Just a Family Affair (31 page)

He was so reassuring, and Mayday felt her heart melt. She immediately wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to worry. Not about her, at any rate. But she couldn’t.

‘But after everything you’ve done,’ she protested. ‘Marrying Mandy, I mean. To keep the brewery on its feet. I thought that was going to solve everything.’

Patrick looked at her, his smile rather fixed. ‘I keep telling you, I’m not just marrying Mandy to save the brewery,’ he said. ‘That would be plain mercenary.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I’m rather grateful for the wedding, actually,’ he reflected. ‘At least it’s given everyone something else to think about. We’re not going to tell them until after it’s all over, anyway. We don’t want to spoil it.’

‘But what about you?’ Mayday persisted. ‘Everything’s spoiled for you, isn’t it? You love Honeycote Ales.’

Patrick flicked his ash and shrugged. ‘To be honest, it’s a millstone. I’ll be glad to get rid of the responsibility. I’ll still be involved, but I can clock in and out like everyone else and forget it when I get home.’

Mayday looked at him. He’d smoked his cigarette in sixty seconds flat. He was knocking back his wine as if it was going out of fashion. His hair was tousled from running his hand through it every other second. His skin was pale; his dark brow furrowed. Who was he trying to kid?

‘The thing is,’ he was saying, ‘it’s not going to happen overnight. Dad’s talking to Robert Gibson. He’s asking him to put feelers out. Discreetly.’

‘It’s the end of an era, though, isn’t it?’

Patrick didn’t reply for a moment. Mayday could see the tension in his jaw. She sensed the disappointment emanating from him; sensed that he felt he had failed. Himself, his family, his employees. His ancestors.

‘I’d like to think of it as a new beginning,’ he said with determination. ‘Anyway, you don’t want to hear my shit. Have you been all right? I’ve been thinking about you. I’m really sorry I haven’t been in sooner.’

Mayday fiddled with a beer mat. ‘I just feel . . . empty, really,’ she admitted. ‘Like there’s no point. I used to go over to Gran’s two or three times a week. I keep thinking there’s something I should be doing, then remembering I don’t have to any more.’ She stopped, not wanting to sound self-pitying. ‘Maybe I just need a crazy weekend away somewhere.’

Patrick stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Then let’s do it.’

Mayday looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m supposed to have a stag weekend, aren’t I? Well, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend it with. I’m definitely not letting bloody Ned organize anything. But we could go somewhere. You and me.’

‘We can’t,’ said Mayday doubtfully. ‘Can we?’

‘I don’t see why not. Apparently the girls are all going to Puerto Banus to let their hair down at Sandra’s villa.’ Mandy had texted him with the news earlier. ‘So why can’t I go somewhere? London. Let’s go to London. I need some new shoes and a haircut.’

Mayday stared at him. He must be drunk. He’d probably change his mind once he’d sobered up. And she wasn’t sure whether to agree. Even though there was nothing she wanted to do more in the whole world.

‘Anyway,’ Patrick was saying. ‘I trust you. I trust you not to strip me naked and tie me to a lamp post.’ He looked at her and laughed. ‘I think.’

Mayday chuckled. ‘You might enjoy it,’ she teased. ‘I’ll book us somewhere to stay, shall I?’ She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Two rooms?’

‘Just one room,’ said Patrick, chucking back the rest of his wine. ‘It’s OK. No one will know. And it’s only us. I mean, how long have we been mates?’

T
he words had been sticking in Ginny’s throat since she had woken at half past six. She had been lying there trying to get them out. But she was afraid. Afraid of what the answer might be. She couldn’t go on like this, though. It was up to her to break the deadlock. She shut her eyes, swallowed, then spoke. It came out in an ineffectual croak.

‘Shall we have the day off together?’

There. She’d done it.

Keith was silent for a moment. How tempting it would be to capitulate, to go out in the car somewhere nice for lunch, to tell her the truth, to hear her words of comfort. But he had promised himself to stay strong. He didn’t need to offload this crisis. There was, after all, absolutely nothing she could say to alleviate his worry. She wasn’t a surgeon, or an oncologist, or a clairvoyant.

‘Out of the question,’ he said gruffly, and threw back the duvet.

Ginny bit her lip and shuffled back down under the covers. What on earth had happened to him? She knew that when you moved in with someone the gloss usually wore off after a while as their true personality emerged. But they had lived together for some time now, and Keith had proved himself to be very even-tempered, easygoing and generous of spirit. Where had this terse, withdrawn character come from? Was this the real him? Because if so he had done a very good job of hiding the truth until now.

Maybe that was why his wife had left him. She had always assumed it was Sandra who had been the guilty party, but perhaps she had felt as cut off and isolated as Ginny did now. Perhaps she had felt her husband had become a stranger?

She decided to persevere.

‘I just thought perhaps we should . . . talk?’

‘About what?’ Keith turned to look at her en route to the shower. His face was expressionless.

Ginny shrugged. ‘It’s just . . . we don’t seem to have time for each other any more.’

Keith stood still. He could feel his heart pounding inside. Should he come clean?

No, he told himself. The last thing he wanted, if the news was bad, was for poor Ginny to feel obliged to stick by him, to nurse him through the inevitable horrors that would in the end lead to death. She didn’t deserve that. She was still young; she deserved happiness after everything that bastard dentist had put her through. And that didn’t mean becoming Keith Sherwyn’s nursemaid.

He knew she’d be wonderful. He knew she’d be endlessly patient, and kind, and comforting. But he didn’t want that for her. It would be so much easier for her if he ended their relationship. He wouldn’t tell her why, because she would insist on staying with him to the bitter end. And if he did break it off, it would be easier for her if he kept himself detached. Not unpleasant, because Keith didn’t have it in him to be nasty. But distant.

‘It’s a very nice idea,’ he said carefully. ‘But I’ve got an important meeting today. Maybe some other time.’

Important meeting. Hah! That was an understatement. To be told whether you were going to live or die. It didn’t get much more important than that.

When Keith had gone Ginny flipped back the duvet as if to get out of bed, then lay there staring dully at the ceiling. She felt no incentive to get up whatsoever. In some ways, this was almost worse than when David had left her. At least then she had had something to rail against. She’d been able to console herself with the fact that his desertion was totally unjust. She’d been able to focus her resentment on Faith, the ghastly hygienist he’d run off with. But this miserable co-existence was more insidious. There was nothing that she could put her finger on. It was dull, grey, frustrating, and it made her feel more insecure. At least when your husband left you there was a sense of a new beginning. It had been a challenge. A tough one, but Ginny now felt she was a better person for it.

Keith obviously didn’t. What was the matter? Was he bored? Did she grate on his nerves? Did he yearn for young flesh? Did he wish she wasn’t a success? Would he prefer her to stay at home? Did he, in fact, resent the fact that her business was booming, growing faster than she could keep up with, while Honeycote Ales was obviously foundering? Men’s egos were fragile, she knew that. Did he feel as if his nose was being rubbed in it? Did he feel inadequate? A failure?

All these questions and many more ran through Ginny’s mind. What they needed was a good heart to heart. She should book them a weekend away, so he could forget about the brewery, she could forget about Mrs Tiggywinkle’s, and they could both forget about the bloody wedding. Not that she resented the wedding for a moment. She was thrilled for Mandy, whom she adored. But it did seem to have everyone running round like headless chickens.

In the end, Ginny forced herself out of bed. She had three more clients to do quotes for, and she needed to recruit a couple of extra cleaners. Shake a leg, she told herself. She had a fantastic reputation for reliability and value and great service. She couldn’t sacrifice that just because she was having a few personal problems.

Besides, her business might be all she was left with, if things got really grim.

 

So. There it was in all its glory. His tumour. Mr Jackson showed it to him on the scan. It was quite extraordinary, thought Keith, to think that this innocuous little blob could eventually kill him if it wasn’t dealt with.

It was grade two. Which made it sound like a listed building, but in fact meant that, for the time being, it was contained in the prostate. And his Gleason factor, the score by which the aggressiveness of the cancer was rated, was six. Which was, apparently, good. Good, Keith couldn’t help thinking, would have been no cancer at all. But Mr Jackson seemed positively optimistic.

‘This means it’s not going to grow quickly. On the other hand, you are relatively young for a prostate cancer diagnosis. So rather than monitor the disease, I would recommend a radical prostatectomy. In other words, we whip it out. Thereby eradicating the problem. With any luck.’

‘I see,’ said Keith slowly, not sure what to think.

‘Because I do keyhole surgery, it would be a relatively simple procedure. You’d be up and about pretty quickly.’

‘Would I need chemo afterwards?’

‘We’d need to check that it is definitely contained within the prostate. But if that is the case, you wouldn’t need any further treatment. As for side effects,’ Mr Jackson gave a rueful smile. ‘There is, of course, a possibility of incontinence and erectile dysfunction.’

‘No change there then,’ said Keith gloomily.

‘We have simple procedures to help overcome that. My recovery rate is second to none. And if the worst comes to the worst, there are drugs.’

‘You mean Viagra?’ Keith felt hot with humiliation. This was all too horrible for words. Never mind, he told himself. He’d just go without, rather than face the embarrassment.

‘You may find that your lack of performance up until now has been a consequence of the tumour. In which case, once we remove it, you’ll be as right as rain.’

‘And if we don’t remove it?’

‘It’s cancerous, Mr Sherwyn. ‘We would have to monitor it regularly. And you’d probably end up having surgery eventually anyway, with the added possibility of chemo.’

‘You’re saying go for the operation.’

‘It’s your decision, obviously. But just let me say that these are the operations I like. We know exactly what we’re up against. Straightforward in and out. Bish bash bosh. Job done.’

Keith wished he had his confidence. He didn’t feel bullish. He just felt frightened. He knew cancer was malicious and devious; that it could pull the unexpected out of the bag no matter how experienced the consultant. That was why millions and millions were spent on research every year. Because no one really understood. No one could give a cast-iron one hundred per cent guarantee.

‘So,’ said Mr Jackson. ‘How’s your diary looking?’

Keith blinked. It was almost as if they were arranging a game of golf.

‘How long do I need to stay in?’

‘We’re going for keyhole surgery. So two nights max. As long as you’ve got someone to look after you at home.’

Keith glossed over that one. He didn’t mention that no one at home knew anything yet. And looking at his diary, they still needn’t know anything. If he could fix his operation around the hen weekend . . . The girls were off on the Thursday and back on Tuesday. He’d be on his feet by then. And if they suspected anything, he had it all worked out. He’d say he’d nipped in for a quick hernia operation; that the consultant had fitted him in at the last minute.

Mr Jackson seemed to think that was perfect timing.

‘Come in on the Friday night. We operate first thing on Saturday. You can be home on Monday morning, all being well.’

‘What do you mean, all being well?’ Keith looked anxious. ‘What might go wrong?’

Mr Jackson gave him what he thought was a reassuring smile. ‘Some people don’t react well to anaesthetic. Or you might get a little infection. I don’t mean anything sinister by that.’ He paused. ‘Though of course, we never know exactly what we’re going to find.’

Keith tried to calm himself by taking deep breaths. He didn’t want to lose it in front of his consultant. His heart was tap-dancing all over the place, and he could feel beads of perspiration pop out on his forehead.

‘So what do I do in the meantime?’

‘Carry on as normal. Your prognosis is good, Mr Sherwyn. We’ve caught the thing early, we’re on top of it. Just relax.’

Easy for you to say, thought Keith, his hand trembling as he blocked the days for his operation out in his Filofax.

 

People always felt very at home in Robert Gibson’s office because he kept it very comfortable, with the minimum of officialdom or paperwork on display. With its dark red walls and paintings of racehorses and the incredibly comfortable leather button-back chairs, his clients often didn’t want to leave. For Robert provided them a safe haven. Added to which, he was quite the most unshockable, non-judgemental person most people ever had the fortune to meet, with twinkling brown eyes and a schoolboy sense of humour that was rather endearing. He was strangely old-fashioned in his dress, but those who knew him well knew that was a cover-up, that his tweed jackets and checked shirts and knitted ties belied his shrewdness. It suited Robert if people thought he was a bit of a bumpkin, because it meant they trusted him. The solicitor at the other end of town wore Italian suits and spent half his time in London and no one told him anything.