Honeycote

by Veronica Henry

  Mandy fell into step beside Patrick.

  ‘I’m really sorry about Monkey. Sophie told me he was yours. I didn’t realize.’

  Patrick nodded an indifferent acknowledgement of her apology.

  ‘I’m not taking him straight away. Your dad said we could keep him at yours for a bit. We might be moving soon.’

  ‘Really.’

  Patrick was uninterested.

  ‘Dad’s going to sell his business. He wants to do something totally different. I think he’d like to move down here. So if we’re nearby, you can visit Monkey whenever you like.’

  Patrick looked at her.

  ‘It’s a big business, isn’t it? He’s going to make a few quid.’

  ‘I don’t think he cares how much he makes, as long as he gets rid of it.’ She paused. ‘But he’ll get a few million, whatever.’

  Patrick almost stopped dead in his tracks, but not quite. He was a master at disguising his emotions. Instead he nodded politely.

  ‘So what’s he going to do instead?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anything, as long as it’s got nothing to do with bathrooms. He wants to make a new start, now mum’s left.’

  Mandy sounded matter of fact, not self-pitying, so Patrick didn’t feel the need to offer any sympathy on this front. Instead, he subtly changed tack.

  ‘Listen, I’m really sorry about the other night.’

  Mandy coloured furiously.

  ‘I behaved appallingly. The thing is – ’ He ransacked his brain for a plausible platitude – ‘I thought I was taking advantage of you. I thought you’d probably had too much to drink, like Sophie, and you’d regret it.’

  ‘Oh no. I don’t drink, really.’

  Patrick stopped and turned her to face him. He tucked a strand of her long, shiny hair behind her ear, watching as she trembled under his touch, nervous as an unbroken foal. Putty. Absolute fucking putty. As Ned in his inimitably charming way would have put it, she was gagging for it.

  He just had time to brush his lips against hers when Georgina stomped into view. He couldn’t have paid her to make a more opportune appearance. The two sprang apart and resumed their walk.

  ‘You’re going home tonight, aren’t you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What are you doing New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Patrick left a cruel gap in the conversation while he mulled the options over in his head. Honeycote House came into view. Patrick stopped and looked at it proudly. The thought of anyone else ever living there appalled him. Yet he was strongly starting to suspect, from the snippets of information he’d picked up from his snoop round the brewery, from his conversation with Kelly and from the way his father was behaving, that it was not such a remote possibility. After all, people were turfed out of their ancestral seats all the time. But he couldn’t just sit there and watch it happen, not like Mickey.

  ‘If you’re not doing anything, a mate of mine’s having a party in Cheltenham. It should be a laugh.’

  ‘Definitely. That would be great.’

  ‘I’ll call you nearer the time.’

  ‘OK.’

  Mandy smiled at him and her face lit up. She was really quite beautiful, realized Patrick. That was going to make the job an awful lot easier. If she’d been a dog, people might have got suspicious.

  The group stomped back into the hallway, kicking off wellies, dropping coats, scarves and gloves into a heap on the chest. Ned, overheated, took off the tie his mother had forced him into that morning and unbuttoned his collar. Sophie was looking at him in horror. With a strangled sob, she ran up the stairs.

  ‘What is it?’ Ned looked bewildered.

  ‘You’ve got a sodding great lovebite on your neck.’ Patrick blew out a laconic stream of cigarette smoke.

  Ned rushed to the nearest mirror and examined his neck anxiously. Bloody hell. Patrick was right. A big purply blotch reminded him of the moment Mayday had nipped him in a frenzy of passion two days earlier. Why the hell hadn’t he noticed it? And how was he going to explain it away? He could hardly say he’d done it himself – it was anatomically impossible.

  *

  Sophie lay on her bed tearing at the gossamer scarf, which soon lay in shreds. She held it to her face, sobbing. The cloying scent it bore with it suddenly overpowered her as she remembered where she’d smelled it before. It was Mayday Perkins’s perfume. The Horse and Groom always stank of it. Patrick’s flying jacket sometimes stank of it, when they’d been out on a session together. And now Ned’s present to her stank of it, because he’d been with her. She must have given him that lovebite. And not long ago, either.

  Sophie couldn’t believe it. She counted on her fingers. For nearly eighteen hours, ever since midnight mass, she’d been bursting with happiness, filled with a bubble of excitement that made her head, her heart, her every limb sing with joy. And now she’d been brought crashing cruelly down to earth.

  By nine o’clock, everyone had gone. James had to see to his two Labradors who had been locked up all day. Lawrence had things to sort out at the garden centre, which was expecting its usual rush of Boxing Day visitors. The Walshes had to do whatever it was farmers had to do, as their livestock didn’t recognize national holidays. Keith and Mandy took Sophie and Georgina back to Solihull – Keith had tickets booked for the pantomime in Birmingham on Boxing Day and invited the two girls along. Sophie had been only too glad to get away from everyone’s curious stares at Honeycote and had cried all the way there. Mandy had been sweet, making sure the noise of the CD had covered her sobs so as not to embarrass her father, who anyway had Georgina jabbering away at him in the front seat.

  In the kitchen, plates and bowls and glasses were stacked up on the table, surrounded by greasy serving bowls and cooking utensils. It was an unattractive proposition. Mickey, rigid with shock, offered to do the washing-up. It might take his mind off things for half an hour at least. But to his irritation, Lucy, fuelled by champagne and Pouilly-Fumé, wouldn’t stop ranting on about poor Kay. She was scandalized, not by Kay’s predicament, but by Lawrence’s treatment of her.

  ‘He can’t just turf her out on to the street. Not if she’s pregnant. Even if it’s not his.’

  ‘Course he can.’

  ‘It’s barbaric. I’m going to phone her. See if she’s all right.’

  ‘No!’

  Lucy stared at Mickey, shocked by the aggression in his voice. She frowned, puzzled by his countenance. He was sweating profusely.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s best not to get involved, that’s all. Look, it’s Christmas Day. It’s a family day – ’

  ‘The family have all gone. There’s only us left.’

  ‘Let Kay and Lawrence sort things out for themselves. I’m sure if she wants to talk she’ll phone you.’

  Lucy demurred. That was men for you. They never liked to get involved in other people’s dramas. They didn’t have a sense of solidarity like women. Lucy knew that if she was in Kay’s position, heaven forbid, she’d appreciate a phone call. She’d feel a little bit better knowing somebody cared.

  Over at Barton Court, Lawrence was lying on his bed, his head whirling, cursing himself. He usually liked to play his cards close to his chest, only today he’d drunk too much and said too much, he knew he had. But he couldn’t bear Liddiard sitting there, so smug, with his perfect life, his perfect wife, his perfect family. All the things Lawrence knew he would never have. He’d wanted to piss all over Mickey’s strawberry patch. Well, he’d certainly done that. The look on Mickey’s face had been priceless. He’d almost dropped the port decanter. Lawrence had been a little ashamed by the look of genuine horror on Lucy’s face – he hadn’t wanted to spoil the party for her. So he’d made his apologies and left soon after his outburst. And here he was, all on his own, lying on his bed feeling like shit with only the thought that Mickey probably felt worse for consolation.

  Lucy waited until Mickey had gone to check on the h
orses, then slipped into the little office off the kitchen and picked up the phone. She flipped through the address book till she found Kay’s mobile number, then dialled. She was taken aback at how quickly it was answered and recoiled at the barrage that met her ears.

  ‘Look, Mickey – haven’t you got the message? I don’t want to talk to you. Just forget I ever existed. You don’t have to worry about me. Or the baby. It’s all sorted. So just fuck off out of my life, will you?’

  The phone went dead. Lucy looked down at the handset and pressed the button that displayed the last five numbers to be dialled. Kay’s. Kay’s. Kay’s. Kay’s. Kay’s.

  14

  Kay flicked her mobile phone on to voice mail and lay back weakly on her pillows. She’d spent all Christmas Day lying in her bed, the heavy curtains closing out all but a tiny chink of light. She knew the hotel staff were worried about her, but she didn’t really care. They’d insisted on sending a tray up for lunch, but it had gone back barely touched.

  She leaned over and poured herself another glass of wine. Damn, it was empty. She phoned room service and demanded another bottle to be sent up.

  There was only one way out of her predicament. She’d read enough Catherine Cooksons to know that there was nothing that couldn’t be solved by a skinful of gin and a hot bath. She didn’t like gin, so Crozes-Hermitage would have to do.

  When the duty manager knocked, she stumbled across the room, snatched the tray off him and slammed the door in his face before he could ask her to sign for it.

  As Keith turned into his road, he looked fondly at the three sleeping girls. He was looking forward to taking them to the panto the next day. He hoped they didn’t think they were too old for it. Anyway, there was a hunky Australian soap star in it that they were all drooling over. He’d take them for cocktails afterwards. Non-alcoholic ones, of course, but he knew they’d enjoy it. And he certainly would. They were great company. Made him feel young again. And optimistic. Full of hope for the future. Things really were turning out for the best.

  As he reached for the remote control that would open the security gates, Keith frowned to see a taxi parked on the road outside his drive. His heart sank as a frosted blonde with dark glasses emerged, waving gaily at them.

  ‘Surprise! Merry Christmas!’

  Oh God. Sandra. Bloody, bloody Sandra.

  As Christmas Days went, reflected Patrick, this had been a weird one. There was nothing for it but to get totally out of it. He rolled a satisfyingly fat joint and lit up with defiance by the fire in the drawing room – there was no sign of his father or Lucy anywhere. As the pungent smoke entered his lungs, then his bloodstream, and started blurring the edges of his reality, Patrick started to relax and mull over the day’s events.

  Keith was seriously loaded. That was a given. And he was soon going to realize a major amount of cash, which, apparently, he wanted to spend. Another given was Mandy’s infatuation with Patrick – of that he was totally confident. Seducing her was going to be like taking candy from a baby. Seducing Keith might be a little harder. He was clearly enchanted by the set-up at Honeycote, yet at the same time he was obviously a good businessman, someone who wouldn’t invest in something out of sentimentality unless he thought it would give him a good return. But with the added attraction of his daughter being engaged to the son of the managing director – well, it would be a point of honour for Keith to get the brewery back on its feet.

  Patrick was ruthless. If his plan meant wedding bells, then so be it. He could always get divorced. He wouldn’t tell Mickey his idea just yet. Mickey wouldn’t be able to cope with the calculation. That was why he was such a lousy businessman – he never had a plan. He just got swept along by the status quo.

  No. He’d present it as a fait accompli. Patrick could see he was the only one capable of saving Honeycote Ales. But he was going to have to act fast.

  He finished the joint and dropped the roach into the fireplace with a sigh. At least it had taken his mind off his other problem. Kay. He’d been wondering all day what the hell Lawrence had been doing there on his own. Then Lucy, wide-eyed with scandal, had enlightened him. Kay was pregnant – with someone else’s child…

  Patrick decided he couldn’t take that one on board just yet. Everyone else must have gone to bed – there was still no sign of Mickey or Lucy. He’d go to bed himself and sleep on it – things might seem better in the morning.

  Later that evening, the chambermaid knocked on Kay’s door to tidy up and turn her bed down. There was no answer, so she used her key to get in. The room was pitch dark, so she flipped on the light.

  At first she thought Kay was dead. She was lying with her head over the side of the bed, limp as a rag doll. She was surrounded by empty glasses and bottles, and the smell of alcohol was overwhelming – a glass of red wine had fallen from her hand and stained the carpet. The girl backed out of the room and went running for help.

  Keith was desperately trying to control his rage. Sandra swept back in with her matching luggage and a new fur-trimmed anorak as if nothing was amiss, and he wasn’t going to confront her in front of the Liddiard girls, who looked a bit confused at her arrival. Mandy was mortified as her mother hugged her, probably for the first time in her life.

  ‘Where have you been? I wanted to surprise you.’ Sandra smiled round at them. She’d done that all right, thought Keith grimly.

  ‘We went to lunch. With friends.’

  Sandra raised her eyebrows, which had been plucked out and painted back in.

  ‘How nice.’ She smiled at Sophie and Georgina, who did a fantastic job of introducing themselves and being polite and chatty. Keith could see they were bewildered by what was going on, even though they were far too well brought up to show it.

  He couldn’t bear the palpable tension in the room. Mandy was excruciatingly embarrassed, but obviously felt guilty about it because you shouldn’t feel like that about your own mother.

  ‘Who’d like a drink? I certainly would,’ Sandra chirruped gaily, clip-clopping over to the ice-maker and pumping several cubes into a gin glass.

  ‘Actually, I think it’s time the girls were in bed. It’ll give us a chance for a chat.’ He glared meaningfully at his wife, who pouted.

  ‘I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing.’

  Keith put his foot down and Mandy didn’t need any encouragement. She fled upstairs with Sophie and Georgina, leaving just the two of them. Keith was stony-faced as he turned to his wife.

  ‘I suppose you think I’m going to welcome you back with open arms?’

  ‘Don’t be angry with me. Not on Christmas Day.’ Sandra batted her eyelashes at him coquettishly.

  ‘You walk out without giving me the courtesy of any explanation, then expect to swan back in – ’

  Sandra put a placatory hand on his chest. Keith recoiled in distaste.

  ‘I was wrong. I admit it. The thing is, darling, I just needed to give myself some space. It’s not always easy being a woman in her… autumn years.’ Sandra adored euphemisms. Her whole life was a euphemism. Everything utilitarian and ugly was covered up by something that only succeeded in drawing attention to it. ‘We get these little panics. Little rushes of insecurity when we need to go and find ourselves. But now I have, now I’ve realized who the real me is.’

  ‘Well, I’m very glad. Really I am – ’

  Sandra smiled benignly. For all his faults, Keith was a walkover when it came down to it.

  ‘ – because Mandy and I had a wonderful day today. The first Christmas I think I’ve ever really enjoyed. We were able to do exactly what we wanted. We didn’t have anyone screaming a route march into our ear. We didn’t have hordes of people we couldn’t stand the sight of to entertain. It was… relaxing. Fun.’

  Sandra wasn’t sure the conversation was going quite the way she wanted it to, but she kept smiling all the same.

  ‘Well, good. Because I did feel guilty.’

  ‘Don’t feel guilty, Sandra. Don’t feel guil
ty at all. You’ve done us a favour. You’ve found out who you are.’ Keith smiled grimly. ‘And we’ve found out who we are.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘People in our own right. Who don’t need you bossing us around, telling us who we are and what to do. What we’ve come to realize is, we’re better off without you.’

  Sandra’s laugh started high and travelled down an octave, as she tried to control her panic.

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Oh yes I do. Basically, I want you out of here. But I’m prepared to give you a couple of weeks’ grace while you find yourself somewhere. In the meantime, there are three perfectly good spare rooms upstairs. Pick whichever one you like. They’ve all got en suites.’ He paused, then slipped the knife in. ‘As good as anything you’d find in Benidorm.’

  Sandra winced. It wasn’t like Keith to be sarcastic. She didn’t think it was worth retorting that she’d actually been in Puerto Banus and there was a world of difference. Shit – she’d got a lot of ground to make up. She didn’t realize he’d minded her going off like that quite so much. Never mind, she’d give him a few days to calm down, then she’d start working on him. It shouldn’t take long. She gave a tremulous sigh.

  ‘If that’s what you really want, sweetheart.’

  ‘And don’t waste your breath calling me sweetheart. It’s not going to work.’

  Keith’s voice was harsh, and as he spoke he couldn’t believe what he was saying. He’d never stood up to her before. And it wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be. Basically because he didn’t care if he never saw her again. He’d rediscovered his daughter, his lust for life, and that was enough for him. And there was no room for Sandra.

  He watched her flounce out of the room. If you could flounce in a champagne velour jumpsuit cinched in with a tight gold lamé belt. With matching gold lamé sandals. Keith allowed a vision of Lucy Liddiard, with her understated grey cashmere sweater, to flash into his head and sighed.