Honeycote (9 page)

Next morning Kay came into the office to find someone else at her desk. The secretary handed her a Mulberry document wallet that exactly matched her briefcase. Inside, also matching, were a chequebook cover filled with temporary cheques and a keyring that held, presumably, the keys to Lawrence’s house: the one she’d sold him less than a year before. There was also a neatly typed list. This outlined the date of their wedding, the church, the reception, the menu, the wine list, the guest list, the top table seating plan and the honeymoon destination. Kay could see to the minor details. Hymns, flowers, bridesmaids. The things that didn’t interest Lawrence. Kay knew he was making it clear that by marrying him she would have to play by his rules. It struck her as an excellent arrangement.

And so their partnership began. It wasn’t long before Lawrence embarked upon his master plan. He’d bought the crumbling Barton Court estate, on the outskirts of the village of Honeycote, some years before, paying only a quarter of a million cash because nobody in their right minds could afford to take on such a white elephant in the depths of a recession. Everyone thought he was mad, but Lawrence was happy to bide his time. A firm believer in what goes down must go up again, he could afford to sit on it until inspiration struck. And in the meantime, he watched. The locals laid bets amongst themselves as to what he would do with it. The smart money was on yet another country house hotel with golf course and helicopter launch pad for the enjoyment of wealthy Americans and Japanese. What eventually emerged, however, was beyond anybody’s wildest dreams – except Lawrence’s. For he had an unnerving instinct that verged on the clairvoyant, and before long he’d concluded that when times were hard people stayed at home. In the garden. And if they were to spend so much time there, they wouldn’t mind spending a little bit of money-making it look nice. And by the tail-end of the nineties, he’d spotted a trend emerging – a rash of gardening programmes and green-fingered celebrities – which gave him a vision.

The vision was of a gardening theme park: a commercial venture on such a scale that visitors would make day trips from as far afield as Oxford and Birmingham to indulge their horticultural fantasies. Lawrence did not have innate good taste or the ability to transform things, but he knew when a thing needed doing properly and how to get people to do it. Plundering the ranks of local National Trust properties, he poached a bright young girl to mastermind the research and development, and a head gardener to oversee the landscaping.

First the old greenhouses were repaired, acres of glittering glass winking in the sunlight, and rows and rows of seedlings were pricked out to flourish in the atmospherically controlled environment. Lawrence had made sure that, while the buildings retained their Victorian splendour, they were fitted out with the most technologically advanced propagation equipment available. Then the ancient walled garden was restored to its former glory, many of the original plants having survived and the layout still faintly discernible underneath the prolific growth.

Lawrence had never been a man of the earth, but he found himself strangely excited as his project took shape. The mellow, faded brick of the old buildings, the soft, verdant glory of the surrounding landscape and the flourishing of the long-neglected floribunda all provided a seductive patina that disguised what was to be a clockwork marketing machine. This was the way to do business. Lawrence smiled as he looked ahead to a future of discreet pickpocketing: people lulled into a false sense of security as they enjoyed the aesthetic tranquillity of their surroundings, then found themselves spending money in the subconscious hope of recreating it at home.

It would not just be a question of popping out for a packet of seeds: at Barton Court, every style of garden was laid out in resplendent perfection and every magical ingredient was available for purchase. As well as the more traditional cottage and herbaceous layouts, there was a stark Japanese arrangement, with decorative pebbles and bonsai; the Monet lily garden, where you could even buy your own Giverny bridge to take home; parterre herb gardens (these proved very popular, being simple but effective and easily maintained – Lawrence was particularly pleased because the mark-up on herbs was massive); a children’s garden, complete with Wendy house and wishing-well. There was a half-acre plot of the most exotic garden statuary, where anything from a tiny terracotta vole to a life-sized unicorn (the horn could be gilded at extra cost) could be purchased to enhance your creation. And if you didn’t want anything for the garden, there were plenty of alternatives: a Country Pursuits section, for decoy ducks and personalized wellies, a bookshop, a deli, a florist’s… There were two places to eat: a tearoom in the elegant Orangery, where apple-cheeked ladies in mob caps served up shortbread and Darjeeling; and the self-explanatory Stables Restaurant, which served delicious meals, the recipes of which were, of course, available in the
Barton Court Recipe Book.
The restaurant was always full to bursting at Sunday lunch as entire families descended on Barton Court for the day. Parents could browse safe in the knowledge that their children were being looked after by two harassed NNEBs in Mr McGregor’s Potting Shed, which had its own little shop full of sweets and rubbers and pencils and models, for Lawrence was keenly aware that most children these days had a disposable income as soon as they could speak.

The highlight of the operation had been the draining and re-landscaping of the ornamental lake with its magnificent fountain. This had as its focus a statue of Flora, goddess of spring, a graceful figure holding aloft a cornucopia filled with flowers. Lawrence was entranced by her exquisite detail and adopted her likeness as the garden centre’s logo.

The day Barton Court opened to the public, Lawrence held a ceremony to celebrate the first playing of the fountains for more than seventy years. It was his personal celebration; a present to himself. As thousands of gallons of water roared through the underground pipe system, he felt the surge of triumph running through his veins. Water exploded into the air, millions of droplets cascading over Flora’s youthful curves, and Lawrence smiled. He’d had the power to recreate this spectacle. He’d timed the opening to perfection: the whole nation was gardening-mad. People who didn’t know one end of a trowel from the other were suddenly keen to get their hands dirty. He doubted whether any other man in England could have pulled it off. And judging by the roar and applause of the crowd that had gathered to watch, Barton Court was a guaranteed success. Lawrence looked forward to profiting from his prescience.

There was a mixed reaction locally. The garden centre certainly provided a lot of employment, right down to the gangs of young boys with walkie-talkies who organized the parking with military precision. And no one could deny that, despite the overt commercialism of the venture, the house and grounds had been sympathetically restored and landscaped. The entire operation was screened from the road by battalions of ancient oaks, so it could not be damned as a blot on the landscape. An elaborate system of entrance and exit routes to the north, south and east ensured that surrounding traffic was only a headache at the absolute height of the season.

So Lawrence and Kay took their thrones as king and queen at Barton Court. Yet it was not an entirely happy alliance…

Sex for Kay turned out to be as much of a chore as loading the dishwasher or sorting the socks, but with an added inconvenience: it was one task she couldn’t really offload on to any of the staff. And, unfortunately, Lawrence had a pretty insatiable libido. She diddn’t really want to offend him, or alienate him, and she knew that he was quite likely to pass her over for a more enthusiastic model if she didn’t hack it in the bedroom stakes, so she’d learned very quickly to do what he liked and pretend to enjoy it, for he came more quickly that way. The quickest release was a blow job; he’d explode violently after a few minutes of judicious tongue-teasing, and at least she didn’t have to writhe in mock ecstasy above or below him. Plus he was fanatically clean: two showers a day, three if it was hot or he’d exerted himself, so his cock tasted at worst soapy or of Aramis body splash.

Thus Kay had always assumed she was frigid, and accepted it on the basis that sexual and financial gratification didn’t go hand in hand. After all, she had always had an ulterior motive in all her relationships up to and including Lawrence. They were all premeditated, not launched into on account of some mutual chemical attraction, and Kay had learned how to go through the motions for her own ends.

So meeting Mickey Liddiard and feeling uncontrollable desire had been a physical and mental revelation to Kay. Sex for its own sake. The novelty of that was a turn-on in itself. And quickly she became an addict, experimenting with different highs and not caring how she got it.

She’d met Mickey at the opening meet of the local hunt, held outside the Honeycote Arms. As soon as he was confident that Barton Court was going to be a success, Lawrence had decided that the quickest way to get to know more influential people locally was to join the hunt, and had promptly filled the stable block with half a dozen tip-top horses from a local trainer. Kay had taken to the sport like a duck to water. She’d always been a fearless rider, and add to this the glamour of dressing for the occasion and the social games that were played out on the hunting field and she was in her element.

She’d attracted a great deal of attention at her first meet. Tight white breeches, beautifully tailored jacket, shiny boots, leather-gloved hands, perfectly made-up face and hair drawn back in a net: how could she not embody every male’s fantasy? She had chosen a magnificent and highly strung black gelding to come out on, and the sight of her – tiny and doll-like but clearly in control – atop this snorting beast fuelled the fire of fantasy.

Lawrence was beside her on a showy chestnut. He smiled genially as he sipped at his stirrup cup, but clutched his squeaky new plaited reins with his free hand as tightly as he could. Despite an intensive course of riding lessons with an ex-Olympic showjumper, he was still keenly aware that if the mare decided to tank off across the Cotswold countryside there was fuck all he could do about it. And it was fear of ridicule, not pain, that was making him nervous. The anxiety of following hunting etiquette was making his insides bubble like a Louisiana swamp and his ritual morning evacuation had been decidedly loose. Kay’s confidence made him even more tense, for there were very few situations where she was more in control than he was and he didn’t like it. She sat chatting happily while her horse stamped and snorted, and seemed oblivious to her precarious position. Lawrence’s mare sidestepped unexpectedly and he tugged sharply on his reins in alarm.

‘Careful, darling. You’ll ruin her mouth.’

At least Kay had the grace to keep her reproach
sotto voce
. Lawrence had to pretend that it hadn’t filled him with red-hot fury. Kay smiled at him, concerned.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘Look, don’t be nervous. The horse knows – ’

If anyone else told him that… What the bloody horse ought to remember was that he was the one with the power to turn it into dog meat any time he liked. The thought gave Lawrence the boost of confidence he needed and he was able to turn his horse away from Kay, cutting short her lecture, and ride off.

‘Is this your first time?’

Kay turned to find a pair of sexy, laughing hazel eyes scrutinizing her. Their owner stood beside her horse, proffering her a tray on which to place her empty stirrup cup.

‘What’s that – the definitive hunting chat-up line?’ she countered.

‘I haven’t seen you out before.’ The flattery in this was inherent: he implied he would have remembered her if she had been. ‘Anyway, I know Tim Heath. He told me you were coming out today. Said you should keep an eye on your husband because he might be a liability…’

Kay had to suppress a smile at the thought of how mortified Lawrence would be if he knew his instructor had so little confidence in his equestrian abilities. But she couldn’t betray her own husband’s insecurities to a stranger, albeit a dangerously attractive one, so she merely raised a slightly icy eyebrow.

‘Really?’

The corners of his mouth turned up and Kay saw they were deeply etched with laughter lines. He had a careless confidence, an air of not quite aristocracy but certainly good breeding, an aura that Lawrence would die for and would never be able to buy. His eyes crinkled and Kay saw that they too were etched with lines. Whoever he was, he obviously had a lot to smile about. Suddenly she realized he was laughing at her.

‘He also said you’d got a fantastic seat.’

Kay grinned back impishly. ‘Tim knows what he’s talking about.’

Bloody hell, she thought. I’m flirting. She’d never flirted before. She was coolly and calculatingly suggestive when it suited her, but light-hearted sexual banter had never been her bag. She’d be giggling next. The stranger balanced his tray in one hand and held out the other.

‘Mickey Liddiard.’

Kay gave him a wry smile. ‘Presumably, if you know so much about my seat, you know my name as well.’

Mickey shook his head. ‘Tim didn’t bother with trivialities. Just said look out for a good-looking blonde in her late thirties.’

Kay, who was only just thirty-five, didn’t rise to the bait but held out her hand.

‘Kay Oakley.’

He took her hand lightly and she could feel the warmth of his hand through the leather of her glove.

‘Well, I hope you enjoy the day’s sport.’

‘I’m sure I will…’

‘Just be careful. Some of the walls round here are absolute buggers. If you don’t think you can manage, don’t try.’

Kay could never resist a challenge. She’d bloody well jump them all if it killed her. He walked off, and she looked after his retreating back, admiring the breadth of his shoulders, his confident walk. She wondered who he was. She couldn’t imagine he worked at the pub. A discreet inquiry revealed that he owned it, and several others in the area. As the hunt set off, she saw him watching her, and he raised his hand in farewell. Her heart quickened and a little flame suddenly came to life inside her. It was unfamiliar, but very, very exciting. She wondered if it was nerves, but then thought no. You got nerves in your stomach, not between your legs.