Just a Family Affair (52 page)

He jumped out of the car, ran his fingers through his hair, which was now nearly dry, and strode inside.

 

He smelt her perfume first. The scent of wild roses filled his head, propelling him to another time and another place, making his heart skip a beat. He would recognize it anywhere. It was the scent he had chosen.

And then he saw her. She was standing with her back to him, talking to the others. She was wearing a black dress that was severe and sexy at the same time. Extremely simple, extremely expensive - he knew that, because he remembered seeing the label when it was strewn on the bed at Claridges - and he was surprised it suited her. Her hair was straight and gleaming and her make-up subtle, though she still hadn’t been able to resist her dark red lipstick. In her hand she held a leatherbound document wallet, and each place at the table had a similar wallet placed next to a glass of water and notepad and pen.

‘Patrick!’ Mickey moved towards him, his face wreathed in a smile. ‘We thought you’d never get here. Come and see.’ He put a hand on Patrick’s back, ushering him across the room. ‘I expect you’ll be as surprised as I am. But it just goes to show, you shouldn’t scoff at all those people who do the lottery. Mayday bought her ticket in the post office in Honeycote, apparently. Nearly six bloody million quid! All right for some. All right for us, actually, it would seem.’

Six million? Mayday? As the truth filtered in through his brain, Patrick took a guarded step towards her, trying to assimilate what this meant. To her, to him, to Honeycote Ales. She looked the epitome of a successful businesswoman. Polished, confident and focused. She peeled away from James and Keith as soon as she saw him.

‘Patrick.’

They met in the centre of the room. Patrick felt all eyes were upon him as he put out his hand for her to shake and his cheek for her to kiss. A formal gesture with a hint of familiarity. It seemed the appropriate greeting. After all, everyone knew they were old friends and that they worked together. To keep too great a distance might seem odd.

‘Mayday,’ he managed. ‘This is a . . .’

A total shock. A blow that had sent his senses reeling. Was it a stab in the back? Was this some sort of twisted revenge, because he had rejected her? Was she showing she could have him by the metaphorical balls? Was she going to taunt him, make him grovel, rub his nose in it?

He struggled to find a suitable response.

‘A surprise,’ he managed lamely, as Robert Gibson came across to shake his hand too.

‘Sorry. I couldn’t breathe a word before,’ Robert said jovially. ‘We wanted to keep the whole thing under wraps. It doesn’t always do to advertise the fact that you’ve come into money - you get all sorts of strange people asking for handouts. And Mayday was particularly anxious not to overshadow the wedding.’

Patrick glanced at her sharply. And she smiled back. And in that moment, he knew that her intentions were not malicious. On the contrary, she had done it out of her love for him. So many times he had shared his fears and worries about the brewery with her, and expressed his desperate wish for a change in their fortunes. She was coming to the rescue.

She was doing it for him.

Keith came over to join the group. ‘We better sit down and start thrashing things out,’ he said, ever businesslike. ‘There’s a lot of small print to get through before we actually shake hands on a deal.’

Everyone moved to take their place at the table.

Patrick took the opportunity to move close to Mayday, close enough to murmur in her ear. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

She looked at him. He couldn’t quite describe the look in her eyes. Was it sorrow? Hurt? It certainly wasn’t scorn or triumph.

‘What difference would it have made, Patrick?’ she asked softly. ‘If you had known about the money? Would that have changed your mind?’

He felt as if he had been punched. He wanted to shout that it wasn’t fair, that he hadn’t chosen her because the sacrifices they would all have had to make would have been too great. Or so he’d thought.

He hadn’t believed in their love enough.

Shaking, he took his place at the table. He had to say something. He couldn’t endure the prospect of having her as a partner. It was no good pretending that he would be able to keep his distance. If he was going to be taking on more responsibility, he would have to liaise with her, consult her, have discussions with her. Probably every day. With that scent driving him demented, reminding him of their passion. He would go insane, trying to resist her.

But if he protested, they would be turning down a golden opportunity. Where the hell else were they going to get that kind of money melded with that kind of freedom? Because Mayday was perfect for Honeycote Ales. She understood exactly how it worked, and where it needed to go. He knew that because of what she had done at the Horse and Groom, because of all the conversations he’d had with her, because of the bloody document she had drawn up behind his back that gave him a glimpse of a future that was beyond rosy, and that he now didn’t want to relinquish.

Besides, what he could say? What reason could he give the rest of the board for not wanting Mayday as a partner?

But if he said yes . . .

Could he trust himself?

Of course he could. He was a married man. He loved his wife. He’d made his decision over a week ago, on that hilltop overlooking Honeycote, made his pledge in the sight of God, and he was going to stick to it.

Patrick opened his document wallet as Keith called the meeting to attention. His head was swimming. He took a gulp from his glass of water as Mayday took the chair opposite him. He barely took in a word anyone was saying. Keith spoke first, welcoming Robert and Mayday. Then Mickey, who gave a heart-warming speech about what Honeycote Ales meant - to the family, to the board, to the workers, and to the community. Robert gave a brief official introduction to Mayday, explaining that he was in a difficult position with a foot in both camps, but how he hadn’t wanted to miss out.

And then Mayday stood up. No one could keep their eyes off her as she spoke. Softly at first, but as she became more impassioned her voice gained in strength. She talked about growing up with Honeycote Ales, about waking up to the smell of malt in the air each morning, about the journey from Tizer to cider in the pub gardens throughout her childhood, her first underage drink, her first legal drink. How the pubs had provided her with a certain security throughout her troubled adolescence, about how when she had taken her first job at the Horse and Groom, she had suddenly become someone in her own right. She had felt she had an identity. Which was why she was still there now.

‘When I won the money,’ she said, ‘the first thing I realized was I didn’t need my job any more. There would almost be no point. I’ve got a bloody fortune. I don’t need to get out of bed ever again if I don’t want to. But I love the Horse and Groom. And the brewery. They are part of who I am. If you cut me, I’d probably have Honeycote Ale running through my veins.’

She laughed, and everyone laughed with her. They were, Patrick realized, completely absorbed in what she was saying.

‘Buying into the brewery seemed to me to be the obvious thing to do. I don’t want to blow my money on status symbols.’ She gave an abashed smile. ‘Well, I know you’ve all seen the car, but I’ve always been a bit of a girl racer. That’s my one little indulgence. I want to do something constructive with the rest. Something I can be proud of. And I want something I’m interested in and I believe in. I don’t want a knicker shop or a jeweller’s. I want a challenge. And I want success. And I think Honeycote Ales can bring me all of that.’

She looked around the room. You could have heard a pin drop. Then Mickey started clapping. Then James. Then everyone else. By the time Patrick joined in, he realized that he had little choice.

As the applause faded away, he got to his feet. Mayday was still standing. The two of them locked eyes across the boardroom table. Memories of the past and visions of the future hung between them. Two young lovers who had shared their hopes and dreams. Friends locked together by a bond of steel they could never break. Was it folly, not to try and break that bond now, while he had the chance?

‘Well,’ said Patrick. ‘I think there’s only one thing we can say after that speech. And that is . . .’

He looked around the room. At his father and uncle. His father-in-law. Robert, who looked rather anxious. And Mayday, who gave him the sweetest smile, with those blackberry lips.

‘. . . when do you start?’

 

As Mayday slipped into the front seat of her car, she shut her eyes for a moment, enjoying the comfort, the smell of the leather, the feel of the steering wheel at her fingertips and the prospect of the power she would shortly unleash when she started the ignition. It had been an incredibly long day. There had been so much to discuss. Poor Robert’s pencil had flown over his legal notepad as point after point had been brought up. But it was over. The final vote had been cast. Hands had been shaken.

She owned forty per cent of Honeycote Ales.

She hadn’t enjoyed the look of panic in Patrick’s eyes when he had realized the truth. That hadn’t been the point of the exercise. For over the past few days, she had come to her own painful conclusion about her relationship with him. She didn’t want to be married to Patrick, and have the responsibility of a family, a heritage, and the Liddiard name. She would never be the most important thing in his life. And that wasn’t good enough for Mayday. It was all or nothing.

This way, she was free. But she still had him. She always would.

She started up the car, and the purr of the engine sent a thrill through her that made her shiver. She drove up the hill out of the brewery drive, taking it carefully through the winding lanes. When she finally hit the main road that led to Eldenbury, she let her go. She knew the road only too well. Every bend. Every corner. The torque, the camber. Poacher’s Hill reared up in front of her, nearly a mile of steep ascent. The Aston gobbled up the tarmac effortlessly. The needle nudged ninety. A hundred. It was like flying.

Shit! She could see the blue lights in the mirror, hear the warning siren. She supposed she’d asked for it. She’d shamelessly flouted the speed limit. With a sigh, Mayday pulled into the lay-by at the top of the hill, then sat and waited demurely with her hands in her lap, looking down on the village of Honeycote below.

‘I’m sorry, officer,’ she said, as the door opened, and looked up into Rob’s astonished face.

‘Mayday!’ he stammered. ‘What the hell . . . ? What are you doing in this?’

‘Speeding?’ She grinned at him impudently.

‘Tell me you haven’t nicked it.’

‘Of course not. I won the lottery, didn’t I? What do you think?’

Rob towered over her, at a loss for words. She ran her eyes up and down him. She wondered exactly what was underneath that uniform. He might fool the public with those sleepy brown eyes and those curls, that slow way of talking, but underneath he was a powerhouse. She had seen the bulge of his muscles under his clothes, imagined his rock-hard thighs, the strength in his arms. Once or twice she’d seen him in action, banging a drunk and disorderly up against the wall, sorting out a fight that had gone wrong. And she’d been impressed with what she saw. There were a few other bulges that intrigued her too. Images of truncheons and handcuffs leapt unbidden into her mind.

‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Get in.’

‘I’m on duty,’ he protested.

Mayday said nothing, just held his gaze and pressed her foot down on the throttle. The engine purred as softly as a newborn kitten.

Rob only hesitated for a moment. It was a no-brainer, really. The chance to ride with Mayday? In a brand new Aston Martin? It was two of his dreams come true. He would never as long as he lived get an opportunity like this again. And so what if he did get sacked? It would be worth it. Anyway, there were plenty of security firms around at the moment looking for ex-coppers.

He jumped into the passenger seat. Mayday gave a whoop of glee and barely waited for him to shut the door before accelerating off at a speed that nearly took his breath away. Rob shut his eyes. Even on his police driving courses he hadn’t done nought to sixty in such a short space of time. He knew he should be telling her to slow down, but the adrenalin rush was irresistible. Mayday’s perfume filled the air. Roses, he thought weakly, but not the sort of roses he was used to, cellophane-wrapped in a black bucket. These were intoxicatingly wicked roses, opium-drenched blooms that made you do things you’d never dreamt of when you inhaled their narcotic scent.

‘Where to, Rob?’ she asked, looking deep into his eyes, which he had now managed to open.

‘Um . . .’ He didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to say. ‘I ought to get back to the station.’

She just laughed. A deep, throaty, wicked laugh, then pressed down on the accelerator. Rob wondered where was she taking him, panicking slightly, then decided he didn’t care.

The music system kicked in. The familiar riff pounded through their bodies. Steppenwolf. It could have been written for her.

She had everything. Beauty. Money. Power. Freedom.

But she was still born to be wild.

F
or most people, weddings are torture. There’s the agony of deciding what to wear, what to buy as a present and where to stay, only to be rewarded by an excruciating afternoon standing around while the wedding photographs are taken, a nondescript three-course meal sitting next to someone you have never met before and never want to see again, followed by interminable speeches, all the while wondering whether it would be rude to leave before the bride and groom.

 

And weddings have become more and more competitive. With the average cost nearly topping £20,000, one has to query the point of a 50-foot Swarovski-studded train, horse-drawn carriages and rivers of vintage champagne. It is largely a façade, and not a true reflection of what the bride and groom represent at all. A momentary madness seems to take over when planning a wedding, turning the most unassuming of couples into profligate show-offs, ably egged on by the in-laws-to-be, more often than not.