Honeycote Page 12

  Two hours later, Patrick was not in good humour. He’d been thrown off course from the start by the shock of seeing Sophie. He hadn’t recognized her in her finery, and was disgusted with himself for experiencing what Ned vulgarly referred to as ‘knob twitch’. She looked stunning, but she shouldn’t. She was Sophie, for God’s sake – and what right had that little Brummie strumpet to turn her into a sex object? For he recognized Mandy’s handiwork – no way would Sophie think up that outlandish garb for herself. Someone had spent hours smothering her in fake tan, painting her toenails bright red, even putting on false fingernails. Patrick couldn’t bear to watch the gaze of every male in the room following his sister with wolfish intent. Not that Sophie was aware – she only had eyes for Ned. Who’d backed off at a rate of knots in abject terror when he, too, had realized her true identity. Instead, Ned was playing court jester to Mandy, relaxed because he knew he could never presume to win the affections of a girl like her and free to be his natural, boisterous, fun-loving self. Mandy was loving it. She thought he was hilarious, which of course he was. And Sophie, poor, darling, trussed-up Sophie, was trying so hard to pretend she didn’t mind.

  What incensed him further was that Kay seemed to be flouting his authority. Occasionally, she would waft past him, squeezing his elbow or touching the back of his neck with a teasing hand, and once at dinner, when she could be almost but not totally sure that no one was looking, giving him a wink. And she was patently all over Mickey. They were dancing together now, and although to anyone else it wouldn’t have seemed out of the ordinary – everyone was fair game at one of these dos – it was obvious to Patrick that she hadn’t called anything off, and didn’t have any intention of doing so.

  He was going to have to regain the upper hand quickly. He cut into the dance, claiming Kay nonchalantly off his father, and pulled her close to him, moving in time with the music. He pressed his mouth to her ear and she shuddered at the warmth.

  ‘You haven’t kept your side of the bargain.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I told you, I haven’t got a problem with blowing the whistle on you and dad. I just thought it would be nicer for everyone concerned if we resolved it my way.’

  ‘Perhaps I need reminding once more just what the deal is, exactly.’

  ‘Very well.’

  He guided her chivalrously by the elbow out on to the terrace, down the steps and across the lawn, then through a little copse of trees to a stone-built gazebo. Kay leaned against one of the smooth, round pillars, wishing she smoked or had something to do, for she suddenly felt unsure of the next move. Patrick was so calm and controlled, so sure of himself. It was unnerving in one so young. She smiled at him in the dark.

  ‘Thank you for lunch yesterday. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘So much that you seem to have forgotten what we agreed.’

  ‘I haven’t. It’s just that there’s a time and a place for everything.’

  ‘Excuses, excuses.’ Patrick’s lips curved upwards in a mocking smile. Kay shuddered as she remembered where else they’d been, as he pulled her away from the pillar, slid the straps of the dress off her shoulders and slowly undid the zip that ran the full length of her spine. The dress fell in a pool of copper-coloured silk at her feet. She stepped out of it, clad only in lace-topped hold-up stockings – no underwear, as the fabric was too unforgiving. Patrick knelt in front of her. He was unwrapping a little packet that Mayday had given him last time they met.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just a little bit of fairy dust.’

  He insinuated a hand between her thighs, indicating that she should part them. She did so, fascinated, and watched as he licked his middle finger, dipped it in the powder then gently, very gently, applied it to her clitoris. Kay could scarcely breathe. His touch was gentle, like butterfly wings. But all too soon, he withdrew his hand, rubbing the remains of the cocaine on to his gums. Patrick wasn’t much of a user, but he didn’t like waste. He looked at Kay, who was wide-eyed with anticipation. The coke wouldn’t hit her bloodstream quite yet, she’d still be feeling numb, but within half an hour she’d be an inferno of unrequited lust. There was no way she wasn’t going to come running to him for gratification. Patrick knew his sexual prowess was pretty unbeatable – Mayday had graduated him with honours – but just to ensure that her mind was totally blown, he’d put a little bit of icing on the cake.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Just you wait.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Get rid of dad. Then come and find me. Turn round.’

  She did so, obediently, and he solemnly zipped her back into her dress. She felt a sudden electrode shooting through her as he pressed his thumbs into the flesh at the back of her neck, massaging her.

  ‘In the meantime, just relax and enjoy it.’

  Kay swallowed hard. It was all she could do not to throw caution to the wind and rip off her dress again. She wanted him to slam her up against the pillar and fuck her brains out. But from what she’d experienced of Patrick already, she knew she’d have to play it his way.

  ‘I’ll go and find your father.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  He strode off across the lawns back to the terrace, leaving Kay smiling in disbelief. Good girl, indeed. The cheek of the boy was breathtaking. She gathered her skirts up to follow him and found her legs would barely hold her. She felt as if two Alka-Seltzer had been dropped into her bloodstream, as a sweet, fizzing sensation stemming from the place he’d touched between her legs started coursing its way through her veins.

  At ten o’clock Caroline finally turned up in a fuchsia frock, fuck-me shoes and a feather boa. She’d been for a drink, or what looked like several, with some bloke from the livery yard where she kept Demelza. He’d some cheap tack for sale, no doubt off the back of a lorry, but Caroline loved a bargain. James felt vindicated, because it disproved Mickey’s theory that she was only after him for his money. In actual fact, Caroline never asked him for anything, except when she was pissed, when she demanded either champagne or sex. James was already at the bar procuring the former when she swayed up to him and hooked him round the neck with her boa. She didn’t apologize for her late arrival, just kissed him full on the lips and grabbed the bottle off him. She didn’t bother with niceties like glasses when she’d had a few.

  ‘I supposed I’ve missed the food. Never mind – it’s always foul at these dos. I’m going to go and dance.’

  She took a slug of champagne, spilling half of it down her impressive cleavage, handed back the bottle and sashayed off to join the throng on the dance floor. He knew from experience that it was only a few more glasses to go before she was on the table. He’d have to keep careful count from then on, so he could extricate her before she started a striptease.

  As he carried the bottle and several glasses back to their table, he caught Lucy in his eyeline. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, deep in conversation with someone. She looked animated, vivacious; her eyes were sparkling as she tipped back her head to laugh. James felt a hideous ache at the very core of his soul. He loved her so much it hurt.

  Sophie, having drunk no more than half a cider or the odd glass of wine in the past, had discovered this evening why it was that people drank. It really did make you feel good; more confident. It had been a funny evening. She’d had so many compliments and admiring glances heaped upon her, but wasn’t sure how to behave. She might look like a glamour-puss, but she was still plain old Sophie Liddiard underneath, with no sparkling cocktail conversation and no witty little rejoinders to bandy around. More disconcerting was Patrick’s behaviour. He had treated Sophie with icy courtesy on arrival, and Mandy with not even that – he’d completely ignored her. So when, after a couple of glasses of sparkling wine, she’d found that the edges of her reality were blurring and that she was able to chat happily to people without feeling self-conscious, Sophie had helped herself to more than half a dozen glasses from the trays that were circulating. It had also helpe
d her to cope with the fact that Ned had kept his distance. Somehow, she’d prepared herself for that eventuality for so long that it didn’t matter. He was bound to find Mandy more exciting, more interesting, more attractive. Now she was teaching him the dance routine to ‘Tragedy’, with much hilarity as Ned had no sense of rhythm whatsoever. Sophie allowed herself a smile and consoled herself with yet another glass of wine.

  Suddenly, however, she found herself feeling most peculiar. She was talking to Jonty Hobday, the local farrier, and he courteously replenished her glass yet again with some cool white wine. It was hot and she was thirsty so she drank it down – she was getting used to the taste. She put her glass down on the table and turned to smile at what Jonty was saying, then found she had to put her hand on his arm to steady herself as a wave of giddiness came over her. He didn’t seem to mind, just smiled and carried on talking to her. The only trouble was she didn’t seem to be able to hear what he was saying. There was a whooshing, whirring sound in her head, relentlessly pounding like the blades of a helicopter. And just as her head seemed to be spinning one way, her stomach was spinning the other. She felt hot and panicky. She needed fresh air, and to sit down. She clutched at Jonty’s sleeve and tried to speak, but all that came out was a jumble of syllables. Desperately hoping he didn’t think her odd, or rude, she left his side in search of the exit. She found herself remarkably unsteady on her feet, but managed to make her way through the crowds, tottering and swaying, occasionally holding on to people for momentary support, muttering ‘Shmeee’ for ‘Excuse me’.

  As she emerged on the other side of the dance floor, the helicopter in her head whirring louder than ever, she saw with relief an exit and a corridor, and a white door that she was sure must be the ladies. At least there she could sit down for a moment, splash some cold water on her face and wait for the effects of the alcohol to wear off. It shouldn’t take long – after all, she’d felt fine five minutes ago.

  Reaching the sanctuary of the corridor, she suddenly felt horribly, horribly sick. It must have been the salmon terrine: as bile rose in her throat, that was all she could taste. The white door was ahead of her. She couldn’t see the sign that indicated whether it was ladies or gents, but by now she didn’t care. She lurched for the door, pushed it open, staggered inside and knew she didn’t have time to make it to a cubicle. In front of her she saw a gleaming wall of white tiles and a sink over which a sign mysteriously said HAND WASH ONLY. She grabbed the sink’s cool ceramic edge and leaned over just in time.

  Relieved, she lifted up her head and looked into the furious face of a man wearing a funny white hat. In the dim recesses of what was left of her brain, she realized that she had just thrown up in the hotel kitchen, before passing out cold at the chef’s feet.

  Kay, almost insensible with lust, panicked when she saw Mickey approach. He took her by the elbow – like father, like son – and whispered that he needed to talk to her. She’d been plucking up the courage to accost him herself, but didn’t yet feel in control. She looked around for Patrick, but couldn’t see him. She turned to Mickey, eyes glittering.

  ‘Let’s go to the gazebo.’

  Mickey reckoned that was as good a place as any to give someone the boot, and followed her out of the French windows. Five minutes later, he was wrong-footed as Kay clung to the silk-moire lapels of his dinner jacket and murmured that they couldn’t carry on, that it wasn’t right, that it was tearing her apart knowing she could never really have him and that they had to stop before someone was hurt. It must be his lucky day, thought Mickey, who’d tanked himself up with at least a bottle of Chablis and several whiskies in preparation for his first resolution. He supposed nearly being caught at the brewery the other night had unnerved her. He nodded in agreement and patted Kay reassuringly on the shoulder.

  ‘I’ve been thinking the same myself, but I didn’t want to say anything. You’re quite right – better to quit while we’re ahead.’

  She nodded her assent and Mickey breathed an inward sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to get away that easily, though. Just as he thought he was out of the woods, Kay hooked her finger into his waistband and pulled her to him.

  ‘Let’s make this the last time.’

  Mickey could see her nipples clearly through the sheen of her dress and wasn’t sure whether it was the cold or desire. He decided on the latter, judging by the way her eyes were wide, her breath shallow. He thought he’d better not decline – he’d got away pretty lightly, after all, and once more was hardly going to make any difference.

  In the event, however, nature took its toll. Whether it was nerves, the drink, the cold or the fact that Kay seemed particularly and terrifyingly voracious, he couldn’t be sure, but for the first time in his life, Mickey couldn’t manage it.

  On the dance floor, the DJ had gone into smooch mode. As Eric Clapton struck up, everyone under thirty abandoned the floor with groans, while everyone else clutched indiscriminately at the nearest member of the opposite sex. James melted when Lucy insinuated herself into his clasp.

  ‘I haven’t a clue where Mickey is,’ she said dreamily. Drink made her languid, unbearably sexy. James pulled her to him and moved to the music. Eric said it for him: she looked wonderful tonight.

  Behind them, Caroline had hooked another unsuspecting victim with her feather boa. James prayed she’d last to the end of the song before she got any bright ideas about an impromptu lap dance…

  Kelly was in a strop. She couldn’t find Patrick anywhere. He hadn’t paid her any attention all evening and now he’d disappeared. Someone mentioned that they’d seen him heading for the gazebo earlier, and she picked her way over the lawn like a fastidious flamingo, her diamanté stilettos sinking two inches with every step. There was somebody in the gazebo all right. She peered into the darkness. It wasn’t Patrick, though. Pink with embarrassment when she realized who it was – and what they were doing – she tottered her way back up to the terrace.

  7

  White and tight-lipped, Patrick had got Sophie out of the hotel as quickly and discreetly as he could after she’d been sick. His dad, he knew, would get a cab later – he could take Lucy, Mandy and Georgina. They were all still happily bopping away and wouldn’t want to go. He carried her out to his car. She soon came round when the cold air hit her and he struggled to get her into the front seat. Twice on the way home he had to stop and let her be sick again, but he didn’t once reproach her as she sat in the front seat quietly sobbing. By the time they got back to Honeycote House she was looking more like her old self. Dreadful, but her old self. Her make-up had worn off, her hair had collapsed and she was wearing Patrick’s dinner jacket draped round her. They hadn’t had time to stop and look for her coat.

  He took her into the kitchen and appraised the damage. She was still drunk, but he thought she’d probably got rid of every last trace of alcohol in her stomach, if the dry retching on the last stop was anything to go by. Patrick debated whether to let her go straight to bed and thereby ensure the worst possible hangover, which would hopefully prevent her ever getting into such a state again. But he thought she’d probably suffered enough punishment already for something he didn’t consider to be her fault, so he forced her to drink four large glasses of water and wash down a brace of paracetamol before helping her up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Before tonight, Patrick would have had no qualms about stripping Sophie down to her underwear and sticking her into bed. But the memory of how he had felt about her earlier that night, before he’d realized who she was, still returned to sicken him. She was incapable of getting herself undressed, so he decided that the best thing was to shove her under the duvet fully clothed. If the dress got ruined, so what? He certainly didn’t care if he never saw her in it again.

  He tucked her in gently and looked down at her. She’d fallen asleep straight away and he sympathized in advance for the way she’d feel in about eight hours’ time when she came to. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and bent down to plant
a kiss on her cheek. A caring and very brotherly kiss.

  As he looked round the room he noticed with distaste the female detritus cluttering Sophie’s dressing table. Tubes of fake tan and Immac and glue for sticking on eyelashes and fingernails, bottles of perfume and dozens of lipsticks, hairspray, dirty cotton wool balls and tissues. To him it looked like a stripper’s dressing room, and he felt an urge to sweep it all into the bin. Then he realized he was being ridiculous, positively Victorian. But he still couldn’t help feeling a surge of anger. He could never look at Sophie in the same light again.

  As he settled into the chair beside her bed, he wondered briefly about Kay and whether it had been safe to leave her at the ball in her condition. But he felt quite confident that she would keep her side of the bargain. He smiled at the possibility that Lawrence would probably be in for the shag of his life when they got home. Anyway, he couldn’t go back to the hotel now. He had to keep a vigil at Sophie’s bedside. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t be sick again, but he didn’t want to risk it.

  James slid the Aston Martin through his black wooden gates and hopped out to shut them. Time and again he’d wondered about remote control, but it went against the grain. They were paranoid and unspeakably naff, and what was two minutes, even if it was freezing. Caroline was practically unconscious in the front seat, drunk and dishevelled. He’d seen her feather boa go out of the door round someone else’s husband.

  He shook her awake gently, praying the cold night air wouldn’t bring her round too much, that she’d just want to crawl into bed and sleep it off. He couldn’t bear the thought of her demanding sex. The trace of Lucy’s Diorissimo still clung to his dress shirt, reminding him that less than an hour before he’d held her in his arms. She’d put her head on his shoulder, held him close, as if taking comfort.