Just a Family Affair (26 page)

Kay snapped herself out of her fantasy. Why was she torturing herself? Patrick wasn’t hers. This was a clandestine meeting set up to discuss a sordid situation, and Patrick would be going back to his beautiful fiancée as soon as he could make his escape. Besides, Kay didn’t want him. Not really - he was far too young. After everything she’d been through, his youth sat uneasily next to her. Five years ago, the difference had been invigorating. Now it was just . . . depressing.

Flora ran up and stopped several paces from them, eyeing Patrick warily.

‘Darling,’ said Kay. ‘This is one of Mummy’s friends. From when she used to live in Honeycote.’

Flora moved closer. She was a pretty little thing, with dark curls and a snub nose and freckles. Patrick tried very hard not to scrutinize her for Liddiard traits, but there was certainly no trace of Lawrence whatsoever. He gave her an easy smile. A few years ago he wouldn’t have had a clue what to say to a four-year-old girl, but Caroline and James descended on them all so frequently that Patrick was now quite at home with small children.

‘Have you seen the white tiger?’ he asked. ‘I’ve come all this way specially.’

Flora nodded her head solemnly. ‘He’s not white at all. He’s jolly dirty.’

‘Oh,’ said Patrick, feigning disappointment.

‘But he’s still nice,’ said Flora. ‘Come on. I’ll show you.’

She ran off down the path, and Patrick and Kay fell into step alongside each other.

‘We’re having a board meeting on Tuesday,’ Patrick informed her. ‘I expect we’ll end up having to sell.’

He tried not to sound too bitter, because it wasn’t just Kay’s fault that this was a probability, but she was forcing their hand rather.

‘As I said,’ Kay countered, ‘if I could find any other way out of my predicament, I would.’

‘I understand. I’d do anything to protect my family. As you know.’ He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I’ve found you somewhere to stay in the meantime. It’s the landlord’s accommodation at the Peacock Inn. We’ve had to close the pub, because it’s subsiding. But the flat’s perfectly safe; it’s over the garage at the back. It’s sitting there empty. We can’t put a proper tenant in there because we don’t know if we’re going to sell the pub, or do it up. But if you want it . . .’ He trailed off for a moment. It sounded so feudal, offering her a place to live that would keep her safely out of the way, but close enough to keep an eye on her. He wasn’t sure how she would take his offer.

She was surprisingly grateful. ‘It sounds perfect.’

Patrick shrugged. ‘It’s warm, at least. And Flora can play in the garden. But be careful of the river.’ He shoved his hands in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys. ‘You know where the Peacock is? Just outside Blockford, on the back road to Eldenbury. I went in and put the heating on, and checked all the appliances. The decor’s pretty grim, I’m afraid . . .’

‘But beggars can’t be choosers?’ Kay knew her remark was barbed, but she took the key off him. ‘Thank you.’

They’d reached the white tiger’s lair. The beast lay there, staring balefully, quite unapologetic about the fact that his coat wasn’t Persil white, but rather tobacco stained.

‘See?’ Flora pointed, indignant.

‘You’re right,’ said Patrick. ‘He’s not white. He’s yellow. They should call him the yellow tiger.’

Flora put her hands on her hips. ‘I think we should ask for our money back, Mummy.’

Kay exchanged a wry glance with Patrick. ‘She’s her father’s daughter all right.’ She laughed, and stopped short.

Patrick gazed into the middle distance, wondering why this observation annoyed him so much. If Kay was demanding money from Mickey, and they were falling over themselves to help her out of her predicament, then he rather wished she wouldn’t refer to Lawrence as Flora’s father.

Kay sensed his disapproval. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Shit. What a mess this all is.’

‘Perhaps you and Dad should have thought about that five years ago.’

Kay touched his sleeve. ‘You’re so fantastically good at being judgemental, Patrick. You must have a very clear conscience.’>

Her tone was light, but the remark was extremely loaded.

‘Actually, I have.’

‘So it’s just been you and Mandy. For five years?’

Patrick turned to her with a scowl. ‘It’s none of your business, but since you ask - yes.’

‘Very impressive.’

‘Not really. I’d have thought it was quite normal.’

Kay’s lips twitched. ‘You can’t tell me you’ve always been a saint, Patrick. How else did you get to be such a tiger in the sack?’>

Her eyes were mocking him, but Patrick stared her out, triumphing inwardly when she blushed and looked away. ‘Pure animal instinct, Kay. Right. I’d better go.’

‘Come and have a cup of coffee,’ she pleaded. ‘Or a sandwich. ’

‘I can’t. I’m meeting Mandy and her mum at Honeycote House. Wedding plans . . .’

Kay was appalled to find tears suddenly springing up in her eyes. Of course he couldn’t wait to get away from her and go and join Mandy, who Kay remembered as quite stunning. But she just wanted to sit down for five minutes with another human being; someone who knew her. And chat. Not about anything in particular. She clenched her teeth together to stop herself from begging him for his company.

‘Anyway,’ said Patrick. ‘I think it’s best if I keep away from Flora for the time being. We don’t want her confused.’

He gave her the most fleeting of kisses on the cheek and walked away.

Kay watched him go, feeling as if she had been punched in the guts. She deserved his froideur, his immovability. She’d been a bitch, questioning him like that, even if she didn’t quite believe his reply. She took in a deep breath, to staunch the flood of hysteria that sometimes threatened to overwhelm her.

Patrick was right. She and Mickey should have thought about what they had been doing. But had she been so wicked? Had she done something so evil? People were unfaithful every day of the week. And they got away with it. What was it she had done to deserve the grief and the hopelessness and the terror that was rising up in her gullet even now? It was almost like drowning.

It was only the feeling of Flora’s little hand in hers that managed to calm her. For a moment she had been tempted to scale the fence and throw herself at the tiger’s mercy; he’d make pretty short work of her, she was sure. She’d be a mere canapé.

‘Hot chocolate?’ She managed to find her voice, and it was steady.

‘Where did that man go?’ demanded Flora. ‘He was nice. I wanted to show him the cheetahs.’

 

Mayday woke up on her bedroom floor at midday, shivering. She gazed at the carpet, knowing that as soon as she moved the pain would kick in. She wouldn’t know the extent of the damage until she became vertical, so she lay as still as she could while she gathered her thoughts, trying to work out the reason she had got herself into such a disgraceful condition.

The first thing she remembered was Elsie’s funeral. Her grandmother had been laid to rest yesterday. It was final. Mayday thought that was a pretty good reason for getting slaughtered. But what had happened? Had she got drunk at the wake and been carried home? She thought not. She scrabbled about in her memory bank. Patrick had come with her to the crematorium. And her mother’s house afterwards. He wouldn’t have let her get in a state like that. He’d have looked after her; he was—

Shit. Mayday remembered the second blow of the day.

Patrick was getting married. In less than six weeks. His marriage would mark the end of their friendship. Had she presumed that they would just drift on for ever, kindred spirits who shared an impenetrable closeness that was never questioned by either of them? No wonder she had wanted to drown her sorrows.

She managed to raise herself up to a sitting position. She felt a tight band around the back of her head and an overwhelming desire to vomit. Which was hardly surprising; she could see the offending empty bottle in the corner of the room. Had she sobbed on Patrick’s shoulder? Drunkenly pleaded with him not to go ahead with his nuptials? She hoped very hard that she hadn’t. Mayday spent her life keeping her counsel and trying not to show her true feelings. It was the one reason why her mother enraged her so much, because Angela could always provoke her into showing her cards. She prayed that Patrick had gone before she had lost all reason.

She was trawling around in her brain, trying to remember when he had gone, when the image of a lottery ticket glided past. She grabbed on to the memory. Why had there been a lottery ticket? She looked gingerly for clues. There was the broken teapot. That’s right; the lottery ticket had been inside.

She moved her gaze slowly round the room, and saw it scrumpled up in the corner. She gazed at it, breaking out into a sweat, her very pores oozing Jack Daniels. A wave of nausea swept through her; even her bones felt sick. Keep it in or let it out? Mayday thought she was better off trying to get rid of it. Less work for her liver.

Ten minutes later, her hair sticking to her face, her forehead soaked in perspiration, she thought she’d probably disposed of the last of her bender. She tried a tentative glass of water, praying that it would stay down and she could start to rehydrate. The last time she’d had a really shocking hangover, Elsie had brought her toast and tea in bed and had mopped her brow. She hadn’t been disapproving at all. Her grandmother was the least judgemental person she knew. Correction. Had known.

Mayday remembered someone telling her the best hangover cure was a bowl of rice with seaweed and soy sauce. The rice soaked up all the toxins while the seaweed and sauce replaced the minerals. She got to the phone and managed to croak out her order. She didn’t bother with the seaweed. That was pushing it in the Cotswolds.

‘Can you bring me up a bowl of plain rice? And a bottle of soy sauce?’>

Astonishingly, it did the trick. Mayday wouldn’t have thought she could keep anything down, but it made her feel a little bit stronger. She lay on the bed for twenty minutes while she assessed her recovery. She felt well enough to manage a shower. She stood in the scalding water for ten minutes, dousing away every last alcohol-soaked bead of sweat.

She looked pale and red-eyed, but at least she was vertical. She did her hair in two long plaits, pulling on a black military-style button-through dress and a pair of old boots. Then she looked again at the ticket.

What was the significance? Why had her grandmother left it rolled up in the spout? She supposed she should check the numbers, just in case. She walked carefully over to her laptop, which was linked into the hotel’s computer system. It seemed to take hours to boot up. She fumbled with the mouse, peering at the letters on the ticket that gave her the lottery’s web address. They swam around, swapping with each other, but eventually she managed to pin them down.

She checked and re-checked, but even in her inebriated condition there was no denying it. The numbers matched. The piece of paper in her hands was worth a cool five million, four hundred and eighty-three thousand, six hundred and ninety-four pounds.

And twenty-three pence.

 

Patrick came back to Honeycote House to find Mandy, Sandra and Lucy poring over a plan of the house and gardens and adjoining fields spread out on the kitchen table amidst the remains of lunch.

‘I thought we could put some tents up in the bottom paddock,’ said Lucy, wielding a black felt tip. ‘For anyone who doesn’t want to drive home. A bit like Glastonbury. We can do bacon rolls the next morning.’

Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought we were just doing tea on the lawn.’

‘The thing is,’ Lucy pointed out, ‘if you’re going to go to any bother, you might as well go the whole hog. And if everyone’s made an effort to dress up, they’ll be a bit cheesed off if all they get is a cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich.’

‘I don’t want to go on about it,’ said Sandra. ‘But money is no object.’

‘It’s not about money,’ said Lucy firmly. ‘It’s about giving a sense of occasion. We can do that without breaking the bank.’

Patrick cut himself a slice of tomato tart and peered over Mandy’s shoulder. ‘It looks like a military operation.’

‘It is, let me assure you.’ Sandra’s voice was stern. ‘And don’t worry, you’ll be getting your orders.’

Patrick winced.

‘Don’t worry.’ Lucy hugged him. ‘All you have to do is turn up. We’re taking care of everything.’

Patrick caught Mandy’s eye and she gave him rather a despairing glance, rolling her eyes towards her mother and shrugging her shoulders as if to say ‘What can you do?’ He cut another slice of tart and wandered off to find his father.

Mickey was in the pantry mixing up a jug of Pimm’s. He didn’t look up. He was too busy chopping mint, which he threw in on top of the mound of cucumber and orange slices already swimming in the amber liquid. Patrick marvelled that his father could be so preoccupied by a simple task when their whole existence was in jeopardy. But then that was Mickey: master of the displacement activity. Patrick envied him the trait.

Mickey filled up the rest of the jug with lemonade, judging the right amount with an expert’s eye. ‘I’m trying to perfect the recipe,’ he said. ‘I thought we could have Pimm’s when we get back from the church. If we go straight onto champagne everyone’ll keel over. And it’ll be refreshing if it’s a hot day—’

‘Everybody’s obsessed with this bloody wedding,’ Patrick complained. ‘The only ones who aren’t are me and Mandy.’

‘Shut up and try this.’ Mickey poured him a glass, then looked towards the door to see if there was anyone on the horizon. ‘How was Kay?’

‘Bitter,’ pronounced Patrick.

‘I’ll stick some more lemonade in.’

‘Not the Pimm’s. Kay, you idiot. She was . . . edgy.’

‘Bound to be. Did you give her the keys to the Peacock?’

‘Yeah. She seemed pleased.’