couldn’t now - that would be impossibly rude, when she’d spent her grandmother’s bequest on the room. They’d have a nice dinner together, then he’d plead exhaustion and crash out. He could make his escape early the next day. She wouldn’t be offended. Mayday wasn’t like that.

  Keith opened his eyes and saw Sandra’s face above his, wet with tears.

  What did this mean? Was he dead? Was she standing over his corpse? Why else would she be crying? It took a lot to make Sandra break down.

  Behind her he could discern a shadowy figure. Mr Jackson. Had he come to apologize for cocking it up? Was he going to explain what had gone wrong? Or was he about to announce the time of death, glancing up at the clock like a character from a hospital drama?

  Keith wanted to speak but his throat felt raw and his head felt a bit swimmy. Why didn’t someone tell him what was going on? Though he supposed if he was dead there would be no point in telling him anything.

  Sandra reached out and took his hand. She lifted it to her cheek and he could feel her warm tears. Then she kissed his fingers.

  That was it. He’d definitely gone over to the other side. Sandra wasn’t one for showing her emotions in front of men in white coats.

  Bugger. He’d left so much undone. The wedding was going to be spoilt. And what the hell was Ginny going to say? He should have given her a hint that something was wrong. It was going to be a terrible shock. He hoped that Sandra would be tactful.

  ‘Mr Sherwyn.’ Mr Jackson’s voice boomed out, making him jump. ‘Good news. Good news. Everything came out as clean as a whistle. Of course we need to drop it over to the lab just to make sure, but I’m very pleased.’

  Keith’s eyes swivelled round. He was in a bed. Not on a slab. In a room. Not a mortuary.

  Heavenly relief slipped through his veins. He smiled up at Sandra, who was now weeping openly.

  ‘I love you,’ she sobbed.

  Keith summoned up all his strength. ‘I love you too,’ he replied, then shut his eyes, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

  Sandra dropped his hand.

  ‘It might take him a while to recover consciousness properly, ’ said Mr Jackson.

  ‘No problem,’ said Sandra happily. ‘As long as everything’s all right.’

  ‘I’m quite confident your husband’s going to make an excellent recovery.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Sandra smiled, not bothering to correct his misunderstanding.

  ‘Although it might be a while before he’s back in full working order.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Sandra twinkled, ‘I’m a very patient woman, Mr Jackson. Very patient indeed.’

  Sixteen

  When Patrick met Mayday in the bar, he had to look twice to make sure it was her.

  She was usually shielded by her wild mane of hair, but tonight it was smoothed into a sleek chignon, and he could see that her face was perfectly heart-shaped, punctuated by delicately arched eyebrows. Her eyes were painted with a glimmering pewter; her lips glistened with her trademark dark red. Her dress was a long sleeved pale-pink shift trimmed with black velvet that was saved from being demure by fishnet tights and towering stilettos.

  She looked utterly ravishing. The crazy rock chick wild child had been groomed and tamed to produce a tantalizingly exotic young woman. Of course the money helped. The dress was Temperley, the shoes Rupert Sanderson. Furthermore, her art deco earrings were vintage Cartier, and upstairs in her suitcase was the necklace that went with it, but that Mayday had decided that would overpower the outfit.

  As Patrick led her through the tables after the waiter, he could feel every pair of eyes in the room feasting upon her, with varying degrees of lust or envy depending on the sex or inclination of the owner. It was clear everyone was wondering who she was. As she slid into her chair she cast a demure gaze around the room, and everyone looked away. Claridge’s wasn’t the place to be seen gawping.

  They drank a bottle of Perrier Jouet champagne while they looked at the menu.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ said Patrick.

  Mayday looked at him solemnly. ‘This is our farewell dinner,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Actually,’ said Patrick, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever been out for dinner before. Not just you and me.’

  There had been crazy nights out. Many of them. But nothing like this - one to one, with no distraction but the occasional obsequious waiter. For a moment Patrick wondered if he should have done a bunk earlier, but assured himself he was doing nothing wrong. Most men behaved far worse on their stag nights. He was just having a meal out with his oldest friend, who happened to be a girl. And he was certain the twins and Mandy would be doing their fair share of drinking and flirting in Puerto Banus. That was the whole point of stag and hen nights, wasn’t it? Getting it out of your system . . .

  The hen party was sitting at their table in the cavernous restaurant, surrounded by glittering silver pi
llars and palm trees that reached the ceiling while huge plasma screens played Lionel Ritchie videos. The noise was ear-splitting. Everyone who was anyone on the Costa del Sol was out in force, swigging cocktails as the waiters rushed round filling up their glasses as quickly as they finished their drinks.

  At the head of the table, resplendent in her head-dress, Mandy looked round at her friends and smiled. It didn’t get better than this: to be dressed up to the nines, in a glamorous restaurant with your best mates, in a glorious sun-drenched hotspot, with handsome men falling over themselves to get your attention. Since they had arrived at their table, three bottles of Bollinger had been sent over by admirers.

  ‘It’s over a hundred pounds a bottle,’ she’d protested, looking at the menu.

  ‘More fool them,’ Caroline had announced, unashamedly knocking it back.

  Mandy was a little bit dubious, feeling it was unfair to drink the champagne when they were already spoken for.

  ‘It gives out the wrong message,’ she objected. ‘It implies we’re available.’

  ‘Well, we are,’ Sasha pointed out. ‘Me and Kitty are.’

  ‘So am I. For one night only.’ Caroline was defiant.

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mandy, shocked.

  ‘I mean that if I get an offer, I won’t turn it down.’

  ‘But . . . what about James?’

  ‘He won’t know.’

  Mandy felt her cheeks flush, then decided that Caroline was just trying to shock her. She always got controversial when she’d had a bit to drink. For a moment she felt uncomfortable. The rules were obviously different in here. Filled with well-heeled and dazzling people out for a thrill, it had the air of an upmarket pick-up joint. She felt a flutter of panic, and wished Patrick was with her. Then she told herself to relax. It was her night. She was supposed to enjoy herself, and she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to.