‘I don’t know. Something that makes me happy.’
Keith knew that his tone was bitter and cynical, and that Mandy shouldn’t have to cope with her father’s problems on top of her mother’s departure. He stroked her hair and he was gratified that she nuzzled into him. For the first time in years he felt a flicker of warmth from human contact. He felt a surge of anger, too, that he had missed out on so much; that he didn’t really know his daughter, nor she him. He was going to explain everything to her, as best he understood it.
Together they made a pot of tea and a pile of cheese on toast – they were both surprisingly hungry, even after their huge lunch – and took it into what Sandra had always called the snug, although that was a grave misnomer. The room positively stood to attention. Clutter, that was what the room needed, decided Keith, and resolved to leave the Sunday papers lying around for the next week in a gesture of defiance.
When they’d eaten, Keith began to talk, trying to paint as unbiased a picture of what had brought the Sherwyns to this point as he could. And Mandy listened in wonder, sitting on the floor with her arms hugging her knees, round-eyed, as her father, the man she’d always considered remote and disinterested, emerged as sensitive and grossly misunderstood.
He supposed that most people ended up in circumstances far removed from their own burning ambition. It had been his father who had pushed him into plumbing, had insisted he get a trade when he failed to get into grammar school and had got him an apprenticeship. It was a good choice on his father’s part, for Keith was meticulously neat and tidy in his work, which made him popular with clients. And it didn’t take him long to work out that he was a natural salesman; that he could talk someone into having something ten times more elaborate than they had originally conceived when he went to price up a job. Not that he ever tried to rip them off. He was just so enthusiastic about what he had to offer, painting a vision of the bathroom that would change lives, that people invariably forked out for that little bit extra, the appliance that was going to turn a necessity into a luxury. Only trouble was, he was making the money for his boss, not himself. He was never going to make himself a million on the flat weekly wage he was paid. He gave himself two years to learn as much as he could on the job at someone else’s expense, while saving up enough cash to give him the courage to go out on his own.
His boss was furious when he left two years to the day he’d been taken on, and swore Keith would never work in that town again. But Keith had gained himself such a reputation that customers swapped allegiance in droves. Soon he had more work than he could manage alone and had to recruit his own team, training them up himself and ensuring they maintained his own exacting standards and targets. He did deals with local building firms to fit bathrooms in all the estates that were springing up around Solihull, and as the en suite was the new must-have it proved more than lucrative. He was ahead of the game with every fashion: jacuzzis, whirlpool baths, bidets, power showers, saunas. It seemed there was no end to what his customers could be seduced into buying.
The day his accountant told him that unless he went out and bought himself a new car, he was going to be in for a hefty tax bill, Keith realized he was on his way to becoming a successful businessman. He’d never even contemplated a new car. His parents had a deal with a friend of theirs who worked at Longbridge, who bought a new Rover every two years with his staff discount. Keith’s parents always bought his old one from him, selling their old one on to Keith. Which meant he had a four-year-old Rover every two years, a deal he was quite happy with as it always had full service history and low mileage.
Now he felt it was time to be reckless. He spent a week perusing all the garages in the area, inspecting what was on offer and seeing what sort of a deal he could get, before settling on the most frivolous vehicle he’d seen: a white Scimitar SSi sports car that was hugely impractical but brought a smile to his face the minute he put his foot down. And it seemed that it came with an added bonus. The salesman had jokingly referred to it as a tart’s trap, and it certainly did attract the attention of women. No sooner was the ink dry on the paperwork than the young, immaculately dressed receptionist handed him his keys, wistfully mentioning that she’d have loved a go in it, and now would never have the chance. Keith fell for her hook, line and sinker. It was a beautiful spring day and he was desperate to take his new acquisition for a spin. He offered to pick her up after work and take her for a drink. The girl blushed, accepted his offer and introduced herself as Sandra. Her father owned the dealership: she was working there to get some experience, as her father felt it was important for a woman to be able to stand on her own two feet these days.
Nine months later they married, and Keith felt the first twinges of unease as Sandra lorded it over his relations at the wedding, which they held at one of the larger hotels in Solihull. He was most uncomfortable with the airs and graces she bestowed upon herself in front of them; her father’s success had obviously gone to her head. Keith tried to compensate for her rudeness, but it was obvious to him that Sandra felt she had somehow married beneath her, even though her father had only made his fortune in the past twenty years. He banished it to the back of his mind. She was certainly nice enough to him. She was supportive, encouraging, always looking for ways he could improve his business. She was a shrewd little cookie – she’d picked up quite a few tips from her father on how to do deals, attract new customers and get repeat business. Not that Keith needed teaching – he was a natural – but it was nice to have someone to chew over ideas with at the end of the day.
But as he became more and more successful, so Sandra became less attentive and more demanding, not just wanting to keep up with the Joneses, but the Smiths, the Browns – the entire telephone directory. As fast as he made it, she spent it, and at first he had felt proud that he could provide in this way. In the space of seven years, they moved from a modest three-bedroomed box to a grand, five-bedroomed luxury home built to their own specification. Or rather, Sandra’s. He replaced her Mini Metro with a black Mercedes with personalized number plates. She had become unrecognizable from the seemingly artless, carefree creature he’d whizzed off in his car that spring evening. She spent her time driving between the gym, the hairdresser and the beautician, being sun-bedded, frosted and manicured, burning up his cash.
And it was a one-way deal. It seemed the more he showered upon her, the more Sandra withdrew from him and withheld any sort of affection. It was amazing that Mandy was conceived at all. And Sandra made it quite clear that being pregnant and giving birth had utterly revolted her, so Keith could forget trying for the son he secretly so desperately wanted. Just like Midas, everything Keith touched had turned to gold, but he was far from happy. To compensate for Sandra’s perpetual tight-lipped frostiness, he buried himself in his work, where at least he commanded respect, if not affection. And in the back of his mind he always wondered how Sandra would treat him if the money stopped coming in. It was all she’d ever wanted him for, he now realized. But it didn’t bear too much reflection.
He didn’t know when the affairs had started, but he knew they existed and felt it best to ignore them. He’d tried his very best to please Sandra in bed, even sneakily ordering The Joy of Sex from his book club to see if it would give him any clues. But she was obviously looking for something he couldn’t give her. The affairs never lasted long – it was as if once she had conquered someone she lost interest – and so Keith didn’t really find them a threat. In fact, he found them something of a relief, for while she was embarking upon an encounter she was remarkably good-natured at home. They gave her something to think about, stopped her from dwelling on what was wrong with her life and what material possession she might want Keith to strive for next.
So here they were. She’d left him, despite all his efforts and his total tolerance. He’d spent half a lifetime working his fingers to the bone for someone who had little or no regard for him. What a waste. He wondered what would have happened if his father hadn’t marched him into the plumbers�
� merchants thirty years ago. His dream until then had been to draw cartoons for comics, to create his own superhero. Admittedly that ambition had long since faded. But he knew he’d be quite happy if he never saw a tap or a washer or a plughole again.
Keith outlined all of this to his daughter, missing out the little details he considered too sordid to share, though why he should feel any loyalty to Sandra he didn’t know. And what was most gratifying was that Mandy had come and given him a huge hug at the end of his story, a gesture of love and reassurance that almost made his heart burst.
He surveyed Mandy, and wondered what she wanted to do with her life. How well equipped was he to set her on the path she wanted to travel? Was it responsible parenting to encourage your children in whatever they wanted to do, however unfeasible it seemed? Or, just as his own father had done, was it better to take matters into your own hands and steer them down the path you felt was most suitable?
After all, perhaps his father had been right. Keith had been incredibly successful in the career that had been chosen for him. The fact he was miserable was down to his marriage. Perhaps if he had chosen a different woman to share in his success…
Either way, Keith had no idea what Mandy wanted to do, whether she wanted to be a weather girl or an archaeologist. She’d hinted at a career in interior design, which Keith approved of, as everyone seemed to be into it these days – thanks to all those programmes where people came and painted your kitchen bright pink and suggested you keep your fruit and veg in galvanized buckets. Perhaps they could set up their own company together – he could buy a little shop somewhere in the Cotswolds, somewhere fashionably wealthy. There was no way it wouldn’t be a success, what with his business acumen –
Hang on a minute! He was doing just what his father had done. Projecting his own ideas and ambitions on to Mandy. And no young girl in her right mind would want to go into business with her father. He made up his mind to get to know her over the next few days, find out what made her tick, what she wanted to do.
In the meantime, he had a more pressing question.
‘What do you want for Christmas?’
Mandy grinned. ‘A horse?’ Mandy had asked for a horse every Christmas since she was three. It was the nearest the Sherwyns had ever got to a family joke.
Keith rolled his eyes tolerantly. ‘Not that old chestnut again. We’ve got nowhere to keep it.’
‘Loads of places round here do livery. And if we get one that lives out, it wouldn’t cost too much’.
‘But you’re away at school most of the time.’
‘Maybe I could weekly board? I could come home every weekend. Then you wouldn’t get lonely.’
Keith had to get up and walk over to the drinks cabinet, so that Mandy couldn’t see the tears threatening to spring up in his eyes. He was more touched than he’d ever been. And increasingly furious with himself that he’d given his daughter so little time.
‘We’ll see.’
These were the only two words the lump in his throat would allow him to say. But Keith was interested to see that Mandy didn’t persist, unlike her mother. Sandra would have taken his refusal as a challenge, nagged and nagged until he was worn down. Then two weeks later she’d have lost interest and he’d be left with a horse to get rid of. Mandy just shrugged and asked for driving lessons instead.
Keith had never felt so full of resolve. He’d phone Lucy Liddiard in the morning, get her advice. See if she knew of any horses for sale. He might even ask her to look out for one for himself. He’d never ridden before in his life, but it was never too late to start.
He just hoped it wasn’t too late to start with Mandy. Get to know her. Give her a bit of the life she deserved before she set off on the rocky road on her own. He looked around the house, as soulless and impersonal and luxurious and efficient as any first-class departure lounge. It had to go. Everything had to go.
10
Three days before Christmas, Kay was digging around in her handbag, looking for the list she’d made for the last of her present shopping. It was the garden centre staff party that evening and she was going to buy jewellery from Accessorize for the girls and CD tokens for the boys. She tipped out the contents of her bag on to the breakfast bar and a couple of tampons rolled out, ringing a tiny alarm bell in the back of her mind. She didn’t seem to have used any for weeks. She flipped through her diary, trying to remember the last time she’d had a period. As she was horribly irregular and never wrote it down, she couldn’t work it out.
She stood in the kitchen trying to take in the implications. Should she panic? She thought not. She was often late – weeks, sometimes. Anyway, she was ninety-nine per cent certain she was infertile. Well, ninety per cent. All the same, it had been a long time. Perhaps she’d get a kit on the way home. It would stop her brooding. Kay always liked to know how she stood one way or the other. She shoved everything back into her bag and forgot her dilemma, concentrating instead on the job in hand.
She battled her way through Cheltenham with half of Gloucestershire, doing all her duty shopping in the first hour and saving the fun till last. She wanted something special for Patrick. After much agonizing, she settled on a beautifully soft sage green cashmere scarf that she knew would look divine tucked into the collar of his flying jacket. She wouldn’t wrap it; she’d just coil it round his neck the next time she saw him. She shuddered deliciously at the prospect, thinking about the warmth of his skin on her fingertips. She made her way hurriedly back to the car park, slowing to a halt outside the chemist. It was teeming with people buying unimaginative gifts of bubble bath and perfume and aftershave for their nearest and dearest; she really didn’t think she could be bothered to fight her way through the throngs to the pharmacist’s counter. However, now the doubt was in her mind she knew she wouldn’t be able to relax until she found out one way or the other. She went in and perused the pregnancy testing kits, wondering which one would give her the answer she wanted. Not that she knew herself. At length she grabbed the most expensive. It was bound to be the right choice.
She drove home with the stereo on full volume, the bass of Simply Red vibrating through her, making her long for Patrick. He’d met her again three days before to make up, so he said, for abandoning her at the Gainsborough. Kay savoured the memory of what he had done to her, and looked forward to being able to give him the scarf. Too soon, though, she remembered she had something to resolve before she could think about their next union.
She got back to Barton Court, dumped all her packages on the kitchen floor, then went upstairs to the bathroom with the tester. She picked at the cellophane in frustration with her red-tipped nails, until finally the package was free and she was able to withdraw the unfamiliar apparatus from its box. She stared at the white plastic for a moment, peering through the minute clear window that would soon hold her destiny. She tried to analyse what she felt, but she was riding on a tide of uncertainty. Whatever the result, it would pull her into focus, and until that moment she was in an agonizing limbo. She read the instructions carefully, feeling slightly ridiculous as she held the stick in the stream of pee she’d saved up, then set it carefully down on the windowsill to wait.
The second hand on her Rolex moved round painfully slowly. Kay hadn’t known until now that it took thirty-seven seconds to walk the entire top corridor of Barton Court and wondered if that could be included on the estate agent’s particulars if they ever decided to sell. She went back to the windowsill after the requisite three minutes and picked up the stick. There were two blue lines in the window. Confused, she picked up the instructions again to double-check what this meant.
As if her body wanted to confirm the result, Kay was overcome by a wave of nausea. Rushing to the loo, she leaned over the blue and white china bowl and retched and retched until she was empty. Shakily, she washed her teeth and face, then took a deep breath before looking at herself in the mirror. She looked different, even from this morning. It was not just that she was pale and drained; there was
something that hadn’t been there before. Knowledge. Knowledge of the little being inside her; a little cluster of cells. But whose? Only one thing was certain. That half of them were hers.
Suddenly her waistband felt uncomfortably tight. She’d noticed that her waist had been a little thicker lately, but she’d put it down to her age, her metabolism slowing down, and had promised herself membership of a gym in the New Year. Now the reason was obvious. Kay made herself a cup of tea, threw it up and prepared to face her husband.
Lawrence strode proprietorially through the garden centre, noting with pleasure that all the Christmas trees had nearly gone and that the decorations were seriously depleted – selling trees as a loss leader, at a rock-bottom fifty pence a foot, had been a stroke of genius. The kindly-looking pensioner he’d hired as Father Christmas was dandling toddlers on his knee outside his grotto while their parents, Lawrence hoped, flashed the cash. He looked at his watch and decided to stroll over to the house for some lunch. Kay should be back from her alleged shopping trip by now. He wondered if she’d taken the opportunity of an illicit liaison with Liddiard.
Kelly’s revelation hadn’t entirely surprised him, though he was annoyed that he hadn’t worked it out for himself. If Kelly had cottoned on, so might other people, and Lawrence didn’t do humiliation. But before he took action, he needed proof – he didn’t want to go steaming in and making accusations without solid evidence. After all, he only had the word of a brainless little bit of fluff who for all he knew bore a grudge again Mickey and might be stirring things out of malice.
He was going to bide his time. Meanwhile, he thought he might pop home and suggest an early afternoon bonk. If Kay was at it with Liddiard, that would make her squirm.
‘Darling, I’ve got some wonderful news.’
Kay shook her head in frustration. For the past hour she’d been experimenting with how to break the news to Lawrence, but ended up sounding like some sap from a black and white movie. In the end she needn’t have worried. Lawrence came into the kitchen, took one look at her and asked what was wrong.
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