Just a Family Affair (51 page)

‘And he’s . . . where?’ asked Bertie, looking round as if expecting him to appear from behind a rose bush.

‘Dead.’

There was a moment’s silence, and Kay rather wished she hadn’t been so blunt. But she felt weary of it all, especially when she realized that this was the first of many such conversations she was likely to have. She tensed herself for his reaction, wondering how long it would be before he made his escape. But he just put his head to one side and looked her up and down, rather as one might examine a racehorse.

‘I’m rather glad I sat next to you,’ he said companionably. ‘I think you’re the only person at this wedding with a past more lurid than mine.’

Kay went rigid with shock for a moment. Then she burst out laughing, relieved by his total irreverence. He grinned as he drained his glass.

‘You poor thing,’ he went on. ‘Widowed and made to play the poor relation. I expect you could do with a good night out.’

Kay looked at him. He oozed decadence. She wasn’t going to go there.

‘Mickey and Lucy will tell you, I’m an utter rogue. Totally incapable of remaining faithful. Utterly feckless. Completely unreliable. And congenitally late. So I imagine I’d suit you down to the ground. As no doubt you are remaining faithful to the memory of your dead husband. I’d be no threat to him. All I would be is the best fuck you’ve ever had in your life. Probably.’

Kay gasped. He was outrageous.

He grinned. ‘Definitely better than Mickey, anyway.’

She should get up and walk away. She didn’t need to be spoken to like this. But something was keeping her pinned to the seat.

Bertie was sitting on her dress.

He grabbed her wrist as she pulled the fabric out from under him.

‘Hey. I’m sorry. Nerves always make me behave badly. Champagne makes me even worse. And weddings always remind me of what I’m missing.’

She looked into his eyes, about to retort that she wasn’t surprised he’d never married, with manners like that. But she saw something in them that made her stop. It wasn’t sympathy, because sympathy always made her want to puke. It was such an easy emotion to dispense when you had the upper hand. No, it was something more subtle. Compassion, perhaps? Or empathy?

She dropped back down onto the seat, unable to tear her gaze from his.

‘Dinner would be nice,’ she said faintly.

‘Are you all right to get a babysitter?’ he asked. ‘If not, bring Flora as well, and I’ll do you supper in the kitchen.’

Kay felt her heart flutter. What a sweetie. Most men wouldn’t even register that babysitting might be a problem. There was definitely more to Bertie than first met the eye.

 

All too soon, it was dusk, and the evening guests were arriving. The wedding party was finally allowed down to the bottom paddock. Mandy and Patrick led them along the little path that went through the wood. Lanterns hung from the branches of the trees, lighting the way, until they turned a corner and found a huge archway woven through with ivy and roses. Tiny birds were perched amongst the foliage, and the sound of birdsong permeated the night air. It took a moment for everyone to realize that the birds weren’t real, and their song was coming from cunningly secreted speakers. The effect was magical nevertheless, and everyone held their breath as they walked through the entrance.

There in front of them was a magnificent carousel. Two dozen white horses rode proudly up and down, the only hint of colour the gilt on their bridles and the red of their nostrils. Three thousand tiny bulbs lit up the inside and were reflected against a myriad squares of cut glass that reflected the ornate gilded carvings. The organ was playing ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’, the same music that had played Mandy up the aisle.

Around the perimeter of the paddock was a range of tents and fairground attractions. Fat and thin mirrors and a glass maze; a stall cooking organic burgers and hot dogs; another dispensing candy floss, toffee apples and doughnuts. There was even a coconut shy.

‘Mum,’ breathed Mandy in amazement. ‘It’s fantastic.’

‘I know it’s all a bit over the top,’ said Sandra happily, ‘but I wanted something for you to remember. And once I’d started, I couldn’t really stop.’

From the humblest Honeycote Ales employee to the upper echelons of the Eldenbury hunt, the guests swarmed enthusiastically over the fairground, whooping and shrieking with glee, letting their hair down. Soon every mount on the carousel had a rider, the air was thick with flying coconuts and howls of laughter greeted the reflections in the hall of mirrors.

Even Lucy, the arbiter of good taste and understatement, had to admit it was fantastic, as Mickey grabbed her hand and forced her onto the dodgems. James and Caroline were already in one car; Ned and Sophie were in another.

‘I hate to admit it, but Sandra’s got it absolutely right,’ said Lucy to Mickey, taking the wheel. ‘There’s no way I’d have thought of this. But it’s just what everyone wants. Everyone’s equal in a fairground.’ She put her foot down on the throttle and aimed straight for Eric, the brewery handyman, smashing him out of the way.

‘Hey!’ said Mickey. ‘Steady on!’

The next moment they were bombarded by Ned. Their car spun round. Lucy was laughing helplessly, her elegant hairdo collapsing, her shoes long discarded. As they whirled off in another direction, Mickey caught sight of Bertie lifting Flora onto a white horse on the carousel, then leap onto the one next to her. Kay stood on the ground, her dress obviously unsuitable for a merry-go-round, but she was smiling. Everyone, noticed Mickey, was smiling. Even his po-faced, uptight brother.

It seemed that everyone loved a wedding.

 

Ginny collided with Sandra by the white chocolate fountain. She felt a rush of pity for her. She had pulled together such an amazing spectacle, yet here she was on her own, with no one to go home and swap notes with. No one to share the memories with.

‘It’s completely fabulous, Sandra. You’ve done a wonderful job.’

Sandra dipped a skewer of pineapple idly into the swirling sweetness. ‘I wanted it to be special. I haven’t been here for Mandy for the past few years, so I wanted to make it up to her.’

‘Well, I’m sure you have. More than made it up. No one will ever forget this.’

Sandra gave a little nod and a smile. Ginny hoped she hadn’t sounded too patronizing. She certainly hadn’t meant to.

‘By the way,’ said Sandra. ‘I’m impressed with your will power.’

She looked at Ginny with a sly smile. Ginny looked back, startled.

‘What?’

Sandra drew a piece of pineapple off its skewer with her teeth.

‘Alejandro was very put out. He said you were the first woman ever to resist his charms.’

Ginny felt her cheeks flush red. ‘I couldn’t imagine what he saw in me. I thought he was teasing.’

‘Oh no,’ replied Sandra. ‘He adores older women. And I’ll tell you something. You missed a treat.’

She tapped Ginny on the chest with her skewer, winked and waltzed off.

Ginny was left shell-shocked. Was Sandra winding her up? Was this her way of saying that she knew what Ginny had been up to? Or had Alejandro really made out Ginny had rejected him? Panic flooded through her. Was she going to spend the rest of her life worrying about the truth coming out? She couldn’t bear it. The only way to stop the torture was to confess to Keith . . .

Then, as she stood there, she started to giggle. What would she say? ‘By the way, I screwed the arse off Sandra’s drop-dead-gorgeous, Johnny Depp lookalike, twenty-three-year-old pool boy.’

No one would believe it in a million years. Her secret was safe. And best of all, it had taken years off her. She’d cancelled her appointment at the clinic in the end, but everyone kept telling her how amazing she looked, and asked what her secret was. If they only knew . . . Guests looked at her askance as she walked through the fair, her head thrown back, laughing.

 

Sandra knew she shouldn’t have wound Ginny up, but she hadn’t been able to resist it.

Amidst the wedding preparations, she had spent the week taking a long, hard look at herself. She couldn’t maintain her smash and grab attitude to life any more. She had been so certain of getting Keith back, it had shocked her when he had rejected her outright. And of course he had been right, in retrospect. They couldn’t go backwards. They could never recapture what it was that had brought them together in the first place. They were both totally different people. She had been foolish to imagine that it could ever have worked, that she could slip into the new life he had built for himself and become accepted.

If she wanted to share her life, if she wanted someone to enjoy the considerable fruits of her success with her, she had to do it for herself.

She had begun by placing an advert on an internet dating site.

‘Successful mature businesswoman with a love of the finer things seeks a kind, generous and thoughtful gentleman to share . . .’

Share what? She didn’t have any hobbies or interests. Her work had been her life. She hadn’t even played golf for the past two years.

She rewrote it.

‘. . . to rekindle a passion for golf and find out what else life has to offer.’

That would do. She didn’t want to be too exacting. And if her mental image of her ideal man looked rather like Keith - with a hint of Julio Iglesias thrown in - then that wasn’t so surprising.

 

Patrick stood still. For a moment, he was transported back more than ten years, to that night at Eldenbury fair. The smells and the sounds were almost the same: music, generators, candy floss, diesel. He shivered as he remembered the dark eyes, the full lips, and what she had done to him.

Mayday, as sweet and wild as the most out-of-reach blackberry. He’d thrown her to one side like a piece of autumn fruit that hadn’t quite made the grade. He felt sick with guilt. What was she doing, while the rest of the county celebrated his nuptials, gorging themselves sick and drinking themselves senseless?

He shivered, despite the warmth of the evening. Then he turned to find his bride beside him.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Mandy anxiously, and by way of a reply he took her in his arms.

‘I’ve never been happier,’ he told her, thinking that as lies went, it was the perfect colour. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Aren’t we supposed to make an official departure?’

‘Never mind that. No one will notice. They’re all having too much fun.’

He took her by the hand, led her through the fairground, back up the path, over the lawns, and into the house. They stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms around each other.

‘I remember the first time I came into this kitchen,’ said Mandy dreamily. ‘I fell in love with it, completely and utterly. It was so unlike our kitchen. It was mad, chaotic, full of people and laughter and music. And then you walked in . . .’

‘I remember too,’ said Patrick. ‘I saw this girl sitting at the table. Next to Sophie. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.’

‘And now here we are,’ said Mandy. ‘You’re mine. And this kitchen’s going to be ours.’

Patrick led her over to the kitchen table. It was a Liddiard ritual for guests to carve their initials into the wood. The entire top was smothered in letters.

‘There’s just one thing that needs to be done,’ he said, searching for Mandy’s. He found them at the top left hand corner. M S for Mandy Sherwyn.

He handed her a Swiss army knife. She smiled and took out the blade, then scratched through the S and replaced it triumphantly with an L.

I
t was just over a week after the wedding. The fairground had been packed away, the plates and dishes and glasses washed and returned, false nails and fake tans had peeled off and faded, and the grass had grown over all the heel marks on the lawn.

Patrick was driving hell for leather through the little country lanes to Honeycote. His hair was still wet from his hasty shower. He’d only just had time to jump in and pull some half-decent clothes on. It was jolly hard work being a newly-wed, he thought with a grin. Lucky Mandy was having the week off. She had thank-you letters to write. And she was making a start on packing up Little Orwell Cottage so that Kay and Flora could move in. Lucy had been horrified when she’d seen the state of the flat at the Peacock, and had insisted that they shouldn’t stay there longer than was necessary. After all, there was more than enough room for Patrick and Mandy at Honeycote House, even with Sophie and Ned there too. In the meantime, Lucy had found an architect and was drawing up plans for the stables to be converted. Rather elaborate plans, Patrick mused, involving floor-to-ceiling windows and mezzanine floors and spiral staircases. Whoever their potential investor was, he hoped they had their cheque book handy.

They were meeting the investor today. They all had bets on who it would be. Robert Gibson wouldn’t be drawn on their identity. Patrick actually didn’t care much, as long as it meant they could bloody move on. It wasn’t as if they were going to be giving away a controlling interest any longer. Only James wanted to sell up completely. Mickey and Keith were both going to keep ten per cent, and stay on as consultants. Which left Patrick and the investor with forty per cent each. So whoever it was couldn’t do anything they didn’t agree with, or anything that wasn’t in line with the Liddiard ethos. There was nothing wrong with a bit of fresh blood. And from what he had seen of the proposal, even if he didn’t agree with every idea on it, it was certainly in keeping with what Honeycote Ales stood for.

He turned left and whizzed down the hill to the brewery. Robert Gibson’s car was already there. Next to it was a gleaming Aston Martin. Bloody hell, thought Patrick. He couldn’t think of anyone he knew with a car like that. James had an old one stuffed in his garage, but this was brand new, with a private plate he didn’t recognize. MP. He ran through the few people he knew with initials that matched, but didn’t think any of them were likely investors. Never mind, he thought. He’d find out soon enough. They must all be in the boardroom already. He was only five minutes late.