Honeycote

by Veronica Henry

  Cowley knew there was trouble by the nonchalant way Mickey kept assuring him there wasn’t. His confident smile, the airy wave of the hand, his pseudo-exasperated references to late-payers all pointed to what Cowley thought of as the reverse ostrich syndrome – trying to stick his head in the sand. But anyone who thought they could fool Cowley had got him all wrong. His slow, deliberate manner and seemingly cautious way of thinking did not mean he could not spot trouble on the horizon. What he needed to establish today was whether Mickey’s own head was in the sand, too – whether he knew the extent of his problems or if they were going to run away with him. Cowley was very good at shutting the barn door before the horse bolted.

  Getting Mickey to come clean on their first meeting would be well nigh impossible, but at least Cowley would be able to start putting the pressure on gently by reassuring him that the bank would be there for Honeycote Ales as long as he played by their rules. Any funny business these days and the rug was pulled out, no questions asked. Meanwhile, he’d worked out two solutions to the brewery’s problems, neither of which Mickey would like.

  He broached the first and less controversial over a mediocre cup of coffee, which he was interested to see Mickey did not touch. Was it really that disgusting, or was the hangover from which he was obviously suffering so bad that liquid intake was not yet possible? Cowley felt in a stronger position immediately and plunged straight in.

  ‘Why don’t you sell off one of your tied houses? It would give you a cash injection, which you obviously badly need, and a bit left over for general improvements. Some considered investment…’

  Mickey looked at him as if he had suggested selling one of his own children. ‘This is just a temporary cash flow problem – ’

  Cowley smiled, and Mickey was startled to notice a wintry chill in his eyes. The placebo was having no effect.

  ‘I think you should consider it.’

  He wasn’t to know Mickey had been agonizing over this very possibility for weeks, and had finally concluded it was out of the question. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  ‘And in the meantime, can I assume you won’t be drawing any more cheques on your account until we see something paid in?’

  Fuck. What about the wages? And the next consignment of barley? It suddenly occurred to Mickey that the colourless, docile chap he’d dragged round the brewery so many times and stuffed to the gills in the Horse and Groom was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it and smiled.

  ‘I’m expecting something in the next couple of days.’

  Cowley smiled. His lips were thin and liver-coloured, too dark for his pale, papery skin. Mickey badly wanted to escape. And have a proper drink. Not coffee that smelled like gravy browning. But Cowley was shuffling through his file in a manner that didn’t seem conclusive. He spread his hands out carefully on the table and hit Mickey with his second proposition.

  ‘I think you should also consider appointing a proper sales manager. Beef up your off-sales instead of relying on your tied trade.’

  Mickey knew there was sense in the suggestion.

  ‘Maybe Patrick – ’

  Cowley thought he’d nip that suggestion in the bud while he could.

  ‘Patrick’s too young and green – he could do more harm than good. Someone with experience could improve things dramatically. Leave Patrick to do whatever it is he’s best at.’ Cowley made this sound as if he didn’t think that was a fat lot. ‘You need to get a real salesman in – someone hungry and aggressive.’

  Someone who didn’t spend half their time poncing about in a sports car chatting up women. Cowley had seen Patrick speeding through Eldenbury on several occasions with a girl in the front seat, clearly not on brewery business even though he was drawing a salary.

  ‘A shark, you mean?’ Mickey’s reaction was just what Cowley expected.

  ‘That’s the way it needs to be these days.’

  Mickey looked at Cowley and thought he looked a little shark-like himself: cold eyes, sharp teeth.

  ‘We’ve never employed aggressive sales tactics.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should.’

  The tone was mild but it was a statement rather than a question. Mickey shifted uncomfortably. A tot from his hip-flask wouldn’t really be appropriate at this point, tempting though the thought was.

  ‘I don’t know that we can support another salary.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should look at how you’re staffed.’

  There was a deadly silence. Cowley’s training meant that Mickey broke it first.

  ‘You’re saying get rid of Patrick.’

  ‘It’s all very well keeping things in the family, but you should ask yourself how useful Patrick really is to you. Is it worth the whole company going down the drain just to keep him in beer money – if you’ll forgive the play on words. I mean, what does he actually do for his twenty grand a year? Not a lot, as far as I can see.’ Cowley allowed himself another little smile. Mickey was starting to find them unnerving. Was Cowley merely chuffed by his little attempt at wit, or was he enjoying the situation? He rather suspected the latter. ‘Believe me, there’ll be plenty of people waiting in the wings if you don’t pull your finger out.’

  If Mickey hadn’t been on the end of this ruthless appraisal he would have been speechless with admiration. For years Cowley had struck him as someone who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Now here he was, sharpening the knife and preparing to stick it in as far as it would go. Mickey didn’t mind betting he’d got a buyer up his sleeve already. He wondered if he was in for a cut as well, but figured Cowley was probably relying on his imminent pension too much to risk insider dealing. He decided to call his bluff.

  ‘Really? Have you got a particular buyer in mind?’ He was pleased to see Cowley look startled. He thought he’d make him squirm a bit more. ‘I mean, I know we’re over our limit a bit at the moment, but the brewery’s not actually yours to sell yet, is it?’

  Mickey knew he was pulling rank as one of the bank’s oldest and most valued customers, but he hadn’t appreciated this meeting one bit. Cowley’s tone had verged on blackmail. He expected an immediate and profuse apology, and was perturbed to see Cowley looking at him with puzzlement and pity.

  ‘Mr Liddiard’ – he’d never called him that before – ‘are you actually aware of the extent of your debt to the bank at the moment?’

  Later, Cowley felt sorry that Mickey had seemed to take everything so personally. It was his job on the line, after all. And at the moment Honeycote Ales had the biggest unauthorized overdraft in the county.

  By midday, Mickey and the girls had reached the middle of Cheltenham, parked satisfactorily and reached the haven of the town’s biggest department store. He’d raided the petty cash tin and given Sophie and Georgina fifty pounds each to buy an outfit for the party. He felt guilty, as he knew this wasn’t really enough, and there was nothing he’d have loved more than to have given them carte blanche, but he couldn’t. He’d also felt embarrassed handing them cash in front of Mandy, feeling it beyond the bounds of hospitality to fork out for her, but she’d mollified him by flashing a credit card. He agreed to meet them an hour later in a nearby pizza parlour. As soon as they were out of sight he bolted for the basement where the payphones were secreted. What with the bank manager, and Lucy, unusually for her, being at home all morning, he hadn’t had a chance to call Kay. At times Mickey wished he had succumbed to a mobile phone, but the inconvenience of being permanently contactable outweighed his occasional desperation for telecommunication. He scrabbled in his pocket for change, dialled Kay’s number and leaned against the wall for moral support. There was no reply.

  Mickey threw the phone back on to the receiver in disgust. Why did people have mobile phones if they didn’t bother to answer them? He walked back to the lift, gloomily wondering how the hell he was going to pay for lunch. Cowley had been pretty explicit about what would happen if he wrote another cheque. In the lift was a sign for the immi
nent arrival of Santa in his grotto. How simple it would be if he could send a note up the chimney asking for a hundred thousand pounds. Mickey sighed and lit a cigarette, earning a glare from a middle-aged lady next to him. He debated taking the lift to the top floor and ending it all, but instead he got out on the third floor and headed for Ladies Lingerie. Guilt always made him generous. That was one of his better faults.

  In the office at Barton Court garden centre, Kay had ignored her phone. The number that flashed up was one she didn’t recognize. Her husband Lawrence frowned.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

  ‘It’s bound to be one of the reps from the exhibition. They’re obsessed with follow-up calls. Let them wait.’

  Lawrence smiled. That was one of the things he loved best about his wife. She was a tough cookie.

  ‘How about lunch somewhere?’

  It had been one of the busiest weeks of the year for the garden centre, and Lawrence had been working practically round the clock. Although he was good at delegating, he was also a control freak. As he rarely relaxed himself, he didn’t see why anyone else should, so he always kept his staff on their toes, never let them become complacent. But today he fancied taking Kay somewhere to celebrate. He’d printed out the figures for the past two weeks that morning and their turnover was up by an astonishing percentage. If he and Kay couldn’t take time out to congratulate themselves, then what was the point?

  ‘We could go into Cheltenham. Stop off at Sampson’s.’

  Sampson’s was their favourite jeweller. Lawrence always liked Kay to choose her own Christmas present – he’d never seen the point in expensive surprises that might need to be changed. He believed in getting things right first time.

  Kay looked at him, surprised. Lawrence wasn’t given to spontaneous gestures. She wondered how to extricate herself without rousing his suspicions or offending him.

  ‘It’s a lovely idea. But I’ve got to go and supervise the tree decorations at Elmhurst Grange. I had to send over two girls who haven’t got much of a clue…’

  ‘No, you’re right. Don’t want to muck that one up.’

  Lawrence had been delighted with his wife’s ability to sweet talk Lord Elmhurst into thinking he needed a twenty-foot bespoke Christmas tree in his baronial entrance hall. And he knew Kay would oversee it with good taste. She always seemed to know what was right. And with any luck, Lord Elmhurst would be impressed. Lawrence hoped he might get a day’s shooting out of it one day. He had a secret desire to hobnob with the local gentry.

  Kay came over and ran a teasing finger down the inside of his lapel.

  ‘Maybe tomorrow?’

  She dropped a kiss on his cheek and picked up her bag.

  ‘I’ve got to run, or I’ll be late.’

  She hurried out to her car. She should just have time to nip to Elmhurst Grange and check that the tree was being dressed to her liking before meeting Mickey. She’d call in again on the way home to approve the final work of art, then do Lawrence his favourite supper. She’d seen a fleeting look of disappointment on his face when she’d turned down his invitation, and for the first time she felt a stab of guilt as she drove off to meet her lover.

  In the Young Designer section, Sophie was feeling rising panic. The thought of the dance the next night filled her with a mixture of excitement and dread that made her stomach churn, exacerbated by her present dilemma: what to wear?

  This crisis had not been helped by the speed at which Georgina had homed in on a moss-coloured dress with fishnet sleeves and a hood. As soon as her sister had made this choice, Sophie became agonizingly convinced that the green dress was the one item in the entire shop that might have remotely suited her. Now she felt tears of desperation well up in her eyes as she searched frantically through the racks. Her hand was hovering over the hanger of a long, crinkly black skirt and top with beading round the neck. It would certainly hide a multitude of sins. She was just holding it up to herself to check the length when a very definite voice sounded in her ear.

  ‘Not unless you want people to think you’re telling fortunes. You’ll look like a pregnant gypsy. Besides, ethnic is so out.’

  It was Mandy, holding a carrier bag that indicated she’d also made her choice. Sophie burst into tears.

  ‘I’m too fat for anything else!’

  ‘Rubbish. You’ve got a fantastic figure.’

  Sophie stopped in mid howl, astonished. She’d always felt so self-conscious next to Mandy, who was as streamlined as a greyhound.

  ‘Me? What about you – you can wear anything you want.’

  Mandy shook her head. ‘I’m as flat as a pancake, I’ve got knobbly knees and arms like coat-hangers. Whereas you – ’

  ‘I’m a big fat lump.’

  ‘You’ve got curves! You go in and out in all the right places. You should make the most of it, instead of trying to hide behind those baggy clothes all the time.’

  This was true. Sophie felt envious of all her friends, who strutted round in the dinkiest, tightest outfits possible, while she hid behind capacious sweatshirts. She just wasn’t a crop top sort of a person. But here was Mandy, who could get away with something cunningly fashioned out of a man’s handkerchief, telling her otherwise.

  ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it. OK, so maybe hot pants and a halter neck aren’t quite the thing, but if you got a really glamorous outfit, a Hollywood starlet dress… Think Kate Winslet. Everyone knows she’s a total goddess. No one goes for the half-starved look any more.’ Mandy darted off and started ransacking the rails. Sophie followed, unsure, as the feverish search ensued. Floor-length, thigh-length, knee-length, mid calf, silk, Lycra, sequins, chiffon, sleeveless, backless, strapless: all were rejected before Mandy finally came to rest in front of a red velvet creation with a boned bodice. Sophie looked horrified. It would cling to all her lumps and bumps.

  ‘Not with the right undies,’ Mandy assured her. She held the dress up against Sophie and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Pull-you-in knickers and a push-you-up bra. And we’ll get some fake tan.’ Sophie gulped, and felt a surge of excitement. Mandy grinned.

  ‘Let me make you over. It’ll be cool. You won’t recognize yourself.’

  Sophie looked at the dress again, wanting to feel as sure as Mandy. Just as she felt nearly convinced, she flipped over the price tag and her heart sank. It was more than double what her father had given her.

  ‘I can’t afford it,’ she said flatly.

  Mandy tossed the dress over her arm and marched to the nearest cash desk. ‘I’ll pay for it. As a thank you for having me. You’ll need your dad’s money for accessories. And make-up.’ She peered at Sophie. ‘Have you got any make-up?’

  ‘I’ve got some mascara. And some spot cover.’

  Mandy passed her credit card over to the sales assistant and turned decisively back to Sophie.

  ‘Make-up first. Then accessories. Then lingerie.’

  Mickey had remembered that this particular shop didn’t bother to check on your credit card limit if you spent under a certain amount, and so came out of lingerie with a pair of cream satin pyjamas for Lucy. To have bought anything more suggestive would have been crass and, moreover, suspicious. Besides, Lucy wasn’t an expensive underwear sort of person. She looked utterly sexy in whatever she wore, whether it was her own Marks & Sparks briefs, Sophie’s old gym knickers or, when she was behind with the washing, Patrick’s beloved Calvin Klein boxer shorts. It wasn’t that she didn’t like clothes, but she reasoned that if it didn’t show it didn’t matter, and would rather spend the money on vet bills or shoeing the horses.

  Satin pyjamas were indulgent but sufficiently utilitarian to please her. On Sundays, the one day that she didn’t get up at dawn to exercise one or another horse (a couple of girls from the village were more than happy to do it), Lucy loved pottering about for hours without getting dressed, especially after one of their infamous parties. They always had chilli con carne and lemon meringue pie followed by dancing on the flagston
es in the huge entrance hall, where it didn’t matter if the gallons of red wine being drunk got spilled. Lucy had an admirable quality that eluded many women: she was able to leave the clearing-up for a time when she felt equipped to cope with it. No two a.m. skirmishes with the Marigolds, no manic dawn raid with half a gallon of Fairy Liquid and a J-cloth. She was quite happy leaving the detritus festering in the kitchen while she sat curled up in the window seat rehydrating with orange juice and watching snowdrops or daffodils or honeysuckle, depending on the season, nod in the breeze. And Mickey thought cream satin pyjamas would be just the thing to do that in.

  Not for the first time, and not for the last, he asked himself why it was he was treating Lucy so appallingly. Not that she knew. Or, if she did, she hid it beautifully, adding yet another qualification to her status as the perfect wife. Why the hell was he jeopardizing their marriage? Any man would jump at the chance of a lifetime with Lucy. She was pretty, sexy, funny, good-natured, self-motivated, a brilliant mother, could whip up a feast for fourteen at short notice without complaining and didn’t whine if something needed fixing – she either fixed it herself, got someone in to do it or put up with it. Even the aspects of her personality that could, at a stretch, be considered faults were the quirks and eccentricities that made her human. She was untidy, but never sluttish, and her untidiness merely added to the chaotic charm she left in her wake. She was scatty, forgetful and often late, working on a different set of priorities to most people, but she never forgot anything really important. And she was hopeless with money. Not extravagant, but just completely unaware of how much things cost and how much she’d spent. Mickey was grateful for this particular failing. Whilst he was only too aware of the state of their bank balance, he could be sure Lucy would be in blissful ignorance. And just to make sure, their statements always went to the brewery. Shit – he’d better make sure they were well hidden. Patrick was definitely suspicious. What of, he couldn’t be sure, but he’d better not leave any evidence lying around.