Just a Family Affair (22 page)

Mayday nodded. ‘She had loads of friends. It’s only when you see them all together that you realize how many.’

A black Mercedes drew up. Inside Mayday could see her mother. She took in a sharp breath.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I want to get in before her.’

Patrick slipped his arm through hers and led her up the stone steps through the crematorium entrance. He felt Mayday stiffen as she saw the coffin.

‘You’re OK,’ he murmured, leading her past rows of already seated mourners to a row near the front. They sat down, and her hands trembled as she picked up the order of service. Elsie’s name and the dates of her birth and death were printed in bold black lettering on the front. She still couldn’t believe it, even now.

Heads turned as Angela swept in looking like an extra from a Lynda la Plante two-part special, in a tight black suit with diamanté buttons and a veiled pillbox hat, and flanked by Roy, Mason and Ryan. The undertakers ushered them reverentially to the front row.

Before taking her seat, Angela hesitated in front of the coffin, allowing the church a good view of her profile as she bit her lip and reached out a hand to touch the shining wood. The congregation exchanged pitying glances.

Mayday clenched her jaw. ‘Bloody drama queen,’ she muttered.

Patrick gave her a warning nudge with his elbow, sensing the antagonism. But then he knew all about antagonistic mothers. He couldn’t bear to be in the same room as his own for more than ten minutes, with all her right-on, self-righteous vegan bloody waffle. What his father had ever seen in Carola he never knew. But it was an awful feeling to loathe your own mother, so he was determined to support Mayday and make sure Angela didn’t score any points off her.

‘Be gracious,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t let her see you’re rattled. We can rip her apart afterwards.’

 

There was something about this hospital, thought Keith, that immediately filled him with confidence. He didn’t know whether it was the calibre of the cars in the car park, the fact that he didn’t have to scrat around for change to pay and display like you did at the district hospital, or the fact that the reception area was more like a five-star hotel, but he felt reassured by his surroundings. Places like this didn’t make mistakes. There was an air of calm, a sense that the staff were in control and efficient, and were here to look after just you, not a million and one other people.

He knew it was morally wrong and that he wasn’t necessarily getting better treatment, only faster. But he wasn’t in charge of the country, and if he was it wouldn’t be in the state it was in, so he wasn’t going to apologize to anyone for his decision. At least now he knew, because he was paying, that the consultant wouldn’t have his mind on the previous patient, or be looking at the clock, but would give him his undivided attention. He didn’t begrudge the money. At the end of the day, if someone was going to be jabbing about in your nether regions, you wanted them to have their mind on the job, and if cash was what it took . . .

He took his place in the waiting room, a copy of Country Life on his knee, looking at the tasteful watercolours on the pale yellow walls that a design consultant had chosen as both calming and cheering. Would he feel happier with Ginny at his side, he wondered? He thought not. Other people tended to articulate your fears just as you had managed to assuage them. Anxiety was contagious and put unnecessary strain on a relationship. He was determined to stick to his guns. He would call on Ginny when he knew he needed her.

He had barely had time to start flipping through the tantalizing property section at the beginning of his magazine before he was called through. This was more like it. No interminable waiting. No clock watching. In his GP surgery he had to plough through ancient copies of The People’s Friend. He jumped to his feet eagerly, and followed the secretary down the plush carpeted hall to Mr Jackson’s consulting room.

Mr Jackson himself was calm and matter of fact.

‘The most important thing,’ Keith told him, ‘is that I am on my feet for my daughter’s wedding at the beginning of May.’

Mr Jackson nodded gravely. ‘I can’t make the culture grow any more quickly,’ he told him. ‘But once we have the results we can act pretty sharpish. And if surgery is necessary . . .’

‘Do you think it will be?’

Keith knew it was pointless pushing for an answer, but his need for reassurance was becoming urgent.

‘You know I can’t answer that yet. But if there is, and it’s localized, we can do keyhole surgery. You could be out in a matter of a couple of days. Obviously you’d have to take it easy.’

‘But I could walk her up the aisle?’

‘Oh yes,’ Mr Jackson smiled. ‘Now. Are you ready? We’ll start off with a little local anaesthetic.’

‘How about a lot?’ joked Keith, desperately trying to hide the fact that he was utterly terrified.

 

Sandra kicked off her Stephane Kélian mules, stretched her legs out in front of her and accepted a glass of champagne from the pretty stewardess. Some people might think going first class on a flight that barely lasted two hours was a waste of money, but not Sandra. She revelled in the luxury, got a kick out of turning left instead of right, loved the mystery that came from being behind the magic curtain, and relished walking off first to the envious glances of those in economy. She’d earned her extra centimetres of leg room, the undivided attention of the cabin crew and every last drop of champagne.

She tapped her manicured nails on the pile of wedding magazines in front of her. She’d bought five at the airport while she was waiting. Her mouth watered in anticipation. She’d dreamt of nothing else since Mandy had told her the fabulous news, and she was itching to get started on the plans. It was going to be the first chance that she’d had to express herself with her new-found wealth. She’d spent a bit of it on herself, of course, but there was nothing like splashing out on other people. She was going to enjoy it.

The past few years had been hard graft, running the three clinics that she spearheaded herself, then overseeing the franchises so they were run to her exacting standards and kept the customers happy. Sandra was obsessed with customer care. Every woman that walked out of one of her clinics was a living, breathing advert, whether she’d had a simple skin peel or eyebrow pluck, or the full works. Getting them to walk back in through the door on a regular basis was a balancing act. You had to give value for money, make sure that the effect lasted a reasonable amount of time, but was addictive enough to ensure repeat business. Sandra had it down to a fine art. And although she wasn’t qualified to wield the needle herself, she knew every single client by name, knew their favourite treatments, their fears, their insecurities.

Four months ago she had taken the decision to sell two of her clinics, and stick to her original purchase. She’d fattened them up to maximum turnover, after all, and there was no improvement to be made that she hadn’t already thought of, so as far as Sandra was concerned there was no challenge left. If it was just on tick over, then she might as well stay in one place, kick back and relax. Enjoy life to the full. She was the wrong side of fifty, but looked forty. Even with her enhancements, that wasn’t going to last for ever, so she was determined to live it up for the next ten years.

She’d had no shortage of offers. She’d chosen the purchasers carefully, made sure they were serious, sound cash buyers, and the transactions had gone through smoothly. She’d spent the past two months advising them as she handed over the reins. And now she was going to have a much-needed holiday. Six weeks in England, while Marie-Claire held the fort.

Life was good. She was a respected figure, locally. The women were infinitely grateful to her for restoring their youthful good looks. The men were grateful to her for keeping their wives happy, quite content to foot her not insubstantial bills. She had many friends. Constant invitations to restaurants, parties, yachts. Her new villa was a dream. And of course, there was Alejandro. The memory of his burnished skin made her shiver slightly.

Yep. For a disgruntled suburban Solihull housewife with a midlife crisis, she had done pretty well for herself. Where her drive, her stamina, her determination, her guts, and her ability to take risks had come from, she didn’t know, for she’d been pretty lazy and unmotivated before she’d discovered her niche. Though to be fair, she’d always been competitive on the golf course. She smiled to herself as she thought of the trophy on the shelf over her enormous inglenook fireplace. That was what had drawn her to Spain in the first place. The golf. If she wasn’t so old, she might have thought of turning professional.

The stewardess offered to top up her champagne, and Sandra inclined her head graciously.

‘Ooh,’ said the stewardess, spying her cache of magazines. ‘Who’s getting married?’

‘My daughter,’ said Sandra proudly. ‘My little girl.’

‘I got married in October,’ the girl told her confidentially. ‘I got a copy of a Vera Wang dress made in Shanghai. I took them a picture and they made it up for a tenth of the price.’

Sandra just smiled politely. If Mandy wanted Vera Wang, she was going to have the real thing. There was going to be no room for fakes or copies at this wedding.

She opened the top magazine and gave a sigh of delight.

 

Ginny sat in the kitchen, surrounded by Nigella, Delia and Jamie. The problem was finding a recipe that was simple but nonetheless impressive, and didn’t make it look as if you had gone to too much effort. Of course, the person she should ask for advice was Lucy, who consistently produced fabulous meals without turning a hair. But then Lucy was the kind of person who knew exactly what she wanted when she went into the butcher, and had the best cuts brought out for her, while Ginny still wasn’t confident about asking the butcher to butterfly a leg of lamb, in case he asked her what she meant. Frankly, she wouldn’t have a clue.

Not that she wasn’t a good cook, but the sort of cooking Ginny was good at wasn’t the sort of meal you served up to impress your husband’s ex-wife. Sausage casserole. Tuna bake. Cheesy jacket potatoes. Funnily enough it was Keith who had become the adventurous cook in their house, who came home with haunches of venison and braces of pheasant, and started crushing juniper berries and setting fire to Calvados all over the place. But she’d promised to cook tonight because he was off to see his stockbroker in Warwickshire. And Ginny was worried because he had looked worried.

Keith had been immensely furtive of late. This morning he had been jumpy. Almost snappy, which was very unlike him. Twice she had asked him if he wanted coffee and he had refused impatiently. He’d shot out of the house without touching his breakfast. Perhaps he was twitchy about seeing Sandra. Was it because he was dreading it, Ginny wondered, or was it because he was secretly looking forward to it and was trying to pretend he wasn’t?

They had never spoken much about Sandra. She and Mandy kept in touch, of course, but Sandra didn’t impinge on them from one year to the next. By comparison, Ginny’s ex-husband David had become almost a part of their lives. He often dropped the twins off after they stayed with him in Cheltenham. Inevitably he had his daughter Chelsea in tow, and popped in for coffee, because it killed another hour. Several times Sasha or Kitty had had charge of their little half-sister and brought her back to Keeper’s Cottage. Ginny couldn’t bring herself to object, because it certainly wasn’t Chelsea’s fault if her parents were both equally selfish and insensitive. Keith and David often chatted politely as he was arriving or going. They hadn’t got to the point of going down to the pub together, but they were quite civil.

How would she get on with Sandra? Now her arrival was imminent, Ginny felt nervous. She had no idea what to expect. She’d once asked Lucy what Sandra was like, and Lucy had crossed her eyes and made a face, which rather indicated that she was hideous. In which case, why was she so intimidated? Sandra was the one who had walked out on Keith and started a new life for herself. Ginny didn’t have to impress her.

She slammed her cookery books shut. She’d buy some nibbles from the deli and do her easy Thai chicken curry. They’d already had it this week but everyone loved it and if she added proper fresh coriander and a squeeze of lime juice it would be almost authentic. And she’d go to the new boutique in Eldenbury and treat herself to something to give herself a confidence boost. She’d had a good month and it had been ages since she’d had a splurge. While she was at it she could start looking for an outfit for Mandy’s wedding.

 

As Elsie’s coffin slipped behind the red curtains, and a well-worn tape began an unrecognizable dirge, Patrick felt Mayday’s grip tighten on his fingers.

‘If you want to cry,’ he whispered, ‘then you should. It doesn’t matter.’

Mayday turned and buried her head in his chest. He held on to her tightly, not sure if she was crying or not. As the music ground to a sudden halt, she came up for air, breathing deeply to keep herself calm. A single track of tears had fallen from each eye. Patrick took out his hanky and wiped them gently away.

‘You’re OK,’ he whispered. ‘The worst bit’s over.’

Afterwards, they walked back to the car holding hands. Mayday watched with narrowed eyes as Roy escorted Angela back to the Mercedes, Mason and Ryan shuffling along behind.

‘I don’t want to go back to my mum’s,’ said Mayday defiantly. ‘It’ll be all she can do not to crack open the champagne. I bet that house is worth the best part of two hundred and fifty thousand now.’

‘You’ve got to go, for your granny’s sake. If you don’t, your mother will have won.’

Mayday sighed. Patrick was right. Which was why she had asked him to come with her. Mayday knew she could trust him to keep her on the straight and narrow.

 

In the past couple of years, Eldenbury had gone from being a rather staid Cotswold market town with a plethora of antique shops to a veritable shopper’s paradise. There was a deli to rival Fortnum’s, a fantastic shoe shop stuffed with jewel-encrusted sandals and a mouth-watering array of pastel loafers, Twig, the to-die-for florist, a hairdresser who could change your life with a single snip of his scissors, and now a wonderful boutique that sold gorgeous clothes with not too terrifying prices.