Just a Family Affair (49 page)

 

James stood in the kitchen in his morning suit, slicing up Marmite sandwiches into fingers and putting them into a Tupperware box. They needed a stash of food for the children, because it was anyone’s guess what time they would actually get to the reception and be fed. Getting the children ready had been arduous beyond belief, but he had them all lined up in front of the television without a hair out of place while Caroline got herself ready.

He heard her clattering down the stairs. She burst into the kitchen. She wore a Fifties-style floral dress, splashed with red tulips, with red peep-toe sandals.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You look fantastic.’

‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘Are these the sandwiches? Well done. I’ll stuff them in my bag.’

It was amazing, thought James, how much easier life was now they cooperated. It would never have occurred to him before to make the sandwiches, but just that one little task seemed to take the burden off Caroline, with the result that she was much happier.

He’d come clean to her, as Lucy had suggested. He’d fed the children and put them to bed early the evening after she’d come back, then sat her down with the horrible truth in black and white. And she had been amazing. Lucy was right. He had forgotten what a formidable business brain Caroline had, a brain that had become almost vestigial over the past few years. But she had gone through the figures with a keen eye.

‘It’s perfectly obvious,’ she said. ‘All we need to do is downsize. Get rid of this ridiculously huge house. We don’t need a library and a garden room and an orchard and six bedrooms and an in-and-out drive.’

James opened his mouth to protest and she clamped her hand over it.

‘We can keep it if you want to ruin us, and our marriage. But look - the house has gone up a hundred grand even since we bought it. If we sell this and buy a perfectly ordinary four-bedroom house with a nice big garden, we can shave two hundred thousand off our borrowings. That’s a lot of tables and chairs you don’t have to sell.’

James sighed. He couldn’t argue with the maths. Caroline had opened the local paper and proceeded to put a red ring around half a dozen suitable properties. By the end of the week, Lyttleton House was on the market and they had been to view three smaller houses, none of which were as bad as James imagined.

Caroline, meanwhile, had never mentioned the diamond debacle. There was just no way of telling the story that didn’t make her look guilty, and James wouldn’t find it remotely funny. Least said, soonest mended, she had decided. But the episode had helped her regain her confidence. And now, as she lined the little ones up by the door ready to troop them out to the car, she looked over at James. He might be irritatingly anal and superior and sexist at times, but he was still a handsome bugger.

‘Do you remember the day we got married?’ she asked huskily.

James looked at her. ‘Of course I do.’

‘I’ve got my wedding knickers on.’

James gave a slow smile. He slid a hand up her thigh and underneath her dress. ‘So you have.’

He put his arms round her waist. Instead of stiffening and trying to extricate herself from his grasp, she relaxed against him, nuzzling his neck.

‘Do you think it would matter awfully if we were late?’ asked James.

‘Given that you’re an usher and Connie’s a bridesmaid, I think we would be toast,’ Caroline replied, reluctantly peeling herself away.

 

Mayday was ushering the last of the drinkers through from the bar into the dining room for Saturday lunch when Patrick walked in.

He looked . . . perfect. Like the most dashing English gentleman on his wedding day, his hair dark, the rose in his buttonhole just starting to open.

She couldn’t face him. She went to run from the room, feeling like a foolish schoolgirl. But it was too late. He had seen her. He gave her a sheepish grin, as if to say what a prat he was to come in dressed as he was.

‘I was early,’ he said. ‘So I thought I’d come in for a drink.’

‘You’ve come to the right place, then.’ Mayday managed a smile despite her heavy heart. ‘Champagne?’

He shook his head. ‘Just a Bloody Mary. I’ve got to drive to the church. And I don’t want to slur my words.’

Mayday made him his drink, unable to think what to say. She’d never been tongue-tied.

‘You are coming to the evening do?’ he asked anxiously.

She nodded. She’d been invited, like all Honeycote Ales employees. There was no point in saying she wouldn’t be there.

‘It’s . . . a lovely day for a wedding,’ she finally managed to offer.

Patrick drank down his drink, then put it carefully down on the bar. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, and held out his arms for her to hug him.

As they embraced, Mayday shut her eyes tight, almost unable to bear the sensation of Patrick’s warmth on her body. She wanted to scream at him, ‘Don’t leave me!’ She wanted to claim him as rightfully hers. But the miracle hadn’t happened. He hadn’t seen beyond the relationship they’d always had, even though she’d thrown him enough clues.

Suddenly, she pushed him away. ‘You’re going to be late.’ Her voice was tight with tears.

‘I guess you’re right.’ He let her go, reluctantly. She turned away so he couldn’t see how hard she was trying not to cry. She went over to her handbag, rummaged in it for a moment while she gathered herself, then turned to him with a bright smile.

‘Here’s your wedding present.’ She proffered a small package, wrapped in dark purple tissue paper tied with a violet ribbon. He went to open it, but she stopped him. ‘Don’t open it now. Open it later. When you’re on your own. Just you.’

She was very insistent. Patrick looked at her warily. Knowing Mayday it was probably a couple of grams of coke. Best not opened in front of Mandy. He grinned and stuck it in his pocket.

‘What is it? A gold-plated cock ring?’

Mayday pushed him gently. ‘Go on. Bugger off and get married. See you around.’

She watched him go. So this was how it felt when your heart broke. It did hurt. A horrible, gnawing, grinding pain right at the very core of you. She wondered if it would ever heal, or if she would feel like that for ever.

 

The little church at Honeycote was bursting at the seams. Toned buttocks vied with broader beams for space on the slippery wood of the pews. Shafts of golden sunlight pierced the stained-glass windows, shining on the congregation. The organist, confident now she was in her stride, shifted her repertoire up a gear. Usually the service was over before she’d even had a chance to warm up, so she was taking advantage of the opportunity to demonstrate her musical prowess.

Every alternate Sunday, the stone walls were host to nothing more exciting than dull tweeds and gabardine. Today, the church was crammed with a veritable rainbow of colours in every imaginable stuff - silk, chiffon, velvet, linen and lace. Hats, it seemed, were back with a vengeance, from straw cartwheels trimmed with fruit to ostrich-feather headdresses to dainty pillboxes. And the scent! Most of the seven deadly sins were represented, and several more weaknesses besides - Envy and Obsession and Passion mingled with the woodier base notes of the men’s cologne.

In the front row, Lucy thought back to the day she had walked into this church, more than twenty years ago. She and Mickey had decided to get married at Honeycote rather than at her parents’, because all their friends were nearby. Most of those friends were here again today, together with the next generation. And she thought she probably still loved Mickey as much as the day she married him. She had never regretted their marriage for a moment, despite the ups and downs. She’d seen Kay enter the church, together with Flora, and had given her a smile. Lucy could afford to be magnanimous. After all, she was sitting at the front with her husband while Kay slipped unobtrusively into a pew near the back.

Everyone was seated now. The initial cocktail party atmosphere had settled, the ritual two-cheek kisses and squeals of recognition over for the time being, although guests were still peering over their shoulders to see who had come in behind, wiggling their fingers surreptitiously in greeting. And raising eyebrows. Shrugging shoulders, as if to say, ‘I don’t know what’s going on. Do you?’

Lucy nudged Mickey and frowned.

‘Where is he?’ she whispered.

Mickey shrugged. ‘He’ll be here in a minute. Don’t worry.’

Lucy felt the tiniest flash of irritation. Everyone had been slaving away to make sure everything was perfect. She would have thought Patrick could have bothered to turn up on time.

 

Patrick couldn’t resist pulling over to see what Mayday’s present was. He had a feeling he would have to hide it, whatever it was. So he stopped at the top of Poacher’s Hill, into the very lay-by where he had proposed to Mandy what seemed like a lifetime ago. He hastily undid the ribbon and unwrapped the tissue.

It was an iPod. Black, of course. Mayday wouldn’t have chosen any other colour. There was a little silver plaque on the back, on which a single word was inscribed. ‘Listen’.

Intrigued, Patrick put the headphones in his ears and pressed play. He expected something heavy and hard - some guitar-based thrash metal, some crazy anthem redolent of the mad times they had shared together over the years. But no. It was a tinkling piano and the minimal thrum of a double bass that he heard. The sweet notes of the intro to a song he thought he recognized. He frowned, listening, as a coffee-rich voice began to sing. It was Roberta Flack, singing ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.’

Patrick was puzzled. This was so un-Mayday. He couldn’t imagine her giving a sentimental ballad like this airplay. The melody, the lyrics and the production were all designed to tug at the heart-strings and bring tears to the eyes, as the singer poured out her feelings, declaring her love, her passion, the impact of the first time she met her lover.

Then, as he continued to listen, a slow realization dawned on him. This was a message. Mayday was telling him that she loved him. That she always had, from the first day they met. From the first time they had lain together, if he was to believe the song. From the first time she’d ever seen his face.

Bloody hell, thought Patrick. Mayday loved him.

 

In the front row, Sandra took a deep breath in, thanking God she had dropped two diazepam with her lunch. She’d chosen to wear a cream tweed coat dress, woven through with metallic threads, picking out the bronze for her accessories - St Laurent courts and a matching clutch. Which she was now clutching, knuckles white with anxiety. This eventuality hadn’t been in her list of possible disasters. She had contingency plans for every technical hitch and natural disaster, but this hadn’t occurred to her in her wildest nightmare.

Ned was bewildered. He’d called Patrick first thing that morning, just to check he was OK and see if he needed anything. His friend had seemed perfectly fine. Calm, but then Patrick always was calm. He exchanged worried glances with Bertie and James, who were also ushers, whilst trying not to cause alarm. The organist ploughed valiantly on, drowning out the rustle of hymn sheets and the occasional cough.

The vicar remained unruffled. It was par for the course, and he was in no hurry. Honeycote was a quiet parish; this was the first wedding he had presided over this year and he was determined to enjoy it. He was particularly looking forward to the reception - he’d been asked back to Honeycote House afterwards, and the Liddiard hospitality was famous. And he was partial to a pint or two of Honeycote Ale, which was bound to be on tap, even if there were rumours abounding that the Liddiards were as good as bankrupt - again! - and the brewery was about to be sold off. Patrick would tip up any minute, he was sure.

Ten minutes later, even the vicar was starting to have doubts. Twenty minutes was the longest he’d ever been kept waiting. The church clock struck the half hour solemnly. As if anyone needed reminding of the time - the invitation had stated two o’clock quite clearly.

Outside the church, Mandy’s fingers tightened around her bouquet. Keith gave her arm a kindly pat, trying to reassure her. She wasn’t the hysterical type, but it would be hard not to feel a little disconcerted. After all, it was the bride’s prerogative to be late for the wedding, not the groom’s.

Her bridesmaids clustered round her, concerned. Sophie got out her Rescue Remedy. Sasha produced a tiny bottle of vodka.

By the lychgate, Kitty was surreptitiously calling Patrick on her mobile phone. ‘Where the fuck are you?’ she hissed into his voicemail.

Georgina was about to stomp off to her Fiesta and go and find her brother. ‘I’ll kill him first,’ she said. ‘And then I’ll bring him back.’

Even little Constance, who would normally by now be creating merry hell, sensed there was something very wrong and decided to keep quiet.

 

Patrick stared out over the landscape, tears pricking at his eyelids. Why the hell hadn’t she told him before? For in that instant, her declaration made him acknowledge that he loved her too. They were soul mates, weren’t they? He had always felt at home with Mayday. He never had to explain anything to her. She understood him, and he her, with a simplicity and a purity that was only shared by people who were meant to be together. There were never any expectations, and consequently no disappointments.