Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  As Caroline’s car disappeared out of the drive twenty minutes later, Sandra slipped into the driving seat of the Audi cabriolet she had hired for the duration of her visit and allowed herself a little pat on the back for a job well done.

  She’d been as subtle as she could. Just sown those few tiny seeds of doubt. Ginny could protest all she liked that she was happy with the way she looked, but Sandra knew there wasn’t a woman on the planet who didn’t have reservations about her appearance.

  No, Ginny would definitely be ripe for plucking. And Alejandro was just the man for the job. He could do more for a woman’s self-esteem than any top cosmetic surgeon. After all, wasn’t she testament to that herself?

  She picked up her mobile phone and dialled the villa. When he answered, she allowed herself to imagine his bare torso, those sinewed arms, and her mouth watered.

  ‘Alejandro. The girls are on their way. Now, don’t forget, I want you to treat them all like princesses. Do you understand? I don’t want them to lift a finger. You’re to prepare all their meals. And clear up. Make their beds every day. And I want those bathrooms gleaming. If they want driving anywhere, you drop whatever you’re doing. Do you get the picture?’

  Sandra knew she could afford to talk to him like that, for she paid him extremely well to loll about in her house and water her peach trees while she was absent.

  ‘Sure. No problem,’ he replied easily. ‘Everything is ready. The beds are all made. The refrigerator is full. There are fresh flowers. I have thought of everything.’

  ‘Good. And Alejandro - there is just one more task. For which you will be . . . generously rewarded. But I will need evidence. Photographic evidence . . .’

  And she outlined her instructions with precision.

  The next phone call she made was to her ex-husband. For this she had a change of tone. Honeyed rather than assertive.

  ‘Keith. It’s Sandra. I wondered if we could have dinner tonight?’

  ‘Dinner? You and me?’

  He sounded very unsure. She pretended to sound anxious.

  ‘It’s just that I’d really appreciate your advice. There are a few . . . financial issues I want to discuss. I want to make sure that what I’ve decided is the best thing for Mandy.’

  She knew that would swing it. Playing the helpless female usually worked. And Mandy was Keith’s weak spot. She always had been.

  ‘OK,’ he sounded reluctant, but at least he had agreed.

  ‘I’ll book a table at the Lygon Arms.’

  ‘The Lygon Arms?’ Keith sounded startled. The hotel was definitely a special occasion venue; a five-star landmark in the picturesque village of Broadway.

  ‘I think we should treat ourselves. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to go there, and it’s no fun eating on your own. I’ll meet you there at eight.’

  She rang off happily, slipping her phone back into the depths of her handbag. As she started up the ignition, she eyed Keeper’s Cottage critically. It was certainly very pretty, and Keith and Mandy had done it out very tastefully. But it had no presence. It wasn’t really a statement. Nevertheless, she had no doubt that it would sell quickly. As would her villa. Stick the value of the two together and they could probably afford something pretty spectacular - perhaps not a manor, but one of those substantial, sprawling country houses that the Cotswolds did so well. Like Honeycote House, she thought, but with heating that worked and windows that weren’t about to fall out.

  She remembered the first time she had stepped over the threshold at Honeycote House, when she had come to collect Mandy one weekend during a trip back from Spain. She had been rather intimidated by them all at the time. The Liddiards en masse were daunting even to the most socially confident. Sandra had done her best to be the life and soul of the party nevertheless, but had only succeeded in feeling loud and brash, especially in contrast to the graceful and dainty Lucy. She knew there had been glances exchanged behind her back, and a sigh of relief when she had left. And on the few occasions she had met them subsequently, she had definitely felt a fish out of water.

  But she had changed. Then she had been a nobody; a dull housewife with a penchant for gin. Now Sandra Sherwyn was a force to be reckoned with. She was a successful entrepreneur, she could probably put her hands on more ready cash than all of the Liddiards put together, she looked fantastic and she was in total control of her life. She was in a position to wake up in the morning and do whatever she wanted. Have whatever she wanted. Success breeds confidence. She was living proof of that. Yes, decided Sandra. She was ready. She knew that with Keith by her side it would only be a matter of time before she was queen of the local scene.

  Spain had been fantastic. Spain had given her the best years of her life so far. But it had been a lonely journey. She had worked tirelessly. Even when she was supposedly off duty she was networking, circulating, winning people over, spreading the word. It had paid off. But now it was time to kick back and enjoy the fruits of her labour. She wanted companionship, a social life, a home . . . not a sterile symbol of her success. No matter how stunning her villa was, it had never felt cosy, inviting, welcoming, relaxing. Spectacular and luxurious, maybe. But it could have belonged to anyone. She’d bought it fully decorated and furnished. There wasn’t an iota of individuality within its walls.

  And when she had her home, she wanted to sit at the head of her table, as guests, family and friends came and went, ate her food, drank her wine, danced to her music. She wanted people to fall over themselves to be invited into her inner circle. And she couldn’t do that alone. She knew that to be a social success you had to be part of a couple. And Keith already had his foot in the door. He had a wide circle of friends, and an even wider circle of acquaintances. He had respect and credibility. The template was there. She just had to build on it.

  Sandra started up the car and headed out of Kiplington towards Eldenbury. She’d phone the Lygon Arms to book a table, then buy a local paper and skim through the property section over a cup of coffee somewhere. She might be moving a bit too fast, but Sandra enjoyed anticipation. Looking forward to something was often more pleasurable than the reality. She adored plotting and scheming and planning, moving the chess pieces of life around to make sure she had checkmate every time.

  While she was at the Lygon Arms later, she mused, she might just ask them about weddings. She was thinking of a nice quiet civil ceremony followed by lunch. Second time around it was better to be discreet. Especially when you were marrying your own ex-husband.

  Later that afternoon, the hen party tumbled out of the MPV they’d hired at the airport, travel weary but full of excitement.

  Sandra’s villa was quite breathtaking. It was perched on a hillside with staggering sea views to one side and mountains to the other. There were gasps of delight at the lush greenery, the rambling terrace, the scent of the flowers, the glimpse of the azure blue swimming pool that winked in the sunlight.

  Open-mouthed, they ventured inside.

  The accommodation was palatial, centred around a large open-plan area with a vaulted ceiling, hung with a wrought-iron chandelier the size of a wagon wheel. To one side was a kitchen in a dark, warm, rustic wood set against bright blue and yellow ceramic tiles. A long table with benches down each side denoted the dining area, while the living room was marked out by three sofas at right angles to each other, carved out of wood and filled with dark blue linen cushions. On the wall was a flat-screen television and discreetly mounted speakers. Modern seascapes adorned the walls. There was little clutter, just a glass bowl filled with lemons, a vase of fresh flowers, and a couple of chunky wooden candle-sticks. It was almost like a luxury hotel.

  ‘Bloody hell, Mandy. You never told us it was like this. This is film star stuff,’ said Sasha accusingly.

  Mandy herself was looking staggered. ‘This is new. She bought it a few months ago, after she sold the clinics. She just had an apartment before. Nice, but nothing special. I’d got no idea.’

  Suddenly the French windows t
hat looked out onto the terrace opened, and a figure stepped into the room.

  ‘Fuck!’ whispered Kitty in awe. ‘It’s Johnny Depp. We’ve come to the wrong villa.’

  The intruder was tall and lean. His hair was dark, but streaked fair in places by the sun and the sea. Loose, it would have curled down to just above his shoulders, but he’d caught it up in a leather thong, thereby showing off his razor-sharp cheekbones and his slanting eyes, as black as coal and fringed by Bambi eyelashes. A faint line of black stubble on his top lip and chin outlined his mouth. He wore nothing but a pair of faded jeans, slung low on his hips and held up by a battered leather belt with an elaborate buckle in the shape of a skull and crossbones.

  ‘Ladies. You are a little earlier than I expected. The traffic from the airport must have been good.’ He smiled in delight, his eyes lighting up, showing even white teeth. He indicated his bare torso. ‘I apologize. I meant to dress for you. Excuse me.’

  ‘Please. Don’t worry.’ Ginny spoke for all of them, the only one able to find her voice. ‘You must be Alejandro.’

  ‘And you must be Ginny.’ He pronounced it ‘genie’ as he descended on her with his hand outstretched. ‘Sandra told me you would be in charge.’

  ‘For my sins,’ replied Ginny, taking his hand with a blush and suddenly thinking of several other sins.

  ‘I am here to do for you whatever you want. Sandra has said I must tend to your every need.’

  ‘You’re going to be jolly worn out by the end of the weekend, then,’ said Caroline cheerfully. Whether it was being free from the tyranny of her husband and children, three gin and tonics on the plane, or the sight of Alejandro, it wasn’t clear, but she seemed to have perked up immeasurably.

  ‘I’ll bring in your cases. Then I’ll show you your rooms. And then I make cocktails on the terrace.’ He turned to Mandy. ‘This must be the beautiful bride-to-be.’

  He took her hand and kissed it. Mandy visibly melted. The others all waited their turn, hearts thumping, as he correctly guessed who each one was, even divining which twin was which, then went outside to retrieve their luggage from the car. Five pairs of eyes watched his retreating muscular back with longing.

  ‘How did he know who we all were?’ wondered Sasha.

  ‘Sandra will have described us. I’ll be the fat, ginger one,’ said Caroline.

  ‘She never said he was a sex god,’ breathed Kitty. ‘I thought he was going to be some lecherous old man who’d ogle us by the pool.’

  ‘He’s totally divine,’ giggled Ginny. ‘He should come with a health warning.’

  ‘First one to shag him gets fifty quid.’ Caroline loved a bet. And a challenge.

  ‘Dream on,’ said Sasha. ‘I bet he’s got a girlfriend that looks like Penelope Cruz tucked away somewhere.’

  There was a collective sigh as they individually realized they didn’t have a hope.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ginny. ‘Let’s choose our rooms and go for a swim. I don’t want to waste a moment.’

  She suddenly felt the need to cool down. Was it a hot flush? That was all she needed. To be menopausal on top of everything else. Although now she was here she felt a bit better. You couldn’t help but feel light-hearted in this wondrous setting. No wonder Sandra was so upbeat and optimistic. Never mind the cosmetic surgery - the sunshine alone made you feel ten years younger.

  Alejandro prepared them the most delicious evening meal. The table was covered with colourful plates made from local pottery, piled high with jamón Serrano, gleaming black olives, tomato salad, chunks of manchego cheese, marinated red peppers, and his speciality, patatas bravas - wedges of potato cooked in paprika, and dunked into bowls of garlic mayonnaise.

  ‘I hope nobody wants a snog later,’ said Caroline, happily scooping up glistening blobs of mayo.

  Thanks to Lucy’s divine intervention, Percy was now sleeping from seven at night till seven the next, and it had made all the difference. Now she was able to get a decent night’s sleep, Caroline felt able to cope. She’d even managed to get organized enough to book Percy and Constance into the cre‘che at the leisure centre in Eldenbury and start swimming. She’d dropped five pounds in just a fortnight, because she no longer needed to keep her energy levels up by stuffing biscuits and the children’s tea. She’d already decided to hit the shops the next day and buy Lucy something to say thank you. God knows how long she would have carried on in her postnatal fug. It was only now she felt almost back to normal that she realized how dangerously low she had felt, and she was grateful to her sister-in-law. Especially after she had been so foul and practically accused her of trying to seduce James. But luckily Lucy didn’t bear grudges.

  Caroline took a slurp of wine and giggled to herself as she imagined James coping with the dreaded bedtime ritual. Henry was pretty savage by the end of the day, and Constance never missed an opportunity to be uncooperative if she sensed someone was at the end of their tether. James was used to walking in the door at seven and helping himself to a drink while he listened to The Archers and read the paper at the kitchen table, oblivious to the mayhem going on upstairs while his wife administered baths, bottles and bedtime stories. Caroline relished the image of him withstanding Henry’s pleas for yet another Thomas the Tank Engine adventure, as Constance repeatedly threw her rag doll out of bed and demanded its retrieval.

  There had been a moment the day before when she had nearly bottled out of going, but Lucy had soon put her straight.

  ‘James will survive. It’ll do him good. And anyway, what can go wrong? He can always ring me if he really comes unstuck.’

  Caroline had left the fridge bulging with food, and several lists, timetables and menus stuck to the wall next to it. All James had to do was follow her instructions. And now she was determined to make the most of her few days of freedom. She was determined not to feel guilty, or worry about what was going on at home.

  ‘So, Alejandro,’ she purred, piling another helping of Serrano ham onto her plate. ‘Where’s the action round here?’

  Alejandro was in the kitchen making crema Catalan - the Spanish equivalent of crème brulée, served in individual terracotta dishes. He had a flat metal disc on a long handle which was heated up then applied to a layer of sugar sprinkled on top of the custard, whereupon it melted into a hard layer of toffee. He looked up from his task with a reassuring smile.

  ‘Don’t worry. I will get you all the best tables, into all the best clubs.’

  ‘Good,’ said Caroline, licking her fingers. ‘This is my first taste of freedom for nearly five years. I want to make the most of it.’

  Ginny shot her a worried glance. She knew Caroline had once had a bit of a reputation, and that she was hard to control when she’d had a few. What if she went off the rails over the weekend? The Liddiards would never forgive her—

  With a start she realized Alejandro was filling up her cava glass and pressing it into her hand.

  ‘Relax,’ he urged her, and looked deep into her eyes. Colouring furiously, she managed to smile back and lifted the glass obediently to her lips. He was right. Why should she worry? Caroline was old enough to look after herself. Why did she always feel the need to cluck around everyone, Ginny wondered.

  ‘Shopping tomorrow,’ Sasha was declaring. ‘I need an outfit for the evening do.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to wear your bridesmaid’s dress?’ demanded Kitty, a little hurt. She’d spent the past week up until midnight making the outfits, since Mandy had rather belatedly decided that she wanted the twins and Sophie and Georgina to escort her down the aisle as well as Constance.

  ‘There is no way I’m going to strut my stuff in white organza.’ Sasha was adamant.

  ‘Oh God,’ groaned Caroline, suddenly brought back down to earth. ‘I’ve got to find something too.’ She poked at her middle.

  ‘Join the club,’ said Ginny gloomily.

  ‘You know what?’ said Alejandro, bearing a tray full of completed desserts. ‘You will all look gorgeous, whatever
you wear.’

  Five pairs of eyes looked at him doubtfully as he handed out the calorie-laden pots of sin.

  ‘That’s not going to help the cause, is it?’ observed Caroline.

  They all picked up their spoons regardless, unable to resist temptation. It was going to be that sort of weekend.

  Sandra arrived at the Lygon Arms nice and early. The famous hotel was the perfect combination of ancient and luxurious. A sprawling Cotswold coaching inn whose frontage took up the centre of the chocolate box village of Broadway, it was all flagstone floors and inglenooks and oil paintings. England at its best. As the chill of the night air took hold, fires were being lit while guests put the finishing touches to their appearance before coming down for pre-dinner drinks. Ice buckets were filled, the chefs furiously chopped vegetables and reduced sauces, and the last of the stiff linen napkins were put onto the tables with pride.

  Sandra embarked on her search for the perfect spot for her encounter with Keith. The bar, she decided, was cosy, but not intimate enough. She prowled around until she found a little cubby hole off the foyer, furnished with a couple of deep sofas where guests could take coffee and read the paper. She ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon to be brought there, then sank into the sofa nearest the window. She decided against kicking off her boots and tucking her legs underneath her. That was a bit too relaxed. That could come later.

  She’d stage-managed the whole evening very carefully. The champagne to start with, and a little plate of appetizers, to give them enough time to unwind and relax together. It was vital that she should put Keith at his ease as soon as possible. Then a delicious dinner in a table tucked away in the dining room, before retreating for coffee and brandies on this very sofa, by which time the lights would be dimmed and the fire lit. By then, Keith would have drunk far too much to drive home. She’d make sure his glass was kept topped up. When it came time for him to go, she would express concern. It shouldn’t be too hard to persuade him upstairs, even if it was just on the pretext of another coffee to sober him up. She’d booked the room. Well, a suite, actually. With a sumptuous four-poster bed and a palatial bathroom . . .