Ned had spent all morning selling mistletoe at the farmers’ market in Eldenbury. It was Friday, and Christmas Day was on Sunday, so the world and his panic-stricken wife had come out in force to buy their free-range turkeys and organic vegetables. Luckily most of them had been quite taken by the idea of a sprig of mistletoe to hang in the hallway, so by midday he’d sold out completely and had a satisfying pocket of cash. It was one of the few perks his father allowed him – every year he drove the tractor round the farm gathering every sprig he could lay his hands on, which he then sold for a pound a go. He didn’t bother keeping any for himself. There was only one girl he wanted to kiss and he knew it was going to take more than a paltry piece of mistletoe to win her over.
He’d felt sick to his stomach for the past few days. Ever since the night of the dance. So much so that he, Ned Walsh, who could wolf down half a dozen rashers of bacon, several eggs and the best part of a loaf of bread for breakfast alone, had barely eaten. For he’d been hit by a thunderbolt: he was totally, utterly and hopelessly in love. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He’d never realized that feelings could knock you off your feet like this, even a proverbial brick shit-house like him.
Sure, he’d had girlfriends. Several. And he supposed he’d loved a couple of them, in that he’d have been extremely upset if they’d been squashed under a tractor. But when their dalliances had come to a mutual, natural end, he hadn’t spent much time grieving. On to the next, that was his motto. But this time it was different. He couldn’t get the vision of this particular girl out of his head. And he couldn’t bring himself to talk to anyone about it. He was embarrassed that he felt so vulnerable.
He’d managed to hide his feelings the night of the ball with his usual high jinks and shenanigans, suppressing his confusion by learning the whole routine to that Steps single, at which he was now perfect. He didn’t think anyone had guessed how he really felt. Especially not Patrick. He thought Patrick would probably deck him if he knew the thoughts he’d been harbouring about his sister. Well, half-sister.
Ned had been gobsmacked when he’d seen her. He’d known she was coming and he’d been looking forward to having a laugh with his old mate. He’d expected her to turn up in her usual maroon velvet, slightly podgy, slightly flushed. ‘Sofa’, he’d always called her, and she hated it, thinking he meant that she was the size of one. When she’d appeared, Ned had barely been able to stutter out a few words of greeting and had fled to the bar to recover from the shock of this new Sophie.
He’d wanted to talk to her, desperately. But he didn’t know how. He was terrified. He couldn’t believe that he’d once snuggled up with her in makeshift tents, totally unselfconscious, giggling, sharing midnight snacks. Now she was this unapproachable goddess. He’d watched in agony as she’d circulated the room, men flocking to her side like bees to a honeypot. She’d had an air of confidence he’d never seen before. She always used to hang back at social gatherings, squirming with shyness if anyone spoke to her and had always been grateful for Ned’s company, as he’d shielded her from any unwelcome attention. The night of the ball she’d barely spoken two words to him. Then, like Cinderella, she’d disappeared. The only thing he could be grateful for was that she’d gone with Patrick. She’d been taken ill, apparently. He hadn’t seen her since. Normally in the holidays she phoned him up straight away, to go fora ride, or to the flicks, or just to go to Honeycote for spag bol and Budweiser. But he hadn’t heard a word. Obviously, he didn’t fit into the lifestyle of the new, streamlined Sophie. Gloomily, he made his way out of the market and over to the Horse and Groom. He felt like getting totally trolleyed.
Mayday saw Ned sitting at the bar, drinking a pint of Honeycote Ale as if it was going out of fashion. He looked pretty glum for Ned, who could always be relied on to be smiling. She sneaked up behind him and tickled the back of his neck. He knew from the vanilla-scented waft of Angel who it was. She hoicked herself up on to the neighbouring bar stool, giving him a glimpse of creamy thigh through the slit in her leather skirt and a double helping of equally creamy breast trapped in a tightly laced black top.
‘What’s the matter with my favourite farmhand?’ She always called him this, despite the inheritance that was waiting for him around the corner. Ned let out a heavy sigh in reply, draining his pint.
‘Girly trouble, is it?’
She put her head on one side and looked at him knowingly from under the heavy curtain of black hair that fell over her kohl-ringed eyes. She strongly favoured the seventies rock chick look, mixed in with anything else she fancied from other eras. She was big on tattoos and piercings, beaded plaits, biker boots, chunky silver jewellery, love beads and leather thongs. Not necessarily what you’d expect from a barmaid in a market town, but the customers loved her cheeky backchat and open smile.
Ned just grimaced into his pint in reply to her query. But she persisted. Mayday loved other people’s problems, as she never seemed to have any of her own.
‘Come on, tell Aunty Mayday. I’m well versed in affairs of the heart, as you know. Perhaps I can give you some advice.’
‘I’m miserable, Mayday. Unrequited love. It’s a terrible thing.’
She dropped her voice and leaned into him. Ned had a tantalizing view of her cleavage.
‘Well, lucky for you, I’ve just finished my shift. Why don’t you come upstairs and I’ll do your cards? See what the future holds.’
Mayday liked to project herself as some sort of mystic. It was all total bollocks, of course – she didn’t have a clue how to read cards. But people liked to believe what she said, as she always told them what they wanted to hear. She liked to steer them on the right course in affairs of the heart. She was a true romantic where other people were concerned. She loved a happy ending. She could see what Ned needed was a prod in the right direction. And anyway, she fancied a bonk. Mayday didn’t mind admitting to anyone that she was a total nymphomaniac.
Knowing full well he shouldn’t, Ned followed Mayday up to the attic room she inhabited at the top of the inn. She’d painted the walls dark purple, which gave it the air of some latter-day opium den. The lingering wafts of a half-smoked joint on her dressing table added to the illusion. Mayday picked up the joint, relit it, then leaned over and breathed the hot, sweet smoke into Ned’s mouth. He felt himself relax; felt all his cares and worries melt away. She patted the pile of batik-covered cushions covering the mattress that served as her bed, and he fell on to it. Mayday put Kula Shaker into her cassette player, flopped down beside him and they finished the joint, staring up at the golden stars she’d painted on the ceiling, transported by the swirling melodies.
Mayday squashed the roach out in a plant pot, then rolled on to Ned, giggling. He protested feebly as her hands started to explore.
‘I thought you were supposed to be reading my cards.’
‘Later. And don’t pretend you don’t like it. I can feel something hard in your trousers.’
Before Ned could stop her, she’d delved into his pocket and taken out his Swiss Army knife. He never left home without it. You never knew when you might come across a stubborn length of baler twine. Mayday pulled out the various attachments with interest until she found the biggest blade. She proffered it to Ned, who frowned, not sure of the next move. She stuck out her magnificent chest, straining underneath the laces that had been pulled as tight as any Victorian corset. She affected a cod Gloucestershire accent, worthy of any milkmaid.
‘I can’t seem to get them undone, sir.’
Stupid from the dope, Ned obligingly slashed the laces from top to bottom, releasing her tits from their bondage and allowing them to swing free. Ned swallowed. Mayday tutted in mock reproach.
‘Fifteen quid from the market, that cost me.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘You’re going to have to pay.’
Ned grinned, rolled his eyes and obligingly reached for his wallet, but Mayday put out her hand to stop him.
‘If yo
u can make me come, I’ll let you off. But I bet you can’t.’
Ned usually liked a challenge. Given a game of rugby, or the Young Farmers’ Tug of War, or an arm-wrestling match in the pub, he always put his back into it. But he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the gauntlet Mayday had thrown down. He knew her reputation. And Patrick had alluded to her skills on more than one occasion.
Mayday rolled off the mattress, sauntered over to the window, threw it open and leaned her elbows on the sill, discreetly covering her breasts with her arms. She stuck her rump out, covered in its shiny leather shell. Somehow Ned knew she wouldn’t be wearing any knickers.
‘Go on. Do your worst. I’m going to stand here and watch the world go by.’
Her little room looked right out on to Eldenbury high street, which was still thronging with panic-stricken shoppers laden with produce from the farmers’ market. Afterwards, Ned felt slightly ashamed. He reasoned that you couldn’t be unfaithful to someone if you weren’t actually going out with them. Didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of getting anywhere near them, in fact. But he wouldn’t have wanted Sophie to know that Mayday’s screams of pleasure had made heads turn to look up at the window to see what the commotion was, wondering if someone was being murdered. Mortified, he’d pulled her back into the room, and she’d borne down on him, flushed and giggling.
‘Your turn now.’
‘No – ’
Ned had put up a half-hearted fight, trying to pull up his jeans. Once he could excuse, while twice to him indicated some sort of commitment. But Mayday was still feeling aroused from her exhibitionism and skunk always made her horny as hell. She pushed him down on to a leather beanbag, managing to debag him and dispose of her own clothing in one swift movement, then straddled him playfully. He thought he’d never be able to get it up so soon afterwards, but he surprised himself. In fact, he was pretty proud of himself, as the notoriously insatiable Mayday reached her second orgasm in ten minutes and showed her appreciation by raking her black-painted nails down his back.
She read him his cards afterwards. She assured him that he’d secure the object of his affections before the twelve days of Christmas were past.
‘I don’t think I’m good enough for her, Mayday.’ ‘Rubbish. Any girl on the planet would be lucky to have you. You’re a true gentleman. And kind. And a good laugh. And not a bad shag, for a farmer.’
Ned tried to look convinced. Mayday gave him a nudge of encouragement.
‘What you need to do is get her a present. That’ll give you an excuse to talk to her.’
‘She won’t want a present off me.’
Mayday gave a tut of impatience.
‘You can argue with me all you like. But you can’t argue with the cards. It’s meant to be. So come on. Let’s go shopping.’
She slipped into several yards of swirling purple crushed velvet and her biker boots as Ned struggled back into his jeans, somewhat dazed. Then he stumbled in Mayday’s wake out of the Horse and Groom into the mêlée of shoppers and tried to forget the fact that his father would be expecting him home for milking any minute.
Earlier that morning, Keith had scrambled into the attic and brought down the Christmas tree that had adorned The Cedars’ lounge for the past four years. It stood eight foot high and had multi-coloured lights that flashed in sequence. He didn’t have to plug it in to realize that it was the height of bad taste, even if it had cost him the best part of two hundred quid. They’d get a real one. And they’d put it in the snug, which was starting to feel a bit more welcoming now he’d left two empty coffee cups and his slippers in there. He looked at the box of frosted stalactite icicles and baubles encrusted with fake snow, and tipped them straight in the bin.
He sent Mandy off into town with a list of presents he needed for his various staff, trusting her taste. He made it a longer list than was really necessary, because he’d got a lot to do before she got back. As soon as she was out of the door he hit the phone.
He made three phone calls. The first to a friend of his who did something inexplicable to do with venture capital in Birmingham.
‘Ray? Keith. I’ve made a resolution. About a week too early, you might think, but why wait? I want shot of the business. Ask around, will you? See if anyone’s interested. I’m open to any reasonable offer. And there’s a drink in it for you.’
There’d been a stunned silence, and then agreement from Ray, who indicated to Keith that he thought they’d be probably be queuing up.
Keith then dialled the local estate agent to get them to come and value The Cedars. He wanted it on the market first week of the New Year. Then he called Honeycote House. The phone rang for a long time before Mickey finally answered. Keith felt a bit of a fool, explaining what he wanted.
‘Mandy’s been after a horse since she was three. I think I’m finally going to give in. The trouble is, I haven’t a clue where to get one. Or what to look for. Or even how much they cost.’
Fantastic, thought Mickey. He might not be able to run a brewery, but he knew a cash opportunity when he saw one.
‘That’s no problem. I’m sure we’d be able to help you. You’ve got to know what you’re doing when you buy horses. Even quite respectable people will sell you nags only fit for the knacker and you’ve got no real come-back.’
‘That’s great. I’d give you commission, if you found the right one.’
Mickey laughed his smoothest, most charming laugh.
‘I wouldn’t hear of it. How much did you want to spend?’
There was an embarrassed silence.
‘I don’t really know. How much is a horse?’
‘How long is a piece of string? Like anything, you get what you pay for.’
‘I suppose I want something safe. That looks nice.’
‘She wants something half decent. She’s quite a good rider.’
Mickey thought back to Mandy racing him on Monkey. She’d given it her best shot; what she lacked in style, she made up for in guts. As he pondered the memory, a thought suddenly came to him.
‘Something’s just occurred to me. I think we might have the very horse here.’
Five minutes later, the deal was done. They agreed to meet early that evening for Keith to hand over the cash – he had insisted. And, of course, Mickey hadn’t put up a great deal of resistance. Three grand in fifty-pound notes was going to save him from seven sorts of shit. The only fly in the ointment was what Patrick was going to say when he found out.
Lawrence had patrolled the garden centre in tight-lipped white fury for the rest of the afternoon. The staff cowered in fear, not daring to ask why the Christmas party had been so suddenly cancelled. And no one ventured to ask where Kay had got to, as this was obviously the source of his rage.
When Kelly had revealed the truth about Mickey and Kay, Lawrence had been devastated, more so than he liked to admit even to himself. He knew their marriage wasn’t the conventional match made in heaven, that they didn’t exactly bill and coo at each other, but in some ways he felt it worked better than a lot of superficially successful marriages. So to find out that he’d been utterly mistaken, that what he’d thought was a united front was a total sham, had shaken him. And a tiny little bit of him still hoped that what Kelly had told him wasn’t true. Not that he’d thought Kelly had been lying, for she didn’t strike him as malicious. But she might have been mistaken. Now he knew she hadn’t been.
Lawrence tortured himself wondering what Liddiard was able to provide his wife with that he couldn’t. He didn’t like to think too hard about it. Kay, he was sure, was quite frigid, and only went through the machinations of sex to keep him placated. He wasn’t fooled by her simulated pleasure. Nor was he displeased by it, for it had never detracted from his own. So what was it she was looking for in an affair? Lawrence realized that he had lost his power over her, which he’d always thought was absolute and infinite.
And now he knew that Mickey had spawned the child in her belly, he was gutted. The bastard had given
her what Lawrence so desperately wanted, though it was only now that he knew how much. Men weren’t supposed to be broody, were they? He was finding that he had to hurry past the grotto in the garden centre, in case he found himself mawkishly gazing into a pram or ruffling the hair of some toddler waiting for Father Christmas. He’d never taken any notice of children before – only to wonder how they could contribute to his profit margins. Perhaps it was because when you were told you couldn’t have something, you suddenly wanted it. Especially when somebody else had it.
He’d had no choice but to banish Kay. He couldn’t have borne the questions, let alone the answers. Lawrence wasn’t one for talking things over. He’d be every counsellor’s nightmare. But now, suddenly, his life was empty; a total vacuum with no hope of being filled. He didn’t kid himself that they’d had the perfect marriage. It was based on rather cynical, unwritten rules. But it had worked. At least, he’d thought it had. Obviously not for her.
He heard the tills ringing merrily, filling up with cash, and the noise seemed to mock him as he wondered what the point was. What was he going to spend it all on? What the bloody hell could he buy to fill the hole in his life? Or at least patch it up temporarily.
Sex. Maybe that was what he needed. A physical focus; total pleasure; something that would obliterate the bitter thoughts that whirled round his head. But he didn’t want to pay for it. He certainly had in the past, but only for convenience. Not to heal raw wounds.
He picked up the phone and got through to Kelly at the pub.
‘Kelly?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Lawrence Oakley.’
There was a small silence and Lawrence could imagine her mascara-laden lashes blinking in surprise before she replied, slightly wary.
‘Hello.’
‘I know it’s short notice, but I’ve got some shopping to do in London. I need some help choosing things – I thought you’d be just the person. If you’re not doing anything.’
Lawrence wanted Kelly to be quite happy, in the first instance, that there was an above board reason for their trip. So that she could justify it to other people as well as herself. He could tell by the upset in her voice when she’d spilled the beans about Kay and Mickey that she had a strict moral code that her dress sense belied.
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