He flopped back on his bed and lit a spliff, to fast-track his way into relaxation. Drink had never done it for him, unlike his father. As the mellow smoke softened the edges of reality, Patrick thought back over the past eighteen months and the extraordinary events that had brought him to where he was.
It seemed a lifetime ago now, but only the Christmas before last his father Mickey had been having a raging affair with Kay Oakley, the wife of a local millionaire. Patrick had tried to intervene and persuade Kay to drop his father, but by then Kay had found out she was pregnant. In the ensuing mayhem, Mickey had managed to drive Patrick’s beloved Austin Healey into a brick wall and nearly kill himself: rather a drastic distraction from his misdemeanours. Because there were more – and the affair rather paled into insignificance next to the fact that the brewery was nearly bankrupt.
It had, thank goodness, been happy endings all round. Kay had her baby, and she and her husband Lawrence had undergone a whirlwind reconciliation. Lawrence had sold his business, a thriving garden centre, for a massive profit, and they were now apparently living in Portugal in contented bliss and unashamed luxury. And Keith Sherwyn had appeared like a knight in shining armour, at a time of his life when he needed a new challenge, and had fallen in love with Honeycote Ales. If he hadn’t intervened when he did, Patrick felt sure they’d have been in the hands of the official receiver by now. Their ten tied pubs would have been sold off and the brewery itself would have been put on the market as an ‘interesting development project’. And Honeycote House would have gone too, no doubt – Patrick shivered at how close they had been to losing their entire legacy. But Keith never rubbed it in that it was his cash that had saved the brewery. He had respect for the fact that it was Patrick’s own great-great-grandfather who’d founded Honeycote Ales, that it had been in the Liddiard family for a century and a half, and he was adamant that it should retain its image as a family-run business. He was diplomatic and considerate, and made sure that every decision made was a joint one. But there was no doubt that he was in the driving seat, and it wasn’t just because he’d invested a large amount of capital. He had vision, knew there were risks to be taken and was more than prepared to take them.
When Keith had come on board they’d divided up the responsibilities between them. Mickey was made production director, overseeing the day-to-day practicalities of brewing as much beer as they needed and making sure it reached its destinations in perfect condition. He was the best man for the job, as it took experience and know-how that couldn’t be learned overnight, and Mickey knew the workforce, their little foibles and hang-ups and how to handle them. Also, it was plain to everyone that he wasn’t firing on all four cylinders since his accident. He tired easily; still had headaches that forced him to take time off work. Plus he’d had his driving licence taken off him for two years – so all in all, he was best left to his own devices. Keith became marketing director, hunting out new sales outlets and looking into the possibility of new product developments – they were debating an organic range. And Patrick was estate manager, responsible for the ten tied houses and the people that ran them. Which, Keith had just announced, included overseeing the relaunch of the Honeycote Arms.
He’d told Patrick over lunch in the Horse and Groom at Eldenbury the week before. He explained that he thought he was ready for the responsibility and had made it quite clear to him that he was to steer the entire project from beginning to end – not without Keith’s support, of course, but he didn’t want him to come running to him for advice on what colour napkins to have.
So, Patrick had a budget to control and a deadline to meet. Forty grand to refurbish the Honeycote Arms. And four weeks to do it in. It was a pretty tall order, especially for someone who hadn’t always been known for his work ethic. Though to be fair, Patrick had changed over the past year, and had learned a lot from Keith. He was surprised to find that he enjoyed work.
But this increase in responsibility represented something new. Patrick felt sure Keith was putting him to some sort of test. He liked and respected Keith enormously, but his bluff geniality and the vulnerability card he liked to play every now and again didn’t fool him in the least. Keith was ruthless, he knew what he wanted and he didn’t suffer fools. Now it was up to Patrick to show him what he was made of. And he knew why: he had to prove to Keith that he was good enough for his daughter.
Patrick adored Mandy. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that she was the girl he was going to marry. They’d had a wonderful time together over the past year, once things had calmed down and Keith had taken over at the brewery. The Sherwyns had moved to nearby Kiplington, and Patrick and Mandy spent hours together, days together, nights together. He’d been proud to show her the countryside he’d been born and brought up in, either in the Healey or on horses, riding through the tangled woods and open fields and down the lanes dappled with sunlight. And even though she’d been brought up in the suburbs of Birmingham, she was quick to adapt to life in the country. Not that it was all green wellies and horse muck. Sometimes they sneaked off for a weekend somewhere resolutely urban – London or Bath, usually – and Mandy made him shop, which he pretended not to enjoy, and they wallowed in the spas of expensive hotels then were inevitably late for dinner, as the effects of the first bottle of champagne of the evening took hold. And they’d shared high-spirited evenings with Patrick’s sister Sophie – who’d been Mandy’s friend at school – and her boyfriend Ned, whose parents’ farm lay next to Honeycote House. The four of them went bowling and ice-skating and to the races and the movies…
And one day he had woken up to realize that he was truly in love for the first time in his life. Up until Mandy, every girlfriend or lover he’d had was disposable, or had been for an ulterior motive. Kay had been his lover, but only so he could lure her away from his father. Kelly had been his girlfriend, but only because she was sex with no strings – and great sex at that. Even his friend Mayday recognized a sea change in Patrick. Mayday, the Gothic barmaid in the Horse and Groom, who’d taught Patrick everything he knew, had been shocked when he’d turned down her offer of a quick roll in the proverbial one night.
‘Well, well, well,’ she said. ‘You have got it bad.’ She’d grinned, but Patrick knew she was a tiny bit hurt and a tiny bit sad that their relationship had moved on, that they weren’t going to have their ritual, unconditional bonks any longer.
Because Mandy was the girl for him. Mandy was going to be the next Mrs Liddiard, was going to stand at the Aga where Lucy had stood all these years, was going to fill the beds at Honeycote House with beautiful babies – because how could they not be beautiful? And Patrick, when Mickey and Keith were grizzled and elderly, would take over as managing director of the brewery, and the next generation would be established.
But first, like a knight, he had to win his spurs. It was up to him to put the Honeycote Arms on the map. And Patrick didn’t like to admit, even to himself, that he found the prospect rather daunting.
*
Rick decided that it would be best if he stayed to keep an eye on his father, who was definitely making the most of his last night and the drinks that were being pressed on him now the free bar was over. So he asked Damien if he would mind taking Kelly home. Damien didn’t mind at all – in fact, he was dying for the chance to be alone in her company. He’d fallen completely under her spell: her bubbly, effusive nature, her forthright manner, not to mention the fact that she actually seemed to like him for who he was and what he’d done. Not that he craved approval, but he was still in shock that people seemed to be sneering at him, and the fact that Kelly didn’t made him warm to her.
Kelly went into ecstasies over Damien’s car. She breathed in the smell of the leather, ran her hands over it admiringly, sank into its cushioned comfort. Damien smiled at her pleasure and fiddled with the in-car entertainment centre until he got his acid jazz at just the right volume: enough to provide atmosphere but still be able to have a conversation.
She was a little bi
t emotional on the way home, worrying about her parents and how they were going to manage in Ross-on-Wye without Rick and Kelly to keep an eye on them. Damien was alarmed when she wiped away a tear – what was he supposed to do? Stop the car and comfort her? But she pulled herself together and apologized, laughing through her tears.
‘Sorry – one too many, I think. I don’t usually drink much.’
‘That’s OK. You’re bound to be worried. But I’m sure they’ll be fine.’
‘I know. But I can’t help worrying. About all of them. Especially Rick. I’m glad you’ve given him a job.’ She looked sideways at Damien. ‘He’s a good bloke.’
‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have taken him on if I didn’t think he was up to it.’
‘A lot of people think he’s a bit of a waster. But he’s true to himself, do you know what I mean? Doesn’t do things because he thinks he ought to.’
Damien nodded. It was an admirable quality in the right person. He was about to ask Kelly more about herself – he wasn’t actually all that interested in Rick at this precise moment – when he realized they were already heading down Eldenbury high street. Curbing his disappointment, he drew up outside the Golden Swallow. The town was quiet now, though the air was still rich from the scent of frying chips that had been provided to late-night revellers.
Kelly rewarded him with a polite but firm kiss on the cheek that signified affection, but no invitation, which was something of a relief.
‘Thanks so much for the lift.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘And if you ever want a sitter for your little one…’
Damien had told her all about Anastasia. Probably bored her, in fact, as he always went on about his daughter given half the chance.
‘Thanks. That’s very kind.’
He watched until she’d unlocked the door to her flat and was safely inside. She gave him a little wave as she shut it behind her, and he smiled through his window, even though she couldn’t possibly see him.
He leaned back in his seat for a moment, overwhelmed and not a little startled by the effect she’d had on him. She was warm, genuine, open, big-hearted, unaffected, unpretentious. And, thought Damien, she had a fabulous pair of tits. He felt slightly ashamed of this last observation, but he was a bloke, after all. A bloke that hadn’t seen any action for longer than he cared to admit.
Damien told himself to stop being ridiculous. It was far, far too early. The wounds inflicted by Nicole hadn’t even begun to heal over yet. Not to mention the fact that his divorce was the other side of a hideously bloody battle that they were yet to have. Each side was still gathering their weapons and putting on their armour. He couldn’t possibly drag Kelly into that. But on the way back to Honeycote Grove, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. And as he pressed the remote that opened the gates, he realized what it was he found so attractive about her.
She was about as unlike Nicole as you could possibly get.
Nicole was as subversive and seductive and addictive as the narcotics she was hooked on. A deadly poison that insinuated its way into your system; a drug that was hell bent on destroying everything in its path.
Kelly was fresh air, a summer breeze, a butterfly: warm, open, uncalculating, uncomplicated. At least, that’s how she seemed. Damien warned himself to be careful and not to rush into anything. Not to make the same mistake twice. He had more than himself to worry about now, after all.
But as he slid between his sheets later that night, he imagined a soft, warm body behind him, and blonde curls spread out on his pillow. And he allowed himself the ultimate fantasy: to be able to reach out and scoop that soft, warm body into his arms and hold it in a companionable embrace for the whole of the night: nothing more, nothing less.
6
Sunday morning dawned, rain-free with a light breeze and the odd patch of watery sunshine. Suzanna woke up with butterflies, and realized that it was the first time since Oliver had died she hadn’t felt the cold lump of dread descend upon her heart as she slid into consciousness.
Next to her Barney woke too, feeling an initial wild panic – it was he who had initiated the move after all. What if it was a huge mistake? But when he looked over and saw Suzanna had already got up, and was dressing excitedly, he knew it was all worthwhile. If only for that. Usually she lay for at least ten minutes staring dully at the ceiling before she moved. He didn’t know what she thought during that time, and he’d given up offering her sympathy or support. But today she had beaten him to it, was pulling on her cargo pants and the lavender mohair hooded top he’d got for her birthday. She looked over to him and grinned.
‘Tea?’
Barney was flooded with a mixture of relief, jubilation and excitement. He felt like champagne, but it was a long drive to Honeycote. They could have champagne when they got there.
An hour later, a small crowd gathered on the pavement outside 19 Burcot Road, as Barney and Suzanna emerged with the very last of their luggage. Sybilla was there, excited and emotional, clad in a faux leopard-skin coat and matching hat. So was Barney’s father Gerald, for which he was very grateful. There had been uproar when he had revealed his plans to his parents, and he could tell they’d felt betrayed in some way, but in the end his father had given him his blessing, if a little grudgingly, and had told him there would always be a place for him back at the practice if things went wrong. Barney hadn’t liked to say that he would go back to accountancy over his dead body, but he was glad he had his parents’ good wishes. His mother hadn’t come this morning because she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself trying to dissuade him at the last minute. And she would have probably cried, which would have embarrassed her beyond belief. Instead she’d sent a card with Gerald – ‘Good Luck in your New Home’ – and a potted plant that Barney knew they would kill within a week but that still touched him.
Suzanna’s mother Iris hovered on the sidelines, dressed in a rust velvet cape and sheepskin boots, her heavy amber earrings stretching the holes in her lobes. And as Suzanna hugged the fragile bag of bones, she felt a twinge of regret. She was going to miss her so much. The wonderful thing about Iris was she never interfered but she was always there for her; she never questioned the wisdom of what Suzanna was doing, but would always have an opinion that Suzanna valued. They were close, but not in each other’s pockets. They’d only had each other when Suzanna was growing up, after all.
Iris had been a single mother, a drama teacher – well, speech and elocution. Eccentric and self-sufficient, her holiday romance with a violinist from a BBC orchestra at the age of forty had produced a baby, which had been a shock and a delight. She’d coped marvellously, carrying on with her work, teaching the middle-class children of south-west London how to enunciate clearly while Suzanna slept soundly in a basket for the first few months, then played in a playpen, then scribbled carefully at a tiny little desk and never interrupted the lesson.
Iris’s only flaw, as far as Suzanna could see, was that she cared very little about food. Tiny and bird-like, she would often forget to eat herself, though she never neglected her daughter. But by the age of twelve Suzanna had tired of fishfingers, spaghetti hoops and tinned peaches. One day she discovered a battered and well-used copy of Elizabeth David in amongst a box of books Iris, a voracious reader, had picked up at a jumble sale. She’d found the descriptive recipes fascinating and mouth-watering, and resolved to try one a day. The first night’s omelette was barely edible, but by the end of three weeks Suzanna had a repertoire that made her realize food was to be enjoyed, not just used as a fuel.
From then on, she was hooked. She trawled second-hand bookshops for recipe books and read them avidly from cover to cover. Constance Spry, Prue Leith, Jane Grigson, Robert Carrier, Marguerite Patten, even Mrs Beeton – between them she gleaned all the basics of formal cookery. Veloutés, béchamels, reductions, hollandaise, roux: her repertoire expanded day by day. Trial and error in their glorified bedsit kitchen produced some spectacular successes as well as some d
ismal failures, but Suzanna knew that you learned more by your mistakes than anything, and she wasn’t one to give up. Iris found her taste buds assaulted on a nightly basis, and her slight seven-stone frame gradually expanding. And her daughter became an accomplished self-taught cook.
At eighteen, the obvious option was catering college, but Suzanna had looked through the prospectuses and concluded she had little to learn, and besides she couldn’t afford the time or the money. So she took jobs in restaurants – as many different restaurants as she could find, to gain as much experience as she could. The one thing she decided was that if she was going to cook for a living, she wanted freedom and few overheads. She’d moved to Oxford for a short time, as Iris insisted that she needed to mix with young people and learn to stand on her own two feet: living with her dotty mother wasn’t going to teach her much about the ways of the world. Though Oxford had been fun, Suzanna craved her own space and found she missed her mother more than she thought she would. But Iris refused to let her move back into their tiny flat, as she didn’t think it was healthy, so Suzanna found a flat in Richmond and set up Decadent Dining.
Now, with the prospect of Iris at least an hour and a half’s drive away, Suzanna felt a sudden rush of panic. Iris had been there for her, a mere five minutes away in the car, throughout the last eighteen months of hell. She’d always been able to howl on her shoulder without having to explain anything. In Honeycote there would only be Barney, and Suzanna felt that he’d had a basinful of her wobblies. Would she be able to survive without her? Iris assured her repeatedly that there was always the telephone, but that was no replacement for an unconditional shoulder to cry on.
Making Hay Page 7