Just a Family Affair (29 page)

She caught her mother’s disapproving eye and smiled sweetly.

‘After all, this is supposed to be fun.’ She flopped onto the white sofa in her underwear and shut her eyes. ‘I think I might just wear jeans,’ she declared.

‘Over my dead body,’ snorted Sandra.

Behind her, Sasha mimed stabbing her in the back. Mandy shut her eyes, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. No one had told her that choosing a wedding dress would be such hard work.

 

Ginny and Lucy made their way down the street and into the tiny patisserie they’d passed earlier, flopping into their seats and ordering tea and cakes, which arrived mercifully quickly. As she picked up the teapot and poured, Lucy looked at Ginny.

‘Ginny . . . I don’t like to say this. But you don’t seem yourself.’

Ginny grabbed her teacup and drank so she didn’t have to answer straight away, scalding her mouth in the process. What on earth was she supposed to say?

‘What . . . what do you mean?’ she stammered.

‘I don’t know, exactly. You just seem a bit . . . subdued.’ Lucy helped herself to a macaroon and bit into it thoughtfully.

Ginny scooped two spoons of sugar into her tea. It was one of the wonderful things about Lucy; the way she noticed things other people missed, the way she could pick up on your mood. Only today Ginny wished fervently that Lucy hadn’t picked up on the fact that she was feeling rather vulnerable. She couldn’t bear to talk about it.

She couldn’t, absolutely couldn’t, bring herself to tell Lucy Liddiard that she and Keith hadn’t had sex for more than three months. She would never understand. Lucy was the sexiest woman alive, in a very understated way. She was sitting there, with her glowing skin, her hair escaping from the slide that pinned it up, in her short-sleeved cashmere top and skinny jeans and ballet flats, not looking a day older than the incipient bride. Ginny was certain that the Liddiards were probably at it seven nights a week, because what man would be able to keep their hands off Lucy? Whereas Keith seemed to be able to restrain himself from her only too well. And she knew why. Keith had gone off her because she had gone to seed, was always tired and, although she knew she shouldn’t, wore big baggy knickers from Tesco because they were so much more comfortable.

She’d tried her best last night. She’d specifically put on a strappy nightdress instead of her usual pyjamas, and had playfully suggested a massage. She had caught a fleeting look of horror on his face before he had blustered a polite refusal and gone scurrying off to his laptop. Mortified, she’d taken off the nightdress and consigned it to the laundry basket. He’d crept into the bedroom an hour or so later. She had pretended to be asleep, and she could almost feel the relief emanating from him.

But she couldn’t bear the humiliation of admitting this to Lucy. So she stirred the sugar into her teacup, took a bite of macaroon, and gave Lucy a bunch of reasons for not being herself that were all true, but weren’t the actual truth.

‘I think I’m just tired. It’s all a bit of a strain. I suppose I’m just not sure of my role in all of this. I’m not the mother of the bride, but I feel I should be supporting Mandy as Keith’s . . . well, whatever.’ She was blustering, casting round for convincing reasons for her lacklustre countenance. ‘And I’ve been working too hard. Business is booming, but it’s still at that stage where I have to be hands on - I’m not confident enough to delegate yet. And I find Sandra . . . Well, it’s just a bit awkward.’

She was trying to be tactful, because she didn’t want to sound like a bitch. Lucy put a hand over hers and leant forward with a mischievous smile.

‘You don’t have to say anything. I think you’re a saint. Just hold on to the fact that when the wedding is over she’ll be gone.’

Ginny managed a smile. ‘I’m sure her heart’s in the right place.’

Lucy narrowed her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. I’m sure Sandra’s jolly nice as long as she’s getting her own way. That’s why I split the wedding down the middle. I don’t want to fall out with her, but I know there is no way on God’s earth we will agree on anything.’

Ginny nodded agreement, thinking that you couldn’t get two people less alike than Sandra and Lucy.

‘She’s not at all what I expected, you know,’ she said suddenly. ‘I didn’t expect her to be so . . . glamorous.’

Lucy rolled her eyes and waved her fingers in the air with a snipping motion.

‘Darling, if we spent as much as she had on plastic surgery . . . And anyway, you’re far more gorgeous. I know Keith thinks so.’ She frowned. ‘You don’t feel threatened, do you? Because you shouldn’t.’

‘No, no, no. Of course I don’t feel threatened.’ Ginny laughed, thinking she sounded slightly hysterical. ‘It’s just a bit strange, that’s all.’

‘Good. Then let’s finish our tea and go up the road to Liberty. We’re supposed to be looking for outfits for ourselves too, remember?’

Ginny finished her tea with a sinking heart. The last thing she wanted to do was try on outfits, especially after the fiasco with the red jersey dress. The assistant in Eldenbury had been very snippy when she’d taken it back the next day.

‘You liked it enough when you tried it on in here,’ she had said accusingly. Ginny had longed to retort that as it was obvious she didn’t have a clue what suited her, the assistant had been criminally irresponsible to sell the dress to her in the first place. But she hadn’t; she had just stood there helpless with tears stinging her eyes while the assistant had stroppily re-credited her bank card. There was no way she could ever go back there now, so she had to try and choose something today, because she wouldn’t be able to afford another day off now for weeks. But what a nightmare, having Lucy as a shopping buddy. Not because she would be horrible - far from it - but because Lucy would look good in a sack.

Before they could make their escape, however, Sandra swept in with the twins and Mandy in tow.

‘We’re going to Liberty,’ she announced. ‘I am convinced that Vera Wang is the only way forward. And by the way—’

She fell into a vacant chair, looking round at her expectant audience.

‘The hen night.’ She smiled triumphantly. ‘I’ve had the most fantastic idea.’

 

Mickey left the meeting with a sour taste in his mouth. He felt thoroughly disgusted with himself. He’d sold his family business down the river because of a moment’s indiscretion. And sat back and watched his son take the rap for it. What a wanker.

He went into his office and began sketching out a draft contract to take in to Robert Gibson. Every point he made was like a dart piercing his heart. Seeing it in black and white made him sink deeper and deeper into gloom. He struggled manfully through until the clock in the corner struck six, when he glugged down two inches of brandy. For the last few years he had kept his office a booze-free zone, but in view of recent events he had sneaked a bottle of Courvoisier in. He was monitoring his drinking, trying to be careful not to go down that road again, but there was no denying it was a comfort.

This evening it didn’t seem to help, however. The sense of self-loathing and shame almost seemed to increase with every drop he swallowed. Mickey slammed his glass down on his desk. Why should he have to suffer this? He wasn’t the only guilty party, after all. And what say had he ever had in the decision-making process? It was Kay who had told him she couldn’t get pregnant. Kay who had chosen not to tell him about Flora and then come out of the woodwork when it suited her . . .

He phoned Lucy and left a message to tell her he wouldn’t be home until late - the girls wouldn’t be back from their shopping trip yet anyway. Then he scooped up his car keys and strode out to the car park. As he jumped into the driving seat, he told himself that he was probably over the limit, but he didn’t bloody care. He accelerated up the steep drive that led out of the brewery, shot out onto the road without looking and belted out of the village.

He hadn’t calmed down by the time he reached the Peacock Inn. If anything, he was more incensed. He unlocked the door of the flat and strode in without knocking. Kay was in the kitchen, and looked up in alarm.

‘Mickey? You frightened me to death. How did you get in?’

Mickey dangled a key in front of her.

‘You could have knocked. I might have been . . .’

She trailed off. Mickey leant against the doorjamb, staring at her. ‘You’ll be glad to know the board agreed this afternoon to sell off Honeycote Ales. You’ve successfully brought about its demise, after a hundred and fifty years. But don’t worry - the cheque will be in the post.’

She went rather pale. ‘I didn’t know you’d have to sell. I thought you could . . . borrow it or something.’

‘It’s not really a bona fide reason for a loan, is it, paying off your mistress? I think we’d have had trouble raising the money.’

Mickey knew his words were harsher than she deserved. Kay’s eyes were huge.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered.

‘Only for as long as it takes you to fuck off with my hard-earned. Tell me, Kay: would you ever have told me, if Lawrence hadn’t pegged it? Probably not. It might have jeopardized your life of luxury, after all. Far more important to hang on to the villa and the pool and the yacht—’

‘We didn’t have a yacht,’ retorted Kay. ‘And anyway, when did you ever care about me? You knew Lawrence threw me out that Christmas. You knew I was pregnant. And surely it occurred to you that the baby might be yours?’ She looked at him accusingly. ‘But did you try and get in touch? No. You just thought “Thank God she’s gone.” Didn’t you?’

Damn. She’d been so determined not to throw this accusation at him, knowing it wouldn’t help her cause. But she felt entitled to defend herself.

Mickey felt the brandy rise up in his gullet. ‘I did try to phone,’ he stammered.

‘Not hard enough. I was terrified.’ Kay was into her stride now, filled with righteous indignation. ‘I would have given anything for just a single word of reassurance from one of you Liddiards. But none of you could wait to see the back of me. In the end, it was only Lawrence who was man enough to find me. He stood by me. And he loved Flora. From the moment he set eyes on her.’

Kay was trembling. All the colour had drained from her face. She grabbed onto the kitchen work surface for support as she felt her knees about to buckle underneath her. Mickey stepped forward and caught her just in time.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve behaved appallingly. Yet again. It was a bit of a tough day, that’s all. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

Kay was taking in big shuddering breaths. ‘Why did he have to go and die? None of this would have happened . . .’

‘Shhh.’ Mickey stroked her hair until he could feel her relax. They stood together, very still, for a few moments.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded a small voice.

Mickey and Kay sprang apart. Flora stood in the doorway looking indignant, wearing a white cotton nightdress sprigged with roses, her teddy slung over her shoulder.

‘This is . . . Mr Liddiard. He’s the landlord.’ Kay was satisfied that this wasn’t a lie. ‘He’s come to see if there’s anything we need.’

Flora surveyed Mickey as a headmistress might a new pupil on the first day of term. ‘This place is a dump,’ she informed him. ‘If it wasn’t for the ducks, we’d be off.’

Kay clamped a hand over her mouth, suddenly desperate not to laugh, where only a moment ago she’d been on the brink of falling apart. But that was the beauty of children: they could bring you back to your senses in a second.

Mickey was flabbergasted. Standing before him was a hybrid of his three children. The wide eyes and the flowing curly hair belonged to Sophie. The righteous indignation was pure Georgina. And the urge to protect was Patrick. Mickey wouldn’t dare put a foot wrong with the redoubtable Flora in the room.

‘Darling, go back to bed,’ said Kay. ‘Mr Liddiard and I have a few things to discuss. I’ll come and tuck you up in a minute.’>

Flora looked Mickey up and down. He felt himself shrivel under her gaze.

‘Goodnight,’ she said, rather primly, and turned on her heel.

When she’d gone he turned to Kay, who was still trying not to laugh.

‘She’s . . . quite a character,’ he said weakly.

‘It’s not surprising, is it?’ Kay replied. ‘Look at the parents.’

Mickey suddenly had the sense that things had taken a wrong turn. He should never have come here. He was on very dangerous ground indeed. There were feelings stirring inside him that he couldn’t control. He had to get out before he started compromising himself, making foolish promises he couldn’t keep.

As he made his escape, it was all he could do not to rush back in and look at Flora. Yet again, he cursed himself for drinking. If he hadn’t been half-cut, he wouldn’t have come looking for Kay. And if he hadn’t come looking for Kay . . .

As he drove back to Honeycote House, all he could see was that little face, those accusing eyes, that determined tilt to the chin. Pride and curiosity surged up inside him in equal measure. He longed to turn around, drive back to the Peacock, scoop them both up and bring them home. He felt an overwhelming sense of shame that the two of them were locked away in that hovel, even though he knew Patrick was on top of it, and was making sure they had everything they needed.

Mickey just about managed to keep the car pointed towards Honeycote. He mustn’t crumble now. It was only a matter of time before he would have the means to give Kay what she wanted. If he gave in before then, all hell would break loose. He gritted his teeth and clutched the steering wheel, telling himself to focus on the wedding. It was the least he could do for Patrick, who had gone beyond the bounds of loyalty yet again.

After all, if his son deserved anything, it was a happy wedding day.

 

Kay sat on the sofa in the living room, gazing at the screen of the small portable television Patrick had brought over, but not taking anything in. She was still in turmoil from Mickey’s interruption. The encounter had unleashed a torrent of emotions in her. She’d gone from wanting to punch him in the face to longing for the comfort of his arms around her. She couldn’t help wondering where things would have led if Flora hadn’t walked in on them. He’d left the scene of the crime pretty quickly, as if he couldn’t face the physical evidence of his guilt. Bastard. Coward. But then, that was Mickey all over and always had been.