Just a Family Affair (34 page)

She dived into her handbag and handed Ginny a brochure.

‘Take a look through. There’s always lip-plumping. For the bee-stung look.’ She cocked her head to one side and surveyed Ginny critically. ‘You’re a very pretty woman. Giving nature a little nudge is nothing to be ashamed of. I like to think of it as enhancing. Enhancing one’s attributes.’ She picked up her coffee cup. ‘It’s so hard to be a woman these days. We have to be all things to all people. In the kitchen, in the boardroom, in the bedroom . . . There’s nothing wrong with asking for a little help.’

Ginny set her own cup down on the table, rather too hard.

‘I’m just going to go to the loo,’ she said with gritted teeth. She couldn’t bear to sit in the room with the woman a minute longer. She fled up to her bedroom and sat on the bed, clutching the brochure. What a cow! But out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and a little bit of her wondered if Sandra was right. When she looked at her reflection these days she didn’t like what she saw. There was a dullness to her skin. And her eyelids did look a bit droopy. The skin under her jawline wasn’t as taut as it could be. Her blond hair was going darker, which meant the threads of grey that had started appearing shone out along her parting.

She sighed. It was downhill all the way now. Watching the twins blossom and bloom and sparkle brought it home all the more. Their skin was soft, with a sheen to it that no amount of jabs or infilling could bring. They had a shine to their hair that Ginny knew no masks or conditioners could bring to hers. They had a lustre, a brightness, a glow. And she had to admit she was jealous. No, not jealous, for she didn’t begrudge her daughters their beauty, not for an instant. Envious? What was the point of envy? It just made you bitter and twisted. Surely it was better to accept that your time was over and embrace the signs of ageing? Not like the likes of Sandra, who were in desperate denial, fighting it to the bitter end.

Though she couldn’t deny that Sandra did look good. In a line-up, it might be hard to tell which of them was the older. OK, so the Sharon Osbourne look wasn’t what she would go for herself - it was far too glamorous and high-maintenance - but Sandra was definitely eye-catching: her brow smooth, the skin taut across her cheekbones and jawline. Eyes bright and dewy. Hair sleek and glossy. Nails beautifully polished. Ginny looked down at her own hands. They were dry and chapped, the nails ragged. She often had to stand in when her girls were off sick, and she didn’t bother with rubber gloves when she cleaned. And now she was paying the price.

Oh dear, she thought. She had committed the cardinal sin in this image-conscious era. She had Let Herself Go. She probably wasn’t eating as well as she should at the moment, which meant that she had lost weight in the past couple of weeks, but at her age, ironically, weight loss was ageing. Losing that subcutaneous fat added years. Throw in the greying hair, the unkempt hands, the fact that she never wore anything but jeans and it was no wonder Keith couldn’t muster up enthusiasm for any bedroom action.

Ginny wondered sadly whether a woman was ever allowed to be comfortable in her own skin. When you were young and in your teens, you wanted to look older. In your twenties, you didn’t appreciate your relative youth - Kitty and Sasha, who were in their prime, were riddled with neuroses and insecurities about their looks. Then the baby-rearing years passed in a blur of stretch marks and spare tyres and hair loss. When you’d just about got over that, and were clawing back your confidence and self-esteem, then your husband left you for a younger model, sending you spiralling back down to square one.

Ginny thought there had been a small window when she had felt sexy and confident, just after she’d moved to Honeycote and first met Keith. She remembered one particular day, when her ex-husband David had turned up to moan about his lot, and she’d caught him looking at her rather longingly. She’d felt invincible that day. She’d got over her divorce and got herself a new man. She knew her eyes had been sparkling, that her bum had looked fantastic in her new jeans, that her choppy bob had made her look, in a good light, a tiny bit like Meg Ryan.

She didn’t feel like Meg Ryan any more. Not at all. She fingered Sandra’s brochure thoughtfully. Maybe she needed to get a grip on herself. Keith had been rather gruff in his goodbye this morning. There had been a moment when she sensed he wanted to say something important to her, but he hadn’t. He’d told her to enjoy herself and scuttled off to the brewery.

Ginny sighed. If he was going to tell her it wasn’t working, that it was all over, he would probably wait till after the wedding. Maybe she had some time to pull herself together. Or maybe she was a lost cause . . . ?

‘Mum! Caroline’s here!’ Kitty was shouting up the stairs.

She wished fervently she wasn’t going. She was going to look ridiculous, trailing round Puerto Banus after Mandy and the twins - even Caroline had fifteen years on her. She would look like some ageing chaperone, dogging their every footstep in case they fell into temptation. She imagined them being ushered into a pulsating, glittering nightclub and the bouncer putting up his hand to stop her, denying her entry on the grounds of lack of youth, lack of beauty. As she pictured the humiliation, her guts twisted inside her. It wasn’t too late to pull out. She’d tell them she had a stomach upset.

‘Come on, Mum!’ Kitty was at the door, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘We’re going to miss the plane if we don’t hurry.’

Ginny sighed. There wasn’t time to demur. Not now. Maybe a break was what she needed. It would give her a few days to look at herself, examine her life, try and put her relationship with Keith into perspective. She tucked Sandra’s brochure into her handbag and picked up her case with a sigh. It contained a couple of linen skirts, some t-shirts and a cotton dress. A frumpy middle-aged woman’s wardrobe. But then, that’s what she was.

As Caroline’s car disappeared out of the drive twenty minutes later, Sandra slipped into the driving seat of the Audi cabriolet she had hired for the duration of her visit and allowed herself a little pat on the back for a job well done.

She’d been as subtle as she could. Just sown those few tiny seeds of doubt. Ginny could protest all she liked that she was happy with the way she looked, but Sandra knew there wasn’t a woman on the planet who didn’t have reservations about her appearance.

No, Ginny would definitely be ripe for plucking. And Alejandro was just the man for the job. He could do more for a woman’s self-esteem than any top cosmetic surgeon. After all, wasn’t she testament to that herself?

She picked up her mobile phone and dialled the villa. When he answered, she allowed herself to imagine his bare torso, those sinewed arms, and her mouth watered.

‘Alejandro. The girls are on their way. Now, don’t forget, I want you to treat them all like princesses. Do you understand? I don’t want them to lift a finger. You’re to prepare all their meals. And clear up. Make their beds every day. And I want those bathrooms gleaming. If they want driving anywhere, you drop whatever you’re doing. Do you get the picture?’

Sandra knew she could afford to talk to him like that, for she paid him extremely well to loll about in her house and water her peach trees while she was absent.

‘Sure. No problem,’ he replied easily. ‘Everything is ready. The beds are all made. The refrigerator is full. There are fresh flowers. I have thought of everything.’

‘Good. And Alejandro - there is just one more task. For which you will be . . . generously rewarded. But I will need evidence. Photographic evidence . . .’

And she outlined her instructions with precision.

The next phone call she made was to her ex-husband. For this she had a change of tone. Honeyed rather than assertive.

‘Keith. It’s Sandra. I wondered if we could have dinner tonight?’

‘Dinner? You and me?’

He sounded very unsure. She pretended to sound anxious.

‘It’s just that I’d really appreciate your advice. There are a few . . . financial issues I want to discuss. I want to make sure that what I’ve decided is the best thing for Mandy.’

She knew that would swing it. Playing the helpless female usually worked. And Mandy was Keith’s weak spot. She always had been.

‘OK,’ he sounded reluctant, but at least he had agreed.

‘I’ll book a table at the Lygon Arms.’

‘The Lygon Arms?’ Keith sounded startled. The hotel was definitely a special occasion venue; a five-star landmark in the picturesque village of Broadway.

‘I think we should treat ourselves. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to go there, and it’s no fun eating on your own. I’ll meet you there at eight.’

She rang off happily, slipping her phone back into the depths of her handbag. As she started up the ignition, she eyed Keeper’s Cottage critically. It was certainly very pretty, and Keith and Mandy had done it out very tastefully. But it had no presence. It wasn’t really a statement. Nevertheless, she had no doubt that it would sell quickly. As would her villa. Stick the value of the two together and they could probably afford something pretty spectacular - perhaps not a manor, but one of those substantial, sprawling country houses that the Cotswolds did so well. Like Honeycote House, she thought, but with heating that worked and windows that weren’t about to fall out.

She remembered the first time she had stepped over the threshold at Honeycote House, when she had come to collect Mandy one weekend during a trip back from Spain. She had been rather intimidated by them all at the time. The Liddiards en masse were daunting even to the most socially confident. Sandra had done her best to be the life and soul of the party nevertheless, but had only succeeded in feeling loud and brash, especially in contrast to the graceful and dainty Lucy. She knew there had been glances exchanged behind her back, and a sigh of relief when she had left. And on the few occasions she had met them subsequently, she had definitely felt a fish out of water.

But she had changed. Then she had been a nobody; a dull housewife with a penchant for gin. Now Sandra Sherwyn was a force to be reckoned with. She was a successful entrepreneur, she could probably put her hands on more ready cash than all of the Liddiards put together, she looked fantastic and she was in total control of her life. She was in a position to wake up in the morning and do whatever she wanted. Have whatever she wanted. Success breeds confidence. She was living proof of that. Yes, decided Sandra. She was ready. She knew that with Keith by her side it would only be a matter of time before she was queen of the local scene.

Spain had been fantastic. Spain had given her the best years of her life so far. But it had been a lonely journey. She had worked tirelessly. Even when she was supposedly off duty she was networking, circulating, winning people over, spreading the word. It had paid off. But now it was time to kick back and enjoy the fruits of her labour. She wanted companionship, a social life, a home . . . not a sterile symbol of her success. No matter how stunning her villa was, it had never felt cosy, inviting, welcoming, relaxing. Spectacular and luxurious, maybe. But it could have belonged to anyone. She’d bought it fully decorated and furnished. There wasn’t an iota of individuality within its walls.

And when she had her home, she wanted to sit at the head of her table, as guests, family and friends came and went, ate her food, drank her wine, danced to her music. She wanted people to fall over themselves to be invited into her inner circle. And she couldn’t do that alone. She knew that to be a social success you had to be part of a couple. And Keith already had his foot in the door. He had a wide circle of friends, and an even wider circle of acquaintances. He had respect and credibility. The template was there. She just had to build on it.

Sandra started up the car and headed out of Kiplington towards Eldenbury. She’d phone the Lygon Arms to book a table, then buy a local paper and skim through the property section over a cup of coffee somewhere. She might be moving a bit too fast, but Sandra enjoyed anticipation. Looking forward to something was often more pleasurable than the reality. She adored plotting and scheming and planning, moving the chess pieces of life around to make sure she had checkmate every time.

While she was at the Lygon Arms later, she mused, she might just ask them about weddings. She was thinking of a nice quiet civil ceremony followed by lunch. Second time around it was better to be discreet. Especially when you were marrying your own ex-husband.

 

Later that afternoon, the hen party tumbled out of the MPV they’d hired at the airport, travel weary but full of excitement.

Sandra’s villa was quite breathtaking. It was perched on a hillside with staggering sea views to one side and mountains to the other. There were gasps of delight at the lush greenery, the rambling terrace, the scent of the flowers, the glimpse of the azure blue swimming pool that winked in the sunlight.

Open-mouthed, they ventured inside.

The accommodation was palatial, centred around a large open-plan area with a vaulted ceiling, hung with a wrought-iron chandelier the size of a wagon wheel. To one side was a kitchen in a dark, warm, rustic wood set against bright blue and yellow ceramic tiles. A long table with benches down each side denoted the dining area, while the living room was marked out by three sofas at right angles to each other, carved out of wood and filled with dark blue linen cushions. On the wall was a flat-screen television and discreetly mounted speakers. Modern seascapes adorned the walls. There was little clutter, just a glass bowl filled with lemons, a vase of fresh flowers, and a couple of chunky wooden candle-sticks. It was almost like a luxury hotel.

‘Bloody hell, Mandy. You never told us it was like this. This is film star stuff,’ said Sasha accusingly.

Mandy herself was looking staggered. ‘This is new. She bought it a few months ago, after she sold the clinics. She just had an apartment before. Nice, but nothing special. I’d got no idea.’