Honeycote (25 page)

Lawrence’s knuckles whitened on his receiver as he flushed red with excitement.

‘You should have told me this before.’

‘Dad told me not to tell anyone.’

‘Listen, you tell your dad not to worry. We might be able to sort something out. Tell him I’ll be in touch after Christmas. But don’t say a word to anyone else.’

Kelly put the phone down and felt a tingle of excitement in her veins. Meeting Lawrence had been a good thing. She was sure of that. He was the sort of guy that made things happen. Or, more to the point, stopped things from happening. She fingered the little amber heart at her neck and wondered whether to tell her father about the phone call she’d just had. Perhaps not – there’d be a little too much explaining to do. Her parents were quite broadminded – you had to be, running a pub – but she’d worked out that Lawrence must be more than twice her age.

*

Once she’d finished all her grocery shopping, Lucy still had a couple of presents to buy. She’d invited the Sherwyns for Christmas lunch and wanted to get them a little something each. And she hadn’t got Mickey anything yet.

She slipped into James’s gallery. It had been frantic for the past week, but was now quiet, as people didn’t tend to panic-buy expensive paintings. Lucy felt herself relax in the gallery’s elegant confines. The rich red of the walls contrasted with the pale oak beams and floorboards, choral music from King’s College played quietly in the background and there was a delicious smell of mulled wine coming from somewhere.

James was delighted to see her.

‘I’m in a panic. I haven’t got Mickey a present yet. I haven’t a clue, but I knew you would…’ The irony was that Lucy had spent a long time searching for James’s present before hitting on just the right gift. But she told herself that he was much harder to buy for than Mickey, who was easily pleased.

James, of course, found the perfect answer. A tiny little pen and ink drawing of a dog that looked just like Pokey. It was unsigned, therefore a reasonable price, and Lucy was delighted.

‘You’re a genius.’ She tucked the carefully wrapped picture into one of her shopping bags.

‘How are things with Mickey, anyway?’ James asked. Casually, he hoped.

‘Tons better. He seems much more relaxed. Thank God – I was starting to get worried.’

‘Good.’

‘By the way, what’s Caroline doing tomorrow?’

James was surprised. Lucy rarely showed any interest in Caroline’s whereabouts.

‘Going to her parents.’

‘I was going to say, do bring her to Honeycote if you want. For lunch. Or ask her up for a drink in the evening.’

James had to force himself to smile his thanks. He got the message. Lucy was telling him that she was all right. By bringing Caroline into the circle she was pushing him away, making sure he backed off. In other words, he was being dismissed. His services were no longer needed.

In her hotel room in Frome, Kay stabbed out yet another number for a private clinic. She’d been shaken at first, when she’d realized the extent of her predicament. She’d sat in her room without a clue where to turn, spent a sleepless night tossing and turning. But now she was ready for action. No stupid doctor still wet behind the ears was going to tell her she was too late for an abortion. Money talked; she knew it did. It was just a question of finding the right person.

Half an hour later, she threw the handset across the room in a rage. She’d ranted and raved, phoned every clinic she could find, but the answer was the same everywhere. And even if she could have found someone willing to do the dirty deed, they’d all gone off home for Christmas.

That evening, the little church at Honeycote was stuffed to the gills for midnight mass. The popularity of the vicar and the superlative choir always ensured a full turnout. The Liddiards, by dint of living at Honeycote House, always had the front pew. Ned, three rows back on the other side of the church, allowed himself a sidelong glance at Sophie. She looked just as he remembered her, not like the gilded angel from the other night. She was thinner than before, granted, but her hair was down and she was wearing no make-up. She was wearing a pale blue denim jacket and jeans. She looked nothing like the intimidating creature he’d fallen for. But Ned was amazed to find his heart was doing overtime nevertheless. He was in love with Sofa!

As he stared, she turned and looked straight into his eyes. He froze like a startled rabbit, not sure what to do. His heart melted as she smiled at him, not just a gesture of recognition, but a smile that seemed to come right from the heart. He beamed back as the organist pounded out the first few bars of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’, then lifted his hand and tilted it to his mouth, to indicate a drink afterwards. Sophie nodded, and turned back to her hymn book.

Unable to wipe the grin off his face, Ned patted his pocket for the soft little package and, reassured by its presence, threw back his shoulders and sang joyfully.

*

As the congregation spilled out of the church into the crystal-clear night, wishing each other season’s greetings and issuing invitations, Ned and Sophie slipped away. They sat on a tombstone away from the crowds, holding hands, laughing with nerves and excitement.

‘I’m glad you’re back to normal, Sofa. I was bricking it the other night. You looked so scary. I didn’t dare speak to you.’

‘I thought you were ignoring me.’ Sophie looked at him shyly. ‘I thought you fancied Mandy.’

‘God no. I mean, she’s a laugh and everything, but she’s not really my type.’ He smiled at her shyly. ‘I’ve got you a present.’

He proffered the little package and Sophie opened it eagerly. Inside was a beautiful gossamer scarf, the colour and texture of fairies’ wings, embroidered with tiny beads. Sophie was speechless – it was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen, and to think Ned had seen it and thought of her…

As Ned wrapped the scarf around her neck and, holding the ends, pulled her to him, Sophie smelled a waft of spicy vanilla. It was strangely familiar, but she thought perhaps the shop had wrapped the scarf in scented tissue paper. Anyway, she certainly didn’t want to give it a second thought now. She closed her eyes as Ned took her in his arms and planted the gentlest, warmest kiss on her lips.

13

On Christmas morning, Lucy woke up at quarter to five, fifteen minutes before the alarm was due to go off. She switched off the alarm so as not to wake Mickey, pulled on some thick woollen socks and a jumper as the heating wasn’t on yet, and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

In the kitchen, she surveyed the turkey thoughtfully and ran through a mental checklist of who was coming for lunch. Five Liddiards, James, Lawrence, the Sherwyns and the Walshes – it should be big enough. She scooped up liberal amounts of butter in her hands and massaged the skin with care, tucking herbs and lemon into the cavity, before covering it in a tent of foil and popping it into the Aga. She counted backwards carefully on her fingers, to make sure she’d calculated accurately for a two o’clock lunch.

Now the bit she liked best. She crept into the hallway and lifted the lid on a huge carved oak chest. Inside lay three fat, knobbly felt stockings, each one embroidered in chain stitch with its owner’s initial. She pulled them out, enjoying their heavy weight, the mysterious lumps and bumps, and lugged them upstairs.

Patrick lay, beautiful, impassively arrogant as ever, one arm thrown carelessly above his head. Lucy wondered if she was soppy still giving him a stocking, and thought back fondly to the very first Christmas she’d spent at Honeycote. She’d stuffed Patrick’s stocking full of traditional toys – a spinning top, a barrel of monkeys, a tin whistle, a wooden train, a bag of marbles – and had never been as gratified as when she’d seen his face as he opened it. His mother, apparently, had disapproved of Christmas, condemning it as commercial and materialistic, and as a concession the year before had allowed him one educational toy. Now, of course, the contents had changed, but Lucy couldn’t bear to break with tradition, and liked to think that Patrick would be disappointed not to find his stocking at the bottom of his bed. He’d been harder than ever to buy for this year, and she worried that the gifts were rather boringly practical, though she’d been pleased with the torch shaped like a slim, black credit card.

The girls had been easier. The hardest task was making sure that their presents were evenly distributed. In fact, Lucy had ended up getting them almost the same, blowing a fortune in Claire’s Accessories and Boots: body glitter and fake tattoos; knickers printed with the days of the week; Ruby and Millie make-up as well as an assortment of books and CDs and, of course, a pin-up calendar that never got turned past January.

Her deliveries over, she slipped back down to the chest, took out the presents she’d got for their guests and went to put them under the tree in the drawing room. The fireplace was festooned with greenery plundered from the garden, punctuated with ribbons of old-gold silk tied in fat bows. On the coffee table that usually held a jumble of magazines was an arrangement she’d thrown together, using baby pineapples, pomegranates and artichokes. On each windowsill was a huge vase of creamy roses tinged with coral.

The tree was a total contrast. Every decoration they’d had since the first tree she and Mickey had put up for Patrick was given a place. Every decoration any of the children had ever made was proudly reinstated each year. The result was a chaotic, over-the-top profusion that was so uncoordinated that it actually worked. There was no twee Shaker minimalism here. The whole point of Christmas tree decorations, thought Lucy, was that they had to be shiny and gaudy. The family usually had a competition to see who could find the most tasteless topping for the tree. Lucy had realized on Christmas Eve that no one had followed the tradition this year and had resurrected last year’s – a sequinned Santa that sang over and over ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’. She thought it was rather indicative of the atmosphere in the house at the moment; everyone seemed distracted. She’d had to press-gang Sophie and Georgina into the preparations over the last couple of days, baking endless mince pies, threading the cards on to long strips of red ribbon and hanging them in the hall, polishing all the silver, black with unuse, so they could lay the table for Christmas lunch in the dining room. Lucy smiled as she remembered Sophie had been as high as a kite last night when they came back from drinks at the Walshes. She wondered if it was anything to do with the kiss she’d seen Ned give her daughter as they left. It seemed strange to think of Ned and Sophie romantically involved – Ned was almost like a second son to her. Perhaps that was why he’d blushed so furiously when Lucy had caught his eye and winked.

She placed the carefully wrapped packages under the tree, then wondered if perhaps she should put James’s somewhere safer. It was an antique goblet made of Murano glass, and fragile, so she put it on the mantelpiece out of harm’s way. She knew James would love it – she knew his taste exactly. For a moment she considered their relationship. To some people it was no better than an affair, for they spent a lot of time together. In fact, she probably spent more time with James than she did with Mickey. The difference was, Mickey was totally aware of it. And anyway, she and James never had sex.

Lucy had never really considered sex with James although, deep down, she knew that if she gave off the right signals, he’d be willing. Not that he would ever make the first move; he was too much of a gentleman. But Lucy knew that James had never married because, if he did, their relationship would dwindle to nothing. Another woman would never put up with their friendship the way confident, unsuspecting Mickey did.

In many ways, she loved James, for he gave her the attention that Mickey often overlooked. Sometimes Lucy felt a little taken for granted and thought her reputation as a good sport wore a bit thin. She was extremely tolerant and good-natured when Mickey brought hordes of people back for food and drink after a day at the races. Or when Mickey enjoyed someone else’s hospitality after one of these events and came back late and drunk. She didn’t really mind, but then James was always on hand to make up for it, to pamper her with a lingering lunch in Cheltenham, or an open-air concert, or a wander round some National Trust garden. She’d need to put a gun to Mickey’s head to endure any of those outings.

She wondered if James hadn’t been there to fill this void in her life, if her marriage would have been so successful so long. Did this mean she was exploiting James – what did he get out of it except the pleasure of her company? A lot, on reflection, thought Lucy. She looked after him well. He spent most of his spare time with her family, eating her food. Almost as if he were a brother. Which in a way he was, by marriage. Yes, that was it. James was just like a brother to her.

Reassured, Lucy decided to sneak back to bed for another hour before feeding the horses and starting on a mammoth potato-peeling session. She slid in bedside Mickey, who’d been awake since she’d got up but was feigning sleep. He knew there were only a few hours to go before he had to tell Patrick about Monkey. As soon as the Sherwyns were here, the cat would be out of the bag. He was bitterly regretting what he’d considered to be such a smart move. But there was no going back on it. He’d spent the lot; the whole three grand. He consoled himself that at least he’d been responsible enough to pay off the worst of his debts. The ones that were in danger of getting him found out, anyway, like the petrol bill and the farrier. And the ones he couldn’t manage without – namely the wine merchant.

Dammit – what was he worrying for? He’d paid for Monkey in the first place, hadn’t he? He had every right to sell it. It wasn’t as if Patrick even rode him any more – he’d outgrown the little horse years ago. He probably wouldn’t mind at all.

Mickey started as he felt Lucy’s warm hand creep under the waistband of his pyjamas. Oh God. He hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t have a repeat performance of the other night with Kay; that the guilt and the stress and the drink weren’t going to permanently take their toll. But no – he felt the familiar stiffening. Things, and his penis, were definitely on the up.