Honeycote (28 page)

She craved sleep. She craved the opportunity to wake up in the morning with a clear head. She craved a meal that wasn’t swimming in fat out of a foil carton or surrounded by a pile of chips. She dreaded to think what size she’d be if it weren’t for the exercise. She had an awesome figure, she knew she did. She stood five foot nine in her stockinged feet, four feet of which were her legs, with a tiny waist and large, full breasts. She dressed to emphasize her good points and had a tendency towards severe, slightly sadomasochistic outfits – tight leather or suede trousers, spiky heels, skintight tops. With no make-up on she knew she looked featureless, with the non-existent eyebrows and lashes often suffered by redheads, but she’d perfected drawing these in. She was striking rather than beautiful, but she made sure she rarely went unnoticed. Now, she knew without looking in the mirror, she looked trashed. Her skin was pasty, with spots courtesy of an appalling diet and bags courtesy of too many late nights. Something had to change.

Until now, Caroline had always resisted commitment. She hated being looked after and found anyone else’s attentions restricting and claustrophobic. From the moment she was tiny she’d been fiercely protective of her independence: even a mild query from her mother as to whether she needed a coat would evoke a defensive tongue-lashing. And now she was grown up, had long since left home, she still relished the fact that she had the freedom to do whatever she liked and never had to take anyone else into consideration. She didn’t have to answer to anybody.

That’s why James was perfect for her. He fitted in with her life; accepted it without demur if she changed plans at the last minute or stood him up. He understood her need for space totally and never seemed to want to get too close. But things were changing. She no longer felt the compulsion to keep him at arm’s length, and it was slowly starting to dawn on her why people got married.

Caroline lifted her head up wearily from the steering wheel and lit a St Moritz. She was trying to cut down on her smoking, but she needed to calm down, and anyway mentholated cigarettes didn’t really count. The morning’s confrontation had upset her more than she cared to admit. She’d totally lost it and had no one to blame but herself. She wanted to wipe the slate clean and start again, which was a first. Caroline never regretted anything. She was always right.

She’d gone to exercise Demelza that morning and had found the mare still in her box and waiting for the vet. There was an angry gash on her back leg, which Caroline could tell from a glance meant several hundred quid in the vet’s pocket and at least a month’s box rest; time and money she could ill afford. Furious, she’d confronted the nearest stable girl, who was still suffering from a Christmas hangover, to discover that Demelza had tripped over a water bucket and, becoming tangled in the wire handle, had panicked and backed into a barbed wire fence. Caroline’s ensuing tantrum had been awesome. Accusations of negligence and carelessness rained upon the hapless groom, and were so vociferous that the yard owner had emerged from the warmth of his office to find the source of the profanities.

Ian had put Caroline right in no uncertain terms. She was six weeks behind with her livery, which denied her any right to abuse his staff. Not that she was entitled to treat any human being with such contempt, even if she’d been in credit. Caroline had raged back at him, and was taken aback when he replied with a single word:

‘Off.’

‘What?’

‘Off my yard. I don’t need clients like you, mouthing off and having tantrums. I’ve got a list of people waiting to keep their horses here, all with better manners than you.’

‘Fine. I’ll borrow a box and take her away now.’

‘No, you won’t.’

Caroline looked at him, puzzled.

‘You can settle your bill first. Seven hundred and forty pounds, including worming and shoeing.’

‘I’ll write you a cheque.’

Caroline knew he wouldn’t be able to bank it until the end of the week, by which time she’d have cancelled it.

‘Cash only, I’m afraid. Until then I’m keeping the horse.’

For one of the few times in her life, Caroline had been speechless. She knew by the glint in his eye that Ian meant business. She wasn’t about to back down either. Caroline had never tasted humble pie in her life. She turned on her heel and marched out of the yard.

Now, sitting in her Renault Mégane at the end of the drive, she drew hard on her cigarette to try to get some taste out of it, and thought about what she’d done. She knew there was no way she could settle her bill. She’d been relying on Ian turning a blind eye to her late payments until well into the New Year. She’d already spent her Christmas bonus on presents and topping up her wardrobe. She sighed. Everything was catching up on her. Her looks, her health and her wallet were all suffering the effects of over-indulgence.

At the back of her mind, something else was troubling her too. As she turned on the engine resignedly, she allowed the thought headspace. She’d spent Christmas Day with her family: her dull, boring, ordinary family in their dull, boring, ordinary box on a dull, boring ordinary estate outside Evesham. Her two sisters were there, neither of whom had a shred of ambition or imagination, just one husband and two children apiece. Caroline had always scorned them for their narrow-mindedness, their passive acceptance of their lot, their willingness to conform. They were happy to sit in her parents’ cramped dining room, round the table with its mismatched chairs, devouring overcooked sprouts and underdone potatoes washed down with below average wine. She shuddered at the memory – she’d even had to smoke outdoors, outside the sliding doors that led on to the patio, as one of her sisters was expecting again.

Nevertheless, she’d felt a twinge of jealousy at her sisters’ bovine contentment. Their joy in their children was so genuine; she envied them their pleasure at her nieces’ smiling faces as they ripped open their presents. They were obviously totally fulfilled and didn’t spend their lives feeling as if they were on a treadmill in order to prove something. She must be going wrong somewhere…

It was time to take stock. Time to sit back and look at her life. She couldn’t carry on the way she was. And anyway, in the back of her mind she knew she’d peaked. She’d got as high as she could at the newspaper. She’d started out five years ago doing telesales for the classified ad section and now she was the manager. To do any better for herself she’d have to move to a bigger paper in a bigger town. Or a city. Or, perish the thought, London. And she’d done as well as she was ever going to in her eventing without a better horse, which she couldn’t afford. Her eyes misted over as she thought about poor Demelza, until unfamiliar tears were making their way down her cheeks. She brushed them away. Snivelling wasn’t going to get her anywhere. Yes, it was definitely time for a plan of action. A change in lifestyle. Something drastic.

She needed a bit of security. Both literally and figuratively. She needed someone to share the responsibilities in life, the decisions, the bills – the ups and downs. Time to be mistress of her own house. Take things at a gentler pace. Even, God forbid, have babies eventually. She never thought she’d think it, but the prospect didn’t seem as horrendous as usual.

Whatever happened, she knew she couldn’t carry on juggling all her lives any more, being a split personality. She had her working life, where she was ruthless, a hard taskmistress because she had to be in order to produce the results that were expected. Then she had her eventing life, which involved hard work and self-sacrifice, exercising Demelza whatever the weather, but gave her an incredible high whenever she came away with a rosette or a cup. Even though she was only competing at an amateur level, she felt a sense of achievement that was hers and hers alone. Then she had her life with James, when she allowed herself to relax and be pampered. He was such a gentleman, so good at looking after her, she didn’t know why she didn’t spend more time in his company. She felt, with a sudden stab of guilt, that she took him for granted.

It was time to redress the balance. Put her career on the back burner. Maybe even give the riding a rest. It didn’t necessarily mean she could never get on a horse again, but she didn’t have to compete so hard and so often. She thought Demelza might like the break as well. She’d ridden her into the ground on more than one occasion, she knew it.

What she really needed to do was get her relationship with James on a firmer footing. Perhaps she’d suggest moving in with him; Caroline had always shied away from anything that smacked of commitment, but now the prospect seemed enticing. Her independence had somehow lost its allure. She’d lost her edge; she was going soft. But she didn’t care. She had James to fall back on. She’d build herself a new life with him, one that they could both enjoy.

She was halfway down the bypass before she realized she’d left James’s present behind. She’d meant to go home and shower and change before travelling down to see him, but events at the yard had precipitated things rather. Never mind. What did you get the man who had everything, anyway? With a wicked grin, Caroline thought of several things James would appreciate more than a hastily wrapped jumper from Benetton.

Lucy woke from a deep, unnatural sleep at about half past nine, the clattering of hooves causing her to sit up in alarm. Had one of the horses escaped? She jumped out of bed and noticed her strange surroundings. Of course. She was in James’s spare bedroom and the horses must have been the first arrivals heading for the Boxing Day meet in the market square. She flopped back down on the bed with a sigh, wishing she could return to a state of unconsciousness. She really didn’t want to have to face the memories of the day before, but she knew she had to.

Mickey had been having an affair with Kay Oakley. She asked herself why. Kay was certainly attractive, no one could deny that, but in a vampy, unnatural way that just didn’t seem Mickey’s style. She was always perfectly pleasant, more than willing to help whenever Lucy went to the garden centre to buy spring bulbs or roses, but there was a brittle air about her, something rather too businesslike. She lacked warmth. Lucy wondered if perhaps it was because she’d never had children. Motherhood always mellowed people –

What on earth was she doing? Making excuses for the woman! Was she mad? Lucy knew she always gave people the benefit of the doubt. She wasn’t entirely sure if that was a fault. Certainly the only person it had ever ended up hurting was herself, particularly on this occasion. She mustn’t, mustn’t, start making allowances for Kay.

She pondered the matter further. One thing was for sure, it wasn’t because Mickey wasn’t getting it at home. She calculated carefully, adding up their various bonks, which totalled a healthy average of five and a half a week. Unless they were guilt bonks… Mickey trying to cover up for his infidelity. It could explain why he always looked shattered.

Perhaps Kay was willing to do something in the bedroom stakes that she wasn’t. Lucy tried to remember if Mickey had ever hinted at anything untoward, but thought not. After all, she wasn’t hung up about where or when: outside, inside, morning, noon or night, she was always pretty willing. And she thought his preferences were fairly catholic. He was sensual, mildly adventurous, but not, she was pretty certain, an out and out pervert. Though perhaps he did harbour a desire for her to stomp round in nothing but her riding boots and whack his bottom with her crop, and he just hadn’t liked to ask. Trouble was, Lucy couldn’t really see Kay agreeing to that either, and knew that the reason for Mickey’s infidelity was probably a little deeper rooted than mere sexual preference. But she didn’t want to dig any deeper than the superficial, as that would have further-reaching implications upon their marriage.

She closed her eyes for a moment to assess how she felt. Apart from a dull, leaden feeling somewhere between her stomach and her heart, she felt nothing. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel. Nothing could have prepared her for this eventuality. If anyone had told her that she’d be confronting her husband’s infidelity, she’d have laughed. Bad things just didn’t happen to Lucy. Until now, she’d led a charmed life. She’d had an idyllic childhood as the local vet’s daughter, adored her parents (who even now were well and happy and living in blissful retirement on the Sussex coast), her courtship and marriage to Mickey had been a fairy tale and, apart from the morning sickness, bringing up the children had been free of any great drama –

Oh God! The girls. Lucy jolted up again with alarm before remembering that they were safely in Solihull with Keith and Mandy, and not due back again till tomorrow. She lay back on the pillow, temporarily relieved that she didn’t have to confront them as yet. She wondered if she could put them off for yet another day while she gathered her wits. She could phone Keith, tell him she had a nasty stomach bug and didn’t want to risk them catching it. She was sure he’d be happy to oblige: he’d been so grateful for their hospitality up till now. Lucy tucked the problem of Sophie and Georgina away for the time being. She couldn’t begin to contemplate their reaction yet, how they would feel about this turn of events.

As she banished the prospect of revealing their father’s extramarital activities to the back of her mind, there was a light tap on the door. Lucy sighed. She’d have to talk to James sooner or later. She couldn’t really expect to turn up in the state she had and not give him an explanation. She hoped she’d be able to talk without breaking down again. She suspected that once she started to cry she’d never be able to stop. She cleared her throat to speak. Her voice came out slightly hoarse.

‘Come in.’

James opened the door and peered round anxiously.

‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’

‘No.’

He came in with a tray, bearing tea and brioches and apricot conserve.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m not. I’m not feeling anything yet, thank God. I’m not allowing myself to.’

James sat down on the bed next to her, balancing the tray on the dressing table.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’