But he still couldn’t bring himself to say anything to Lucy, because deep down he had a terrible fear that if he did she would never forgive him for shattering her illusions, and might even come to despise him for being the bearer of bad tidings. Thus James heard himself adopting a falsely hearty tone, and hated himself for doing it.
‘I expect it’s business. Everyone’s up against it these days. I’m sure trade’ll pick up now it’s Christmas.’
He smiled reassuringly. Standing there in the gloom of the stable, fiddling with Phoenix’s lead rope, Lucy looked ridiculously young, like some refugee from Pony Club camp in her jodhpurs and polo neck, strands of chestnut hair escaping from her plait. James knew she was far from convinced, but she smiled back at him with a slightly helpless shrug.
‘Oh well, come and have some lunch.’
In the kitchen, over bacon sandwiches and a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio, James suddenly felt grateful for his streak of cowardice. He knew he could never live up to his brother. He’d always known that. That was why, from the very beginning, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with the brewery. It was Mickey who’d been moulded and groomed to take over from their father. Of course, had James wanted a position, there would have been one, but he’d always shied away from anything that allowed him and Mickey to be compared.
The irony of it was, of course, that James would have made a far better managing director than Mickey. He was shrewd, quietly cunning and had an unerring gut instinct for the right time to do things. Just after Mickey had taken over at the helm, James swapped the majority of his shares in the brewery for the freehold of one of the pubs in Eldenbury high street. It had seemed like a fair swap at the time: the pub was surplus to requirements as most of the brewery’s trade was done from the Horse and Groom, and there seemed no point in Honeycote Ales competing with itself at such close proximity. James had converted half the pub into an art gallery, which proved to be a roaring success with the wealthy tourists that flocked to Eldenbury both winter and summer. The other half he’d converted into a house for himself, a painstaking period renovation of a gentleman’s residence that doubled as a showroom for the antiques he was also trading in. Soon he’d acquired enough of a reputation to focus on exporting container-loads of antiques to the States, where he had dealers practically queuing up on the docks to wait for his wares. And now he was wealthy enough to be able to please himself and delegate the running of the gallery, so there was nothing really taking up his time.
But despite his success, despite the wealth that he was waiting to share with someone and despite his elegant town house that was decorated with the ultimate in good taste, he suspected Lucy could never really want him. She belonged here, in the chaotic warmth that was special to Honeycote House, and with Mickey: reckless, dissipated, randy but nevertheless sexy and exciting Mickey, who was all the things that safe, reliable, predictable, good old James wasn’t.
Later, when Mickey came back with Sophie and Georgina and an extraordinary creature with endless legs and a Birmingham accent, James said his hellos and then his goodbyes. He slipped away quietly and made himself a cup of tea in the solitude of his Smallbone kitchen, which never rang with laughter or tears or arguments or debate. He barely ever ate there. Mrs Titcombe, his cleaning lady, scrubbed his state-of-the-art oven once a month even though it was probably never even turned on, in direct contrast to the Aga at Honeycote, which had years of Sunday roasts encrusted upon it. Perhaps he should start cooking for Caroline. Perhaps he could discover a new passion to patch up the empty hole in his life.
Mickey told him time and time again that what he needed was the love of a good woman, but in James’s view Mickey had pinched the only one worth having and he couldn’t summon up any strength of feeling for any other. He considered his relationship with Caroline. She was twenty-nine, flame-haired (Mickey said ginger), feisty (Mickey said aggressive) and striking (Mickey said tarty). It was ironic that Mickey was so staunchly anti-Caroline, that he incessantly asked why James bothered with her when he could probably have any girl he wanted, and had the nerve to refer to her as a tit-flaunting little tart. James privately thought that Mickey was scared of Caroline, who was pretty assertive and, James was certain, enjoyed torturing Mickey by refusing to flirt with him.
Anyway, he didn’t need his brother’s approval. It wasn’t as if he and Caroline were heading for the altar: if James couldn’t have Lucy he didn’t want to marry anyone. And even if the fucks Caroline gave him in return for the money he lavished upon her were heartless and loveless, James had enough experience to know they were good ones. He’d dragged this up in her defence one drunken night when Mickey had attacked him for being taken for a ride, whereupon Mickey had retorted that she’d had enough practice. James had thought that was a bit much coming from him, but could hardly say that in front of Lucy, so he bit his tongue.
James flicked the remains of his tea into the sink and carefully rinsed out his cup, reflecting for the hundred millionth time in his life on what might have been.
Then, as he wiped the cup on the crisp linen tea towel left out by Mrs Titcombe, he allowed himself for one luxurious moment to dwell on what might yet be. Mickey had looked the worst he’d ever seen him and he’d guzzled down the remains of the Pinot Grigio before you could say knife.
Stealing wives might not be part of James’s moral code. But rescuing them wasn’t out of the question. Even if it meant standing by and watching his own brother hang himself.
It was bloody freezing and Patrick shivered under the battered flying jacket he always wore for driving the Austin Healey in winter. He turned up the heater and slid the Stereophonics into the CD player to take his mind off the cold. By the time the car had warmed up he was turning into Barton Court and had to slow down to manoeuvre the speed bumps.
He could never be sure why it was he felt so responsible for his father’s behaviour, and felt such a need to rectify his faults without ever placing the blame firmly at his door. He found it strange that he could both worship and despise Mickey; look up to him and yet at the same time look down. It was almost as if the roles were reversed, with Patrick an indulgent father and Mickey some recidivist toddler whose sins were repeatedly forgiven on account of his charm. Largely, of course, what Mickey got up to was none of Patrick’s business and didn’t affect him in the least. But his misdemeanours of late were becoming an increasing threat on many counts.
Patrick knew the brewery was in big trouble. He knew, because he couldn’t find them, that the bank statements wouldn’t hold good tidings. Bitter remarks from the men who worked round the clock about late payment of wages didn’t go over his head, nor did worried queries from the tenants. And he felt ashamed that he couldn’t meet their eyes and give them reassurance, even though he felt responsible for their welfare, for he had no power and no knowledge. But he was keenly aware that his own father held these people’s futures in the palm of his hand.
Confrontation with Mickey was pointless. The phrase ‘in denial’ could have been coined especially for him. Patrick didn’t know what he could do to halt the decline. He could hardly overrule his father, as he was no great businessman himself and only had a couple of years experience at the brewery. Running to the bank was out of the question, as he couldn’t risk drawing Cowley’s attention to the situation. For the moment, therefore, Patrick had set himself the task of trying to discover the extent of the damage through espionage, and then perhaps going to James for advice. James had never shown any great interest in how things were run at the brewery, but he was still a shareholder, albeit a minor one. And he was his godfather, so Patrick knew he could trust him, that anything he said would be treated in confidence. Furthermore, James bore the Liddiard name, the name that was in danger of being besmirched. He would help him uphold the family honour.
What Patrick wanted more than anything was reassurance that there was some way out of this mess that wouldn’t bring disgrace on the family. He’d seen too many documentaries about ban
kruptcy, erstwhile millionaires having to sell their last possessions and falling on the mercy of friends and relatives. When he let his mind wander far enough, he saw himself back on his mother’s doorstep, and her mocking smile. She’d love it if Mickey failed. She’d feel it was poetic justice for his greedy, capitalist ways. Not to mention revenge for snatching Patrick away all those years ago, trumping her with his cash when she’d fallen on hard times. Patrick couldn’t actually remember the events all that clearly, but he’d been told the story often enough and now it had become legend.
After Patrick and his mother had left Honeycote House, visits to his father had been rare, but one day Mickey had turned up in Ladbroke Grove to take his son back home while Carola went on some hippy-dippy trail of self-discovery. Mickey had been appalled by the flat they were living in, whereas Carola had been proud. It was student accommodation she and her mates had got on the cheap – sub-standard council housing because the bath was in the kitchen. Too fucking right it’s sub-standard, Mickey had thundered, and had grabbed the bewildered Patrick. The drive up the motorway had been terrifying, as Patrick could only ever remember being in a bus, not a car driven at ninety miles an hour. Mickey had got Patrick back to Honeycote that night, and managed to find him some cornflakes, before tucking him into a huge bed piled high with blankets in a room with its own fire. Patrick had gone to sleep warm for the first time in months. He awoke, curious but wary. His father clearly thought the world of him, but didn’t have a clue what to do with a small boy.
Mickey had been living alone in the house. After Patrick and Carola had left, James had only stayed at Honeycote for six months before moving to Eldenbury to renovate the pub. He seemed to be continually coated in brick dust and plaster. Mickey, meanwhile, was barely capable of looking after himself, let alone his son. Luckily, the daily help made them porridge for breakfast that first morning, which Patrick and Mickey both wolfed. Then Mickey had taken him to see the horses. He’d put Patrick on his favourite chestnut and the little tot had felt on top of the world. It was a turning point for both of them. Patrick whooped with excitement, letting his feelings show for the first time in front of his father, and Mickey was proud. His son was born for the saddle. From that moment on, he was determined he should be brought up at Honeycote.
He’d phoned James and dragged him away from restoring his cornices to celebrate his decision at the Honeycote Arms. Lucy Soames had come into the pub for a warming bowl of soup after a hard morning helping her father and had found the two of them, rather perplexed, trying to force-feed Patrick steak and kidney pie. Unbeknownst to James, Mickey had got to know Lucy quite well, having called out her father on several pretexts to look at malingering horses.
‘He won’t eat it.’ Mickey had forgotten that Carola was a vegetarian and that Patrick had probably never been given meat. Lucy had come to his rescue.
‘Of course he won’t. He probably hasn’t even got all his teeth yet. Steak, Mickey, for God’s sake.’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘Use your common sense.’
She’d taken charge immediately, sending out to the kitchen for mashed potato, then painstakingly mixing it with gravy and feeding it to Patrick with a spoon, not minding the mess in the least. Mickey had offered her a job as live-in ‘father’s help’ on the spot, and thrown in a stable for her horse as a sop. Lucy had accepted the post eagerly. She didn’t have enough brains to follow in her father’s footsteps and had already resigned herself to a career as a nanny, so Mickey’s offer was opportune, a chance to see if this was a wise move.
Thus Patrick found his little world turned upside down, rather for the better, as Lucy took him on long conker-strewn walks and spread acres of paper out on the kitchen table for finger-painting and made him jelly and gingerbread men and boiled eggs with soldiers. Meanwhile, a rather ugly custody battle began between his parents, but it was no contest – an inner-London slum versus a Cotswold mansion? Carola hadn’t helped her cause by throwing a yoga handbook at Mickey in her fury, which had cut him over the eyebrow. Mickey won.
As Patrick settled into Honeycote, he began to pray that things wouldn’t change, that his mother wouldn’t demand him back and that Lucy wouldn’t find a job looking after a nicer little boy somewhere. So when he found his father and Lucy kissing in the hallway one day, he knew his prayers had been answered, and he’d trotted up the aisle five months later in a smart navy overcoat with brass buttons, relieved. Patrick had adored Lucy unreservedly from that day on, and hadn’t felt in the least betrayed a few years later when she’d given birth to first Sophie, then Georgina. On the contrary, he felt honour bound to protect all three of them – hence today’s mission.
He found Kay arranging a display of handpainted serving plates and bowls on a baker’s shelf. He watched for a moment and admired her talent as she created a tableau of rustic living, mixing the tableware with jars of Christmas chutneys and preserves and filling the bowls with surprisingly realistic plastic fruit. As she stood back to admire her own handiwork, Patrick moved forward to stand beside her.
‘I’m sure they’ll walk off the shelves.’
‘I guarantee there won’t be any left after the weekend. Do you want me to save one of those bowls for Lucy? I’m sure she’d like one for Christmas.’
‘I’m sure what she’d really like is for you to stop screwing her husband.’
Kay remembered what Mickey had told her: deny, deny, deny. She looked Patrick straight in the eye.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Bollocks.’
He held her gaze unremittingly. She broke away. She’d never been good at confrontation.
‘Have you told Lucy?’
‘Of course not. What would be the point?’
‘So you’re just warning me?’
‘I’m telling you.’
Kay sighed. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Patrick. It’s very complicated.’
‘No, it’s not. I mean, you don’t love him, do you? You’re not going to jack everything in just to be with him. It’s just an affair; a bit of self-gratification for the two of you –’
‘Don’t be so patronizing.’
‘At the end of the day, it’s just sex. At least, I’m sure it is for dad.’
Kay took in a deep breath. She wasn’t at all sure how to deal with Patrick. Despite his youth, he was surprisingly authoritative, with an underlying menace that she found unsettling. She had to be careful. There was too much at stake to risk him calling her bluff and telling Lucy. Or worse, Lawrence. What she needed was time.
‘We can’t talk here.’
‘I know. Meet me in half an hour at the Fox and Goose.’
‘Won’t people talk?’
Kay couldn’t resist taunting Patrick, even though she knew it might be dangerous. He just smiled.
‘Not at all. I want to discuss you supplying hanging baskets and floral arrangements at all our pubs. Bring some quotes.’
With that, he walked off. Kay watched his retreating figure in bemused amazement, not knowing what to think. What perturbed her more than anything as she went to find her car keys was the realization that rather than dreading their confrontation, she was looking forward to it.
The Fox and Goose had what it rather grandly termed ‘Private Conference Facilities’, which was in fact a charming upstairs room with a sloping wooden floor which could, at a push, seat twenty round a table. People often hired it for eighteenths or twenty-firsts or fortieths or any other occasion when they couldn’t face catering for large numbers in their own homes. Patrick had phoned ahead to make sure it was free, and ordered smoked salmon sandwiches and champagne to be sent up for his working lunch with Mrs Oakley. On his arrival he stressed that they shouldn’t be disturbed. He took the lunch tray up himself, deposited it on the table, noted approvingly that it had been set very prettily with proper cutlery and glasses and a huge vase of fresh flowers, then set off to check down the corridor. The Fox and G
oose also did B&B, and Patrick had flipped through the reservation book while the waitress was finding an ice bucket, ascertaining that three of the four rooms were free. Avoiding room two, he peeped into the others to decide which was the most suitable and settled on number one. It was the largest, with a high, brass bed and its own en suite bathroom. It was unlikely that anyone would go in there, as the chambermaid had seen to every detail, and unless someone arrived unexpectedly to check in within the next hour the coast would be clear.
It wasn’t that Patrick was too tight to pay for a room. He’d probably have got it free anyway, one of the perks of the job. But it made it all the more exciting to keep the encounter clandestine. It heightened his mood and gave him a feeling of power.
When Kay arrived, demure with her briefcase, he went through the motions of asking her prices, enjoying her obvious inability to weigh up what was going to happen next. He nailed her down on the supply of hanging baskets and bedding plants for their pubs, with the assurance that she would oversee the job herself, then emptied the last of the champagne bottle.
‘Drink up.’
She looked at him over the rim over her glass and drank obediently. As soon as she’d finished, he reached out and took her by the hand, leading her down the crooked corridor that smelled of beeswax and potpourri, before chivalrously opening the door of room one and ushering her inside. She allowed herself to smile knowingly at him as she passed by, but he remained impassive.
Once inside, he motioned her on to the bed. She crossed her arms.
‘You’re very presumptuous.’
He put his finger to her lips to silence her.
‘This is the deal. You stop seeing dad and you can have me instead.’
Kay gasped. She didn’t know whether to laugh or slap him.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not. I’m assuming you haven’t got any real emotional attachment to him, so it’s basically just sex. In which case, I can assure you, you’ll be better off with me.’
Honeycote Page 9
