Honeycote (48 page)

Something else was bothering him. His mobile had rung yesterday, but he hadn’t recognized the number, so he hadn’t bothered answering. He hated unsolicited calls. But curiosity had got the better of him when he’d got home and he’d traced the code. Slough. It had been someone calling from Slough. And there was only one person he knew who had any connections with Slough whatsoever.

He tortured himself wondering if it was her, and if so what she wanted. Then he told himself to forget it, if it was that important she’d phone back…

As he approached the Honeycote Arms, something unusual caught his eye. A beautiful dark green Lagonda was pulled up on the car park. It was in concourse condition, the paintwork shining like glass, the leatherwork buffed and gleaming. A huge cream rosette was tied to the front, with two ribbons crossing the bonnet either side. It must be on its way to pick up Caroline, thought Lawrence, and felt a pang of envy at the optimism she and James would be feeling this morning. He watched as a young man with muscular forearms pulled up the bonnet by its brass handle, checking the oil and the water with care. He was in his early twenties, dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform with shining boots, his dirty-blond hair slicked back behind his ears. He looked the embodiment of every woman’s fantasy: servile yet arrogant. Lawrence envied him his youth, his strength, his beauty, then consoled himself by thinking he was probably gay. Who else would want to dress up like that on a Saturday morning?

He caught his breath as Kelly came out of the pub, carefully bearing a jug of water. She looked stunning in an ice-pink chiffon dress and matching jacket. Her hair was tied back in a French plait; her sling-back heels were as high as ever. She looked the picture of prettiness. Lawrence looked forward with pleasure to showing her off.

She handed the jug to the young man, who teased her by threatening to tip the water all over her. Kelly threw up her hands in mock horror, laughing coquettishly. Lawrence’s gut suddenly tightened as he watched the tableau. The two of them were perfectly contrasted. She was the picture of femininity; he of masculinity – Lawrence realized his previous diagnosis was way off the mark. And together they shared youth and beauty.

A lump rose to Lawrence’s throat. He watched as the boy, man, whatever, filled up the water in the car engine, handed the jug back to Kelly and closed the bonnet. He almost couldn’t watch as she carefully brushed back a lock of hair from his eyes with the tip of a manicured finger, always the perfectionist where appearance was concerned. The gesture was intimate, almost loving, certainly familiar. The boy winked his thanks, jumped into the car and allowed a moment for Kelly to stand back before starting the engine and driving off. Kelly was left waving, a few stray curls escaping from her plait in the breeze, before she turned to walk back into the pub, unaware she was being watched.

Lawrence felt ill. Who was this young man? Clearly someone she knew well and had feelings for. He knew he should feel angry, protective, jealous. He knew he should chase after him with a blunderbuss. But all he felt was sadness, because he knew, whoever the boy was, that Kelly belonged with him. Or someone like him. Someone who could match her vitality. Not an old codger like him who was the wrong side of forty and old enough to be her father – a judgement he’d seen written across more than one face when he’d taken her out.

Kelly re-emerged from the pub, armed with her handbag and sunglasses – it was a bright and beautiful spring day. She opened the car door, beaming, and planted a kiss on his cheek. She seemed unabashed. He breathed in her scent as if for the last time. She nudged him with her elbow.

‘Hey – guess what? Rick’s driving the wedding car.’

Lawrence had to think fast for a moment. Rick? Of course! Kelly’s brother, Rick, who worked at Crossways garage. He’d only seen him from a distance before, in his overalls and smothered in oil. He smiled weakly.

‘I didn’t recognize him.’

‘Doesn’t he scrub up well? It’s his new Saturday job; thirty quid cash in hand per wedding.’

Strangely, Lawrence didn’t feel any sense of relief at this innocent explanation, even though Rick was obviously no threat to him. The cruel fact still remained: he was too bloody old for her.

As Kelly scrambled into the front seat, he resolved to keep quiet for the time being. They might as well enjoy their last day out together – she’d been looking forward to the races all week. But after that it was time to bow out gracefully.

It had been fun while it lasted, but Lawrence didn’t want to make a fool of himself any longer, and didn’t want people to think badly of Kelly either. There was no doubt what people thought, especially when they clocked his car. That she was only after him for his money. She deserved someone who was on her wavelength; someone who knew what she was on about when she discussed Posh Spice’s latest frock or some convoluted soap plot.

While Kelly fussed around, finding her handbag and touching up her lipstick, Lawrence wondered when would be the best moment to tell her. He didn’t think she’d be upset. Especially when he revealed the consolation prize…

James and Caroline had decided on a small country wedding, to take place in the church at Honeycote and afterwards at Denham House. But by the time they added up their respective families, friends and business associates, the little church was filled with more than a hundred people eagerly awaiting the spectacle. As the familiar strains of the ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ struck up, heads turned and necks were craned.

‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Mickey in admiration to his brother. James waited patiently until his bride arrived at his side before he appraised her.

Caroline looked stunning. It had taken hours of agonizing to choose her outfit, but she thought she’d got it right. It suited her personality, the occasion and the setting perfectly.

The dress itself was a simple sheath, in a deep cream duchesse satin that had a slightly gold tinge to it – not enough to be gaudy, but just enough to provide a shimmering depth. The pièce de résistance, over the top, was a frock coat in the same fabric, very fitted and tight at the waist, but with a skirt so long and full that it trailed behind her, leaving undulating pools of slithery satin shimmering in her wake. The cuffs and lapels had been hand-embroidered with tiny pearl beads. She wore cream kid boots with pointed toes and kitten heels; her hair was half piled on top of her head, secured with a tortoiseshell mantilla comb, with the rest coiled loosely in ringlets. In her hands, she held a hand-tied bouquet of Porcelina buff roses wittily mingled with hops. The church breathed a collective sigh of approval.

Behind her came Sophie and Georgina, in pale green silk with velvet wraps to keep off the chill April breeze, herding a little flock of Caroline’s nieces, clad in Liberty lawn frocks and ballet slippers. Patrick and Ned, devilishly handsome in their morning suits, considered their duty as ushers done and slipped into their seats as the oak doors of the little church closed and the ceremony began.

Lucy was in the front row. She’d chosen a pale blue silk shift dress with a huge hat trimmed with ostrich feathers – simple but stunning; very Audrey Hepburn. She felt a surge of pride as she looked at her daughters, who both looked so grown up and so beautiful. And she felt a surge of pride at seeing Mickey standing tall next to his brother – he’d been determined to get through the entire wedding without his walking stick. As she watched him search anxiously in his pocket for the little suede pouch that held the ring, she smiled to herself. He’d been so worried that everything should be right; nothing she said could reassure him, but she knew it was all going to be perfect.

James’s voice rang out over the congregation as he began to repeat the vows. And as he slipped the ring on to Caroline’s finger, Lucy thought back to the day Mickey had slid a ring on to her own. She looked down at her hand as if to check it was still there, though she knew it was. And as the bride and groom kissed, she wiped away a tear. It wasn’t a tear of regret. She always cried at weddings.

Denham House had been transformed for the reception. Guests were ushered into the dining room, where French windows led out on to the terrace. The walled garden had been covered with a tarpaulin to give the effect of a marquee, with discreet heaters blasting out enough warmth to keep the chilly spring air at bay. The existing blooms were enhanced by pots and pots of spring flowers, so everywhere you turned there was a cluster of narcissi or grape hyacinths or crocuses or primroses. Tiny pinprick fairy lights were strung round hedges and bushes, and hundreds of candles flickered – great big waxy church candles perched on pillars, scented votives placed in glass containers along the walls and slender tapers stuck randomly into flower pots – so the whole garden twinkled like a fairy grotto. Long-stemmed cream roses, arum lilies and trailing ivy were tied on to tree trunks with big muslin bows, and the stone pathway that led to the knot garden had been scattered with rose petals.

Caroline and James had decided not to have a formal reception with a sit-down meal, preferring their guests to mingle and chatter, so the order of the day was substantial finger food, circulated by a battalion of pretty waitresses who were under strict instructions not to let anyone go hungry. James was a stickler for local produce, so on arrival guests were greeted with tiny white china cups filled with Evesham asparagus soup. Then followed Gloucester Old Spot sausages, lamb cutlets, venison carpaccio, tiny pork pies and Scotch quails’ eggs, all locally procured… an endless array of canapés that were eagerly gobbled up. They were followed by miniature heart-shaped meringues, white chocolate profiteroles and tartes au citron. Everything was washed down with champagne – there was no point in messing about with anything else, they’d decided.

Caroline felt like a princess, as every girl deserves to on her wedding day, but she’d had no idea that you could really feel such happiness. As she moved from guest to guest, each one was touched by the joy that radiated from her. James stood by her, smiling, proud, protective, as they received each guest and their congratulations.

After the cake and the speeches, which left no one unmoved, Ned found a Whitney Houston CD in his car and slipped it into James’s sound system. The speakers blasted the opening strains of ‘I Will Always Love You’ out through the French windows and on to the terrace. Drunken guests urged the bride and groom on to the impromptu dance floor. James, who would normally be horrified by such a public display, held out his hand to his bride. She glided into his arms and, resting her head on his shoulder, moved with him in a slow, languorous smooch, much to the delight of their audience.

Gradually other guests joined them on the dance floor. Ned, who was standing on a priceless stone urn conducting wildly, leaped off into the crowd to find Sophie, dragging her laughing and protesting into the arena. Patrick held out his hand to Mandy, who was feeling a little overwhelmed by the occasion. She slid her fingers into his and remembered the very first time she’d taken his hand, how she’d sworn to herself that one day she’d belong to him. And now she did, she found it incredible that it felt so right, that they were almost as one. She’d found hidden depths in Patrick that she’d never imagined and each revelation taught her something more about herself. Every day brought surprises. Life was exciting; a voyage of self-discovery that she didn’t want to come to an end.

Mickey’s leg was killing him, but it was a point of honour, a point of pride. He searched amongst the guests for Lucy. She was standing just inside the drawing room, looking out rather wistfully, Mickey thought, as if hoping for a partner. He insinuated himself into her eyeline and smiled an invitation.

For a moment he thought she hadn’t seen him, as she seemed to look away over the top of his head to the bride and groom. But then she met his gaze with a smile, put down her glass and came to join him. He held her tight in his arms, his beautiful wife whose hair smelled of freesias, whose cheek was as soft as peach-skin against his, who made him forget the dreadful ache in his limbs as the music drew them together…

In the dining room, where he accepted yet another glass of champagne from a conscientious waitress, Keith Sherwyn watched the proceedings with an almost paternal smile. It didn’t matter to him that he had no partner to glide across the mossy stones with. He wasn’t ready for that just yet.

It was extraordinary to think that only a few months ago he’d been on a treadmill, striving to maintain an empire that was as spiritually stifling as it was financially rewarding. He shuddered to think that, if fate hadn’t intervened, he might still be on that treadmill, dull, unfulfilled and taken for granted.

But now, the challenge of the brewery fulfilled him both creatively and as a businessman. He had a new home: he and Mandy were already making plans to renovate their cottage and in the meantime they were renting just outside Honeycote. And his daughter was clearly settled and content; the disruption between him and Sandra seemed to have done her no lasting harm. He thought Patrick was a perfect suitor for her. He let his imagination wander to another wedding in the future, where the Liddiard and Sherwyn interests were bound in holy matrimony – then chided himself. He didn’t want to force a union; it was early days yet.

All in all it was a happy man that enjoyed the spectacle on the terrace. But deep inside there was a tiny flicker of hope that somewhere out there might be someone for him.

As dusk finally fell, James and Caroline began to work their way through their guests, saying their goodbyes. Patrick knew this was the time when every other guest would be distracted, wrapped up in the romance of the moment, wishing the happy couple well as they prepared to set off on their new life together. He grabbed Mandy’s hand.

‘Come on.’

She followed him, unquestioning. They slipped through the tunnel of the marquee into the house, out through the front door and on to the street. Patrick still revealed nothing, but led Mandy by the hand up the wide pavement, past the antique shops and estate agents and restaurants that made up Eldenbury. She followed him, wide-eyed and breathless with anticipation.