Later, when her horse gashed itself on top of a stone wall and she had to go home early, she wondered if it was fate or design that meant Mickey was driving past as she tried to reload her horse. Mickey had announced the gash a mere graze and dabbed it with gentian violet, before leaving the horse tied up with a net of hay and leading Kay into her horsebox. Inside the air was sweet with the smell of fresh shavings. Everything happened rather quickly. Mickey teasingly approached Kay with a red lead rope, then held her wrists and gently wrapped it around them. To her own astonishment, she stood there, compliantly, and let him lash her to the ring that should have held her own horse. She thought her knees were going to give way with excitement. She didn’t understand it. Whenever Lawrence played these sorts of games, it left her cold. Mickey stood back and admired his handiwork.
‘I should leave you there, really, shouldn’t I? There’s nothing you could do about it.’
‘If you really wanted to compromise me, you’d leave me here naked.’
‘What a splendid idea.’
He hadn’t been able to remove her jacket, as her hands were tied, but her boots came off with a struggle, her jodhpurs without, and of course she wasn’t wearing any knickers. Only a passing rambler had heard her gasps of surprised pleasure, and he’d hurried on, pink-checked and envious. Later, when Mickey had driven the box back for her, called the vet out, then chivalrously gone to collect Lawrence (who by some miracle had managed to see out the day without breaking his neck) without a flicker of conscience, Kay hadn’t been able to suppress the suspicion that he’d done this before, but she didn’t care a jot.
The ensuing affair had initially been thrilling and torrid. Up until now, anyway. It had lasted eighteen months, but Kay had been feeling an increasing sense of detachment from Mickey. She was pretty certain there was no competition on the horizon, but he definitely had his mind on other things.
Sitting there now, in the car park of their usual rendezvous, nails tapping impatiently on her leather steering wheel, she realized things were coming to a head. He wasn’t going to turn up. It was twenty minutes past their agreed meeting time. She switched on the engine and roared out of the car park. Kay didn’t hang around for anyone.
Mickey gestured discreetly to the waitress to bring him another glass of red as she came to take their food order. He suppressed the nagging voice that told him by now he was well over the limit: the pizza should soak most of it up. But as he sat there contemplating his predicament, surrounded by his two trusting and beautiful daughters and their friend comparing lip-gloss shades on the backs of their hands, Mickey caught sight of his drink-flushed reflection in a mirror and shuddered. He was drowning in a morass of self-gratification, and yet again concluded he only had himself to blame.
Mandy got up to go to the loo and he willed himself not to let his eyes follow her enchanting rump. With a supreme effort of self-control, he managed it, and felt encouraged. He turned. Sophie was showing him a peep of her dress.
‘You’ve got to wait till I’ve been made over before you see it properly. But it’s ace.’
As she tucked it back into the bag, Mickey caught sight of the price tag and frowned. He was sure he’d only given her fifty quid. Sophie reassured him.
‘It’s OK. Mandy paid for it. Her dad’s totally loaded. And Patrick told us not to pester you for money. I know it’s a bit tough at the brewery.’
Her sympathy could not have made Mickey feel more humiliated. Just as he had during his meeting with Cowley, he felt bile rise in his throat. He hoped it wasn’t his bloody liver packing in already. He’d got a lot to do, and dying wasn’t going to help. Mickey drained his glass as he ran through his resolutions.
Step One. Give Kay the boot. Tricky.
Step Two. Get the brewery back on its feet. Trickier.
Step Three. Give up the booze. Trickiest. And he couldn’t possibly do it until he’d resolved Steps One and Two.
But he was going to do it. He didn’t owe it to himself, worthless scumbag that he was. But he owed it to Lucy. And Patrick. And Sophie and Georgina.
4
James Liddiard had struggled to open his eyes that morning, and when he did he was presented with a pair of creamy freckled breasts. His girlfriend Caroline had impaled herself on his early morning erection. For a few moments he wasn’t sure which was greater: the desire to go back to sleep or the desire to ejaculate. The pleasure she was inflicting upon him with her gymnastics was not to be ignored. He knew there was little point in resisting because it was deadline day at the paper, and Caroline needed the adrenalin of sex so she could, as she put it, go and kick ass in the classified ad section that she ran. So he dragged himself out of his stupor and decided to go in for a bit of audience participation.
Afterwards, he lay with the morning sun dappled across his face and watched Caroline get dressed as if she was going into battle. She had a selection of power suits with nipped-in waists that accentuated her femininity. Her wild red curls were scraped back into a severe plait and the disguise was finished off with a pair of Dolce e Gabbana heavy-framed glasses. Formidable.
They’d met just over a year ago, when he’d just refurbished the art gallery he ran in Eldenbury and had gone to place a discreet advertisement announcing the relaunch. Within minutes, she’d sweet-talked him into an advertisement feature. It was very hard to say no to Caroline and he’d ended up with a double-page spread and the shag of his life.
They’d been an item ever since, to the astonishment of their mutual friends. He was the archetypal English gentleman, Brideshead Revisited, an aesthete. She was feisty, ballsy, upfront, Cosmopolitan personified. They had little in common but their need for space. James thought of the girl he’d given the boot eighteen months ago. A pretty enough little thing, blonde and well bred; on the surface she was far more his cup of tea. But she’d been hideously clingy, always looking for reassurance and dragging him past jeweller’s windows. And she’d run his diary like a sergeant major, had tantrums if he didn’t feel inclined to turn up to some social function or another that she thought they should be seen at. James had heaved a sigh of relief when she’d finally got the hint. Caroline never gave a toss if he expressed reluctance to go anywhere, and for that he was grateful.
She stood before him now, at the end of the bed, ready for action.
‘Tea?’
‘I’ll do it.’
He swung his legs out of bed. He wanted proper tea, made with loose leaves in a pot that had been warmed. He didn’t want the string of the tea bag still dangling over the edge of his cup, which he knew was what Caroline would give him.
‘What are you doing today?’
‘VAT returns.’ He mimed a yawn. ‘And there’s a viewing in Tetbury. I might go over there this afternoon.’ He wasn’t actually lying. Only by omission. Though he wasn’t sure why – surely there was nothing incriminating about going for a hack with your own sister-in-law? It was all perfectly above board.
Later on, VAT returns completed with indecent haste, James’s boots rang out on the cobbles of the stable yard at Honeycote House. There was a whicker of anticipation as several curious horses peered over their doors in the vain hope that this unexpected visitor might be bringing them a late-morning snack. An irate whinny indicated the stable he was looking for. He stopped outside for a moment and watched as Lucy placated a huge iron-grey gelding, fondling his ears and nuzzling his neck. Lucky old horse, thought James, as he slid back the bolt. Lucy looked up and smiled with pleasure.
‘James – hi.’ She caressed the horse proudly. ‘What do you think? This is Phoenix. Isn’t he beautiful?’
James reached out to pat the brute’s muscle-bound shoulder. As he leaned over, he thought he caught a faint trace of Diorissimo through the rich smell of dung dropped by the agitated horse.
‘What’s the story?’
‘He keeps bucking. Dumping his owner. But we’re going to sort you out, aren’t we, boy?’
Phoenix didn’t look sure; just lo
oked at James sideways and put his ears back.
‘He seems quite highly strung.’
Lucy wasn’t perturbed.
‘He just needs someone who’s not frightened of him. And I think he’s got back problems. I’m going to get the physio out – if he’s in pain every time someone sits on him, no wonder he’s bucking.’
James smiled. He loved the way Lucy was so confident, so fearless. She’d gained a reputation locally for being something of a miracle-worker with problem horses. You could bring the most unmanageable, ill-tempered animal to her, and within weeks she could turn it into a well-mannered obliging ride that you could, as she put it, sit your granny on. People always told her she could make a fortune from her talent, but she hated charging properly for doing something she loved, and inevitably ended up out of pocket. To her it was enough reward to see a happy horse. But that was Lucy all over, thought James, as he watched her tighten up the buckle on Phoenix’s girth.
It was wonderful to see someone who worked with horses for the sheer pleasure of it, not for profit or gain or the need to compete and win. James thought of Caroline, who competed at local events as if her life depended on it, asking a hundred and ten per cent of her horse and never, in James’s opinion, giving as much back.
Caroline kept her horse in livery on the outskirts of Evesham, where she lived and worked. It had occurred to James on more than one occasion that it would make sense for her to stable Demelza at Honeycote House. Sophie or Georgina would have mucked her out for pocket money, and it would mean they could see more of each other at weekends. But the thought of Caroline and Lucy spending more time in close proximity than was necessary deterred him from making this suggestion. It would only complicate things in the long run, he felt sure. God forbid that they might actually become friends. They had little else in common, but the horsy bond could be a strong one, he had found over the years. The most unlikely companions could gel given an equestrian interest.
James himself had been somewhat put off riding by his mother. She’d always kept a stableful at Honeycote, had ridden side-saddle with the local hunt for years and had forced both James and his brother Mickey to compete with the local pony club from an early age. She’d been a rabid pot-hunter, bellowing at them from the sidelines. James had loathed it and been terrified; Mickey, of course, had bagged every cup going but didn’t give a toss. Thus James had given up riding as soon as he’d gathered enough nerve to stand up to his mother, and hadn’t had anything to do with horses for years. But he’d recently taken to hacking out with Lucy when she had an extra horse that needed exercise – which was more often than not – and he found that when the sport wasn’t forced upon you, it was quite pleasurable. And he needed the exercise; he was hurtling towards forty, after all. Besides which, it gave him a bona fide reason to spend time with Lucy…
Satisfied that Phoenix was safely tacked up, Lucy gave the horse a final pat before opening the stable door and leading him out. James’s mount was already tacked and waiting in the adjoining stable.
They set off at a brisk trot down the drive. Phoenix was skittish, prancing sideways and tossing his mane, but Lucy gave him his head and refused to rise to his antagonistic behaviour, so the horse soon settled down and fell into step. Lucy smiled in satisfaction.
‘You see? The girl that’s been riding him lets him wind her up. I bet she’s been pulling his mouth to pieces. He just needs a free rein. Look.’
She held up the horse’s reins with her little finger, demonstrating just how little resistance she was showing him. James thought it was interesting that Lucy dealt with animals just as she dealt with humans, using the line of least resistance. By the end of the ride, Phoenix was calm and co-operative.
It was only when they were back at the yard, and the horses had been untacked, that it became clear something was troubling her. As they were walking back up to the house, she turned to him suddenly and asked:
‘Has Mickey mentioned anything to you lately, James?’
He forced himself to hold Lucy’s gaze, but he found all the questions in her treacle-brown eyes unnerving.
He deliberately misunderstood her query.
‘He hasn’t mentioned him, no. But you’re obviously doing a great job – ’
‘I’m not talking about the bloody horse!’ The uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone made James wince. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with him these days. I mean, you don’t stick brandy in your morning coffee unless there’s something seriously wrong, do you?’
Oh God, thought James. What was it that made him such a coward when it came to Lucy? Why couldn’t he just come out with it, that he thought – no, knew – that her husband was a drunken, spineless waste of space, and then just take her in his arms, lay her down in the hay and kiss her, tell her it was all going to be all right?
He remembered the first time he’d met her. He and Mickey had had the run of Honeycote House following their parents’ death. After Mickey’s first wife, Carola, had moved out, James had moved in for a short time. He’d just spent eighteen months in a lowly-paid position in a London auction house, where he’d learned everything he needed to know about the antiques and paintings he loved, and he was hoping to set up in business locally. The two of them lived in abandoned bachelordom with a long-suffering ‘woman that did’ who adored them both, and they soon became the toast of the county – a pair of handsome, well-heeled young bucks whose tastes for wine, women and song were well documented, though it was generally agreed that James was a gentleman while Mickey was an unscrupulous bastard. This didn’t necessarily make one more attractive than the other – it depended entirely on your tastes.
One spring afternoon James had been faced with the unpleasant task of having their mother’s Jack Russell, Raffles, put down. The little dog had been an integral part of the household for nearly twenty years and somehow his demise signalled the end of an era even more than their parents’ death. Mickey had steadfastly refused to have anything to do with Raffles’s disposal, as he hated responsibility, so it was left to James to call out the local vet. Richard Soames had done his job discreetly and humanely in the scullery, covering the little dog’s body with the tartan blanket that had lined his basket for as long as anyone could remember, while James slugged back Scotch in the kitchen. Lucy had come with her father on his rounds – at eighteen she had just left school, but was undecided as to her future, so her father gave her pocket money to help him out while she made up her mind.
When the deed had been done Lucy had come into the kitchen while her father washed his hands. A look of concern had crossed her face when she’d seen James’s angst. She’d put a timid little hand on his arm and reassured him gently: ‘You did the right thing. You couldn’t have let him go on suffering.’ An arrow had pierced his heart, injecting him with sweet agony as he fell head over heels in love. But he’d thought she was barely more than a child – fifteen or sixteen – and he didn’t feel he could add child-molesting to the rumours that were already flying round, so he kept his distance. He cursed himself many a time after, for he’d left the door wide open for his brother, who had no such scruples and besides had bothered to do his homework and discovered that Lucy was older than she actually looked. Strangely, the horses at Honeycote suddenly seemed to need more veterinary attention than ever before and Richard Soames and his daughter became regular visitors.
And so, one fine summer’s evening less than a year later, James had suffered indescribable torture when Mickey carried Lucy, shrieking with laughter, into the Honeycote Arms and announced he was going to marry her. James had wanted to warn her then, take her to one side, tell her she was one of many, that Mickey was sleeping with most of the girls in the county – all the good-looking ones, anyway, and some of the ones that weren’t. And tell her the salutary tale of the first Mrs Liddiard, the true story, not the watered-down version that Mickey would have given her, the one that depicted him in a good light.
No one had been surprised when Carol
a had fled Honeycote House not long after Patrick was born. It was obvious to everyone that Mickey wasn’t going to tolerate her, especially when she started whinging about further education, a career and a life of her own. Aghast at the prospect of a Guardian-toting and hirsute wife (he’d once revealed to James in a shocked tone that Carola never shaved under her arms), Mickey had given her a quick divorce and a handsome settlement, enough to put a deposit on a small flat and finish the degree she felt had been so unfairly snatched from her. He’d put Carola and the solemn, round-eyed Patrick on the train to Paddington, waved them goodbye and, apart from getting horribly drunk in the pub that night (which was hardly out of the ordinary), seemed unaffected by their departure.
James had been shocked by the callousness of this behaviour, and although he’d never said anything had felt rather ashamed of his brother. He certainly couldn’t bear the thought of Lucy, a fragile little creature perched by the fire where the flames leaped joyfully in the hearth, suffering the same fate when inevitably Mickey tired of her in the course of time. But of course he’d said nothing, just given Lucy a congratulatory kiss on the cheek and accepted Mickey’s invitation to be best man. He supposed it was fraternal loyalty: a dull trait that boring old farts like him felt strongly about and shits like Mickey didn’t know existed.
And now it was nearly twenty years later, and Lucy hadn’t been duped and cuckolded and made a fool of, as he’d feared. Her skill with horses obviously worked on humans, for it seemed as if she had tamed the incorrigible Mickey, much to the disappointment of legions of women in the county who’d come to look upon him as fair game. Of late, though, James had been suspicious of his brother’s behaviour. He knew the signs only too well; knew how susceptible Mickey was to flattery; knew that when he was under pressure he capitulated easily. And he’d seen the way Kay Oakley looked at him. James recognized the flicker of desire in her eyes and strongly suspected that her needs were not unrequited.
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