As he stared, she turned and looked straight into his eyes. He froze like a startled rabbit, not sure what to do. His heart melted as she smiled at him, not just a gesture of recognition, but a smile that seemed to come right from the heart. He beamed back as the organist pounded out the first few bars of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’, then lifted his hand and tilted it to his mouth, to indicate a drink afterwards. Sophie nodded, and turned back to her hymn book.
Unable to wipe the grin off his face, Ned patted his pocket for the soft little package and, reassured by its presence, threw back his shoulders and sang joyfully.
*
As the congregation spilled out of the church into the crystal-clear night, wishing each other season’s greetings and issuing invitations, Ned and Sophie slipped away. They sat on a tombstone away from the crowds, holding hands, laughing with nerves and excitement.
‘I’m glad you’re back to normal, Sofa. I was bricking it the other night. You looked so scary. I didn’t dare speak to you.’
‘I thought you were ignoring me.’ Sophie looked at him shyly. ‘I thought you fancied Mandy.’
‘God no. I mean, she’s a laugh and everything, but she’s not really my type.’ He smiled at her shyly. ‘I’ve got you a present.’
He proffered the little package and Sophie opened it eagerly. Inside was a beautiful gossamer scarf, the colour and texture of fairies’ wings, embroidered with tiny beads. Sophie was speechless – it was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen, and to think Ned had seen it and thought of her…
As Ned wrapped the scarf around her neck and, holding the ends, pulled her to him, Sophie smelled a waft of spicy vanilla. It was strangely familiar, but she thought perhaps the shop had wrapped the scarf in scented tissue paper. Anyway, she certainly didn’t want to give it a second thought now. She closed her eyes as Ned took her in his arms and planted the gentlest, warmest kiss on her lips.
13
On Christmas morning, Lucy woke up at quarter to five, fifteen minutes before the alarm was due to go off. She switched off the alarm so as not to wake Mickey, pulled on some thick woollen socks and a jumper as the heating wasn’t on yet, and tiptoed out of the bedroom.
In the kitchen, she surveyed the turkey thoughtfully and ran through a mental checklist of who was coming for lunch. Five Liddiards, James, Lawrence, the Sherwyns and the Walshes – it should be big enough. She scooped up liberal amounts of butter in her hands and massaged the skin with care, tucking herbs and lemon into the cavity, before covering it in a tent of foil and popping it into the Aga. She counted backwards carefully on her fingers, to make sure she’d calculated accurately for a two o’clock lunch.
Now the bit she liked best. She crept into the hallway and lifted the lid on a huge carved oak chest. Inside lay three fat, knobbly felt stockings, each one embroidered in chain stitch with its owner’s initial. She pulled them out, enjoying their heavy weight, the mysterious lumps and bumps, and lugged them upstairs.
Patrick lay, beautiful, impassively arrogant as ever, one arm thrown carelessly above his head. Lucy wondered if she was soppy still giving him a stocking, and thought back fondly to the very first Christmas she’d spent at Honeycote. She’d stuffed Patrick’s stocking full of traditional toys – a spinning top, a barrel of monkeys, a tin whistle, a wooden train, a bag of marbles – and had never been as gratified as when she’d seen his face as he opened it. His mother, apparently, had disapproved of Christmas, condemning it as commercial and materialistic, and as a concession the year before had allowed him one educational toy. Now, of course, the contents had changed, but Lucy couldn’t bear to break with tradition, and liked to think that Patrick would be disappointed not to find his stocking at the bottom of his bed. He’d been harder than ever to buy for this year, and she worried that the gifts were rather boringly practical, though she’d been pleased with the torch shaped like a slim, black credit card.
The girls had been easier. The hardest task was making sure that their presents were evenly distributed. In fact, Lucy had ended up getting them almost the same, blowing a fortune in Claire’s Accessories and Boots: body glitter and fake tattoos; knickers printed with the days of the week; Ruby and Millie make-up as well as an assortment of books and CDs and, of course, a pin-up calendar that never got turned past January.
Her deliveries over, she slipped back down to the chest, took out the presents she’d got for their guests and went to put them under the tree in the drawing room. The fireplace was festooned with greenery plundered from the garden, punctuated with ribbons of old-gold silk tied in fat bows. On the coffee table that usually held a jumble of magazines was an arrangement she’d thrown together, using baby pineapples, pomegranates and artichokes. On each windowsill was a huge vase of creamy roses tinged with coral.
The tree was a total contrast. Every decoration they’d had since the first tree she and Mickey had put up for Patrick was given a place. Every decoration any of the children had ever made was proudly reinstated each year. The result was a chaotic, over-the-top profusion that was so uncoordinated that it actually worked. There was no twee Shaker minimalism here. The whole point of Christmas tree decorations, thought Lucy, was that they had to be shiny and gaudy. The family usually had a competition to see who could find the most tasteless topping for the tree. Lucy had realized on Christmas Eve that no one had followed the tradition this year and had resurrected last year’s – a sequinned Santa that sang over and over ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’. She thought it was rather indicative of the atmosphere in the house at the moment; everyone seemed distracted. She’d had to press-gang Sophie and Georgina into the preparations over the last couple of days, baking endless mince pies, threading the cards on to long strips of red ribbon and hanging them in the hall, polishing all the silver, black with unuse, so they could lay the table for Christmas lunch in the dining room. Lucy smiled as she remembered Sophie had been as high as a kite last night when they came back from drinks at the Walshes. She wondered if it was anything to do with the kiss she’d seen Ned give her daughter as they left. It seemed strange to think of Ned and Sophie romantically involved – Ned was almost like a second son to her. Perhaps that was why he’d blushed so furiously when Lucy had caught his eye and winked.
She placed the carefully wrapped packages under the tree, then wondered if perhaps she should put James’s somewhere safer. It was an antique goblet made of Murano glass, and fragile, so she put it on the mantelpiece out of harm’s way. She knew James would love it – she knew his taste exactly. For a moment she considered their relationship. To some people it was no better than an affair, for they spent a lot of time together. In fact, she probably spent more time with James than she did with Mickey. The difference was, Mickey was totally aware of it. And anyway, she and James never had sex.
Lucy had never really considered sex with James although, deep down, she knew that if she gave off the right signals, he’d be willing. Not that he would ever make the first move; he was too much of a gentleman. But Lucy knew that James had never married because, if he did, their relationship would dwindle to nothing. Another woman would never put up with their friendship the way confident, unsuspecting Mickey did.
In many ways, she loved James, for he gave her the attention that Mickey often overlooked. Sometimes Lucy felt a little taken for granted and thought her reputation as a good sport wore a bit thin. She was extremely tolerant and good-natured when Mickey brought hordes of people back for food and drink after a day at the races. Or when Mickey enjoyed someone else’s hospitality after one of these events and came back late and drunk. She didn’t really mind, but then James was always on hand to make up for it, to pamper her with a lingering lunch in Cheltenham, or an open-air concert, or a wander round some National Trust garden. She’d need to put a gun to Mickey’s head to endure any of those outings.
She wondered if James hadn’t been there to fill this void in her life, if her marriage would have been so successful so long. Did this mean she was exploiting
James – what did he get out of it except the pleasure of her company? A lot, on reflection, thought Lucy. She looked after him well. He spent most of his spare time with her family, eating her food. Almost as if he were a brother. Which in a way he was, by marriage. Yes, that was it. James was just like a brother to her.
Reassured, Lucy decided to sneak back to bed for another hour before feeding the horses and starting on a mammoth potato-peeling session. She slid in bedside Mickey, who’d been awake since she’d got up but was feigning sleep. He knew there were only a few hours to go before he had to tell Patrick about Monkey. As soon as the Sherwyns were here, the cat would be out of the bag. He was bitterly regretting what he’d considered to be such a smart move. But there was no going back on it. He’d spent the lot; the whole three grand. He consoled himself that at least he’d been responsible enough to pay off the worst of his debts. The ones that were in danger of getting him found out, anyway, like the petrol bill and the farrier. And the ones he couldn’t manage without – namely the wine merchant.
Dammit – what was he worrying for? He’d paid for Monkey in the first place, hadn’t he? He had every right to sell it. It wasn’t as if Patrick even rode him any more – he’d outgrown the little horse years ago. He probably wouldn’t mind at all.
Mickey started as he felt Lucy’s warm hand creep under the waistband of his pyjamas. Oh God. He hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t have a repeat performance of the other night with Kay; that the guilt and the stress and the drink weren’t going to permanently take their toll. But no – he felt the familiar stiffening. Things, and his penis, were definitely on the up.
Mickey rolled over with a confident grin.
‘Merry Christmas, darling.’
Over in Solihull, Mandy and Keith were exchanging presents and both secretly hoping that Sandra would neither embarrass nor insult them by phoning to wish them Merry Christmas. Mandy had bought him a pair of silver cufflinks in the shape of foxes’ heads that he put on immediately. Then he gave her an envelope containing a voucher for half a dozen driving lessons, apologizing profusely for what he considered a very boring gift, and she protested, saying it was what she wanted.
She made them breakfast, scrambled eggs on granary toast, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. Keith finished his eggs appreciatively, then remembered something.
‘I forgot – I got you something else.’
He disappeared out of the kitchen. Mandy started stacking the dishwasher. He came back in with an awkward-looking package wrapped in tartan paper. It felt like a belt. Puzzled, Mandy opened it.
It was a leather headcollar. She turned it over in her hands, mystified, till a little brass nameplate glinted up at her. She read the name engraved upon it. Monkey. She looked up at Keith, who was grinning from ear to ear.
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not. He’s yours. He’s waiting for you at the Liddiards’, so you’d better hurry up and get dressed.’
His daughter nearly knocked him flying as she enveloped him in a huge hug. Who was it who’d said it was better to give than to receive? They were bloody well right.
‘You total sodding fucking arsehole.’
‘Come on, Patrick. When’s the last time you rode him, for God’s sake? You’re two stone too heavy – ’
‘That’s my horse. You don’t just go round selling other people’s things. Certainly not without asking first.’
‘I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘Well, I do.’
He did. More than he would have thought. For an awful moment, Patrick thought he might cry.
‘I want him back.’
‘Sorry. No can do. I’ve spent the money.’
‘On what? Not your wife, that’s for sure. That wasn’t three grand’s worth of pyjamas.’
‘Look, Patrick. There are things you don’t understand – ’
‘Don’t fucking patronize me. There are things I understand perfectly, that I’ve been too polite to mention up until now. So don’t give me that shit.’
Mickey gulped. This was going to be even worse than he’d imagined. Patrick decided it was time to put the knife in. He was tired of pussyfooting round his father.
‘The brewery’s totally up the creek, isn’t it?’
‘Says who?’
‘The world and his wife, as far as I can make out.’
‘Idle gossip.’
‘Kelly told me about the Honeycote Arms.’
Mickey rolled his eyes in exasperation. He’d made it clear to Ted it would be better for all of them if they kept the news quiet till the New Year. That’s what you got for being honest and upfront with people. He needn’t have told them what he was doing.
‘We need some serious capital investment across the board. It’s the only way.’
‘We’ve always said we’d never get rid of any of the pubs.’
‘In an ideal world. But that’s not what we live in, is it? It’s either sell the Honeycote Arms or get in some investor who’ll stomp around in his jackboots telling us exactly how to run things. And the first thing he’d probably do is get rid of you, so if I were you I’d keep my mouth shut.’
Father and son glared at each other angrily.
‘First you sell my horse. Then my birthright – ’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s a question of survival. Look, Patrick. You’ve had everything on a plate up till now. And I’ve never begrudged it for a single moment. So you could at least do me the courtesy of backing off. Things are tough enough without you behaving like a brat.’
Patrick bit his tongue. It was Christmas Day and he didn’t want to spoil it. He turned on his heel and marched back into the house. Mickey was left in the courtyard and decided he’d better go and taste the wine he’d chosen for lunch. If it wasn’t up to scratch there’d be time to chill down something else.
In the kitchen, Patrick was accosted by a flushed and slightly panic-stricken Sophie. She used his childhood nickname, which meant she wanted something.
‘Patch. Would you absolutely, absolutely kill me if I gave your present to Ned?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what it is yet.’
‘I’ll get you another one. In fact, I’ll get you something even better in the sales. I’ve got to have something to give him.’
Patrick looked at Sophie and grinned.
‘Is there something I should know?’
Sophie looked mortified. Patrick put her out of her misery.
‘Of course he can have my present.’
‘You won’t tell him?’
‘Course not. And Sophe – good on you. I always thought you’d be a perfect match.’
If it was possible, Sophie blushed even redder and ran upstairs to change the tag on the bottle of Ralph Lauren aftershave she’d bought him. Patrick was delighted. Ned was a decent bloke. He’d look after Sophie; he knew he would. And if he didn’t, he’d have Patrick to answer to.
It had been a perfect, picture-book Christmas Day, thought Lucy. They’d had champagne and blinis with smoked salmon in the drawing room while everyone exchanged presents. Sophie had flitted about with a notepad and pen making a list of who’d got what, as everyone would get so drunk they’d have forgotten by the end of the day. She’d been wearing a silver scarf round her neck and kept exchanging little smiles with Ned that went unnoticed by nobody. Mickey was on good form, as he always was when hosting a houseful. Never happier than when filling people’s glasses. The Walshes, as ever, were relieved to get away from the rigours of the farm. The Sherwyns mixed in well. Only Patrick had seemed tense, but had done his best to hide it – Lucy could only tell by the number of cigarettes he got through that something was bothering him. Trouble with Kelly, perhaps. James was delighted with his present. She knew that because he’d thanked her three times. Which was three more times than Mickey had – he’d admired the little picture she’d bought him for as long as was necessary to be polite, then tossed it to one side. She�
�d tried not to be hurt, then reasoned that Mickey had never been a great lover of art – as far as he was concerned, pictures were for covering up stains on the wall.
Things had only turned a little sour after lunch. Ned had persuaded the other youngsters to go for a walk – he was desperate for a fag and his parents were rabidly anti-smoking. The adults were picking over the remnants of the cheese. Until now, no one had seen fit to mention Lawrence’s plight, or question where Kay was, until Keith Sherwyn had looked at his watch and made a gloomy remark about not particularly wanting to go back to an empty house, although he supposed he ought. Lawrence had been drunk by then. Well, they all were, but he was clearly turning maudlin.
‘Have you got any tips? It’s something I’m going to have to get used to.’
He’d glared defiantly round the table.
‘I suppose you’re wondering where the silly bitch has got to. I’ll put you all out of your misery. I’ve no idea. All I know is she’s not going to darken my door again.’
He’d taken a slurp of port and slammed the glass down. Lucy winced.
‘She’s only gone and got herself pregnant. Not mine, of course. So that’s it. I’ve banished her. Mind you, no doubt she’s found some gynae to sort it all out for her. Expect she’s on the slab as we speak, having it hoovered out. Can’t see Kay as a single mother, can you?’
He’d smirked around the table. There was a horrified silence. Mickey sloshed another good two inches of port into his glass and passed the decanter to his left with a trembling hand.
‘More cheese, anyone?’ murmured Lucy.
Sophie, Patrick, Mandy, Ned and Georgina walked off their lunch with an over-excited Pokey in tow. Mandy had been desperate to go and see Monkey again, perhaps even tack him up and go for a ride, but he’d lost a shoe and Lucy didn’t think she’d be able to get the farrier until after the New Year. Mandy was consoled by the prospect of being in close proximity to Patrick. Sophie and Ned had taken the lead, tightly clutching mittened hands and stopping every now and then for an indiscreet snog that made Georgina gag with embarrassment.
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