Just a Family Affair (25 page)

 

Mayday sat on the floor of her room wearing an old Nirvana T-shirt, drinking the rest of a bottle of Jack Daniels mixed with coke. It was probably a mistake, hitting the bottle after the day she’d had. But hell, it was doing the trick. After one, she felt her shoulders relax. After two, the hazy images of the crematorium slid away. After three, she’d forgotten the smirk on her mother’s face and felt as if she was wrapped in a cocoon. Everything became slightly warm and fuzzy.

After six, she began to weep.

After seven, she defiantly drank the rest of the bottle down in one and slung it across the room.

By now, she was angry. With everyone. Not just her mother. With the doctors who couldn’t do anything, who had constantly fobbed them off with painkillers that were ineffectual - at least, until you took the whole lot. With herself, for not seeing Elsie’s despair, for not reading the signs, for not doing enough. With bloody Patrick, for going off and getting married just when she needed him most.

But most of all with her grandmother, for leaving her alone. For abandoning her so that she felt vulnerable. And leaving her a teapot . . .

What the hell was she supposed to do with a teapot? How was that supposed to give her comfort and support during the coming years? All it did was remind her that her grandmother wasn’t there any more, make her aware that she wasn’t as strong and independent as she thought, and remind her that having Patrick beside her today made her crave him, desperately. That was why people got married; for the comfort she had drawn from his presence; the wonderful feeling that someone was there who cared and would do anything in their power to protect you.

Mayday lurched across the room and picked up the offending receptacle from her dressing table. Patrick had unwrapped it carefully for her, not understanding that receiving nothing would have been better than this. Humiliation burned in her gullet as she remembered her mother’s self-satisfaction. She could imagine them all now, sitting round the table at Pantiles, planning what to do with their inheritance. A Caribbean cruise, a hot-tub on the terrace, proper central heating in the dog kennels so they could charge their unsuspecting clients even more . . .

Mayday tried to be good and appreciate it. She tried not to resent the fact that her mother was walking off with a hefty windfall and would be crowing about it for weeks. She tried to tell herself that the teapot was symbolic, that to have it in her possession imbued her with the caring, nurturing qualities that her grandmother had possessed. But it stuck in her craw.

She picked up the teapot and hurled it across the room. The smash was satisfyingly dramatic. But as the teapot bounced off the wall in a thousand pieces, Mayday suddenly felt sick. Even through her bourbon blur, she knew she was going to regret her actions, and that no amount of careful gluing was going to restore it.

She sank to the ground, sobbing, desolation and regret washing over her. The room was starting to spin. She knew she couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard she tried to fix her mind to the task. She had drunk too much. Normally, she knew exactly when to stop. After all these years, she knew how to control alcohol and get the good times without the bad times. But very occasionally she forgot that you had to keep one step ahead of the demon, that it could get you when you were weak, when your defences were down. Yep, JD was laughing tonight. He’d got the better of her all right.

The teapot lay there, its insides exposed, the china stained black with years of tannin. She gazed at it dully as it suddenly glided across the room, then returned to its rightful place as she refocused her eyes with a masterful effort. Amidst the shiny brown shards was a piece of paper. Mayday frowned and sat up. She wiped away the tears and snot, and grabbed it. Elsie must have left her a note. Perhaps some explanation for what she had done. Something that would give her hope, perhaps? Respite from her grief and guilt. She unravelled it hastily.

It was a rolled-up lottery ticket. Last week’s. She remembered bringing it to Elsie last Friday. She bought her one every week without fail. Mayday scrutinised it for clues, but there was nothing written on it, no explanation, nothing to indicate that it had any significance. Elsie probably wanted her to continue doing her numbers, through some misguided superstition. But privately Mayday thought doing the lottery was for losers. She had no intention of carrying it on. She scrumpled the piece of paper up and let it fall amongst the shards of china, then curled up on the floor. Within seconds, she was asleep.

O
n Saturday morning, Mickey found Lucy in hysterics in the kitchen. He felt a momentary panic before realizing that the tears rolling down her cheeks were from laughter.

‘She’s even worse than I remembered,’ gasped Lucy, wiping her eyes with one of her brand-new French linen tea towels. ‘I don’t think I can cope.’

‘Who?’ demanded Mickey.

‘Mandy’s mother. Sandra. She’s come for a “soyt” visit.’ Mickey looked blank. ‘A site visit, to you and me.’

As if on cue, Sandra swept into the kitchen. She threw her arms open wide, a vision in wide-legged white linen trousers and a gilt-buttoned cardigan, a jaunty red scarf tied round her neck. Considering it was bitterly cold outside and they were landlocked, the nautical look was somewhat incongruous.

‘Mickey! Congratulations! I can’t wait! We’ll soon be related. Isn’t it marvellous?’

‘Fantastic,’ Mickey murmured in agreement as he returned her embrace reluctantly. He knew that the last time he’d seen Sandra he’d been a borderline alcoholic, but this woman looked markedly different from the one he remembered.

‘I was thinking about a spiegeltent. The top paddock next to the orchard would be perfect.’

‘A seagull tent?’ repeated Mickey rather stupidly. ‘I thought doves were the thing at weddings.’

Sandra looked at him as if he was a dunce. ‘Spiegeltent,’ she repeated patiently. ‘It’s a magnificent mirrored marquee. Absolutely spectacular. Everybody who’s anybody has one.’

Mickey looked at Lucy. ‘I thought we were using the beer tent. From the point to point?’

‘Well, we were. But . . .’

She looked uncertainly over at Sandra, who wrinkled her nose.

‘I don’t think a beer tent really gives quite the sense of occasion.’>

‘It’s only something to bung up in the paddock in case it tips down,’ Mickey pointed out. ‘And it’s free.’

‘Don’t worry about money,’ said Sandra, holding up a perfectly manicured hand. ‘I’m taking care of everything. It’s my gift to the happy couple.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’ve had a little windfall, and I can’t think of anything better to spend it on than Patrick and Mandy’s wedding.’

‘Well,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s very sweet of you. But I tell you what. Just so we don’t start treading on each other’s toes, why I don’t I take care of the arrangements for the daytime, and you can take charge of the evening? That’s when people are going to want to let their hair down, after all.’

Sandra looked quite pleased with this arrangement.

‘What a good idea. That way we don’t have to keep swapping notes.’ In her hands she was clasping a white leatherbound folder with the words ‘Wedding Planner’ tooled on the front in gold. She laid it reverently on the kitchen table and took out a pen, scribbling furiously. ‘Don’t give the evening do another thought. The only thing we need to confer about is numbers.’

She clapped the planner shut in satisfaction. ‘I need to check access. And power. We’ll need generators, I think. We can’t run everything off a plug in the stable yard.’ She smiled and swept out again.

Lucy feigned wiping her brow in relief.

‘Thank God. I couldn’t bear it. She was starting to bang on about ice sculptures and chocolate fountains. If that’s what she wants she can have it in her bloody spiegeltent. Just as long as no one thinks it was anything to do with me.’

Mickey looked at his wife admiringly. Lucy had a trick of getting her own way, very subtly. Almost letting people think that her ideas were their ideas. Christ, he loved her. His stomach twitched with anxiety. Patrick would be meeting up with Kay about now. They had decided it was best if Patrick dealt with her. If anyone saw Mickey with her, after all, tongues might wag.

‘I’ve never seen that in real life before,’ Lucy was saying.

‘Sorry?’

‘Top to toe Chanel. Every single thing she’s got on. Top, trousers, shoes, belt, earrings . . .’

‘Do we care?’

‘No. But someone should tell her. You don’t dress from head to foot in the same designer. It’s incredibly naff.’

Mickey gave Lucy a quizzical look. ‘It’s not like you to be bitchy.’

Lucy sighed. ‘Maybe I’m just jealous. I bet she’ll wear Chanel to the wedding.’

‘You can too, surely? If you want to.’

‘We can’t afford it. Not after everything I’ve spent on this kitchen.’

‘Another couple of hundred isn’t going to make much difference.’

‘Couple of hundred?’ echoed Lucy. ‘Ha ha ha.’

Mickey grabbed her by the arms. ‘Seriously,’ he said fiercely. ‘I want you to have whatever outfit you want. Just bung it on the credit card. We’ll deal with it.’

Lucy looked at her husband warily. Was this guilt talking? It usually was with Mickey. The minute he started chucking money about was when the alarm bells started to go off. She racked her memory for clues. For signs. For giveaways. Nothing sprang to mind.

‘I better make everyone some lunch,’ she said finally, and wandered off to the fridge to see what delights it held. She still got a kick out of its pristine white interior and all the cunning little accessories - the can-holder, the chilled water dispenser, the wine rack. As she gazed at the contents, half of her was calculating whether she had enough tomatoes to do a pissala
dière
, while the other half wondered if she should be on her guard. It was all too easy to be distracted by the wedding. Was there something else going on?

 

Bi-polar March had done its usual trick of starting off the day sunny and optimistic, then having a mood swing. The wind was driving across the wildlife park, miserable for its inmates, who were used to warmer climes. Kay gazed rather blankly at the three rhinos. They were quite charmless, she decided. They looked like enormous overweight women from behind, with their lumpy bumpy thick white legs and hefty bottoms. They had no redeeming features, not like hippos, who seemed cuddly in comparison, though the keeper had assured them that a riled hippo was not something to be messed with. She shivered, unaccustomed to the chill. Thanks to the fickle weather, she’d had to buy herself and Flora a new quilted jacket each from the saddlers in Eldenbury, which had eaten into her budget considerably.

She and Flora had spent the past week drifting from one tourist attraction to the next. They’d been on a steam railway, to a quaint model village, a teddy bear museum, and now today the wildlife park - all things that Kay had never visited in the time she’d lived in Honeycote. But why would she have? They weren’t places you’d go to without children. In those days, she had wafted from hairdresser to restaurant to boutique, and then back to the hairdresser, little realizing there was another world out there.

To her surprise, she’d enjoyed every moment of her discovery, relishing the time spent with her daughter. She even thought she might have put back on a bit of the weight she had lost, courtesy of a surfeit of cream teas and chips. It was rather like being on holiday. It was certainly a distraction from the fact that she had absolutely no idea what the future held for her. If the Liddiards decided not to play ball, she was stuffed. She was bluffing, after all. She had no intention of degrading herself and dragging them through the courts for money.

She had come to one conclusion, however. She was going to do everything in her power to make sure she and Flora stayed in the area. The countryside was absolutely ravishing, waking up after the long winter, all buds and birdsong, the white lambs frolicking in the fields mirrored by fluffy clouds bouncing across the blue skies. Today might be a reminder of how ornery the English weather could be, but she knew it could change; that tomorrow she might wake up to a gentle sun coaxing out even more greenery. Besides, she liked the uncertainty. Portugal had been so relentlessly, reliably fine; it was like living with an eternal optimist. In the end, it got on your nerves.

It wasn’t just the scenery that was luring her. She’d been into Eldenbury several times, and really did feel as if she was coming home to somewhere she belonged. It was so reassuringly familiar; even the sneaky car-parking space that she’d always used up by the library was still there. She realized with shame that when she and Lawrence had lived there, she had rather looked down on the little town, dismissing it as provincial and slow and slightly backward, always eschewing it in favour of Cheltenham or Bath or London. But she had changed. She had mellowed. She didn’t need glitz and glamour; she wanted a cosy, comfortable environment. And anyway, Eldenbury had blossomed in the time she had been away. Still very much the traditional Cotswold market town on the surface, it now harboured a few surprises when you dug a little deeper. So if you fancied a pair of sexy shoes or some exotic bath oil, you could find them amidst the rather more prosaic ironmonger, bookmakers and newspaper shops. It was an eclectic mix of the utilitarian and the exotic, and Kay thought it would suit her exactly. It was the perfect small pond in which to bring up her daughter.

She saw Patrick coming along the path that led to the rhino enclosure, and allowed herself a smile at how out of place he looked, with his black cashmere sweater over a pristine white T-shirt. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine that he was hers; that he had come to join her and Flora and was going to whisk them off to the café for lunch. And later they would go back home, to a dear little cottage, and have a delicious supper together—