‘I’m pregnant.’
The words were bald, but she knew with Lawrence there was no beating around the bush. You had to come straight to the point. She didn’t quite know what reaction she was expecting, but when he stared at her and his eyes went dark, as black as ink, and he turned on his heel and left the room, she knew she’d blown it.
*
They’d talked about starting a family not long after they got married. Kay had been unsure at first, being only just over thirty, but Lawrence was keen not to be too aged a parent. They weren’t scientific in their attempts to procreate, but certainly did it often enough to be in with a fighting chance. When nothing had happened after eighteen months, Kay had casually broached the subject of fertility treatment and had been somewhat relieved when Lawrence had dismissed it out of hand. If it wasn’t meant to be, he’d said, then who were they to interfere with nature? Kay had read enough articles about IVF to know that she didn’t really want to be first in the queue, and had been happy to leave it at that. So she couldn’t have kids. So what? If the snotty, whinging specimens she’d come into contact with were anything to go by, she wasn’t missing much. Then Lawrence had become absorbed in Barton Court and the subject seemed to be forgotten, to Kay’s relief.
Deep down, however, Lawrence was tormented by what he considered to be their failure. He needed more information. After making exhaustive inquiries as to the best consultant, he found himself in a small cubicle doing something unspeakable into a test tube, only to be told by a grave-faced Frenchman that his sperm were weak, feeble and intent on swimming the wrong way, and that without scientific intervention they would never reach the goal they were destined for. He was, to all intents and purposes, sterile. He found it, as well as incredibly painful, somewhat ironic that the purveyor of seed to half of Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire would never sow his own.
He hadn’t told Kay. It was a painful secret he kept locked away; something that he need never humiliate himself by revealing as she seemed quite happy to remain childless, at least for the time being. She blamed herself, of course, and he never thought to disabuse her of the fact, but then neither did he rebuke her. They just had a tacit agreement that Oakley offspring were not to be.
And now the bitch had told him she was pregnant. He cursed her for not being more prescient, not guessing at the truth, but why should she? She’d never heard the consultant’s doom-laden words – ‘It would take a miracle.’ And he knew bloody well there hadn’t been a miracle. He knew that in the split second it had taken Kay to meet his eye.
So now their partnership was over. There was no way he could allow it to continue. It wasn’t a tragedy, more of an inconvenience. They’d worked well together.
As he drew his chequebook out of the right-hand drawer of his desk and pulled the lid off his fountain pen, he was perturbed to find tears stinging his lids. He brushed them away angrily, debated the sum he was going to write in the oblong, signed his name with a flourish, then went to unlock his filing cabinet.
He walked back into the kitchen where Kay was sitting at the breakfast bar, cradling her head in her arms. She looked up at him as he wordlessly held out the letter from the consultant. Her stomach churning, she read through the diagnosis, then looked up at Lawrence.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she croaked. ‘You let me think it was my fault…’
He gave a dismissive shrug.
‘And you were going to let me think that brat in your belly was mine?’ His tone was flat. Emotionless.
‘Hard to say which is worse, isn’t it?’
He handed her an envelope containing the cheque he’d just written.
‘You can keep your car as well. You’ve got half an hour to pack.’
‘Lawrence – ’
‘There’s no discussion, Kay. There’s nothing to say. You’ve got no defence.’
Half an hour later, Kay sat in her car, shell-shocked, suppressing a strange desire to laugh uncontrollably at the absurd turn her life had taken. Only two hours ago, she’d been quite oblivious, happily doing her Christmas shopping. Now, here she was, banished from her own home, estranged from her husband, pregnant, with a cheque for a quarter of a million pounds in her pocket.
She knew there was no point in trying to worm her way back into Lawrence’s life. She knew when he made a decision it was final. And she considered she’d got away quite lightly. When she’d taken the cheque, she’d accepted the deal. She was out of his life. End of story. She’d packed her clothes, some toiletries, dug out a few private papers she might need and marvelled at how her life had fitted into the boot of her Boxster.
She hadn’t really had a chance to take in the implications of what he’d told her, or feel aggrieved that he’d never chosen to tell her before. All she felt was relief that their confrontation hadn’t been uglier. She supposed that her pregnancy had prevented Lawrence from any violence he might be capable of.
So where now? What now? It was three days before Christmas – what the hell was she supposed to do? She certainly wasn’t going to go back to her parents. Her scenario was daunting enough without bringing Slough into the equation. Kay rarely left anything to chance, but she was finding it hard to be rational, so she pulled out the AA map she found in the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. She’d open it and drive to the very first place that caught her eye.
Frome. Somerset.
It took her just over an hour and a half to get there.
Somehow the further one got from the Cotswolds and the nearer one got to Bath, the local stone lost its warmth and became rather forbidding. Kay wondered if that really was the case, or if it was her state of mind. As she drove down the steep hill into Frome, she looked anxiously round her, for Kay was a great believer in first impressions. It was quite a plain little town, more down to earth than Eldenbury, but clearly lively, as the high street was lined with a bustling street market. Signs for the public library and municipal buildings were more prominent than those for local tourist attractions, indicating that real people actually lived here. But Kay was also pleased to note a decent butcher and a delicatessen, and amongst the ‘turnips’ were quite a few well-dressed women, as well as some decidedly alternative types – to which Kay had no objection. At least the local community wouldn’t be narrow-minded, which was pretty important in her condition. Furthermore, Bath was only twenty minutes by car, from where London was less than two hours by train. She thought she might be able to survive here.
She sought out a local independent estate agent and perused the properties for sale. Prices were way down on the Cotswolds, despite Frome’s proximity to Bath. But that was a definite advantage. She’d need some change from what Lawrence had given her to live on. However, the selection of houses for sale was disappointing: a large majority were on modern estates, of which there were clearly several in the locality, or dreary little poky terraces, or apartments in converted buildings of the type Lawrence used to specialize in and which Kay knew were always grossly overpriced. The estate agent explained that there was an area of Frome that was particularly sought after, with attractive period properties, but these were usually snapped up even before they were advertised, and because of the time of year they had nothing of interest on their books at the moment.
Despondent, she turned away, but not before a sign in the window caught her eye: EXPERIENCED SALES NEGOTIATOR WANTED.
She mulled the prospect over in her mind. She could talk her way into the job, she knew she could. And she’d be good at it. And once her foot was in the door, she’d get advance notification of the best properties coming up on the market. She wasn’t sure what sort of salary a senior sales negotiator commanded these days, but it was certainly more than the big fat nothing she was earning at the moment.
She was in the middle of outlining her experience to the office manager when the door opened and a tall young girl with a cloud of red hair whirled in and interrupted the proceedings. She’d had her house valued by them earlier in the we
ek, and wanted to put it on the market straight away, although the agent protested that less than a week before Christmas was hardly ideal. The girl was insistent, however. She’d been offered a job designing kitchens in London and needed to move the first week of the New Year. She’d be heartbroken leaving the Coach House, she said, but it was a career opportunity she couldn’t turn down.
Kay’s ears pricked up at the mention of the Coach House, and she lingered and eavesdropped as the agent persuaded the girl that there would be no one available to type up particulars or, indeed, to show prospective purchasers round for the next two weeks at least, but they would be delighted to take the instruction on in the first week of the New Year. Kay was appalled by the agent’s apathy and lack of professionalism – she herself would have had a signature on the dotted line and a board up before you could say knife – but she had a feeling that this was probably par for the course in Frome. Besides, their slack approach was going to work in her favour. She slipped out of the office and waited round the corner for three minutes before the girl appeared.
‘Listen, I couldn’t help overhearing you in there. Your house sounds just like what I’m looking for. Could I have a look at it?’
The girl looked at her slightly warily
‘I’m a cash buyer. If I like it, I’ll give you what the agent valued it at, and you’ll save yourself the fees.’ She smiled winningly. ‘A couple of grand wouldn’t go amiss, surely? Especially if you’re moving to London.’
The girl’s eyes lit up at the thought.
‘Where are you parked? You can follow me.’
She had difficulty keeping up with the girl, who whizzed through the warren of Frome’s backstreets, littered with junk shops masquerading as antique shops that might, nevertheless, contain treasures if you looked hard enough. Finally the girl led her up Maddox Street, which was tiny and narrow with barely any room for parking. Kay bumped the passenger-side wheels of her car up on to the pavement outside the stout red door of the Coach House with its heavy wrought-iron knocker.
For once, the term ‘deceptively spacious’ applied, for what seemed like a modest terrace on the outside hid a home of quite dizzying proportions. As its name suggested, it had been the coach house for its more substantial neighbour, and had retained all the architectural charms, being a magical mixture of stone walls, flagged floors, deep, warm pine doors, black beams and wrought iron. The huge living room stretched up for two storeys, heated by a wood-burning stove, and a glorious set of French windows led out on to a tiny walled garden. The rest of the house was cunningly built on several different levels, with steps leading up and down to a snug but efficient bathroom, or a light-filled studio area, or a pretty but useless little balcony. The kitchen positively oozed warmth, fuelled by a dark green oil-fired range and fitted out with a simple but hand-built kitchen of reclaimed oak. All the walls were painted a crisp, bright white. Fixtures and fittings were understated but tasteful. It needed nothing doing to it.
Half an hour later, against her better judgement and all the negotiating skills she’d ever learned, she found herself offering the asking price, cash, for a quick completion. She wanted to be in as soon as possible after the New Year. The girl hugged her, and hoped she’d be as happy in the Coach House as she had been. Kay hoped so too.
By five o’clock, Kay was exhausted. Trying to find a hotel so soon before Christmas had been a struggle, and she wasn’t unaware of the irony of the timing and her condition. She had eventually hit upon a charming inn four miles outside Frome that had just had a cancellation. Wearily, she made her way up to her bedroom and congratulated herself on finding a perfect haven, with its oak floors, tapestries and a huge stone fireplace with crackling logs. She sank on to the four-poster bed and drank thirstily from the bottle of sparkling mineral water on the bedside table. Feeling a little more refreshed, she assessed her predicament.
She’d found herself a home – hopefully, subject to all the usual hoops home-buyers had to jump through. And she had an interview just after Christmas for the negotiator’s job – the manager from the estate agent had phoned up on her mobile to confirm it. If she got the job she’d bloody well shake that office up – little did they know they’d lost a sale through their apathy.
There was just one more thing to organize, but Kay felt too shattered to face that particular hurdle. She got as far as picking up the local phone directory, but her eyes became heavier and heavier as she ran through the list of names and she finally fell into a deep, much-needed slumber.
Next morning, she awoke feeling refreshed. She treated herself to bacon and eggs, as she’d missed supper the night before, and a long, hot bath. Then she steeled herself and picked up the phone book again. There was one more thing to arrange before she could relax. She looked up the local doctor’s surgery, registered herself as a temporary patient and made an urgent appointment. The GP she saw was grave, young and as sympathetic as could be expected as she explained her plight: she was pregnant, it was unwanted and she needed to arrange a termination as quickly as possible.
The doctor explained he’d have to give her a routine examination before proceeding with the formalities. He’d waited for her to get dressed again before asking her to sit down. Somehow, Kay knew from the expression on his face that all the plans she had so successfully made in the last twenty-four hours were out the window.
‘I’m afraid a termination is out of the question.’
She started to protest.
‘I’m quite happy to pay. I don’t care how much it costs – ’
‘It’s not a question – ’
‘Look, I’m on my own. I haven’t got a job. How can I possibly – ’
The doctor had cut her off.
‘Mrs Oakley, you’re five months pregnant. Well past the cut-off date for an abortion. I’m sorry.’
11
Patrick was keenly aware that he had been neglecting Kelly. Not only during but since the night of the dance, and he felt about as guilty as Patrick ever felt about anything, so he got in his car and drove down to the Honeycote Arms.
The welcome he got was as unexpected as a slap in the face. He was lucky he didn’t get one of those as well. Kelly marched out with her hands on her hips before he’d even got out of the car.
‘I don’t know how you can show your face here.’
‘Look – Kells. I’m sorry about the dance. Sophie was as sick as a dog and I had to take her home. There was no time to tell you – ’
‘And no time to phone me since?’
‘It’s been hectic at the brewery.’
‘Yeah. I suppose you’ve been planning what to do with the profit from this place.’
Patrick frowned.
‘Or hasn’t your father told you his plans?’
‘What?’
‘He’s selling the place from under us. You can imagine what sort of Christmas we’re going to have, while you all sit up there drinking yourselves stupid and feeling pleased with yourselves – ’
‘Kelly, Kelly – hold on. Who told you this?’
‘Your dad told my dad.’
‘I didn’t know – I promise.’
‘Would you have done anything about it if you had?’
‘Of course!’
‘Crap. There’s nothing you can do, Patrick. Honeycote Ales is going bust. Everyone knows it. I expect we’re just the first in a long line of loyal and faithful tenants you’re going to evict – ’
‘Evict?’
Patrick looked wildly round for evidence that this was some kind of a joke. But in his gut he knew it wasn’t. He tried to put a reassuring hand on Kelly’s arm.
‘Let’s go somewhere for lunch. We can talk about it. I’m sure things aren’t quite what they seem. I’m sure you’ve got it all wrong somewhere.’
‘No, Patrick. I haven’t. What I got wrong was thinking there could ever be anything between you and me’.
Kelly looked at Patrick with contempt and turned on her heel, slamming the door to
the pub with a finality he knew not to challenge. He felt chilled to the bone. And deeply ashamed. Ashamed that he could be so ignorant of what was going on at Honeycote Ales. This was serious. This was people’s lives that were being fucked around, not just the mere tightening of the belt his father had hinted at once or twice. Patrick had been worried that he might have to swap his car for something less glamorous. How shallow did that make him?
Patrick sank despairingly back into the driver’s seat and felt totally powerless. If only he’d paid more attention to the way things were run at the brewery, maybe he’d be able to see a way out. Instead, he had next to no idea of the damage that had been done. He knew they had massive overheads. He knew they weren’t turning over a huge amount. He knew they faced competition from all the other pubs and restaurants in the area. But all those things had been the case for nearly as long as the brewery had been running. They’d always survived before.
He needed to look at the paperwork. He needed to know exactly what was going on and what could be done about it. He didn’t trust his father to be doing the right thing, necessarily. If Patrick was guilty of pratting about when there was hard work to be done, then so was Mickey, in spades. Kay was evidence enough of that. And he knew Mickey would go for the easy option, because he always did.
Patrick rammed the car into first, and sped off down the road towards the brewery.
Kelly watched out of the window a little sadly. She’d never kidded herself that she and Patrick had any great future together, but it had been good fun while it lasted. She shrugged and turned away. Never mind – there were plenty more fish in the sea. Someone else would turn up and whisk her off. Girls with 34D chests and size ten hips never stayed alone for long.
In the meantime, her parents needed her support, which meant she could hardly go sleeping with the enemy.
Honeycote Page 17