Mickey sighed. He was guilty of too much. And he was tired: tired of trying to hide all the time and tired of trying to justify his actions to himself.
His favourite platitude – used by men to excuse themselves and by women to console themselves – was that what he was doing with his dick had nothing to do with what he felt in his heart or in his head. He loved Lucy, undividedly and unashamedly. And he certainly didn’t love Kay – sometimes he thought he didn’t even like her. But when she lay there, the insides of her thighs milky white, parted like her crimson lips, desperate in her need for him –
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps that was why he felt driven to behave this way: he needed to be needed. For Lucy, adored, respected and protected by everyone around her, didn’t really need him…
At once, Mickey felt cheered that he might have found himself an excuse. He cemented it by remembering the two previous times he’d been unfaithful to Lucy. When she’d fallen pregnant with Sophie, she’d been so dreadfully ill, not just for the first three months but all the way through, violently retching if she’d taken so much as a sip of water or eaten so much as a crumb. Eventually she’d been hospitalized and put on a drip. Mickey had been frantic, had hardly left her side, convinced that this skeletal figure with its obscenely swollen belly could not survive. The doctor, misjudging his concern, constantly reassured him that the baby was not suffering, that it was living off Lucy’s reserves, but Mickey didn’t care about the baby. He spent hours at her bedside, holding her hand: her bones showed through as white and brittle as spillikins. Horrified by what he had done to her, and charged by her need for his constant reassurance, all thoughts of sexual activity had left him.
When Sophie had finally been born he had been amazed that such a bonny creature could emerge from Lucy’s etiolated remains. He’d been staggered, too, that Lucy could take so lovingly and warmly to the parasite that had caused her such suffering. She’d even insisted on feeding the baby herself. Mickey had tried to put his foot down, but as Lucy pointed out, now she was no longer pregnant she could keep food down, was putting on weight already, and she wanted to give her baby the best start in life. So intense was the bond between mother and baby that Mickey had suddenly felt an outsider. They didn’t need him; he’d done his bit.
A few weeks later, he’d bumped into a nurse from the hospital – he remembered her bringing him cups of coffee and packets of biscuits throughout his bedside vigil. Now he was no longer preoccupied, he realized how pretty she was. The consequences were sadly predictable.
When Lucy fell pregnant with Georgina less than a year later, they’d had one of their very few rows. Mickey had been aghast at the thought of Lucy being pregnant again – there was no real need; they had Patrick and Sophie. But Lucy had insisted that no two pregnancies were the same, it wouldn’t be like before and anyway it was too late – and she certainly wasn’t having an abortion.
It was the same; possibly even worse. Mickey had been all things to all people throughout the nine months: mother, father, husband, cook, nursemaid, nanny and housekeeper. Never before had so many been so dependent on him. But once Georgina was born, it was all over. He felt dismissed. When Patrick had politely refused the offer of a bedtime story from Mickey – Lucy did the voices so much better – he had slunk off to the Honeycote Arms and found solace in whisky and the barmaid.
Eventually, of course, he’d come to his senses, and he and Lucy settled into family life. For the next ten or so years they’d lived in contented happiness, bringing up the three children in Lucy’s special brand of organized chaos. Until Georgina’s formidable talents on the lacrosse pitch and netball court had awarded her a scholarship to Redfields. It seemed only fair that Sophie should go too, and Mickey was relieved to have found them both a place at a decent day school – he shuddered to think of boarding fees.
Nowadays, though, with prep and after-school activities, the girls were rarely home before seven and had to go to school on Saturday mornings, which meant the house was quiet most of the week. And with Patrick hardly a child and seemingly nocturnal, and Lucy totally absorbed in her horses, Mickey felt somewhat superfluous to requirements. It was no wonder he’d found himself at a dangerously loose end.
Chuffed with himself for pinpointing the explanation, Mickey made his way out of the store into the streets of Cheltenham and mulled over the implications. His pleasure was short-lived. By the time he had found the pizza parlour, he was in the depths of despair. It was no good. It wasn’t Lucy’s perfection that made him behave like a total shit and take up with someone like Kay, who was probably the world’s worst wife, would undoubtedly be the world’s worst mother if she ever made the sacrifice to become one and was certainly in the running as world’s worst mistress, with her constant demands for flattery, attention and, very tiringly, sex. Sadly, he had to conclude that much as he might try to twist Lucy’s blameless existence into some Freudian explanation for his shocking behaviour, it was basically down to his own spineless, weak-willed, lily-livered (and he certainly would be lily-livered if he carried on drinking the way he was) and utterly unforgivable selfishness. Excusing himself on the grounds that he had to feel needed was monstrously egotistical: no jury would sympathize with that defence. He was as guilty as sin.
Mickey was tired of all the thoughts whirling round his head and the tarnished images of himself that his mind tauntingly conjured up. There was only one way to stop his conscience pricking. He ordered a carafe of house red. If it was real gut-rot, perhaps he might not drink too much of it.
Wishful thinking. By the time the girls arrived, in a flurry of carrier bags, he’d ordered another half-carafe, making sure the waitress took away the empty one. At least a half looked better. He wasn’t sure how aware teenage girls were of parental drinking habits, but he preferred them to think he’d only just started.
‘Successful shopping?’
‘Brilliant.’
‘What did you get, dad?’
Before he could stop her, Georgina was inside the bag.
‘Wowee, sexy. Satin jimjams.’ She held them up against her. ‘Who for?’
‘Your mother, of course.’ Did he sound defensive? ‘And don’t go poking around in shopping bags just before Christmas.’
Not that he could afford to buy them anything else. The dresses would have to be their main present. He’d run that one past them later. In the meantime, he had a more pressing problem. Kay. She’d be furious he hadn’t gone to meet her. Perhaps he could give her the pyjamas as a peace-offering? No. A gift would only be misconstrued as an admission of guilt and Mickey needed all the weapons he could get at this stage of the game.
Game? Could it really be called that? Games were fun, harmless, inconsequential, forgettable. He supposed that was how it had started…
From an early age, Kay had known that the one thing she wanted out of life was a wealthy husband. She was unashamedly materialistic and saw nothing wrong with wanting nice things. Of course, the message being preached these days was that a girl could get whatever she wanted for herself. And Kay was bright: her careers adviser was pushing her towards university. Yet she had not a shred of personal ambition in her body. She’d read about fifteen-hour working days, seven-day working weeks, office politics, sexual harassment – all the things that successful women seemed to suffer in order to get on. But Kay couldn’t see the point of slogging your guts out to get what you wanted when you could marry and have it on a plate in return for having supper on the table. Surely that was one of the benefits of being a female? Why did the magazines waste ink persuading you otherwise?
Initially, however, she would have to work whether she liked it or not. She needed money and contacts to put her plan into action, as a suitable husband was unlikely to find himself wandering up the dull, tree-lined street on the outskirts of Slough where she lived with her parents. Her father had his own butchery business, successful enough to have moved his family from the flat over the shop into a nice three-bedroomed semi, and he
was proud of his pretty daughter, even her over-sharp tongue, which he put down to her cleverness. Kay had always had him wrapped around her finger, and at sixteen she wangled fees out of him for a smart London secretarial college and left school, ignoring her teachers’ wails of protest. Her mother once dared to point out mildly that they did office skills at the local tech; Kay didn’t think that even merited a response.
She got up at half past five every morning to get a complicated timetable of buses into Kensington. By careful observation of the other students, she had soon assumed an utterly convincing county mantle. She pushed her shoulder-length blonde hair back into an Alice band, bought the best imitation pearls she could find and trawled charity shops for navy cashmere. When all twinges of Slough had been eradicated from her accent, the transformation was complete. By studious application, she also emerged with breathtaking shorthand and typing speeds and so it was not surprising when she very quickly landed herself a job as a receptionist at an upmarket estate agent in Windsor.
Her skill at assessing clients’ needs was soon apparent, and before six months were up she was made a junior negotiator. Kay was delighted – not to find herself up a rung on the career ladder, but because there could be no better way to trap a wealthy husband than to show him around desirable residences, of which they had many on their books.
Now she had a salary, albeit a fairly basic one, Kay was able to embellish her image as the potentially perfect wife. Aided and abetted by the several pounds of glossy magazines that landed on her doormat each month, she assessed the right amount of highlights (just enough blonde to look natural, rigorously maintained every four weeks to avoid any hint of root), learned the power of artfully combining a few basic designer items with classic M&S and signed up for lessons in cookery, riding and driving, at which she was diabolical, fearless and lethal respectively. After passing her test first time, she bought herself a little convertible Golf GTI. She would have preferred a BMW, but the Golf provided maximum effect for minimum expenditure. It was classic and classy, and – if the James Bond movies were to be believed – there was no greater turn-on for a man than a leather-gloved blonde expertly handling a sports car. She perfected turning up at appointments just in the nick of time, screeching to a halt and sending fountains of gravel flying, then coolly emerging, one hand outstretched, the other clutching her second most expensive investment, a Mulberry briefcase.
She had several false starts in the great husband hunt. One already married candidate strung her along for nearly a year, assuring her divorce was imminent, until she laid down an ultimatum, upon which he promptly disappeared. Another time she came dangerously close, having even been for a wedding dress fitting in Beauchamp Place, when she discovered her intended was verging on bankruptcy and was marrying her in the misguided hope she’d get him out of it. Kay emerged unscathed, unmarried and secretly delighted that her disguise as a well-bred young county gel with a rich daddy was so convincing. Yet another turned out to be nastily violent when drunk and, skilled as Kay was with her make-up, the risk of a fractured jaw or a broken nose eventually outweighed the lure of the drunkard’s bank balance.
At thirty, horror of horrors, Kay had found herself a senior negotiator with her own secretary. She had a naturally shrewd and businesslike mind which made her drive a ruthless bargain, resulting in a sheaf of successful sales as the property market began to recover once again. Thus she found herself in the very position she had always eschewed: successful career girl – no, woman – whose working life threatened to take over, with no hint of a husband in sight.
Then one day a curt male voice on the telephone demanded to be shown round a particular Thameside property immediately. Intrigued by his assertiveness – Kay admired people who knew how to get their own way – she agreed to meet him in ten minutes. The house was one she coveted herself: newly built on an old site, it was equipped with every modern luxury but retained the charms of a mature garden, an old boathouse and magnificent terraces leading down to the river, where she could fondly imagine herself entertaining.
As she drove in through the electronically operated gates, and saw Lawrence Oakley standing proprietorially by the balustrades of the patio, looking across the gardens to the Thames glinting in the distance, she knew instinctively that this was her man, that he was neither married, bankrupt, drunken or violent, and that he would be unable to resist her charms. Once she’d decided to unleash them. His premier impression was to be that of a successful businesswoman. If she was to marry and be kept by him, it was important that he should always know what she was capable of; that she was perfectly able to look after herself; that she wasn’t some brainless Home Counties totty.
She shook him coolly by the hand, then led him round the property in a matter-of-fact manner, no gushing hyperbole, no unctuous grovelling, as she knew this was a man who could make up his own mind. When, at the end of the tour, Lawrence offered fifty grand less than the asking price, cash, yes or no by this time tomorrow, Kay gulped inwardly, knowing the vendors would jump at the offer, then smiled and said asking price or nothing and he could contact her at the office if he wanted to up his offer.
Later that afternoon, against his better judgement but intrigued, Lawrence went in and upped his offer by thirty thousand. Split the difference, said Kay, and you can have the keys next week.
Lawrence took her out for a drink to celebrate the deal and offered her a job on the spot. She took it.
He was a builder, or property developer, as he preferred to be called, and she was to negotiate the sales of twenty-five executive homes in a labyrinth of cul-de-sacs. In six weeks, she’d sold eighteen of them and had a pretty good idea of the sort of profit that was sitting in Lawrence’s pocket. A lot. She’d also ascertained, via snippets of gossip from his secretary, that he had a selection of pretty, interchangeable girlfriends whom he took to social functions and otherwise ignored. Things were boding well.
Lawrence wasn’t altogether attractive. Kay guessed he was thirty-five, but he looked forty. He had tight reddish-blond curls that were starting to thin, a pale, freckled complexion that flushed suddenly red when he was exerted, exalted or angry, and yellowing teeth with one ostentatiously gold crown. He was tall but with stick-thin legs and narrow shoulders that no amount of expensive tailoring could make imposing. Yet what he lacked in looks and stature he made up for in force of personality. Lawrence was driven and driving, motivated and motivating, energetic and energizing. One meeting with him and even the strong-minded Kay found herself wanting to sell the world on his behalf, despite knowing her cut would be minimal, for he had the knack of making people want to do things for him. It wasn’t charm, for he was singularly lacking in that. But he could paint a picture of an irresistible future that one instinctively wanted to be a part of.
When Kay sold the very last house, he took her out to dinner. Until now, she’d kept him very much at arm’s length. She knew he was impressed by her businesslike demeanour, her cool professionalism, but she’d performed as something of an automaton, never giving him a glimpse of the woman underneath the designer suits she could now afford to wear. But after three months of intensive research, Kay was entirely satisfied that he was the man for her. It was time for the armour to come off.
She chose her outfit carefully, for he was to witness a theatrical unveiling, and her costume would be instrumental to the effect. Over the softest, satin underwear and sheer stockings, she drew a black silk-jersey dress. From the front, it looked perfectly demure: straight-sleeved, slash-necked, it clung softly to just above the knee. But the back was breathtaking, plunging in a spectacular V to the base of her spine, from where a row of tiny covered buttons marched in a straight line down to the hem. It was a dress few people could wear, as only the smallest, tautest, pertest buttocks could do it justice, but Kay knew, from rigorous dieting, that there was not an ounce of spare flesh on her. Over it, to divert suspicion and just in case she bottled out, she wore a black velvet jacket. Her only concession to
colour was a shocking pink chiffon scarf wound carelessly round her neck
Lawrence had chosen a popular waterside restaurant on the Thames, and though it was only early May it was warm enough for them to drink champagne on the terrace. Kay kept her jacket on, suddenly and uncharacteristically nervous, while Lawrence ordered dinner from the waiter without referring to her once. That didn’t bother her; she was hardly a feminist, and besides, she trusted Lawrence’s choice. His money would have taught him what were the finer things in life. She didn’t mind that either. After all, she’d had to learn herself.
The meal was perfect. They had fresh, young spears of asparagus, the first of the season, which Lawrence wolfed, eating all the accompanying brown bread, and Kay savoured appreciatively. Then pretty pink noisettes of lamb with tiny new potatoes, after which Lawrence pushed aside his plate, filled up both their glasses and professed he wanted to talk business. The waiter whisked away their plates and anxiously proffered a dessert menu beautifully handwritten on cream parchment. Lawrence waved it away.
‘Raspberries and cream for the lady. And two glasses of Beaumes de Venise. And we’ll have coffee by the fire.’ He turned to look at Kay. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’
Kay raised an eyebrow playfully and smiled, raising her glass to her lips. It was a tauntingly suggestive move, and she could see it had taken Lawrence slightly by surprise. He outlined his proposal nevertheless.
‘I’ve got five other projects on the go. Two holiday complexes, a school I’ve converted into flats, a small shopping arcade and an estate of luxury starter homes. They’re all due for completion over the next year. I’ve got sales negotiators lined up for each of them, of course. But they’re scattered all over the country and, frankly, I want to spend my time moving on to future projects, not messing about dotting i’s and crossing t’s. I need someone to oversee all the sales, make sure prices and targets are being met…’
Honeycote Page 6
