It had been a strange metamorphosis. One minute he’d been there on stage, in a world of sweat and booze and gob and fags and adrenalin, an object of lust, preening and strutting. The next he was in a suit, wearing aftershave, carrying a briefcase and paying into a pension plan. He’d always assumed that he would return to the former, shake off his dull, grey chrysalis and become a butterfly again, but the years had slipped by. Now he was thirty-six and it was too late. He was too old to get away with the little-boy-lost look any more. But if he wasn’t going to turn into his father, he needed to take evasive action and quickly. So much had happened to make him realize life was too short.
Barney wheeled his bike into the hallway and halted. Something was wrong: the house had a sense of foreboding. His stomach clenched with dread. It had been nearly two months since Suzanna’s last relapse. He’d thought they might be coming out of the woods.
He opened the door of the living room and saw that they were right in the middle of the bloody forest with no hope of escape. Suzanna was sitting on the sofa, staring into space, an ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes in front of her and a bottle of red wine, decidedly empty, at her side. Her eyes slid round to the door as Barney entered, and she looked at him dully.
‘Katie’s pregnant. And so’s Sybilla. But she’s having a fucking abortion.’
Barney winced. He loved her husky voice, with its cut-glass English enunciation. But he hated it when she swore. It grated on his ears.
He rushed to her side and held her tight, this beautiful woman who’d had his baby, whose hand he’d clung on to at the graveside as the tiny coffin was lowered into the ground. He breathed in the smell of her, pressed his lips to her skin, her hair, offering her comfort for the thousandth, millionth, infinite time, wishing he could suck out her pain like poison from a snake bite. She lay crumpled in his arms, almost unconscious with the grief and the guilt she still felt, even after more than a year. She couldn’t carry on like this, haunted by reminders and tortured by ironies. Barney’s deepest fear was that Suzanna’s grief might kill her, for surely death would be preferable to the pain she was suffering. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her too.
He’d met her when she’d done the catering for one of his clients’ Christmas parties. He admired her from afar – her cool professionalism, how she was utterly charming yet detached. And her food was sublime; nothing startlingly original or self-consciously different, but perfectly executed. He’d cornered her after the party and got her card. Not that he often had need of a caterer, but because she was the first person to have remotely fascinated him for years. He’d gallantly carried her paraphernalia out to the car at the end of the evening, and persuaded her into a quick drink.
She was astonished to hear he was an accountant. Even after more than ten years, he still didn’t dress like one, favouring Paul Smith and Hacketts. She’d admitted to him, half embarrassed, half defiant, that she hadn’t filled in a tax return since she’d started up her business. Horrified, he’d offered to come and sort out her books. She’d looked a bit blank and said she didn’t think she had any.
It took Barney nearly two weeks to plough his way through the mess, piecing together five years of scrappy receipts, credit-card slips, bank statements and diary entries until he had established some kind of order. She’d kept no proper records, had no concept of profit and loss, or how to price a job. It seemed that she gave a rough estimate, without working out the costs, then as soon as she had the money, spent it. On clothes, shoes, CDs… stuff. She certainly hadn’t saved a penny. Barney was astounded that someone who seemed so organized in the kitchen could be so chaotic in their business life.
He filed her return to the Inland Revenue, praying they would be lenient. Then he went through her various bank accounts, credit cards and store cards, added up all her debts and marched her down to the bank, where he negotiated a loan on her behalf spread out over five years that would pay off all her debts and, hopefully, cover her tax bill. Then he sat her down and made her snip up all her plastic, leaving her with just two cards: one for business and one, with a very low credit limit, for pleasure. He followed this with a lesson in book-keeping, showing her how to log everything neatly and efficiently. He didn’t even begin to try and computerize it – she had no idea how to turn on a computer, yet alone fill out a spreadsheet. But he hoped by the end of it she’d got at least a vague idea.
He thought she must think him insufferably boring, banging on about annual percentage rates and the importance of keeping her receipts in order. But she’d been hugely grateful, and insisted on cooking him a meal to say thank you. They drank four bottles of wine between them, by which time he was totally relaxed, and he spent the evening regaling her with tales of his misspent, albeit brief, youth. She, in turn, told him tales about her ghastlier clients and how she dealt with them. She was funny, irreverent and unbelievably sexy. Barney didn’t think he was in with a chance. Not many girls wanted to screw their accountant, after all. So he was surprised when she leaned over and kissed him, her lips tasting of the orange-scented dessert wine they were finishing. It was only a short walk to the bedroom, and not a much longer walk up the aisle six months later.
They’d had a small but perfect wedding at the Peter-sham Hotel, and his father had given Barney a substantial raise in recognition of his responsibilities. And as Barney felt the prison doors clang shut, he thought it was a small price to pay for having such a beautiful wife.
That had been nearly five years ago. So much had happened in between. As he cradled and rocked Suzanna in his arms, Barney made up his mind. He was going to put his foot down. He was going to have to take control, ditch the softly-softly approach. They needed a change, a new beginning, a chance to start again. And he thought he’d got the answer.
Three days later Suzanna answered the door to find an enormous bunch of flowers with Sybilla hiding sheepishly behind it.
‘I’ve come to say sorry. I should never have said what I said. But you know me – Mrs Gobby. Speak first, think afterwards.’
She thrust the flowers into Suzanna’s hands.
‘Please. Let’s be friends again. I can’t bear it.’
Suzanna smiled. It was so Sybilla, to cover up her crime with an ostentatious gesture. For every time she was stingy, she made up for it on another occasion with a display of generosity. And she knew she wasn’t going to get rid of her until she’d accepted her apology. She took the flowers.
‘These are divine. Thank you.’ She buried her nose in the bouquet. Sybilla was impatiently pawing the ground like a racehorse at the starting gate. Suzanna decided to put her out of her misery and stood back to let her past. ‘Coffee?’
Sybilla didn’t need asking twice. She charged through the hall, scraping the tiles with the razor heels of her Russell & Bromley boots, and tripped into the kitchen. It was tiny, about ten foot by eight, simply fitted with pale blue Shaker-style units, a four-ring gas hob and an eye-level oven. A large picture window overlooked the garden, and the sill was crammed with pots and pots of fresh herbs that miraculously seemed to flourish. Apart from a large year-planner on one wall, covered in bookings for christenings and cocktail parties and directors’ lunches, there was no real evidence that the kitchen belonged to a professional cook. Sybilla could never believe that Suzanna created the sublime dishes she did in such a restricted space, with so few appliances, and without help – except for a few casual waitresses and a very camp butler she employed for grander occasions, she managed Decadent Dining all on her own. Suzanna insisted it was just a question of being organized and knowing what you were doing. Besides, she had a huge fridge-freezer in the garage and a massive store cupboard where unusually shaped cake tins sat beside madeleine moulds and tagines and any number of gadgets that weren’t needed on a day-to-day basis, as well as all her serving dishes and accessories – empty oyster shells for serving sea salt, Japanese-style espresso cups for chocolate mousse…
Sybilla perched on the stool by the ta
ble that was squashed up against the wall, and started rooting through Suzanna’s post. She was shamelessly nosy – a trait you could either deal with or not, but Suzanna had learned not to mind. She soon pounced with glee on an A4 brochure with an enticing photo of a Cotswold pub on the front.
‘What’s this? The Honeycote Arms? Are you going for a romantic weekend away or something?’
‘No.’ Suzanna didn’t elaborate. Sybilla would work it out for herself any minute. She’d opened the brochure and was perusing it with rapacious eyes.
‘Oh my God! You’re going to buy a pub! I would so love to own a pub! I’ll invest, if you need money. I’ll ask Piers. I’m sure he could turn it into some sort of tax dodge…’
‘Calm down, Sibs. We’re not buying it.’
‘Well, I think you should. It’s a brilliant idea. The Cotswolds are di-vine. And you’ve always wanted your own restaurant.’
That was true. Suzanna and Barney had often talked about it in the past, but had inevitably concluded that they couldn’t afford the sky-high rents and the initial investment.
‘We’re not buying it because it’s not for sale. They’re looking for tenants.’
Sybilla did not look impressed. Suzanna went on to explain.
‘It belongs to a small local brewery. They were just about to go to the wall, when they got this new bloke in. He’s investing a load of money, apparently. They want a total revamp. The Honeycote Arms is their first project – their flagship. They’re looking for a couple to run it.’
‘But you two would be ideal. You’re just the best cook ever, and Barney is so boring about numbers, it couldn’t fail. My God, I can’t wait…’
Suzanna had to laugh. She could see that in Sybilla’s head it was already up and running. She was practically going to book a table for lunch. Today.
‘I don’t know. The competition is pretty fierce round there. And we don’t really have relevant experience. And it would be bloody hard work.’
‘Like you don’t work hard at the moment?’
‘True.’
She did. More often than not she was on her way out of the door to cater for something just as Barney walked in. And she inevitably had a job on at the weekends. It wasn’t that they needed the money, or that she needed to keep the bookings up to keep the business afloat. It was just that it stopped her thinking…
‘I think you should do it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the first time I’ve seen your eyes light up since Ollie died.’
There was a long pause. Sybilla looked at her defiantly. Sybilla had a certain honesty that was refreshing, even though you might not always want to hear it.
When Barney had first run the idea past her, Suzanna had been very dubious. But gradually, as they talked it through, they both realized they had nothing to lose. It was the opportunity they’d long wanted, without the risk of a huge investment. By the end of a long, boozy lunch, they’d talked themselves into it.
‘I have to admit, I am quite excited about the idea. But I’m scared, too. It would be a whole new life. We’d be leaving everyone we know behind – ’
‘Oh, come on. It’s not as if you’re emigrating to Australia. It’s an hour and a half away max – ’
‘Only if you drive like Piers.’
‘Look at it this way. You’re both bloody miserable here. Barney hates being an accountant. You go round with a face like a wet weekend. No one wants to ask you to dinner parties because everyone’s sprogging like mad and they don’t want to upset you – ’
Suzanna put her head in her hands.
‘Stop! I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘It’s true. Everyone loves you both, but…’
‘I know. I’m a miserable cow. I’m on the edge. You don’t know how dark it gets in my head sometimes.’
‘It’s totally understandable. I’m sure I’d be the same. Worse, probably. But you can’t go on like you are.’ Sybilla leaned forward to emphasize her point. ‘Nobody’s had the guts to tell you before. Barney treats you like china. His mum is too uptight and middle class to discuss emotions. Your mum doesn’t even know what planet she’s on. But I stick by what I said the other day. Life goes on. It’s got to.’
‘I know. I’ve been totally self-indulgent. Wallowing round in self-pity – ’
Sybilla shook her head in violent disagreement.
‘No, no – don’t ever belittle what you’ve been through. None of us are fit to judge. But for your own good… You need a change. A change and a challenge. You can cater bloody cocktail parties standing on your head. You’ve turned into a Stepford chef. It’s no wonder you spend half of your life moping.’
It was amazing how much sense Sybilla talked sometimes, considering the amount of crap she was capable of coming out with at other times. Suzanna picked up the details and looked at the pub. It certainly looked idyllic, with its mellowing, crumbling Cotswold stone, smothered in a tangle of wisteria.
‘It’s probably horrible. It’s probably on some ghastly main road with huge lorries thundering past every two minutes.’
‘I bet it isn’t. I think it’s got your name on it. I think it was meant to be.’
‘OK. If it makes you happy, we’ll go and have a look at it. A look, mind.’
Sybilla sat back, a smile of smug satisfaction on her face. She never gave up till she got what she wanted, and Suzanna plunged the cafetière to pour them both a coffee to toast her capitulation. When Sybilla sheepishly asked for camomile tea, she sensed something was up. Sybilla ran on strong black coffee. What the hell was the matter with her? She realized something else – she hadn’t had a fag yet. She looked at Sybilla suspiciously.
‘I’ve got a confession to make.’ Sybilla looked uncharacteristically nervous. ‘I’m not going to have an abortion. I’m going to have the baby.’
There were tears in her eyes as she looked at Suzanna. Whether they were tears of joy, or guilt, or just a defence mechanism Suzanna couldn’t be sure. She touched her on the arm reassuringly.
‘That’s not a confession. That’s fantastic. I’m really glad, Sib.’
It was the second time in a week she’d lied through her teeth to a friend. She certainly couldn’t express her real feelings. Her absolute mad, insane jealousy that both Katie and Sybilla could go ahead and have a baby without a deep-rooted terror of it being snatched away from her. It wasn’t an irrational fear, she knew that. But she had been told time and again that just because it had happened once, it didn’t mean it would happen again. Nevertheless, at this moment in time it was still a fear she couldn’t, wouldn’t, confront. And Sybilla’s confession somehow cemented the decision she’d already made. She couldn’t bear her two best friends giving birth within weeks of each other. It would be too much like rubbing her nose in it. Not that she wanted to cut herself off from them. But as she gave Sybilla a hug of congratulations, she decided that putting some distance between them might make things easier to bear.
As soon as Sybilla left, she picked up the phone and called Honeycote Ales. She made an appointment for her and Barney to visit the pub that weekend. Then she went into the dining room, turned on Barney’s computer and started to draft a proposal – now she’d conquered her fear of the word processor, she didn’t know how she’d lived without it. She worked late on into the afternoon. And when she hit the print button as she heard Barney come in through the door, she flew into the hallway and gave him a huge hug that took his breath away and lifted his heart.
2
The car nosed its way down the centre of Honeycote, silent and self-important, defying so much as a speck of dust to land on its shiny body. It was impossible to identify its passengers, as the windows were as black as night, totally impenetrable, but the inhabitants of Honeycote rolled their eyes nevertheless: another bloody pop star, no doubt, scouring the Cotswold countryside for a bijou, twenty-four bedroom hideaway.
Inside, Damien Wood kept a shrewd eye on his newly-appointed driver,
noting with approval how he kept just within the speed limit. Damien himself had been stopped for speeding three times lately, and twice for talking on his mobile – a car like his inevitably attracted police attention – so he’d thought it better to employ someone to drive him round while he was on business, as the points on his licence were mounting up. Rick Bradley had fitted the bill nicely. Damien made it clear that as long as he was punctual, made sure the car was always immaculate and kept anything he saw or heard to himself, he would be handsomely remunerated. He bought him a black suit to wear when he was on duty – not designer, only from Next, but the lad wore it well and looked the part. And to Damien, appearance was everything.
He’d spent most of the morning deciding whether Rick was gay. He was incredibly pretty, with long lashes and a cherubic mouth that gave him the look of a Botticelli angel, and dishevelled locks that he continually brushed out of his eyes with a casual gesture that came from years of practice in front of a mirror. But when they’d stopped earlier at a zebra crossing, and a young girl tottered across the road in her too-short skirt and her too-high heels, Damien had his answer. Rick’s eyes followed her progress, idly but with an unmistakable interest. No doubt about it, his beguiling androgyny was the type used by only the most male of men: Jim Morrison before he got fat; Michael Hutchence before he got buried. Not that Damien minded either way what Rick’s sexual persuasion was – but when you were putting your trust in someone, you needed to know their preferences.
He was going to be relying heavily on Rick over the next few months. When he wasn’t needed as a driver, he’d do maintenance around the house, mow the lawns, that sort of thing. Not that the house needed much maintenance yet, as it was brand spanking new.
Making Hay Page 2