‘Not if you wear them with clumpy boots and a big sweater. They’re really cool.’
Sophie shook her head and put the trousers back on their hanger. She realized now why she was reluctant to buy them. They were just the sort of thing Mayday would wear. She wouldn’t be seen dead in them.
Patrick was starting to panic when he finally heard the shoppers return. He saw Mandy blush pink with pleasure when she saw him and give him a shy smile, a little unsure. He’d returned it, pleased that he obviously still had some power over her. But now wasn’t the time to pursue her. His priority was to buttonhole Keith, who was looking rather grateful for a bit of male company. Patrick had studied Caroline’s business plan carefully, while Mickey wasn’t looking, so he felt fairly well-armed and confident that he could talk about Honeycote Ales with an assured manner. Make it look like an inviting prospect for a potential investor, dangle a few carrots…
There was a flurry of activity while everyone took off their coats and put away their bags, and Sandra went sulkily to make tea at Keith’s light suggestion. Mandy and Patrick found themselves alone in the lounge. He walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek – a non-committal gesture that indicated friendship but not necessarily intimacy.
‘How are you?’
‘Me? I’m fine. But I’m really worried about Sophie. She’s devastated about Ned, you know. Even though she won’t admit it.’
Patrick swore mentally, cursing his friend’s weakness. He knew Sophie was putting a brave face on things, because she always did. And because she’d held on to him a fraction too long when he’d hugged her on arrival. He sighed.
‘I can’t turn back the clock, I’m afraid. Ned dunked his biscuit where he shouldn’t have, end of story. I’ve bollocked him, I can tell you.’
‘I just feel so sorry for her, and I don’t know what to do. She’s been so good about it. She hasn’t said a word, but I know she’s breaking her heart. She was crying last night in bed.’
She look at Patrick, her eyes huge and round with sympathy. He felt a little stab of guilt, realizing he’d probably misjudged her. He’d thought she was fickle and shallow, but she seemed genuinely concerned for Sophie. Caring and considerate, not the superficial little strumpet he’d written her off as. He looked at Mandy with new eyes. Perhaps she was worth pursuing, regardless of the plot he’d hatched, using her as the bait to lure her father’s wealth? She was certainly more his cup of tea than either Kay or Kelly. Suddenly the idea of a normal relationship, with no strings attached, where each person was on an equal footing, seemed very attractive to him. More than anything, he thought he might quite like some fun, and he felt sure he could have that with Mandy. He could take her riding (she’d got his bloody horse, after all), take her out in the Healey – she’d look good in that, with her hair streaming out behind her. And they had some unfinished business. Patrick remembered their encounter in the bathroom at Honeycote and how hard it had been for him to walk away…
He realized he was staring at her, and she was staring back, a little unnerved. But before he could do anything about it, the room suddenly filled. Georgina and Sophie brought the. tea in and Sandra reappeared, having spent the past ten minutes redoing her make-up. She was ready for battle.
Keith was enjoying having a houseful of young people and insisted on ordering a huge Chinese meal for everyone. The Cedars seemed to have come to life, to have come out of its formaldehyde, which he would never have thought possible. There was music blaring and Mandy and Georgina were entertaining everyone, doing dance routines on the coffee table. Then Sandra had a bright idea and dug out her salsa CD – she’d been having classes at the gym before she disappeared off to Spain. Before Patrick could protest, he found himself in the middle of the lounge, embroiled in a demonstration.
Patrick got the hang of it straight away. One of his favourite films was the Buena Vista Social Club, and he had an instinctive feel for the rhythm. Unfortunately, Sandra didn’t have any sense of timing whatsoever, nor had she attended enough classes to carry it off. Dancing with her was like pushing a vacuum cleaner round the room. When Sandra took advantage of a moment’s break in the music to top up her drink, Patrick grabbed Mandy. The next track was fast and furious, but the two of them were naturals – twirling, thrusting, swaying their hips in time to the music in a display that was bordering on the erotic.
Everyone applauded wildly. Except Sandra, who had a face like a slapped arse. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was being upstaged by her daughter.
Patrick resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get any business talked with Keith that evening, but it didn’t matter. He was actually enjoying himself, having fun. Georgina managed to get Keith having a go at some simple dance steps, while Patrick danced with Sophie, who managed a smile. And when it came to eleven o’clock, and Patrick realized Sandra had been topping his drink up all night and he couldn’t possibly drive, it made sense for him to stay over. As Keith said, what was the point of spare rooms if you didn’t use them?
Kay sat on her hotel bed, sipping mineral water and gloating over the several bags of booty she’d emptied out upon it. She marvelled over the softness of the new colours she’d picked out for herself. Pale pink and powder blue were her new black. She didn’t think she’d ever worn pink in her life. Anyone watching might have thought it was some sort of disguise. But no – Kay knew the truth. This was the new her! She’d shed her old skin like a snake, overnight, and was amazed at how comfortable she felt.
The strangest thing was, seeing that little being inside her had somehow reincarnated the umbilical cord that had once joined her to her own mother. She suddenly felt an uncontrollable urge to go running back home. She knew it was insanity, she knew they’d drive her mad, but she just wanted someone to hold her and love her unconditionally. Just as she was going to love her baby.
As she folded up her new purchases, snipped off the price tags and packed them away carefully, she apologized to the little blob with arms and legs she’d seen on the screen the day before, with the heartbeat that vacillated faster than a butterfly’s wings.
‘Sorry, sweetheart, you’re going to have Slough on your birth certificate. But never mind – you’ll survive. I did.’
As she curled up into the freshly made bed, she didn’t give any thought to the other space on the birth certificate. The one she would have to fill in with ‘Father unknown’.
Patrick lay fast asleep, cocooned in peach splendour in one of the spare rooms at The Cedars, when something made him start awake. He’d been having the most extraordinary dream. Lucy was making breakfast in the kitchen at Honeycote, scrambled eggs just how he liked them, how she’d always cooked them for him ever since he was tiny. But when she brought his plate over to the table, he looked up and it was Mandy, not Lucy, smiling down at him. Patrick was puzzled. Dreams were weird; your mind played tricks on you…
Suddenly he heard the door close with a soft click and a figure crept into the room. It must be Mandy. Patrick was filled with a momentary and uncharacteristic panic. He wasn’t ready for this. Yet here she was, and he had to admit the temptation was enormous. He took in a sharp breath as she pulled back the duvet and felt for his boxer shorts, extricating his expectant penis.
He had to stop her. He couldn’t risk Keith catching them. That would spoil everything. Anyway, it was all moving too fast. He wanted to dictate the pace. If there was going to be anything between them, he didn’t want a hurried, secretive bonk in her parents’ house. As she began to massage him with unexpectedly experienced movements, he grabbed her wrist to stop her.
‘Now come on – you know you like it.’
Patrick leaped out of bed with a yell. It wasn’t Mandy at all. It was her bloody mother! He snapped on the light and Sandra, resplendent in bronze satin, blinked up at him drunkenly. She put a teasing finger to his lips, unsteady on her feet, and lurched against him. He grabbed her upper arms to stop her falling over.
‘For God
’s sake – go back to your bedroom before someone hears.’
‘No one’s going to hear. I’ll be very, very quiet. I promise.’
She smiled and lunged or his boxers again. Patrick dodged out of the way neatly and she fell straight against the mirrored wardrobe. She scrambled to her feet and tackled him again, till they both fell on the bed.
‘Sandra!’
Keith stood in the doorway, furious.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
Sandra slid off the bed hastily. Patrick shut his eyes, hoping he’d wake up from this nightmare, and prayed his boxers were covering his modesty. Sandra was pointing a finger at him.
‘It was his idea. He wouldn’t leave me alone. Said he’d always wanted an older woman – ’
Patrick opened his mouth to protest, but Keith got there first.
‘You don’t honestly expect me to believe that? Get back into your own room, Sandra. Some of us want some sleep.’
She was now sobbing quietly. Despite himself, Patrick felt a pang of pity as she was escorted from the room by her husband. But he felt even more sorry for Keith, who looked back at him with an expression of profound embarrassment and bewilderment. She was obviously a handful. Sooner he was rid of her the better.
Patrick pulled the duvet back up under his chin and concentrated on trying to get back to sleep. He was relieved it hadn’t been Mandy coming to test his willpower. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to resist and that would have left him in a position of weakness. The last thing he wanted was to compromise himself before he’d had a chance to speak to Keith. He began running through the business plan that Caroline had drawn up, but moments later he was asleep.
By the time Lucy got back to Denham House earlier that day, every single pair of James’s shoes was gleaming and either in a cardboard box waiting to be taken to the cobbler for repair or back in place in his dressing room complete with shoe-trees. As he put away the brushes and polish carefully in the appointed cupboard, he heard her car outside. He walked over to the Aga to put the kettle on and waited for her to appear in the doorway.
Things had obviously gone badly. Very badly indeed. Which from James’s point of view was good. Lucy was holding Pokey apologetically by the collar, desperately trying to be brave.
‘Can she sleep in the garage or something? I couldn’t leave her…’
‘She can sleep in here with my two. I’ve got an old basket.’
Tears of gratitude sprang up in Lucy’s eyes. James put the lid back down on the Aga. Bugger tea. He got out his two biggest balloons and his best Remy. This was a brandy situation. Restorative for her and Dutch courage for him.
At six, James opened champagne, insisting that it was as good for consolation as it was for celebration. They curled up on the sofa and she sobbed on his shoulder. He didn’t speak, or offer advice, or any judgement; just listened.
‘I don’t understand. Why? Twenty years, James…’ She looked at him, bewildered. ‘What am I supposed to do now? Is that it? Do I go? Or does he go? And what about the children – do we tell them? Or do I ignore the whole thing? Am I old-fashioned or stupid? Do I expect too much…?’
Her head was obviously whirling with unanswered questions. He stroked her hair comfortingly. Eventually, her questions subsided and she became angry.
‘I don’t deserve this.’
‘No.’
Lucy looked up in surprise. It was the first opinion James had offered. Until then he’d been murmuring platitudes.
‘You don’t deserve it, Lucy. Not at all.’
He looked at her. It was now or never. He was never going to get the dice so loaded in his favour ever again. Unless he outlived his brother.
‘I love you. You know that, don’t you? I’ve always loved you.’
She nodded, wide-eyed. Gently, he wiped away the last of her tears with his thumb, then stroked her face. Gradually, the strokes turned to caresses which she didn’t resist, giving him the courage to venture further and further until it was obvious that he was no longer offering comfort but pleasure. But she didn’t pull away, seeming to take strength from his physical reassurance, melting into him and luxuriating under his attentions. He pulled her to him and kissed her. All along he said to himself that at the first sign of resistance he’d stop; that if there seemed to be any doubt, any frisson of fear, he’d do the gentlemanly thing. But she didn’t resist. Not even when he unwrapped her like a precious parcel, touching her with reverence, raining kisses of adoration along her collarbone, on her neck, down her spine, until she shivered with delight. His hands traced the contours of her breasts, her hips, her stomach.
Suddenly, there they were, on his priceless Aubusson rug, in front of the fire he’d laid earlier. James had imagined this moment so many times, yet had never quite had the courage to picture such a perfect scene. He’d always assumed that the first time would be a disaster, as he knew that good sex usually came with familiarity. He thought that he would be as uncontrolled as a schoolboy, that he would come embarrassingly early. But he managed to sustain himself effortlessly until she came, then allowed himself a blissful, heavenly release, exploding into her climax. What surprised him was the force of her reaction. She was almost animal, digging her nails into his back as if her pleasure was pain. She pulled him to her as if she never wanted to let go, and there was a look in her eyes that he couldn’t define, something almost savage, that he mistook for passion.
Later, with James asleep beside her, Lucy lay cocooned in a security blanket of alcohol and endorphins, allowing her thoughts to wander lazily back over the afternoon. She couldn’t deny to herself that she’d been tempted to sleep with him before. She knew she held the cards, that he’d never do anything without taking her lead, and she’d never given it to him until now. But sometimes she’d caught him looking at her in a way that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff and feeling the urge to jump, though you knew you never would. But this time she had…
It had been so much easier, not to mention more pleasurable, to languish under James’s attentions than face the pain inflicted by Mickey. She’d felt emotionally flayed alive after their confrontation at Honeycote. As if her heart had been ripped open, the wound left raw and bleeding. And when James kissed her, it had felt right. There was no sense of betrayal, or that this was in any way wrong. It was a salve to her wounds that she felt she deserved. Why should she suffer for someone else’s wrongs?
She knew she should have stopped him before it went too far, but every inch of her wanted to succumb. She was desperate for their liaison to turn into a back-scratching, sweat-drenched frenzy. All she wanted was for him to screw the memory of Mickey out of her. She wanted an instant replacement; someone who would heal her wounds, stop her from grieving.
She knew it was selfish. And there was a moment she could have stopped him. He was on top of her. He held himself up on his arms, one either side of her, and gazed into her eyes.
‘Is it all right?’
He was asking her permission. This was it: the point of no return. Lucy gave a mental shrug. She’d gone this far. She might as well go the whole way. You never knew: there might be fireworks, earthquakes, choirs of angels singing hallelujah… She smiled her assent.
As James edged his way into her slowly, she began rocking her hips back and forth, moving with him. Then the familiar waves of pleasure fused into a raging torrent that took her breath away, and the penny dropped. This must be why people had affairs – because the sex was so highly charged, so electric, so powered by the allure of the forbidden. Lucy almost laughed out loud at the realization that by being the perfect wife all these years she had been seriously missing out.
19
After Lucy had gone, Mickey sat shell-shocked in the kitchen for hours, not daring to move in case his feelings kicked in. He knew that he’d got no one to blame but himself. Here he was, alone and abandoned by everyone – even Pokey had slunk off to hide somewhere. He was sur
prised Lucy had left her here in his care. It was obvious she didn’t think Mickey capable of so much as looking after a dog. Which he wasn’t – he tried to remember the last time he’d fed her and couldn’t.
Eventually he summoned up the energy to go out into the scullery to find a tin of food, and found the shelf empty. He rummaged about in a cupboard for some back-up supplies. Success – there was a sack of dried food, which he could mix with some gravy browning or something. He’d go to the Spar and get some tins later. Lifting out the sack, he spied a box of bottles. He pulled it towards him and inspected the contents. Six bottles of damson gin, 1998. Manna from heaven.
The cork came out with a satisfying squeak. The pale ruby liquid slid in a viscous stream into his glass. Thick, syrupy, bitter-sweet nectar trickled down Mickey’s throat, his first drink for what seemed like months, though it was barely two days. It wasn’t long before Caroline’s imaginary taunts were blocked out by its anaesthetizing effects. So what if he had no willpower? So what if he was weak? There was no point in trying to be strong. He’d lost his wife, to his own brother, and he was pretty likely to lose his livelihood. He’d lost all enthusiasm for the plans he and Caroline had drawn up together; couldn’t face the prospect of entering into a spirit of co-operation with Cowley. He’d got no fight left in him because there was nothing worth fighting for. He couldn’t pretend any longer. Better that everyone knew what a failure he was. In a way, Mickey thought, it would be best for everyone if he just set a match to the whole thing.
Ten seconds later he sat bolt upright. That wasn’t such a bad idea. In fact, it was the best solution he’d come up with so far. A bloody insurance job – why hadn’t he thought of it before?
Mickey rewarded himself with another two inches of damson gin while he thought through the implications. Surely torching the brewery was just a form of euthanasia? Hastening its inevitable demise; avoiding the agony of the death throes, the pain of making decisions that had been forced upon him. This way was quick and clean. The brewery would be gone; it would cost too much to build a replacement that was compliant with the twenty-first century. But Honeycote Ales could live on. The beer could be brewed under licence to the original recipe by one of the larger breweries; it was pretty commonplace in the industry. The tied houses could carry on. No one would know any different…
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