Just a Family Affair

Table of Contents

 

 

Veronica Henry is a scriptwriter who has written for
The Archers, Heartbeat and most recently Holby City
. She lives in North Devon with her husband and three sons. Visit her website at
www.veronicahenry.co.uk
.

 

Wild Oats
An Eligible Bachelor
Love on the Rocks

 

THE HONEYCOTE NOVELS

 

Honeycote
Making Hay
Just a Family Affair

 
  

 
Just a Family Affair

 

 
VERONICA HENRY

 
 
Orion

 An Orion ebook

 
An Orion paperback

 

 
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Orion

 
This paperback edition published in 2009 by Orion Books Ltd,

 
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane, London WC2H 9EA

 

 
An Hachette UK company

 

 
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

 
Copyright © Veronica Henry 2008

 

 
The right of Veronica Henry to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

 

 
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

 

eISBN : 978 1 4091 1558 8

 

 
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

 

 

 
www.orionbooks.co.uk

 This ebook produced by Jouve, France

‘It’s a nice day for a white wedding . . .’

K
ay Oakley stretched out on her sun-lounger, wiggled her toes and decided that the deep plum polish the beautician had talked her into really was too dark. The nails looked bruised, as if someone had stepped on her foot. The infuriating thing was she’d known all along she wouldn’t like it, but had given in. Now she’d have to go back tomorrow and have them re-varnished her usual pillar-box red.

Then she sighed. Was this what her life had come to? When the colour of her nail polish constituted a crisis? It wasn’t as if another trip to the salon was even an inconvenience. She genuinely didn’t have anything better to do. And when had she lost the ability to paint her own toenails? When had the prospect of lifting a finger to do anything herself become inconceivable?

From an outsider’s point of view, she had little to complain about. The twenty-metre pool rippled in front of her, blue and inviting. The gardens were lush and well kept, the stone of the terrace glowed warm in the afternoon sun. The nearby poolhouse provided a wet room, a huge fridge stocked with beers, wines, and soft drinks, and a stack of fluffy towels that was replenished daily by the maids. A walkway sheltered by a vine-covered trellis meandered back up to the house, with its whitewashed walls and cool tiled floors. Her daughter Flora and her little friend splashed in the children’s pool under the watchful eye of the nanny.

She looked down at her body. Kay had never had a problem with weight, even after giving birth, but she had to admit she was in tip-top condition for a mother just on the wrong side of forty. Her stomach was flat, without a stretchmark in sight, and thanks to her healthy Mediterranean diet of meat, fish, vegetables and fruit, she had no cellulite. Her white Gucci bikini showed off her even tan - not too dark, for Kay was vigilant about not overdoing the sun. She knew from their social circle that there was nothing more ageing, except perhaps a forty-a-day habit. She didn’t want to look like a tortoise. Furthermore, there wasn’t a superfluous hair or skin cell on her. Every day she looked for some imperfection that could be ironed out, just to give her a challenge. She longed for a hairy mole or an unsightly bulge that she could get her teeth into, but thanks to her daily gym and salon visits there were none.

She reached out a languid hand for the tumbler of mineral water filled with ice and wedges of fresh lemon she’d picked off the tree earlier. Here she was, leading the perfect magazine existence, in a luxury villa on a luxury complex in Portugal, and she was bored out of her mind. She’d thought about getting a job, but there were none. At least nothing that would make it worth her while. She could get a job as a manicurist. Or as a guide, showing potential purchasers around the new developments that her husband Lawrence and his cronies were throwing up overnight. But neither of these opportunities was what she had in mind. She wanted something that would shake her out of her complacency. Something that would make her feel excited. Afraid, even. Something that would enable her to justify her place on this planet. It wasn’t as if they needed the money. At the moment, they couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. What she needed was some mental stimulation.

A few months ago, in desperation, she’d tried setting up a book club. Kay was no boffin, but she longed for some banter, some witty repartee. For the inaugural read she’d chosen Chocolat, because she didn’t want to put the other women off with anything too erudite. But out of six, only three managed to finish it, and the ensuing discussion revolved around the calorific content of the subject matter and the casting of Johnny Depp in the movie. Hardly an intellectual debate. Kay, who’d devoured it, adored it, and been enchanted by the concept of magical reality (which she’d read about in the reader’s notes on the website), realized she was onto a losing wicket. There were no like-minded women in her social circle. Kay had never been one for close friends, but she found that for the first time in her life she was lonely.

Added to which, she missed England dreadfully. She’d never considered herself particularly at one with nature, but she missed the changing seasons. The relentless Portuguese sunshine was driving her mad. She’d give anything for a sparkling frost, or a brisk autumnal breeze, or even a torrential downpour.

In her mind’s eye she longingly imagined Honeycote, the tiny village in the Cotswolds she and Lawrence had lived in before they moved here. It would be hunkering down for winter now, shedding its leaves, putting on its mantle of mist, the air crisp and sharp. And she was fairly certain its inhabitants could have managed more than five minutes of discussion on Joanne Harris before moving on to the inevitable salacious gossip about who was bonking whom in the local hunt.

Kay jumped to her feet and marched over to the children. The nanny eyed her warily, wondering if she had inadvertently put a foot wrong - were the children being too loud? Were they splashing too much? But no - Mrs Oakley was smiling at her.

‘You might as well have the rest of the day off. I’ll look after them.’

The girl blinked in astonishment, then panicked that she was going to be given her notice. The English never came out with what they were really thinking. Was this Mrs Oakley’s way of saying her services were no longer needed? Would she have a curt phone call that evening telling her not to bother coming back?

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Kay was getting impatient. The nanny was dithering - didn’t she know a good thing when she saw it? Eventually she went, and Kay took the two little girls into the kitchen to make them milkshakes. Kay wasn’t a natural hands-on mother, but anything to stop the tedium.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could endure this way of life. Swimming pool. Shopping. Beauty parlour. Shopping. Cocktail parties and barbecues. Shopping. There was nothing to strive for. Nothing to think about, except what to wear and whether to go one shade lighter or darker with the highlights. And what to throw on the barbecue each evening for the so-called friends they entertained night after night. Even though they could hardly be described as anything more than acquaintances. They were all indistinguishable from each other, the people that she and Lawrence mixed with. They all had the same values. Or lack of.