Just a Family Affair (50 page)

What was he supposed to do now? He could see the church at Honeycote down below. He could sense the anticipation of the congregation. And as the final chords of the song died away, the bells rang up through the valley, summoning him to his own wedding.

He sat at the wheel of his car. Should he turn round and drive back to Eldenbury? What would the future hold for him and Mayday? He’d have to leave the brewery. She’d have to leave the Horse and Groom. They would be cut off, excommunicated. What would they do? Where would they live? He could hardly take her back to Little Orwell Cottage - definitely not, if Kay was going to live there. They would struggle together, building a life. It wouldn’t be fair, subjecting Mayday to the breadline.

Besides, he couldn’t do it to Mandy. He wouldn’t hurt her for the world. And leaving someone at the altar was the worst crime in the world. He had to go through with it. After all, he had never made Mayday any promises. He wasn’t letting her down. If anything she wasn’t playing fair.

Patrick brushed away his tears, thrust the iPod into his pocket and jumped into his car. Hopefully she would still be waiting for him. He turned the key in the ignition, slammed the car into first, and spun off down the road.

 

The vicar stepped out of the church into the crowded porch to confer with the bride. It was getting beyond a joke. This wasn’t merely late; the wedding looked very much as if it wasn’t going to go ahead. Not that he would voice his fear. It was up to the bride to decide when to stop waiting.

‘What do you think we should do?’ he asked politely, just as the Healey came screaming to a halt in the car-park and Patrick leapt out without even opening the door.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said with an agonized expression. ‘The car . . . it broke down.’

‘You could have phoned!’ Georgina was outraged by the lameness of his excuse.

‘It’s all right,’ Keith placated them. ‘He’s here now.’

Sasha threw her arms round Mandy as Patrick disappeared into the church.

‘You poor thing! Now come on - look gorgeous.’

‘Out of the way,’ said Kitty. ‘You’re squashing her.’ And she started rearranging Mandy’s outfit, to make sure she was absolutely perfect for the journey up the aisle.

Mandy’s legs felt wobbly and her hands were still shaking slightly. It had been the longest half-hour of her life. She’d been able to sense the consternation of the congregation through the thick walls of the church, and her heart had fluttered with panic as any number of eventualities had flashed through her mind. Her father had been the one to keep it together. If it hadn’t been for his solidity, his calmness, she felt sure she would have been tempted to run, unable to face the possibility of the ultimate humiliation.

‘Don’t you worry, love,’ Keith had said, with such certainty in his voice. ‘Patrick will be here.’

And he was right.

 

Inside the church, over a hundred heads snapped round to glare at Patrick accusingly. He put his hands up in mock surrender.

‘Bloody vintage cars,’ he said with a tentative grin. ‘Always let you down when you least expect it. I’m terribly sorry to keep you all waiting.’

The congregation was placated by his charm, and he strode up the aisle to take his place next to Ned. The vicar joined them, hugely relieved. This was the closest he’d come to disaster in all his days.

Together, Mandy and Keith stepped into the cool of the church. Mandy suddenly felt overawed. The agonizing wait, the emotional rollercoaster, and now the attention were too much to bear. The aisle seemed a hundred miles long. Tears blurred her vision. She could just make out two tall figures at the altar. Ned and Patrick. This was it. This was really it. She was about to get married.

‘Take your time,’ Keith said gently.

‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ struck up. Mandy took in a deep breath to steady her nerves, threw back her shoulders and managed a trembling smile. The guests beamed back in approval, and some of them wiped their eyes, overwhelmed by her beauty.

She wore a fitted silk jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves and vintage diamanté buttons, tied at the waist with a wide blue satin ribbon. The skirt beneath was full and sheer, made of hundreds of squares of different lace that Kitty had painstakingly sewn into a cascading patchwork waterfall and then attached, at random, mother-of-pearl buttons, feathers, bows of silk ribbon, little silver charms and tiny bells. Peeping out from underneath the skirt were white kid boots laced up with the same blue satin ribbon that trimmed her jacket; and she held a simple bouquet of white tea roses and ranunculus. Her hair was loosely pinned up, and at her ears twinkled pearl and crystal droplets that caught the light. She looked the epitome of fairytale chic; elegant and enchanting.

Constance followed carefully behind Mandy, her breath sweet with the Refreshers that had been rationed out to her during the long wait, her fat little feet squashed into embroidered kid slippers, her fist clutching a wilting bunch of grape hyacinths. Then behind her, Kitty and Sasha, Sophie and Georgina, in white organza, still exchanging scandalized wide-eyed glances at the drama.

As Mandy joined Patrick at the altar, he saw her hands were shaking.

His heart melted. He cursed himself for putting her through what surely must be every girl’s worst nightmare. How could he have doubted his love for her even for a moment? He supposed he was entitled to a last-minute panic, but even so he’d allowed himself to get rather carried away.

He picked up her hand and squeezed it tightly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, and her smile of total forgiveness made his stomach lurch as he realized he had been tempted, just for a moment, to give it all up. He caught the vicar’s eye, urging him to hurry, to make up for all the time that had been lost.

‘Dearly beloved,’ began the vicar, and Ned beamed round at the congregation giving them the thumbs-up, as if he had single-handedly resolved the situation himself. Then before he knew it, he was patting his pockets frantically for the ring and laughter rang around the church, followed by a smattering of amused applause as he produced it triumphantly.

Patrick slid the ring onto Mandy’s slender finger. Her hands were no longer shaking. She looked down at it in wonder, the rich gold gleaming against her tan, then looked up at her husband as the vicar pronounced them man and wife.

This time the applause was thunderous. It was a full minute before the vicar could restore order. It was always hard to keep the congregation’s attention from here on in, because they were champing at the bit to get on with the celebrations, but he was determined to keep them in their place while he delivered his mercifully short sermon.

Finally, it was all over. Patrick and Mandy walked back up the aisle to ‘Ode to Joy’ and went out of the church into the bright May sunshine, where they were pelted with rose petals. After endless hugs and kisses of congratulation, they leapt into Patrick’s car for the short drive to the reception.

Patrick couldn’t resist pulling in to the side of the road to look at his wife.

‘Happy?’ he asked.

‘Ecstatic,’ she replied. ‘But don’t you ever put me through that again.’

And she pulled him to her, smiling. As they kissed a cavalcade of guests drove past, tooting their horns in approval.

A
s each guest stepped into the garden at Honeycote House they gave a gasp of delight. It looked like a film set. Mismatched wrought-iron chairs were placed around mammoth stone tables; Lloyd Loom armchairs and velvet sofas were tucked under the shade of the trees. Silken maharajah parasols spattered with silver sequins that glittered in the sunshine were placed strategically around the garden. Cast iron urns that looked as if they had been plucked from the gardens of Versailles were filled with ice, on which rested chilled bottles of champagne for the guests to help themselves. Random pieces of sculpture and statuary peeped out from behind bushes, and in the very middle was an exquisite fountain with more bottles of champagne resting in its depths. A trio of maidens dressed in white played baroque music under a tree.

At the very bottom of the garden was a palatial white tent, open-fronted, its turrets held up by silver and white poles, the inside lined in white voile with hand-blocked silver butterflies. Dark wood sofas and chairs were scattered with embroidered cushions; white, silver and turquoise leather beanbags were conveniently positioned next to low tables smothered in ornate lanterns and etched tea glasses. Enormous palms were scattered around, and the entire interior was lit with pinpricks of light that flickered on and off. Here guests could relax out of the heat of the sun and shut their eyes for five minutes if they felt so inclined.

It was as pretty as a picture.

Lucy squeezed Bertie’s hand. ‘I can’t believe how generous you’ve been.’

Most of the stuff had been brought over from his reclamation yard, or obtained from his contacts - the tent belonged to a friend of his, he’d got the parasols at a heavy discount from one of his suppliers and the fountain had been ordered by a customer who had done a runner.

‘It’s obvious I’m never going to have my own wedding,’ he replied lugubriously. ‘So I might as well get a vicarious thrill out of this one. After all, you lot are the closest to family I’ve got.’

Lucy rolled her eyes, not taken in by Bertie’s self-pity, but gave him a hug nevertheless.

She looked around the garden with a smile. It was just as she had imagined. Everything was as it should be, even the weather - the sun was warm but not relentless, and there was the faintest breeze that carried the scent of blossom through the air.

Suzanna Blake had excelled herself. While the guests circulated and drank champagne, staff from the Honeycote Arms passed around sweet scallops with minted pea puree, white asparagus wrapped with palest pink Parma ham, rice balls filled with melting mozzarella and potato rosti topped with smoked trout. Later there would be poached chicken with a watercress sauce, followed by elderflower and champagne jellies that had been made in individual Victorian jelly moulds, and little pots of white tiramisu, tipsy with rum.

It was, thought Lucy, the perfect white wedding.

 

Kay was sitting in the shade of a willow tree, on a small wooden bench. The children were corralled into a small gazebo; a machine inside was pumping out bubbles that were causing much mirth.

‘So - which side are you on?’ A languid voice startled her. ‘Bride or groom?’

She looked up at a tall man in an exquisite white suit, his features vulpine but undeniably attractive. He had a glass of champagne cupped in each hand, and as he passed her one his jacket fell open to reveal bright orange silk lining.

‘Um . . .’ She debated the query for a moment as she took the glass obediently.

‘It’s not a hard question,’ he teased.

‘No,’ she countered gamely. ‘But it’s a long story. And it might shock you.’

He sat down next to her and stretched out his legs, showing deeply tanned feet in white suede loafers. On most men they would have looked atrocious, but he carried them off with panache. He smelt delicious. Kay took a gulp of her bubbles as he slung one arm along the bench behind her. He wasn’t making a pass; his arms and legs were so long there was nowhere else to put them.

‘I can assure you I am utterly unshockable,’ he declared.

Kay didn’t doubt it. His eyes glittered with mischief. Or perhaps cocaine. Or both. She took a deep breath.

‘I’m . . . sort of related. To the groom’s side. But I used to live in Honeycote. At Barton Court.’

‘Oh.’ He surveyed her quizzically. ‘When it was a garden centre?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bit before my time. I only moved down here on a permanent basis a couple of years ago. But that means we’re in the same line of business. I do garden reclamation.’

‘Then you must be Bertie Meredith.’ Kay was pleased she was able to identify him. She remembered his yard by the station in Eldenbury. And of course his reputation went before him, even though she’d never met him.

Bertie nodded. ‘And you must be Kay Oakley.’

Kay tensed slightly. What had he heard? If anything.

‘How do you know that?’

Bertie smiled enigmatically for a moment. ‘Everyone thinks I haven’t a clue who everyone is or what’s going on. But actually I make it my business to know exactly what’s what and who’s who. And I never forget anything. I remember James telling me about you and Mickey.’ He chuckled. ‘I was ribbing him because I thought he was knocking off Lucy. He gave me a load of guff about comforting her because of you two.’

He smirked and turned sideways to look at Kay, to see what reaction he was getting. She was sitting bolt upright, taut as piano wire, jaw clenched.

‘Shit,’ said Bertie. ‘I’m really sorry. You don’t still . . . ? You don’t look the type to fall for Mickey. He’s a nice bloke, but . . .’

As a tear slid down Kay’s face, he was even more horrified.

‘Bugger. Have a hanky.’ He burrowed in his pocket.

‘I knew I shouldn’t have come.’ Kay was sobbing by now. ‘They were so nice. They want us to be part of the family, but we’re never going to be. You might as well know,’ she gulped, dabbing at her eyes with Bertie’s enormous handkerchief that smelt so divinely of him, ‘because they’ve said it’s up to me to tell people if I want to. That’s my daughter, Flora.’ She pointed in the direction of the children’s tent, where Flora was leaping up and down with Constance, catching bubbles. ‘And Mickey’s her father.’

She waited for a reaction. Bertie gazed over at Flora for a few moments without commenting.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘In my opinion there’s plenty of room for more Liddiards in the world. They’re a good bunch.’

‘Actually, she’s an Oakley,’ said Kay stiffly, knowing she sounded rather prim. ‘We’re keeping my husband’s name.’