Just a Family Affair (2 page)

She took a carton of ice-cream out of the freezer and a box of huge ripe strawberries. If they were in England, she could be leading Flora round the paddock on a fat little pony. There were stables here, of course, but it wasn’t the same. She longed for trees and hedges and hills and valleys and ponds and streams. And air that was fresh, not air that hit the back of your throat.

Kay hulled the strawberries, throwing them carelessly into the blender. She wanted a change. She’d had enough. Nearly four years, they’d been here. Surely that was long enough? Surely they could go back to England now? Any gossip would have died down by now. They could start again afresh. Not that she cared about rumour-mongering, but she knew Lawrence was sensitive. He was the one who’d wanted to move away to escape the wagging tongues. Brazen Kay would have happily faced the speculation and scandal, but she gave in to his wishes. After all, he had made a pretty big sacrifice, taking her back when she’d given birth to another man’s child. So she had capitulated, initially seduced by the picture he painted of life in the sun. What wasn’t to like?

A lot, it now turned out. She flicked the switch on the blender and watched the fruit bounce wildly in the glass jar, spurting out red juice, staining the white of the ice-cream, until eventually the two mingled into a satisfying deep pink. She poured the unctuous liquid into two tall glasses and topped it with sprinkles. Sitting on a chrome bar stool, resting her chin in her hand with her elbow on the granite work surface, she watched Flora and her friend giggling and spooning the concoction into their mouths. They were happy enough. But Kay was worried how Flora would turn out, brought up in this sterile environment. She missed the English class system, the little giveaway clues that allowed you to pigeonhole people. Here, you were simply judged on how much money you had, and people speculated on the state of your bank balance interminably. In England, you could be top dog without cash; even the wealthiest person could slide to the bottom of the pecking order if they weren’t seen to be spending their money on the right things. Kay loved the nuances; the way you could never be quite sure of your position. The way it was always the people who didn’t care who came out on top; the ones who did care often languished at the bottom, desperate to make their way up the greasy pole to recognition and respectability.

Kay took no comfort from the fact that here, she and Lawrence were at the top of their social ladder, simply by dint of their perceived financial success. She really didn’t care that she was the queen bee, for she didn’t value the opinion of any of their associates. She wouldn’t care if she never saw anything of them again. She picked up a perfectly ripe strawberry and bit into it savagely.

She’d talk to Lawrence when he got home this evening. She was starting to suspect that he too had had enough of paradise. He had been restless of late. A bit heavy on the vodka and tonics too, which she didn’t like. It was often the way, when you had the Midas touch. Money didn’t always make life easier. Maybe they should cut their losses, get out while the going was good, and settle for a quieter existence. She pictured a small house back in Honeycote - well, not small small, but certainly not as big as the palatial manor house they had once lived in. Flora could go to a decent school - she pictured her in the red and grey uniform of the prep school in Eldenbury, the nearby market town. And she could have a proper conversation, with a man who wasn’t a sexist git drenched in Hugo Boss, trying to paw you under the dinner table at every opportunity. Not that men in the Cotswolds didn’t have wandering hands, but they were more subtle about it. Kay allowed herself a little smile, both at the memory and the prospect, and felt a flicker of adrenalin. Perhaps they could be back in time for Christmas? Images of roaring log fires, flickering candles and intoxicating mulled wine rushed through her head. Surely Flora deserved a proper English Yuletide? Perhaps that was the tack she should take with Lawrence? Flora was his Achilles heel, after all.

Something had to happen to get them out of this anodyne existence.

At half past four the doorbell rang, the chimes echoing through the marble of the hall. Kay automatically checked her appearance in the mirror and swiped a lipstick across her mouth, because you could never be seen to look anything other than your best - that was when the rumours started. She put the lid back on the lipstick and sighed. She’d been brain-washed. Why should she care what people thought?

She walked through the hall, discerning two shadowy shapes through the thickly frosted glass of the front door. Bulky figures. Definitely men. Disconcerted, for a moment she thought about not answering, but something drew her forward.

As she opened the door and saw the solemn expressions, then recognized the uniform of the police, a warning sprang into her mind. What was that irritating strap line that people seemed so fond of these days?

Be careful what you wish for . . .

L
ucy Liddiard woke with butterflies and a smile on her face. A trickle of golden sunlight was filtering through the curtains, the sound of birdsong hinting that spring was on its way and the long winter was at last coming to an end. She estimated that it must be about half past six - the house was quiet, which meant the heating, still necessary to take the edge off the morning chill, hadn’t come on yet. The pipes usually rumbled and groaned for the first half-hour of their wakening.

Next to her, her husband Mickey was still out for the count. In the half-light, the few silver threads in his dark curls couldn’t be seen, nor the laughter lines that were just starting to deepen at the corner of his eyes and around his mouth, now he was approaching fifty. One year closer today. She considered waking him and wishing him a happy birthday, but decided against it. It was still far too early - she’d take advantage of the peace and quiet. She had a lot to do.

For the fifth time she added up how many she had coming for lunch. For months, it had been just the two of them for Sunday lunch at Honeycote House, which had been horribly strange. In the end, Lucy had stopped bothering doing a roast, because it was hardly worth it. But today, everyone was coming round for Mickey’s birthday, and she couldn’t wait.

Her stepson, Patrick, and his girlfriend Mandy would probably arrive first. They usually rushed off somewhere glamorous on a Sunday. To the races, or shopping in Bath, or for lunch with friends at a rowdy restaurant in Cheltenham. But then they were young and in love and with no real responsibility, although Lucy knew that Patrick had taken a lot on board at Honeycote Ales. He’d stepped into Mickey’s shoes straight after the ghastly accident that Lucy didn’t like to think about any more, now it was becoming a distant memory. Even now Mickey was back on form Patrick seemed to manage more than his share of the workload. God knows where the boy had inherited his sense of duty from. Certainly not his father - Mickey was notoriously irresponsible, only marginally less so now he was undeniably middle-aged. And not his mother either. She had been by all accounts a hippydippy flake, which was why Mickey had managed to get custody in the end. Lucy had brought Patrick up as her own, and she thought the world of him.

He was so like Mickey in some ways. They both had the devil-may-care insouciance that only the truly handsome can carry off, combined with boyish charm, immaculate manners and a fondness for the good things in life. But Lucy knew Patrick had hidden depths. He was not as transparent as his father; he took things to heart, though he was always desperate not to show it. Mickey, on the other hand, was a bona fide ostrich. If he could pretend something bad wasn’t happening, then he would. Patrick did the worrying for both of them.

Which made Lucy wonder if Mandy was quite the right girl for him. She was very sweet, but perhaps a little . . . well, superficial seemed an unkind description. But Lucy couldn’t help feeling that Patrick needed someone who could unlock whatever it was that lay underneath his beguiling exterior, someone who understood his complexity. On the other hand, perhaps someone like Mandy was good for him. She was a simple soul, straightforward and relatively undemanding, not like a lot of girls these days, who seemed to expect everything their own way with gold-plated, diamond-encrusted knobs on.

Next to appear would be Mandy’s father, Keith. Lovely, cuddly Keith, with his ready smile and the broad Brummie accent he would never lose. He’d come for one of their infamous Sunday lunches a few years ago, just after his ghastly wife had left him. Disillusioned with the empty life he was leading in soulless, suburban Solihull, he’d fallen under the Liddiard spell immediately, plunging all his money into the ailing brewery, which had been on the verge of bankruptcy at the time. He was virtually one of the family now. He would be bringing Ginny, his . . . what would you call her? Girlfriend? Lover? Mistress? Other half? Lucy wasn’t sure of the official term. She’d introduced the two of them to each other three years ago, when they had both been abandoned souls licking their respective wounds, and they had been living together ever since.

Lucy’s younger daughter, Georgina, was also coming back from university in Gloucester for the day, bombing over in her clapped-out Fiesta. Madcap Georgie - the phrase ‘jolly hockeysticks’ could have been coined just for her. She was halfway through her degree; Lucy had never quite got to the bottom of what it was all about, but it seemed to involve hospitality and sport and tourism - perfect for the sporty, bossy Georgie. Lucy was eternally grateful that she’d chosen a university close enough for her to pop back for the day if she felt like it. Her older daughter, Sophie, was on yet another jaunt to Australia with her boyfriend Ned, and it was Lucy’s greatest fear that they would never come home.

Last of all, and late, because they were always late these days, would be Mickey’s brother James, his wife Caroline, and their three children, who were all under five. Lucy prayed that James and Caroline would be on speaking terms. Their relationship was pretty strained at the moment. James, it was safe to say, was not a new man, and Caroline was volatile at the best of times. At least everyone would muck in today and look after the kids so she could have a bit of a break.

All in all, that made a total of twelve for lunch. Lucy wasn’t fazed. She preferred catering for large numbers. It was what she was used to. She’d been hopeless at cooking for just her and Mickey; half of what she prepared had ended up in the bin or the dog’s bowl each night. Today she was cooking two enormous fillets of beef - one medium, one rare - and her mouth watered at the prospect of the beetroot-red velvety slices. Batter for dozens and dozens of Yorkshire puddings was already resting in a jug in the pantry.

She padded down to the kitchen. Every time she walked in, it still gave her a shock. The kitchen at Honeycote House had long been legendary. Hundreds of meals, impromptu parties and spontaneous celebrations had taken place around the enormous table in its midst. No one cared that the doors of the antiquated kitchen units were hanging off their hinges, or that the plaster was falling off, or that the walls hadn’t been redecorated for years. But two months ago Lucy had finally decided that enough was enough. If you looked at it in the cold light of day, and not through a fug of wine and smoke and laughter and cooking smells, it was a disgrace. She had looked around one morning and seen nothing but grease stains and cobwebs. Time for a makeover, she’d decided.

Lucy was no princess. She gutted the kitchen herself, manhandling the old units out into the tack room where they could be used to store animal food and cleaning equipment. Then she’d been through all her old gadgets and utensils, chucking out anything broken or out-of-date. The process had been exhausting. She’d found mementos and treasures from years ago. Postcards from long-lost friends. An old Rimmel lipstick, the smell of which brought the past rushing back to her so vividly it turned her stomach. Cocktail sticks and paper cases that reminded her of all the sausages on sticks and fairy cakes she’d done for children’s parties over the years. A gingham bun-holder trimmed in ric-rac that Sophie had made for her, which Lucy had proudly displayed at dinner parties for years, even though her guests had looked askance at it. Tupperware boxes that still smelled of the picnic food they’d once held. Lucy felt flayed alive emotionally as she forced herself to rid the kitchen of anything remotely rancid, which was pretty much everything.

She’d sat for hours looking at the row of empty champagne bottles that used to sit on the top shelf of the dresser, the occasion they had marked inscribed on each label in thick black pen. Why was she so desperate to hang on to them? Would life change one iota if she took them to the recycling centre in Eldenbury? All they did was gather dust, and, if she was honest, remind her of times that could never be repeated. She forced herself to drop each bottle into the bin in the supermarket car park, wiping away tears with her remaining hand, hoping desperately no one would spot her. As the glass shattered, it occurred to her that over the past couple of years nothing had happened worth celebrating. It had been a period of farewells, as first Patrick had moved out to live with Mandy, then Sophie and Georgina had flown the nest, leaving Lucy and Mickey to rattle around in Honeycote House, which had always been large but now seemed positively cavernous.

One wall in the kitchen had been smothered in photographs. It was a veritable rogues’ gallery - Mickey dressed as a woman, the girls on a toboggan being pulled by Patrick; Lucy in a flapper dress for the Great Gatsby party they had for her fortieth; a toothless Georgie on the family pony. They were cracked and faded. Lucy took them all down carefully, annotated them as well as her memory allowed, and took them to a girl who specialized in photographic collages. The snapshots had come back beautifully mounted and framed in a chronological unfolding of life at Honeycote House. It was a work of art, but Lucy still preferred the slapdash version that had been stuck to the wall with browning sticky tape.