Honeycote Read online

  Ned was particularly looking forward to the bash this evening. He and Patrick had been press-ganged on to the committee by the good ladies of the parish in order to liven up the proceedings. Tonight they had got to the Gainsborough Hotel early, to help set out the room and do the seating plan.

  He and Patrick had just finished putting jet-propelled balloons at each place setting. Designed to whizz around the room until finally deflated, they were the committee’s attempt to deflect their notoriously high-spirited guests from starting a food fight. Whether the balloons would provide a suitable alternative was yet to be seen. Ned thought not: there was nothing more satisfying than catching someone’s lapel with a stodgy serving of duchesse potato.

  The Gainsborough had put up with this rumbustious behaviour for years. Its function room was huge, tattered and fading, thus able to withstand the most extrovert of behaviour. The food was mediocre but cheap and the dance floor was big and sported a huge glitter ball. And as the whole affair was not about gastronomy, but bopping till you dropped (as the cheesy resident DJ liked to put it), it was the ideal venue.

  Patrick was standing in front of the table the Liddiards had reserved. It seated twelve and Patrick frowned as he shuffled a batch of handwritten place cards. It was going to be a nightmare, working out who to put where, especially as there were more women than men. And tempting though it was, he didn’t dare sit himself near Kay: he wasn’t yet sure how she was going to react. He was pretty confident he had hooked her, but until he’d worked out the next move it was best to keep her at arm’s length. With both his father and Lawrence at the table, he needed to play safe.

  Ned sauntered over as Patrick started experimenting with the cards on the table.

  ‘Can’t everyone just sit where they want?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Dangerous.’

  ‘Why?’

  Patrick didn’t answer, and put Ned’s name down decisively. Ned craned his neck to see who he’d been put next to.

  ‘Kay Oakley? She terrifies me. She might mistake me for the starter…’

  ‘Just keep telling her how gorgeous she looks and she’ll be eating out of your hand. Do you mind Georgina on the other side? She’ll need someone her own mental age to talk to – ’

  Ned thumped his friend on the arm in good-natured assent and watched as the rest of the cards were laid out. James on Kay’s other side, then Lucy. Then Lawrence. Then –

  ‘Who’s Mandy?’

  ‘A friend of Sophie’s from school.’

  ‘She must be a babe.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Crap, Patrick. Else what’s she doing next to you?’ Patrick just smiled. Mandy’s placing was very strategic. She would protect him from Kay’s advances and any suspicion Lawrence might have. And as she was the Liddiards’ house guest it was only right that Patrick should sit next to her. She was the perfect cover. In the back of his mind, Patrick had to also admit that yes, she was good-looking, but he really hadn’t given her that much thought. He already had his hands full, what with –

  ‘Shit! Kelly!’ He turned to Ned, horror-struck. ‘I promised her she could come. Shit!’

  ‘What’s the problem? There’s room. She can sit between me and Kay.’ Ned starting shuffling name cards, quick to arrange protection for himself.

  ‘I don’t think so – ’

  Ned was startled by the panic in the normally cool Patrick, who was thinking as quickly as he could. Kelly could go in between his father and Lawrence. They could both gawp down her cleavage, as she was bound to wear something spectacularly revealing from New Look that would keep them both in thrall all night. James’s girlfriend Caroline could sit on Lawrence’s other side – she’d keep him busy – with Lucy on her other side. Further round he’d have to put Sophie next to Georgina, because there weren’t enough men. It was, after all, the Liddiard table, so they should be the ones to make the sacrifice for the sake of politeness.

  Patrick stood back and assessed the controversy potential of the table. As minimal as it could be. Now his biggest worry was whether Kelly would mention spotting Kay at the brewery the other night. He hoped not; her memory was not remarkable for its retentiveness. But sod’s law said she would come out with it. He toyed with asking her not to mention it, but shuddered at the questions that would follow and decided it wasn’t worth reminding her. He’d have to take the risk.

  Kay sat at her dressing table in a white velour robe and switched on the light that illuminated the large mirror in front of her. It was harsh and dazzling. Good. If she could smooth out all her imperfections under this glare she would look flaw-free in more subdued lighting. And she had to look her best tonight. She was going to make Patrick want her and realize he couldn’t call the shots.

  She turned her head to one side to check her jawline: still not slack. The cosmetics salesgirls really knew their stuff these days. Now her moisturizer had soaked in, she began with a painstakingly careful application of foundation that smoothed away all the tired lines and gave her skin an almost peach-like sheen. To her eyes she applied a dark, smudgy charcoal, giving them a dramatic intensity that pleased her. Blusher accentuated her bone structure and the entire mask was fixed on with a fine dusting of powder before the final berry-red was applied to her lips. Kay gazed at her handiwork and practised a smouldering gaze across a crowded room, an icy turn of the head and finally a playful little come-hither smile.

  ‘That’s not for my benefit, I don’t suppose.’

  She leaped out of her skin and saw Lawrence in the mirror, holding out his cuffs for her to fit in the cufflinks.

  ‘Facial exercises. My beautician says it’s important – ’

  ‘Bollocks. You’re a vain little bitch. Always have been. You look great.’

  Kay smiled her thanks weakly. She knew what was coming next. Lawrence slid the lapels of her dressing gown down over her shoulders and slithered his fingers over the silk of her bra.

  ‘Almost worth a pre-party poke.’

  He pinched her nipples hard between his first two fingers, then reached his hand down to loosen her belt. Unwillingly, but with no choice, she slipped the dressing gown off. Refusal would put Lawrence on his guard immediately. She found his hands round her waist, pulling her up and round the stool, then he pushed her down on to her stomach. She looked up at him questioningly in the mirror and saw him smiling behind her, his erection poking out from under his dress shirt.

  ‘You know you love looking at yourself.’

  Kay gritted her teeth and did her very best to relax.

  It would all be over more quickly if she did. And she’d need time to have another bath.

  Later, she realized that Lawrence’s fingermarks showed on her breasts and she wouldn’t be able to wear the low-cut Armani dress she’d put out. But it didn’t really matter. She had a million others to chose from.

  At six o’clock, the phone rang, breaking James’s reverie. It was Caroline, saying she was going to be late; she’d been schooling Demelza and had forgotten the time. She’d see him at the hotel.

  Caroline’s time-keeping was one of the things about her that could have irritated James if he’d let it. She was always late, because she got so involved in whatever she was doing and never thought ahead until it was too late. She was a total flake, which was strange, because James was a stickler for punctuality. They were poles apart.

  In fact, as he put on his perfectly starched dress shirt, he wondered how on earth it was they’d lasted so long; why they hadn’t gone their separate ways after their first shag. But in a strange way he enjoyed the fact that Caroline had a career, was independent, and that they were two individuals who sometimes enjoyed each other’s company, when it suited them. Caroline didn’t demand any emotional investment from him. She seemed almost self-sufficient. And James appreciated that; it gave him room in his head to fantasize without feeling guilty.

  If he was honest with himself, the chilling truth was that he wanted a partner who was dispos
able; someone he could get rid of quickly and easily in case the day ever arrived when Lucy needed him. He felt in his bones that perhaps that time was getting nearer. She’d let her guard down the other day; he could see that she was worried and needed reassurance. And Mickey was getting more and more reckless. James knew the brewery was in trouble – not that Mickey had confided in him, but because anyone with an ounce of business sense could see that an operation like that could only survive with considerable investment and confident management. Neither of which Mickey could provide.

  His conscience pricked at him. If he had any loyalty to his brother he would take him to one side, perhaps offer him some of the spare cash he had idling in return for a bigger share of Honeycote Ales. But James was sick and tired of being a gentleman and doing the right thing. Had it ever got him what he wanted? No, much better to wait for the crisis to come to a head and be seen as a white knight.

  After all, here he was, nearly forty and still on his own, with half of Eldenbury putting him down as a closet queen because he hadn’t got a wife and bought fresh flowers every week. It was bloody well time to suit his own ends. And it wasn’t as if he’d put Mickey’s head in the noose. He’d stuck it in himself.

  Payback time, thought James. Time for all that patience I’ve shown over the years to get me what I really want. And if I have to sacrifice my brother in the process, so what? It had always been one-way traffic. He couldn’t remember Mickey ever doing him any favours. Not that he’d ever asked.

  Bugger it – he was going to stand by and watch while the whole operation was brought crashing to its knees. No marriage could survive that – not the way Mickey was drinking. And if his infidelities came out into the open at the opportune moment…

  He felt slightly ill having made this decision. It went against the grain. But he consoled himself with the thought that Lucy didn’t deserve the treatment she’d been getting over the years. She deserved adoration, to be put on a pedestal and worshipped.

  He toasted himself with half an inch of fine malt whisky, which took the edge off the conscience that was needling him, slung a white silk scarf round his neck and went out to his Aston Martin.

  Lucy had ten minutes to get ready. She had to have a bath – she reeked of horse-muck.

  ‘Can I have your water, Mickey?’

  Mickey was shaving and looked at the layer of scummy foam floating on the surface.

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  It would have to be a quick blast under the shower, trying to keep her hair dry. She couldn’t undo all Wendy’s hard work. She flipped quickly through her wardrobe for an outfit, and decided on black crêpe trousers with her highest strappy Russell and Bromleys, a black boned camisole and a silver see-through organza shirt knotted at the waist. A dress was out of the question: she knew she didn’t have any decent tights and she hadn’t shaved her legs for three days. She ripped off her jumper and jodhpurs and poked them to one side with her foot, then rummaged in her drawer for some decent underwear.

  As she tipped out her handbag to fill her evening bag, Lucy remembered what had happened at the garage that afternoon.

  ‘Hey – I filled up the car this afternoon. They made me pay cash. Said the account hadn’t been paid.’

  ‘I must have forgotten to send off the cheque.’ Mickey’s reply was neither too fast nor too slow. Lucy stood still for a moment. She could probe him further. In the back of her mind, she’d thought Linda’s expression had implied more than just a late cheque. She wondered if it was connected to the disquiet Mickey seemed to be feeling at the moment. It was a can of worms. To open or not to open, that was the question…

  Mickey was holding his breath when Lucy darted naked into the bathroom, grinning. ‘Hurry up, you bath hog. I want a shower.’

  Hugely relieved, Mickey picked up the shower attachment and aimed it playfully at her.

  In the end, she had minus five minutes to get ready, while Sophie, Georgina and Mandy waited impatiently in the car.

  6

  Kay was feeling unsettled. Clasping a glass of what the waitress had called champagne, but was really fizzy white wine, she prowled the room for something to take her mind off the fact that none of the Liddiards had arrived yet and that, inwardly, she was starting to panic. This must be how junkies felt when they went cold turkey: the thought of a whole evening without Mickey or Patrick was sheer torture and she really didn’t think she’d be able to bear it. All day she had been looking forward to the perverse pleasure of both of them at the table. And the fact that Lawrence, if he found out, would kill all of them. For a moment Kay considered the ghastly eventuality: Lawrence with his Purdey meticulously blowing their heads off, leaving them slumped over their smoked salmon terrine. A tingle of fear ran through her, heightening her excitement.

  She’d considered Patrick’s ultimatum of the day before and dismissed it. The sex had been mind-blowing; she’d had to admit that. And his cold, calm self-control had frightened her a little, made her feel that he might be capable of anything. But afterwards, when he’d gone, she reasoned with herself. He was a boy, for God’s sake, only twenty-three. And by his own admission, he couldn’t blow the whistle on her and Mickey. She was going to play him along, play them both along. Father and son. Christ, she’d never felt so alive.

  The only thing that slightly marred the prospect was the thought of Lucy. Kay liked Lucy – everyone did – and despite herself couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit guilty. But, she reminded herself, Lucy must be doing something wrong, else why was Mickey always so hot for it?

  She buried the thought at the back of her mind and amused herself in the meantime by embarking on her own little fashion award ceremony, something she always did when bored at social functions. She circled the room, giving marks out of ten, with penalties for slovenly lack of attention to detail (tights under peep-toes, visible bra straps). She prided herself on being able to identify the origin of most of the outfits. She herself shopped religiously at an upmarket boutique in Cheltenham, who knew her exact requirements and phoned her up whenever they had something in they thought she would like, but she was always keenly aware of what was available elsewhere. It was immensely useful for summing people up, knowing where they shopped. Not that there was much in the way of high fashion out here in the sticks: you’d think you couldn’t get Vogue in the village post office. Her eyes were drawn to the chairwoman of the committee, a nightmare in bubblegum pink ruffles with an enormous bow attached to her arse. Surely someone could have said something – didn’t she have friends? Kay thought she looked rather like one of those coy dolls with net skirts people bought to stick over their spare loo rolls, and earmarked her for the special prize of Worst Outfit of the Evening. She awarded a nine to an elegant black satin dress cut on the bias (someone’s friend from London, probably) and eight to a bronze sequinned tunic. She was just about to give another eight to a pair of crêpe palazzo pants topped with silver organza when she realized it was Lucy.

  Immediately her stomach lurched and her heart leaped into her mouth. To stop herself looking too anxiously behind Lucy for either her husband or her stepson, she took a sip of wine – now warm and flat – and allowed her eyes to slide imperceptibly towards the doorway.

  The cold turkey was over. Her fix was here. Just as a junkie revels in the sweet narcotics pumping into his bloodstream, so Kay revelled in the warm tingle that began between her legs and travelled through the network of her veins to the tips of her fingers. There was Mickey, his bow tie artfully askew, proving that he had tied it himself and would never, like many of the guests here tonight, resort to a made-up one. And Patrick, divine in his grandfather’s dinner jacket, charming the Loo-Roll Cover, carelessly accepting a glass from the hovering waitress, waving at friends and not, Kay noted, scanning the room for her.

  Behind Patrick, she frowned to see what were disconcertingly two definite tens. A young brunette, hair parted in the middle and falling past her shoulders in a shining sheet, was clad in a cream satin
sheath that fell to the floor, but was cleverly slit at both sides to reveal long, golden, firm-thighed legs when she moved. It was adorned only with a huge silver heart hung on a black silk cord that fell to just above the girl’s pubic bone. The subtle simplicity of the outfit showed a maturity that belied the wearer’s years.

  Next to her was a vision far from subtle, in fact totally overt, whose effect was so breathtaking that every male would soon be slavering with longing and every female green with envy. Luscious breasts surged out of a brocade bodice, from where swathes of deep red, luxuriant velvet clung to her generous curves. High-heeled satin mules peeped out from under the frock and a tiny little beaded drawstring bag hung from the girl’s wrist. Head piled high with a mound of tumbling, tortoiseshell-coloured curls, she bore the air of a recently ravished courtesan. She was Moll Flanders, Nell Gwynn, the Wicked Lady, all in one. Kay silently approved: here was a girl who really knew how to dress for effect, who was proud of her body and wanted to rejoice in its ripe splendour, not emulate some wasted stick insect. Kay mentally awarded her Best Dressed Female, ten out of ten plus, then froze. Bile rose in her throat as she saw Patrick take the girl’s arm and lead her into the room.

  It was only when Georgina, looking sweet but definitely her age in moss green, appeared at the girl’s other side that Kay realized the vision was Sophie.

  Her astonishment was huge, but not as huge as her relief that at least this gorgeous creature would be no competition for the two men in her life. She knocked back the last of her drink, plonked it on the tray of a passing waiter and glided across the room to greet her lovers.