She took the news quietly, without making a fuss, because she knew there wasn’t any point. She’d already had a knock-back the week before. She’d desperately wanted to be in charge of decorating the pub. She’d known exactly what she’d like to do with it and had given it a great deal of thought. She’d done her research, reading Caterer and Hotelkeeper avidly, looking for trends, what worked and what didn’t. She’d even drawn up a design on a large piece of board, and attached samples of paint and curtain fabric and floor tiles. Patrick had listened patiently to her proposal. So had her father. Then they had both as good as patted her on the head and told her renovating a pub was hard work and that she’d hate it. The implication being that she was some sort of princess who, once she’d chosen the wallpaper, wouldn’t be interested in the rest of it. Anyway, the Blakes had strong ideas about what they wanted to do, and Patrick and Keith didn’t want to tread on their toes.
Mandy wondered to herself who was in charge here. If they’d wanted to tread on the Blakes’ toes, they were perfectly entitled to. They were the ones paying the bills. If they’d wanted to put Mandy in charge of the refurb, they could have done. But nobody took her seriously. They treated her like a silly little nineteen-year-old with A levels in Art and Classical Civilization and a rich daddy who’d put her in charge of PR, just to keep her quiet. And they as good as ignored her. She’d been sidelined, marginalized. But there was no point in behaving like a spoilt brat about it.
With this second piece of news, everything became perfectly clear. No matter how good she was at her job, there just wasn’t room for her. It wasn’t personal, or political, she was pretty sure of that. And it wasn’t a judgement on her talent or capability. To put it in a nutshell, she was in the way.
Compounding this problem was her relationship with Patrick. It was pretty simple. Whenever they were away from work, if they went out for a meal or to a film or to a bar, they got on like a house on fire. The chemistry between them still crackled, they made each other laugh, they enjoyed a lot of the same things and had respect for each other’s opinions. And the sex was amazing. Patrick had been Mandy’s first lover, but she was under no illusion that he had returned the compliment. Often when they were out they’d be accosted by some girl or other who Mandy could tell had been a previous conquest. And you didn’t learn the tricks Patrick could pull in bed out of a book.
But get them in the confines of Honeycote Ales and the atmosphere was awkward and strained. Patrick seemed almost intimidated by her presence. Mandy could only conclude that he felt threatened by her, perhaps because it was her father who’d rescued the brewery, but she couldn’t imagine what he was actually afraid of. Her being made managing director and sacking him? It was ridiculous that they couldn’t find a way of working together side by side. It was clearly an ego thing, decided Mandy. She was glad she was able to rationalize it, but at the same time felt hurt that Patrick didn’t feel their relationship was strong enough to be able to rise above it. Surely they were a team? They were all in it together. It wasn’t a competition. There wasn’t going to be a winner. In fact, if they didn’t pull together, they would all end up losing.
Mandy sighed and, opening her file, tried to concentrate on composing a blurb for the new labels that had been designed for their bottled range. They didn’t sell many, as they had decided not to go down the supermarket route – there were too many people doing it – but a lot of free houses and restaurants liked to stock a locally bottled ale. As she tried to encapsulate the spirit of Honeycote Ales in less than fifty words, the same thought came to her again and again.
They’d all be better off without her here. She’d have her own identity; Keith couldn’t be accused of favouritism; Patrick wouldn’t feel compromised. And Elspeth would probably throw a party.
*
In the boardroom, still waiting for everyone to arrive, Suzanna was getting increasingly nervous. She wasn’t used to formal meetings. She was used to being her own boss. And the sheaf of pie charts and diagrams and targets on the sheets of paper in front of her were disconcerting. It all seemed horribly grown up and serious. When Keith disappeared off to get coffee cups, she turned to Barney, panic-stricken.
‘God, Barney – do you think we’ve done the right thing? What’s a GPM?’
‘Gross Profit Margin. And don’t take any notice – it’s all jargon and bollocks. You don’t have to worry your pretty little head about any of it.’
Actually, she did, but Barney thought she’d probably bolt if she knew the reality at this point. He was banking on her picking up most of it as she went along. Suzanna was pretty quick on the uptake, as long as she didn’t think she was being forced to take something on board. It was going to be up to him to guide her. And one thing he was sure of: she was the one person that was going to make this whole project work, even if she didn’t quite realize it.
‘I’m having second thoughts. I’m never going to be able to do this!’
Shit, thought Barney. She really was panicking. But before he could say anything to calm her down, there was a discreet cough in the doorway and they both looked up to see a dark-haired young man in a four-button moleskin suit lounging in the doorway. He smiled at them disarmingly.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ He came into the room, holding out his hand first to Suzanna, his manners impeccable. ‘Patrick Liddiard. We’re going to be working together on this.’
It was the boy who’d whizzed past in the sports car. A bit up himself, thought Barney. Fucking gorgeous, thought Suzanna.
Five minutes later, Barney had to eat his words, as Patrick charmingly put them at their ease and Suzanna visibly relaxed, all her worries seemingly evaporating into thin air.
Ginny woke up that morning and decided she couldn’t possibly feel depressed. The first thing she saw through her Velux was a periwinkle blue sky with the odd cloud scudding across. This was, in effect, the first day of her new life. She didn’t count yesterday, which had been too fraught and difficult. And today she’d have the luxury of being by herself to gather her thoughts, as soon as she’d got the twins to college. They were studying for their A level retakes, as neither of them had got the grades they’d needed in order to go to the universities they wanted. It was the one thing Ginny had held against David, that the trauma of him leaving had meant a dismal trio of D grades each the summer before. The only up-side was they seemed to enjoy the social life at the college, though Ginny was worried that their life was becoming too social and they’d only repeat their performance in the upcoming exams. But both girls protested they were working hard, and their grades seemed to prove that.
She dropped them, moaning and groaning, at the train station in Eldenbury which was only ten minutes from Evesham. They could walk or catch a bus at the other end. They’d spent all of breakfast trying to persuade her that they were too traumatized after the move to go to college, but she’d been firm. She promised if it was raining that evening to come and pick them up.
She got back, had a shower and found something to wear. Her favourite old jeans and the indigo-blue cotton cable-knit sweater that covered her bum, and her trainers. She decided to walk down to the shop to get a paper, then read it over a cup of coffee. Then she’d go about putting some homely touches to the barn. Go to the supermarket and stock up on everything. Somehow she thought that once the fridge was full and there was a bowl of fruit on the side, and perhaps a vase of fresh flowers, the place would feel more lived in. Less transient. They might feel less like tenants.
As she walked down to the heart of Honeycote, she remembered what it was that had drawn her here in the first place. For years she’d wanted to move to the country. She’d been brought up there, after all, at the foot of the Malvern Hills in a small Worcestershire village. But it had been out of the question while she was married. David had needed to be within ten minutes of the surgery in case of emergencies. Of course, now she realized that of all those out-of-hours root-canal treatments and agonizing abscesses, fifty per cent ha
d probably been bogus. He’d been filling Faith, not teeth. So now she was going to have what she wanted, even though the twins had moaned that Honeycote was the back end of nowhere. It would do them good – she didn’t really want them hanging out in the pubs of Evesham anyway. There were decent buses and trains, and she’d never complained about dropping them off or picking them up from anywhere. And anyway, they were supposed to be spending every other weekend with David – Cheltenham, with its trendier bars and clubs, and a better selection of shops, should keep them happy.
She’d wanted a break from her immediate past, as she felt that was the only way she was going to be able to forge a new existence for herself. She didn’t want to go to the same supermarket where she’d once bought family suppers; she didn’t want to pass people in the street who knew her and David as a couple. Honeycote was like another world, yet it was only fifteen minutes in the car from her old life. And with its olde-worlde chocolate-box perfection, she could surely live out any fantasy she liked. She knew, of course, that she was being whimsical; that bad things happened in places like Honeycote just as they did in an inner-city slum. But for the time being, as she walked down the village high street, its total charm gave her a spring in her step.
She passed the Honeycote Arms and saw a posse of builders having their first brew of the day, looking at the pub and eyeing up the task ahead warily. There was a skip waiting in readiness. She wondered what was going on: whether it was going to be demolished or just renovated. She hoped it was the latter – half the fun of moving to a village was to have a local. Ginny wasn’t a great drinker, but she was looking forward to being part of a community.
She went into the post office and was greeted with a glorious smell: a fresh delivery of croissants, Danish pastries and doughnuts was being loaded on to the shelves. Ginny had a sweet tooth, and eyed up a pain au chocolat – could she resist? She didn’t want it to become a habit, but she thought she deserved it. It had been the weekend from hell after all. And the walk there and back would have given her some exercise – her early-morning branflakes seemed a long way off.
She slid her choice into a paper bag and picked up a copy of the local paper. She could have a look and see what the local job market was like. The prospect gave her butterflies, and she waited rather impatiently in the queue, anxious to get home in order to see what her future might hold. There was a girl in front of her, in cream jodhpurs and a pair of tobacco-brown suede chaps. Ginny felt a stab of envy. Perhaps if her bottom had looked like that, David wouldn’t have gone rushing into Faith’s thighs.
The girl turned and Ginny saw it was in fact a woman – and that she recognized her. Ginny racked her brains – she prided herself on always being able to remember names – and realized it was Lucy Liddiard. She’d made up a foursome with her for tennis a few times, at a mutual friend’s house near Broadway. She gave a hesitant smile, not wanting to make a fool of herself in case Lucy didn’t have a clue who she was, but Lucy smiled back. She was unashamedly open about recognizing Ginny but not being able to remember her name.
‘I know you from tennis, I’m sure. But I’m so sorry – I’m hopeless with names. Completely useless – ’
‘Ginny. Ginny Tait.’
‘Of course. Lucy Liddiard. I didn’t realize you lived round here.’
‘I don’t. I mean, I didn’t. I do now. We moved in yesterday.’
‘Really? Where to?’
Ginny could see Lucy racking her brain, wondering which house she could have moved to.
‘Tinker’s Barn. We’re only renting.’
‘Oh yes. It’s sweet.’
Ginny could see Lucy was a bit puzzled. With the best will in the world, Tinker’s Barn wasn’t a family home. She went on to explain.
‘I’ve just separated from my husband.’
‘Oh. You poor thing. I’m sorry.’
Ginny tilted up her chin defiantly.
‘I’m not. He was behaving like a prat.’
She was amazed to hear herself say it. But it was true. She gave a rueful grin, to show that she wasn’t really bitter, then was horrified to feel her lip tremble and her eyes fill with tears. It was the first time she’d actually voiced her position out loud, in public, and it hurt like hell. Lucy touched her arm sympathetically.
‘Why don’t you come and have a coffee? If you’re not busy, that is.’
‘No. I’m not busy. I’ve got nothing to do for the rest of my life…’
My God, she really did sound resentful and twisted. She’d been kidding herself for the past four months. In a way it had been easy to pretend everything was as normal while they still lived in the Evesham house; when David stopped by regularly on his way home from the practice. But now she’d burnt her bridges, she was on her own and she was responsible for her future happiness. And she wasn’t going to turn down an offer of friendship.
Lucy gave her a lift up to her house. Ginny felt a stab of envy as they went up the drive: Honeycote House was an idyll, a sprawling Cotswold family home that belonged in the pages of a magazine. Just walking through the door made her realize what she was missing, as the Liddiards’ mad Irish wolfhound leaped up to greet her and Lucy scooped up the post from the doormat. Even her post looked more interesting than Ginny’s ever was: there was a postcard from Australia, what looked like an exciting invitation in a thick white envelope, two subscription magazines and nothing that looked like a boring bill.
Lucy settled her in the garden room while she went to make coffee. A glorified conservatory tacked on to the back of the house at the turn of the last century, it had a red quarry tiled floor, shabby Lloyd Loom chairs and a chaise longue covered in faded gold velvet and a profusion of cushions. An ancient bookcase held stacks of magazines, trashy novels and a couple of dozen orange Penguin novels. It smelled slightly damp and earthy. It was a room for relaxing, lounging around reading a book or writing a letter. The doors looked out on to a Cotswold stone terrace with steps down to a sunken lawn. Ginny opened one and breathed in the April air – there was still a stiff breeze that made it too cold to sit outside, but the freshness was invigorating. The wolfhound had flopped at her side and Ginny scratched it under the chin, enjoying her surroundings and wondering what the rest of the day would bring. Lucy came back in with a tray of coffee.
‘You’ve got a friend for life there. Pokey thrives on attention.’
‘She’s gorgeous. I’d love a dog myself,’ said Ginny wistfully, remembering her wish-list of the night before.
‘What sort?’
‘Anything, really. I just want a companion.’
‘My brother-in-law’s Labrador bitch has just had a litter. Not pure-breds, I’m afraid. In fact, nobody’s too sure what they are. Lola escaped one dark night and produced six black bundles. I know James is desperate to get rid of them. I’ll give you his number.’
‘That sounds ideal,’ said Ginny happily.
Lucy poured coffee out of a French enamel pot. It was fresh and strong and far more reviving than the instant Ginny would have brewed herself at the barn. For a few minutes they talked about nothing of consequence. Lucy told her of her plans to revive the old grass tennis court and about how much she missed her older daughter Sophie, who was spending a year in Australia, before she took the bull by the horns quite unashamedly.
‘So – tell me what happened. He’s a dentist, isn’t he? Your husband.’
Lucy was refreshingly direct and honest, and so Ginny found herself telling her the whole sorry tale. She had a feeling that if she was going to make anything of her life in Honeycote, then Lucy was going to be a good ally, and she might as well give her the gory details before people started filling in the gaps for themselves. It might have been years since Ginny lived in a village, but she had no illusions about what people might think about a woman on her own.
Ginny had wondered ever since the day David had come home and told her he was leaving how she could possibly have been so thick. There hadn’t been any signs that she could
pick up on – not of dissent or dissatisfaction or any breakdown in communication between them. Of course, she could see the signs logistically when she looked back. But dentistry allowed for any number of absences, not just for work, but for conferences and golf tournaments which all involved overnight stays and which Ginny had always given a wide berth. So in a way she’d left the field wide open for Faith.
Faith was nearly twenty years younger than him, much closer in age to the twins than himself. Ginny couldn’t see how they could possibly have anything to talk about, what they had in common, what their relationship was based upon. David had tried, rather shamefacedly, to explain.
‘Faith makes me feel like a new man. She makes me feel as if I could conquer the world. She’s made me realize I’m capable of things I never even dreamed of – ’
‘Such as?’
‘Moving the surgery, for example. I never had time to have any vision before. And she’s made me realize there’re so many things in life I’ve never done and I should do. Skiing, for example. I’ve never been skiing.’
Ginny was indignant. ‘I’d like to go skiing.’
‘But you’ve never said so. And you’ve never done anything about it. Faith’s a doer. She makes life exciting. I feel as if I’m living life, not just running to stand still.’
Well, thought Ginny. That had told her. That would teach her to be supportive; to be what she considered a good wife and mother, when what she should have been doing was booking two weeks in Courchevel with little or no regard to the state of their bank account.
David had gone on to ask if she wanted to meet Faith and talk about things, and Ginny had looked at him as if he was mad.
‘I think you’d like her, Ginny.’ He was desperately trying to be open and grown up about it, as if that made it somehow better, which Ginny found rather insulting.
‘Please, David. Don’t ask for my approval, on top of everything else. I’m sure she’s perfectly charming – in fact, I hope she is. Because if she isn’t, it’s a waste of a bloody good marriage. And if she’s the key to your future happiness, just go.’
Making Hay Page 11