‘Just go, will you? Lucy needs me.’
Caroline didn’t know whether to laugh or slap him round the face. She felt outraged. Ousted from her position by Lucy Liddiard? How bloody ironic could you get?
She’d known from the moment she set eyes on him that Mickey Liddiard could be tempted to play away from home. He was an easy target. True, he’d never tried it on with her, but she’d always put that down to fraternal loyalty. Given half the chance, she could have worked on Mickey, could have had him any day of the week. But she’d recognized that he was off limits; that it would have been ill-mannered to sleep with James’s own brother when she didn’t really want him. So out of deference to etiquette, she’d left him well alone.
But Lucy was obviously working from a different set of rules. That was the problem with these moneyed country types. They moved the bloody goalposts all the time. She was shamelessly sitting in James’s kitchen, half dressed, and hadn’t even looked mildly abashed.
Caroline was tempted to fly into one of her famous rages. That was one of the few advantages of having red hair – people were afraid of you when you got angry and tended to give in. She knew that was the case with James. He hated scenes and always backed down before she became too hysterical. But somehow, this time, she suspected this was not the way to play it. Getting angry would only highlight the difference between her and the ladylike paragon of virtue sitting in the kitchen, who undoubtedly never lost her cool. No, Caroline knew she had to retreat with dignity if she had any chance of winning the battle. Anyway, she needed time to think. The wind had been taken out of her sails somewhat. James was obviously quite determined that his loyalties lay with Lucy, and she wasn’t going to degrade herself by arguing with him about it. Better that she withdrew from the situation gracefully until she had a chance to think of a game plan.
‘Fine. Merry fucking Christmas. Lucky I remembered to keep the receipt for your present.’
James hesitated. He’d wrapped an exquisite pair of Moroccan kelim slippers and a silk dressing gown for Caroline. He wondered if it would add insult to injury to give them to her, then decided yes, it probably would, as she stalked out of the study, through the hall and out of the front door without looking back. Never mind. He’d kept his receipt as well.
*
For the second time that day, Caroline leaped into her car in a towering fury and drove off at top speed. She grabbed for her packet of cigarettes and tried to shake one out. Empty. She knew there was no point in stopping at the newsagents. Already there was nowhere in Eldenbury to park – the square was filling up for the hunt with horseboxes and onlookers parking willy-nilly. She tooted impatiently at someone unloading a highly strung pony in the middle of the road and received a mouthful of abuse. Caroline put her foot down and roared past, not caring.
On automatic pilot, she pointed her car along the road that would eventually lead her back to the cramped one-bedroom starter home she’d reluctantly bought three years earlier, realizing that the rent she’d been paying was just dead money and she really should be getting on to the property ladder. It was totally soulless – she felt no inclination to inject any of her own personality into it – though in fact it was very revealing of her lifestyle. She thought of the tights and cotton wool balls littering her bedroom floor; the empty coffee cups and the CDs lying around without their cases. If she went home, she’d have to address all of that. A knot grew in her stomach as she thought how uninviting the prospect was; how much she’d been looking forward to spending a couple of days with James. Denham House was luxuriously indulgent: she’d been planning to lounge by the fire, reading a trashy novel and sipping champagne. Now she felt filled with gloom. She hadn’t even left the heating on at her house. It would take hours to take the chill off.
The honeyed buildings either side of the road out of Eldenbury dwindled away and were replaced by drystone walls and trees. Caroline realized she was starving. There was a Little Chef a few miles further along the road. She’d stop and have a fry-up and two gallons of coffee. Bugger the spots. Hopefully it would be open on Boxing Day.
The thought cheered her and she put her foot down. As she passed the white sign whose black lettering pointed to Honeycote – 11/2 miles – she wondered yet again what on earth had gone on in the Liddiard house the day before. James hadn’t given her any details. He’d been irritatingly discreet.
Suddenly she slammed on her brakes. What was she thinking of, turning tail like that and fleeing obediently? She wasn’t going to go without a fight. Surely she had a right to know what was going on? She turned the car round and retraced her journey, indicated right and swung into the lane that led to Honeycote House.
After Caroline had gone, James sat in his study for a few minutes to regain his composure. He needed a clear head and to be quite sure of his plan of campaign. Things were certainly in his favour, but the slightest error of judgement could tip the balance the other way. He looked through the lattice window out into his garden. The glass was so old that it gave a distorted view, but he always found the vision a pleasure, even now in the depths of winter when there was little flowering and frost still hovered in the shadiest corners, where the fingers of sunshine had not yet reached them. Two magnificent moss-covered urns stood either side of the path that dissected the lawn and led to an intricate knot garden he’d designed and grown himself from box seedlings. It had taken seven years to take proper shape, but the patience had paid off. It was his pride and joy.
The sight helped to calm him, bring him down, for he was as high as a kite. He felt like a dealer who had stumbled across a long-forgotten work of art in the corner of an auction room. He had to keep his find secret, play his cards close to his chest, feign disinterest until the moment of bidding when he had to hold his nerve until the prize was his, when at last he could take it home, dust it off and declare it as his own, in all its glory. For to him Lucy had always been a priceless treasure who had fallen by mishap into the wrong hands. And now it was only a matter of time before she could be claimed by her rightful owner, someone who would appreciate her beauty, her provenance…
James thought of the years he had been waiting and how, during all that time, everything he had bought, all the beautiful objects that he surrounded himself with, had been inspired by Lucy. Either because it reminded him of her, or because he knew it was something she would like. A graceful Lalique figure, arms stretching skywards. A sketch attributed to Augustus John. (James knew very well that he’d paid over the top for it; that the picture was more than likely a copy by some aspiring Bloomsbury wannabe – but he hadn’t cared because the way the model’s hair was pinned loosely on top of her head, the ends falling round her neck, reminded him so much of the neck he so wanted to kiss. He wanted to press his lips against that creamy skin and feel Lucy’s pulse, her very life force…) A Limoges coffee set. An exquisite button-back Victorian nursing chair. An Aubusson rug whose soft, muted colours reminded him of a dress she’d been wearing… His entire house was a shrine to her. A temple. And at last she had come here to be worshipped and adored.
James knew there was still some dirty work to be done, and he was a little nervous. He’d kept his hands so clean up until now. Plus he felt slightly guilty. Mickey was his brother, after all. He was soon able to dispel his doubts, however. Surely it was his duty to rescue Lucy? And anyway, at the end of the day, it had to be her decision. He wasn’t going to put a gun to her head. If she didn’t want him, she only had to say.
16
Caroline’s car crunched over the gravel at Honeycote House. She thought the house looked unusually forbidding, then decided she was being fanciful. She tried the door knocker, giving it an assertive rap, but there was no reply. Somebody must be in, surely?
She tramped round the house looking for signs of life and found the back door ajar. It led into the scullery area, a glory hole that contained boots, boots and more boots, hats, collars, dog bowls, lead ropes, macs, binoculars, scarves, umbrellas, waxed jackets,
picnic rugs and baskets – the whitewashed brick walls and the quarry tiles were barely visible amongst the family debris. Piled up by the back door were crates and crates of empty bottles. A huge wicker dog basket was abandoned, the food and drink bowls next to it disconcertingly empty. A stout oak door led down some steps to the wine cellars, another led to a cloakroom, and next to that was the door leading into the kitchen. She opened it tentatively and stepped inside.
The kitchen looked as though a bomb had hit it. No one had touched a thing since Christmas lunch the day before. The turkey was still out on the side, surrounded by a few neolithic stuffing balls. Stone-cold vegetables sat in their dishes, coated in congealed butter. Piles of unwashed crockery and grease-smeared glasses were stacked up by the sink. Wedges of cheese lay uncovered and drying. The smell of stale cooking, booze and unemptied ashtrays pervaded the air.
Yet despite the unpalatable squalor, Caroline could imagine the original splendour of the feast. Lucy was renowned for her hospitality, her ability to welcome the slightest acquaintance to her table and make them feel part of the family. Caroline felt a twinge of regret that she hadn’t been there. You could always judge the success of a social occasion by the number of empty bottles, and there was a veritable battalion scattered around the room, waiting to join the rest in the crates outside.
Pokey was snoozing on the sofa, but slid to the ground and came to investigate the arrival of a relative stranger in her territory. She looked hungry, and Caroline tore a few strips off the unappetizing turkey to placate her. She walked through the kitchen, the metal tips of her spiked heels grating on the flagstones, and ventured out into the corridor that led to the hallway. The fairy lights on the Christmas tree were still blazing, seeking admiration in vain. Why hadn’t anyone turned them off?
Caroline tiptoed into the drawing room and her heart leaped into her mouth. Mickey was stretched out on a large chenille sofa, and she thought for an awful moment that he was dead before detecting the slight rise and fall of his chest. She was relieved. She would have felt a moral obligation to attempt mouth to mouth resuscitation, and Mickey was not an inviting prospect. Drunk, dishevelled and unshaven, he resembled little the lithe, vibrant character that Caroline had on more than one occasion eyed up from afar. She winced as she spotted an empty bottle of port by Mickey’s elbow. It would have induced the worst sort of hangover, she knew from experience, and she mentally prescribed paracetamol and strong, sweet tea, followed at a safe interval by copious amounts of toast and honey. She’d been in that state often enough to know that her remedy would alleviate all but the most vicious symptoms.
Before she woke Mickey, she looked around for any clues that might shed light on the mystery. A brass bucket by the fireplace was filled with wrapping paper that had been eagerly ripped off presents only twenty-four hours earlier, and some of these were still lying round the room. There was a pile that was obviously Lucy’s: a pair of leather gloves trimmed with fur at the cuffs, a small suede-bound photo album, a tiny pair of heart-shaped silver earrings. They were just the sort of presents Caroline would have liked to receive. She thought with regret of the prosaic gifts her own family had bestowed on her. The latest Delia Smith from her mother, who wistfully hoped her daughter might start cooking one day as she’d never get a husband if she didn’t. A CD rack from one of her sisters (actually, that would probably come in useful – but who wanted useful presents?) and a Body Shop gift basket from the other. Caroline wondered what James had bought her, but got the feeling that she was never going to find out. She’d had nothing that made her feel special, or wanted, or feminine, whereas Lucy’s were all the sort of things she’d have loved, but would never buy for herself. For a moment she was tempted to chuck the whole lot on the fire, but managed to resist the urge.
She saw a glass on the mantelpiece, which she recognized as the Murano crystal James collected, and read the tag that had been tied to its stem: ‘To James, all our love, Lucy xxx’, it read, and Caroline noted with a wry smile that Mickey had added his signature, no doubt as instructed. But she knew it had been chosen by Lucy with James in mind, and felt sure when she’d written ‘our love’ she actually meant ‘my’. Other gifts lay around the room, all no doubt perfectly chosen and perfectly wrapped and received with gasps of pleasure and delight. Honeycote always seemed to Caroline like something out of a magazine come to life; everything was always just right, somehow without trying. She pretended to scorn it, but deep down she knew she was jealous. Whatever she did always screamed ‘high street’.
But now it looked as if the picture-book perfection was flawed. A light had gone out in the house. It wasn’t just that the fire was lying dead, that there was a resounding silence, that no one had cleared up the mess. It was something deeper, and it made Caroline shiver. And it was the reason she’d found Lucy jumping into her shoes that morning. It was time to find out what was going on. She’d spent enough time snooping, trying to see if she could find any ammunition. Now she needed to bite the bullet.
She shook Mickey by the shoulder none too gently and he came too with a deeply unattractive snort, dispelling any fantasies she may ever have had about him. He looked confused when he saw her.
‘Caroline? Have you come for lunch? James isn’t here…’
‘No, I know he isn’t. Nobody is. And James is at Denham, with your wife.’
Caroline swallowed her impatience, as Mickey rubbed his head stupidly, not sure if he was dreaming.
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘I want to know what’s going on. I came down to have a nice cosy Boxing Day romp with my boyfriend and I got the old heave-ho. Not exactly what I wanted in my stocking.’
‘Shit.’
‘Total shit. He didn’t even give me a present, just pushed me out of the door. Meanwhile your wife’s sitting in his kitchen wearing his long johns. What’s going on, Mickey?’
Mickey explained what had happened. That Lucy had found out about his affair with Kay and had gone running off to James. He, having no leg to stand on anyway, had just proceeded to get totally legless.
Caroline was incredulous.
‘Kay Oakley!’ What the hell did Mickey want to have an affair with her for? A person less like Lucy she couldn’t imagine. Kay was harsh, a bit scary, even for Caroline, who wasn’t intimidated by many people. Kay clearly worshipped money over everything, else why marry Lawrence, who was a cold and calculating fish and plug-ugly to boot. Furthermore, Caroline was pretty sure Kay didn’t even have a sense of humour: she took herself and her position very seriously indeed. So what on earth was the attraction? ‘For God’s sake, Mickey. Kay Oakley? Why?’
Mickey looked at her dully. He was reminded of a joke he’d once heard.
‘Why does a dog lick its balls?’
Caroline looked nonplussed. Mickey smiled wryly.
‘Because it can.’
Caroline didn’t think it could get any worse, until Mickey told her Kay was pregnant. He tried to reassure her that it was OK, that she was going to get rid of it, but like many women who suddenly become keenly aware of their body clocks, Caroline had become very judgemental and disapproving about abortions. Mickey thought she was being unrealistic – what century did she think she was living in? – and she snapped back at him.
‘If you’d kept it zipped up, we wouldn’t be having this debate, would we? And anyway, it’s not Kay that’s the problem, is it? It seems to me she’s well out of the picture.’
‘So what is the problem? Lawrence doesn’t know it’s mine.’
Privately, Caroline doubted if this was so. On the few occasions she’d met Lawrence, he’d struck her as all-seeing, prescient, with an almost Mafia-like calm and cunning that could prove deadly. She thought Mickey would be lucky not to find his entire stable yard decapitated and tucked up in his bed. But she didn’t put voice to this observation, for there was a real threat only two miles up the road, and it was the only one she was interested in.
‘Your brother. He�
�s got her in his clutches now, hasn’t he? He’s got her imprisoned in that house of his. He could totally brainwash her in the next couple of hours, if he hasn’t already.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘For God’s sake, Mickey. Get a grip. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed.’
‘What?’
‘That your brother is…’ She searched for a word. ‘Obsessed. That’s the only word for it. He’s obsessed with your wife.’
‘James?’ Mickey nearly fell off the sofa with shock.
‘Do you honestly mean you haven’t noticed the way he looks at her? When he thinks no one else is looking?’
Mickey looked utterly dumbfounded. It was obviously news to him.
‘Do you go round with your eyes shut or something? Haven’t you seen his body language?’
Mickey shook his head, baffled, and Caroline realized he didn’t have a clue what she was on about. She supposed it was her sales training, as she’d been taught to observe people’s behaviour in order to give herself the advantage whilst negotiating. It was a useful tool, and not just at work. She persevered with her theory.
‘Believe me, Lucy’s the only person your brother cares about. He certainly doesn’t care about me. Not really. I know when he’s screwing me he’s thinking about her.’
Mickey winced.
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t minded up till now. Because I’ve never considered Lucy a real threat. I’ve always thought she was out of James’s reach. And anyway, I never wanted James to start paying me too much attention. Our relationship’s always been about convenience. I cover up for his obsession…’
‘And he pays your bills.’
Caroline glared at him.
‘I earn enough to pay my own way, thank you.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ Mickey wasn’t tooled up for an argument, especially not with Caroline.
Honeycote Page 24
