Just a Family Affair (38 page)

He seemed happy to give her his advice for nothing. She could have afforded to pay him whatever he asked, but he was so enchanted by the prospect of her buying into Honeycote Ales that he wanted to make sure she presented herself to best effect. To Robert it was like a fairytale. He liked and admired both Mayday and the Liddiards, and was firmly convinced that they would flourish together. So he’d given her the benefit of his experience and advice quite willingly - gleefully, in fact. He’d even contacted a friend of his who was a venture capitalist and asked him to look over their business plan, and it had been given the seal of approval.

Her core idea was to develop the brewery itself. Mayday knew that the building was under-utilized; that there were rooms lying empty and outbuildings that had fallen into disuse. Her plan was to convert the superfluous accommodation into a one-stop food emporium encompassing an organic butcher, a greengrocer, a cheesemonger and a bakery as well as a comprehensive deli. With readily available parking and the lure of a café, it would be like a mini shopping village, and she knew there would be hordes of wealthy people happy to spend a morning topping up their fridges and larders with the best local produce. The area was full of foodies who snipped recipes out of the weekend supplements, and subsequently charged around looking for smoked pimenton and pomegranate molasses. Besides, it had become such a nightmare to park in Eldenbury, customers would prefer to go a little out of their way if they could be sure of a pleasant experience. And it would be a lure for tourists too, who would be able to take a bit of the Cotswolds home to their kitchens. With careful planning and some judicious building work, the brewery could still run in tandem with the new concept. If necessary, the brewery offices could be housed in a separate building in order to maximize the retail space. And Robert had suggested that they might be able to get a grant to fund a visitor’s centre: several breweries around the country exploited their heritage in this way.

As for the tied houses, Mayday had divided them up into three categories to focus their development. Indulge took its inspiration from the Honeycote Arms; gastro-pubs with fine wine lists which attracted wealthy, aspirational diners. Relax represented the more traditional hostelries whose facilities would be developed to attract locals and families - darts, dominoes, skittles, playgardens, children’s menus. And finally Escape, spearheaded by the Horse and Groom, where the accommodation would be invested in for the tourist trade.

She wanted to establish Honeycote as a brand, a trademark that was quintessentially English, representative of the unique and breathtaking area it was based in, exploiting its qualities, its produce, and its traditions while making the most of twenty-first century trends. As landlady of the Horse and Groom, she understood the demographics of the indigenous population as well as the needs of the tourists. Her plans served them equally well. Robert had been impressed. She had been unashamed when she told him she had kept his wife’s floristry business under careful scrutiny - she had watched Twig flourish with interest, and it had told her that there were lots of people with a huge disposable income in the area who wanted to make their lives more pleasurable. You only had to walk in there on a Friday afternoon and see the ranks of hand-tied arrangements waiting to be delivered to homes round the county ready for the weekend.

If the experience had taught Mayday anything, it was that even if she didn’t get her chance with Honeycote Ales, she couldn’t stand still. She had the bit between her teeth; she was desperate for a challenge. And she knew she understood the basic principles of business. As she and Robert worked through their plan that became more and more apparent. She could see pitfalls a mile off, find solutions to problems, and if it was clear an idea wouldn’t work she was able to drop it rather than cling onto it stubbornly. Her time at the hotel had been a perfect blueprint, after all. She had never been afraid to introduce innovations and new ways of doing things. And she’d turned over the biggest profit for the brewery the year before. OK, so the Horse and Groom was their biggest tied house, but it would have been very easy to make a loss. If that didn’t prove her credentials, then nothing did.

She was absolutely dying to discuss all her ideas with Patrick. But he hadn’t given any hint of what was happening, so she had to keep quiet - any clue that she knew and she would give away her identity. Besides, this weekend wasn’t about Honeycote Ales. It was about them. Patrick and Mayday. And whether they had any future together. It was exactly a week before the wedding. This was her final chance.

At last, the train insinuated its way into the station, and they joined the queue for a cab. Mayday gave the driver the address of the hotel. Ten minutes later, they pulled up outside Claridge’s.

‘What are we doing here?’ Patrick frowned. He’d expected some faceless chain hotel with anonymous bedrooms.

Mayday looked rather bashful. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’

Patrick looked at her suspiciously. It was very unlike Mayday to be coy. She was always totally upfront.

She gave him a rather tentative smile. ‘My gran left me some money.’

Time stood still for a moment while Mayday made up her mind whether to tell him the truth. Once the secret was out, there was no going back. She’d told herself all along that she didn’t want to buy him. She didn’t want his attitude tainted by the lure of filthy lucre. Yet she longed to give him a taste of the life he could have with her. Pulling up at Claridge’s was only the beginning.

Perhaps she could give him the taste without the whole truth.

Half the truth. She’d tell him half.

‘Not a fortune. Just enough to have a bit of fun with. So I booked us in here.’ She hugged him in excitement. ‘I’ve got us a suite. On the top floor.’

‘Mayday, you shouldn’t have done that. You should have spent it on yourself.’ Patrick felt mortified. After the horrible time she’d had recently, Mayday deserved a treat.

‘This is on myself. I’ve always wanted to stay at a posh hotel, only there’s no point in me coming on my own. It would be miserable. With you it’ll be fun.’ She flashed him one of her conspiratorial smiles. ‘Anyway, I’m planning to go wild in Harvey Nichols this afternoon. Come on.’

He couldn’t argue, as she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him into the foyer. Patrick was aware that the tophatted doormen were looking at him askance. But he smiled to himself and followed her.

‘Mr and Mrs Perkins?’ the receptionist was saying.

Mayday looked at Patrick, not sure what to say. He gave a nod.

‘That’s right,’ he said, slipping an arm round Mayday’s waist. It would be far too complicated to explain that in fact this was his stag night. A little thrill went through him. He didn’t think he’d ever done this before, checked into a grand hotel under an alias. As the porter swept up their minimal luggage, Patrick took Mayday’s hand and followed him to the lift.

Inside, he stared at their reflection surreptitiously while Mayday chattered to the porter. More than ten years, they went back together. He supposed that this would be the last time. Mayday was right. If you were married, you couldn’t have a close relationship with another female. Even platonic. And to be honest, platonic and Mayday were mutually exclusive. Just looking at her now made him want to take her in his arms, with her husky voice, her wicked laugh, her dancing eyes. But he wasn’t going to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. After all, hadn’t he learned the lesson from his own father that you can’t have your cake and eat it?

 

Keith sat in his private room in his hospital gown. There was five minutes to go before they took him down to theatre. He was astonished to find that instead of the sick panic he had felt for the past few weeks, he felt rather calm. In fact, he was almost looking forward to his operation. There was something rather reassuring about the momentum of the admission procedure, the way everything had been taken out of his hands, the way everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing. It was far away from the experience he had imagined, the one you read about in the papers. He had envisaged lost medical notes, interminable waits and staff contradicting each other, culminating in someone whipping out a kidney instead of his prostate. But that, he supposed ruefully, was the benefit you got from writing out a cheque.

Sandra was sitting in the chair next to his bed, reading the Daily Telegraph. Most surprising of all, she had added to his sense of serenity. Her brisk, businesslike manner made it impossible for him to fret; she simply wouldn’t allow it. His heart had sunk at first when she had appeared at Keeper’s Cottage earlier that morning, and he had rued his weakness in telling her about his illness - he had kept his trap shut for so long, only to cave in at the eleventh hour. But now he was enormously grateful for her presence. She seemed able to second guess his every anxiety and put it to rest. She had already demanded a precis of his predicament from Mr Jackson.

‘I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Something might have been lost in translation.’

Mr Jackson had obliged, with good humour. No doubt he was used to dealing with the likes of Sandra on a daily basis. Then she had proceeded to demand a change of room: one with a tranquil view of the sloping lawns at the back rather than the car park.

‘We don’t want to look at all the other patients coming and going, thank you very much,’ she told the receptionist.

Then she had ticked off his lunch requirements for the following day.

‘Roast chicken, I think, don’t you? Lamb can be a bit fatty. But you’ll need something decent - it’ll be your first proper meal for more than twenty-four hours. Then apple crumble. Cream or custard?’

There was quite simply no question that he wouldn’t be here.

Keith felt treacherous thinking it, but he couldn’t help feeling that Ginny would not have instilled the same confidence in him. She would never demand an audience with the consultant, or get his room changed. She would be anxious, awkward, and he would be able to see only too clearly the fear in her eyes. He was, he realized, grateful for her absence.

He looked over at his ex-wife and felt a sudden rush of gratitude for her strength, realizing that he had never really appreciated it. He had never asked her for support during their marriage. He had forged his own way, kept his worries to himself, made all the decisions unaided. What might have happened to them if he had been less insular? If they had been a partnership instead of two separate entities drifting off in different directions?

Then again, maybe Sandra had only become the success she was because they had separated. Maybe being alone was what had given her the drive. Keith reflected that he would never know what might have become of them. It was too late for regret. Far too late. He might not even have the chance to eat the lunch she had chosen for him, let alone atone for his mistakes.

But he couldn’t go down to theatre without saying something.

‘Sandra?’

She looked up from the paper with a smile.

‘I just wanted to say . . .’ What did he want to say? Not too much. It wouldn’t be fair, if he didn’t survive, to start unburdening his feelings now, when there wasn’t enough time.

‘You don’t have to say anything.’ Her voice was gentle, and full of understanding.

‘Yes, I do,’ insisted Keith. ‘I wanted to say . . . thank you.’

That was enough. He didn’t have to be specific. He could have just meant thank you for the Dan Brown and the barley sugar. But he hoped she understood that in amongst those two words were a hundred others.

‘We’re ready for you, Mr Sherwyn.’ A nurse swept in, followed by a hospital porter.

Sandra jumped up, took his face in her hands and kissed him.

‘I’ll see you in a couple of hours,’ she said, gazing into his eyes.

Keith felt his heart turn over. He couldn’t be sure why. Whether it was because he was about to be wheeled off to meet his fate at the hands of Mr Jackson, or because he had a glimpse of the past, the chirpy, upbeat girl he had married all those years ago.

‘I . . .’ The words stuck in his throat. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘I’ll be here,’ she promised.

Sandra sat back down to wait. The paper lay at her feet, discarded. It had been a mere prop. Only now could she afford to let her façade slip. She felt quite nauseous with anxiety. It had taken her so long to realize what she wanted, and now he might be taken away from her. A trifle self-consciously, she clasped her hands together in prayer. She couldn’t remember the last time she had done this, but surely it was worth putting in a call to the powers that be?

‘Dear God,’ she murmured, ‘please let him be all right.’

 

In downtown Puerto Banus, the marina shone and sparkled and the sunlight bounced off the gleaming white yachts that rose and fell gently in the water. Everywhere there were tanned bodies, crisp linen, elegant high heels, diamanté-studded sunglasses, the wink and glitter of diamonds, shining manes of hair, wrists bearing serious watches. The air was warm and filled with a thousand scents, fresh coffee, foreign cigarettes, frying garlic - the smell of luxury, pleasure and money all mingled into one.

The hen party had spent the morning ooh-ing and aahing. The shops were cruelly tantalizing, displaying clothes and shoes and handbags that almost made them weep with desire. Versace, Herme‘s, Chanel, Ralph Lauren: it was like the pages of the glossiest magazine come to life. They were now having lunch ahead of an afternoon’s shopping in Zara, Mango and El Corte Inglés, where they would buy pale imitations of the clothes they had been drooling over.

They sat outside at a pavement café, munching on char-grilled squid and people-watching, making up stories for the glamorous couples that passed by their table.

‘This is the life,’ breathed Sasha. ‘I could live here happily.’