Next to it hung Mickey’s morning suit. For once in her life she worried that she might be accused of being naff, for she had found him a grey tie with pink dots that matched her dress almost exactly. But somehow she felt the urge to demonstrate that they belonged together.
She blew on her nails to dry off the pale pink varnish. Along the corridor she could hear Sophie and Georgina arguing over the hair straighteners, and the thud of music, and she smiled. Outside the gravel crunched as a van arrived. Lucy peeped out of the window and saw Suzanna and Barney Blake arrive with the food. She gave a wave, but knew they would get on with the task in hand, unloading everything into the fridges in the kitchen and the stable yard.
Sandra yodelled up the stairs to her. ‘I’m off now! See you at the church!’
Lucy still had no idea what Sandra had planned for the evening. She’d seen two big lorries drive down to the bottom paddock the night before, but it was screened by a small copse which prevented anyone from seeing what was going on, and so it remained a mystery. At seven o’clock that evening, the guests were going to be allowed down through the trees to discover what delights awaited.
Mickey came into the bedroom with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘Shall we have a quiet toast?’
Lucy nodded in agreement. She thought a glass of champagne was just what she needed - a few bubbles in her veins to give her a lift, for it had been a hard morning’s work. She stood up and took the glass off Mickey gingerly in case her nails were still wet.
‘To us,’ he proclaimed. ‘I’m so proud of you, you know. I don’t deserve you. But I bloody love you.’
She chinked her glass against his gently. ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘And I’m proud of us. You and me and Patrick. And the girls.’ She swallowed. ‘Nothing is ever going to get in the way of us.’
As they drank to each other, she wondered how many more weddings there would be at Honeycote House in their lifetime.
Kay surveyed herself critically in the mirror.
She had to be very, very careful today. This was her first excursion into the public eye. Was the dress too much of a statement? It was a pale gold silk shift dress with a single strap going over one shoulder. It wasn’t tarty, because it wasn’t tight, or short, falling just below the knee. But it was very eye-catching, and obviously very expensive. She felt determined to wear it. She’d never worn it before, as she’d bought it just before Lawrence died and hadn’t yet had a suitable occasion. And it was so very definitely, mouthwateringly her. For the first time in months, Kay felt like her old self again. She’d become so tired of her recent persona, the Kay who was in mourning, who was at other people’s mercy, whose personality and spirit had seemed to vanish into the ether along with her husband’s soul. But this dress restored her former spirit. She managed a flirtatious grin in the mirror, and almost laughed out loud.
She bloody well would wear it. OK, so she’d have to tone it down. She resisted the killer heels the dress cried out for, and went for mid-height court shoes. She put on discreet jewellery instead of the bling her gut told her to wear. And instead of big hair, dramatic eyes and red lipstick, she did the natural look, with her hair just softly tousled. She’d let the dress speak for itself. And just in case anyone thought it was too much for church, she slung the matching fringed silk shawl around her shoulders.
It was stunning. But no one could actually accuse her of attempting to take centre stage, she was certain. She picked up her bag and her car keys, ready to go. She was incredibly nervous, but at the same time excited. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Anyone who wanted to look down on her wouldn’t be worth knowing. But there was still the fear of some whispered disparaging remark, an accusing finger, a titter. She was going to have to be bloody strong. Which was why she needed her armour. Kay wouldn’t have felt strong in a demure linen suit. But in her fabulous fuck-off frock, she was ready to do battle.
She held out her hand to Flora, who was in a yellow gingham dress, her curls captured in a French plait tied with a matching ribbon. Flora would be OK. Poppy from the Honeycote Arms was going to be at the wedding, because her mother was doing the food. And then there were the cousins. Proper cousins. Kay felt a little glow of warmth at the thought. They were going to belong. She would make sure of it.
Patrick did up the buttons on his jacket, leaving the bottom one undone. He thanked God that he was a traditionalist and was wearing simple morning dress. His only nod to individuality was his grandfather’s waistcoat, in blood-red silk embroidered with running foxes. He adjusted his tie, ran his hands through his dark hair so it was slightly dishevelled, and gave himself a curt nod of approval in the mirror. He looked at his watch. It was still well over an hour before he was due at the church.
He’d told Ned he would meet him there. Much as he loved his friend, Ned’s sense of fun would have been too much to cope with. Patrick had visions of him turning up in his morning suit, wearing dark glasses like something out of the Blues Brothers, making tequila slammers and playing Huey Lewis and the News at full volume. Patrick wanted to prepare himself calmly. If a man ever deserved peace and quiet it was on the morning of his wedding.
But now he was ready, the house felt incredibly still. Too still. He couldn’t sit here until it was time, doing nothing. He’d go mad. He picked up his car keys decisively. He’d slip into the Horse and Groom for one nerve-steadying Bloody Mary and get Mayday’s seal of approval on his appearance. Patrick locked the door carefully behind him, realizing with a smile that the next time he walked over the threshold, he would be with his bride.
James stood in the kitchen in his morning suit, slicing up Marmite sandwiches into fingers and putting them into a Tupperware box. They needed a stash of food for the children, because it was anyone’s guess what time they would actually get to the reception and be fed. Getting the children ready had been arduous beyond belief, but he had them all lined up in front of the television without a hair out of place while Caroline got herself ready.
He heard her clattering down the stairs. She burst into the kitchen. She wore a Fifties-style floral dress, splashed with red tulips, with red peep-toe sandals.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You look fantastic.’
‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘Are these the sandwiches? Well done. I’ll stuff them in my bag.’
It was amazing, thought James, how much easier life was now they cooperated. It would never have occurred to him before to make the sandwiches, but just that one little task seemed to take the burden off Caroline, with the result that she was much happier.
He’d come clean to her, as Lucy had suggested. He’d fed the children and put them to bed early the evening after she’d come back, then sat her down with the horrible truth in black and white. And she had been amazing. Lucy was right. He had forgotten what a formidable business brain Caroline had, a brain that had become almost vestigial over the past few years. But she had gone through the figures with a keen eye.
‘It’s perfectly obvious,’ she said. ‘All we need to do is downsize. Get rid of this ridiculously huge house. We don’t need a library and a garden room and an orchard and six bedrooms and an in-and-out drive.’
James opened his mouth to protest and she clamped her hand over it.
‘We can keep it if you want to ruin us, and our marriage. But look - the house has gone up a hundred grand even since we bought it. If we sell this and buy a perfectly ordinary four-bedroom house with a nice big garden, we can shave two hundred thousand off our borrowings. That’s a lot of tables and chairs you don’t have to sell.’
James sighed. He couldn’t argue with the maths. Caroline had opened the local paper and proceeded to put a red ring around half a dozen suitable properties. By the end of the week, Lyttleton House was on the market and they had been to view three smaller houses, none of which were as bad as James imagined.
Caroline, meanwhile, had never mentioned the diamond debacle. There was just no way of telling the story that didn’t make her look guilty
, and James wouldn’t find it remotely funny. Least said, soonest mended, she had decided. But the episode had helped her regain her confidence. And now, as she lined the little ones up by the door ready to troop them out to the car, she looked over at James. He might be irritatingly anal and superior and sexist at times, but he was still a handsome bugger.
‘Do you remember the day we got married?’ she asked huskily.
James looked at her. ‘Of course I do.’
‘I’ve got my wedding knickers on.’
James gave a slow smile. He slid a hand up her thigh and underneath her dress. ‘So you have.’
He put his arms round her waist. Instead of stiffening and trying to extricate herself from his grasp, she relaxed against him, nuzzling his neck.
‘Do you think it would matter awfully if we were late?’ asked James.
‘Given that you’re an usher and Connie’s a bridesmaid, I think we would be toast,’ Caroline replied, reluctantly peeling herself away.
Mayday was ushering the last of the drinkers through from the bar into the dining room for Saturday lunch when Patrick walked in.
He looked . . . perfect. Like the most dashing English gentleman on his wedding day, his hair dark, the rose in his buttonhole just starting to open.
She couldn’t face him. She went to run from the room, feeling like a foolish schoolgirl. But it was too late. He had seen her. He gave her a sheepish grin, as if to say what a prat he was to come in dressed as he was.
‘I was early,’ he said. ‘So I thought I’d come in for a drink.’
‘You’ve come to the right place, then.’ Mayday managed a smile despite her heavy heart. ‘Champagne?’
He shook his head. ‘Just a Bloody Mary. I’ve got to drive to the church. And I don’t want to slur my words.’
Mayday made him his drink, unable to think what to say. She’d never been tongue-tied.
‘You are coming to the evening do?’ he asked anxiously.
She nodded. She’d been invited, like all Honeycote Ales employees. There was no point in saying she wouldn’t be there.
‘It’s . . . a lovely day for a wedding,’ she finally managed to offer.
Patrick drank down his drink, then put it carefully down on the bar. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, and held out his arms for her to hug him.
As they embraced, Mayday shut her eyes tight, almost unable to bear the sensation of Patrick’s warmth on her body. She wanted to scream at him, ‘Don’t leave me!’ She wanted to claim him as rightfully hers. But the miracle hadn’t happened. He hadn’t seen beyond the relationship they’d always had, even though she’d thrown him enough clues.
Suddenly, she pushed him away. ‘You’re going to be late.’ Her voice was tight with tears.
‘I guess you’re right.’ He let her go, reluctantly. She turned away so he couldn’t see how hard she was trying not to cry. She went over to her handbag, rummaged in it for a moment while she gathered herself, then turned to him with a bright smile.
‘Here’s your wedding present.’ She proffered a small package, wrapped in dark purple tissue paper tied with a violet ribbon. He went to open it, but she stopped him. ‘Don’t open it now. Open it later. When you’re on your own. Just you.’
She was very insistent. Patrick looked at her warily. Knowing Mayday it was probably a couple of grams of coke. Best not opened in front of Mandy. He grinned and stuck it in his pocket.
‘What is it? A gold-plated cock ring?’
Mayday pushed him gently. ‘Go on. Bugger off and get married. See you around.’
She watched him go. So this was how it felt when your heart broke. It did hurt. A horrible, gnawing, grinding pain right at the very core of you. She wondered if it would ever heal, or if she would feel like that for ever.
The little church at Honeycote was bursting at the seams. Toned buttocks vied with broader beams for space on the slippery wood of the pews. Shafts of golden sunlight pierced the stained-glass windows, shining on the congregation. The organist, confident now she was in her stride, shifted her repertoire up a gear. Usually the service was over before she’d even had a chance to warm up, so she was taking advantage of the opportunity to demonstrate her musical prowess.
Every alternate Sunday, the stone walls were host to nothing more exciting than dull tweeds and gabardine. Today, the church was crammed with a veritable rainbow of colours in every imaginable stuff - silk, chiffon, velvet, linen and lace. Hats, it seemed, were back with a vengeance, from straw cartwheels trimmed with fruit to ostrich-feather headdresses to dainty pillboxes. And the scent! Most of the seven deadly sins were represented, and several more weaknesses besides - Envy and Obsession and Passion mingled with the woodier base notes of the men’s cologne.
In the front row, Lucy thought back to the day she had walked into this church, more than twenty years ago. She and Mickey had decided to get married at Honeycote rather than at her parents’, because all their friends were nearby. Most of those friends were here again today, together with the next generation. And she thought she probably still loved Mickey as much as the day she married him. She had never regretted their marriage for a moment, despite the ups and downs. She’d seen Kay enter the church, together with Flora, and had given her a smile. Lucy could afford to be magnanimous. After all, she was sitting at the front with her husband while Kay slipped unobtrusively into a pew near the back.
Everyone was seated now. The initial cocktail party atmosphere had settled, the ritual two-cheek kisses and squeals of recognition over for the time being, although guests were still peering over their shoulders to see who had come in behind, wiggling their fingers surreptitiously in greeting. And raising eyebrows. Shrugging shoulders, as if to say, ‘I don’t know what’s going on. Do you?’
Lucy nudged Mickey and frowned.
‘Where is he?’ she whispered.
Mickey shrugged. ‘He’ll be here in a minute. Don’t worry.’
Lucy felt the tiniest flash of irritation. Everyone had been slaving away to make sure everything was perfect. She would have thought Patrick could have bothered to turn up on time.
Patrick couldn’t resist pulling over to see what Mayday’s present was. He had a feeling he would have to hide it, whatever it was. So he stopped at the top of Poacher’s Hill, into the very lay-by where he had proposed to Mandy what seemed like a lifetime ago. He hastily undid the ribbon and unwrapped the tissue.
It was an iPod. Black, of course. Mayday wouldn’t have chosen any other colour. There was a little silver plaque on the back, on which a single word was inscribed. ‘Listen’.
Intrigued, Patrick put the headphones in his ears and pressed play. He expected something heavy and hard - some guitar-based thrash metal, some crazy anthem redolent of the mad times they had shared together over the years. But no. It was a tinkling piano and the minimal thrum of a double bass that he heard. The sweet notes of the intro to a song he thought he recognized. He frowned, listening, as a coffee-rich voice began to sing. It was Roberta Flack, singing ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.’
Patrick was puzzled. This was so un-Mayday. He couldn’t imagine her giving a sentimental ballad like this airplay. The melody, the lyrics and the production were all designed to tug at the heart-strings and bring tears to the eyes, as the singer poured out her feelings, declaring her love, her passion, the impact of the first time she met her lover.
Then, as he continued to listen, a slow realization dawned on him. This was a message. Mayday was telling him that she loved him. That she always had, from the first day they met. From the first time they had lain together, if he was to believe the song. From the first time she’d ever seen his face.
Bloody hell, thought Patrick. Mayday loved him.
In the front row, Sandra took a deep breath in, thanking God she had dropped two diazepam with her lunch. She’d chosen to wear a cream tweed coat dress, woven through with metallic threads, picking out the bronze for her accessories - St Laurent courts and a matching clutch. Whi
ch she was now clutching, knuckles white with anxiety. This eventuality hadn’t been in her list of possible disasters. She had contingency plans for every technical hitch and natural disaster, but this hadn’t occurred to her in her wildest nightmare.
Ned was bewildered. He’d called Patrick first thing that morning, just to check he was OK and see if he needed anything. His friend had seemed perfectly fine. Calm, but then Patrick always was calm. He exchanged worried glances with Bertie and James, who were also ushers, whilst trying not to cause alarm. The organist ploughed valiantly on, drowning out the rustle of hymn sheets and the occasional cough.
The vicar remained unruffled. It was par for the course, and he was in no hurry. Honeycote was a quiet parish; this was the first wedding he had presided over this year and he was determined to enjoy it. He was particularly looking forward to the reception - he’d been asked back to Honeycote House afterwards, and the Liddiard hospitality was famous. And he was partial to a pint or two of Honeycote Ale, which was bound to be on tap, even if there were rumours abounding that the Liddiards were as good as bankrupt - again! - and the brewery was about to be sold off. Patrick would tip up any minute, he was sure.
Ten minutes later, even the vicar was starting to have doubts. Twenty minutes was the longest he’d ever been kept waiting. The church clock struck the half hour solemnly. As if anyone needed reminding of the time - the invitation had stated two o’clock quite clearly.
Outside the church, Mandy’s fingers tightened around her bouquet. Keith gave her arm a kindly pat, trying to reassure her. She wasn’t the hysterical type, but it would be hard not to feel a little disconcerted. After all, it was the bride’s prerogative to be late for the wedding, not the groom’s.
Just a Family Affair Page 38
