Honeycote (32 page)

Conditions on the hunt this year were glorious. The day was clear and bright, just warm enough to have dispelled the frost that could make driving on the more remote country lanes rather treacherous. It also meant those with convertibles could throw off their roofs with gay abandon and allow the wind to run free in their hair – those of them who still had it. The competitors were a motley crew, with Ned and Patrick being far and away the youngest, but that meant they enjoyed much attention. It was good clean fun, a chance to blow away the cobwebs after the over-indulgence of Christmas Day, and it had become something of a tradition between the two friends.

But Patrick was unable to enjoy the scene. He was livid with Ned. The stupid fool had missed three clues so far and they’d only gone five miles. At this rate they had no bloody hope whatsoever of bringing home the trophy. And Patrick was a competitive little beast. They’d won it for the past three years. It was a point of honour. OK, so the trophy was a rather unattractive lump of Cotswold stone stuck on a piece of wood, but that wasn’t the point.

Patrick glanced over at Ned again. He wasn’t looking at the clue sheet at all. He was gazing over the horizon lugubriously, looking faintly ridiculous in the leather Biggles hat he always insisted on wearing for the occasion. Patrick swore – the whole point of the treasure hunt was you had to keep your eyes peeled; never take your eye off the ball. You never knew where Agnes might have hidden the answer. He braked and swung the car round angrily, jerking Ned out of his reverie.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Going back to the pub. There’s no point. We’re never going to win at this rate – ’

‘It’s not the winning. It’s the taking part.’

‘Bollocks.’

He headed the car back to Eldenbury. Ned couldn’t resist a dig.

‘Nobody likes a bad loser.’

‘I’m not going to be a loser at all. I’m not taking part if you’re not going to pay attention.’

Ned sighed and shoved the clue sheet in the glove compartment. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. He wasn’t in the mood for anything. And actually, the pub sounded like a good idea. He was bloody freezing, despite his earflaps. Driving at speed meant the wind cut through you like a knife and Patrick, as ever, refused to put his roof up. Bloody poser.

An hour later, after they’d revealed their darkest, innermost secrets and fears to each other, Mickey and Caroline found themselves forging an uneasy alliance. Their mutual wariness was put on hold and an element of trust sprang up. Mickey had to admit to himself, however, that he was rather disconcerted by the speed at which Caroline had regained her composure. One minute she’d been sobbing like a baby in his arms. Now here she was, brisk and businesslike. He wasn’t sure which side of her he preferred, especially as he was getting to the stage where a grim reality was starting to seep in through the remnants of his drunkenness, accompanied by a thumping headache. He knew from experience there was only one thing for it. Hair of the dog. He stood up, unsteady.

‘Would you like a drink?’

Caroline smiled sweetly.

‘Tea would be lovely.’

‘I meant – ’

‘I know you did. But I want you to make a pot of tea and bring me a pad of paper and a pencil.’

‘What?’

‘We’re going to make a plan.’

Mickey could see there was no point in arguing, so he did as she said, relaid and lit the fire, and was surprised to find that the tea was actually rather comforting. Caroline wasted no time in embarking on her agenda. He could see why she was a success at her job.

‘Right. Tell me about your marketing strategy.’

Mickey looked a bit blank.

‘I haven’t really got one.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you have. How do you sell your beer?’

‘I supply my own pubs. I’ve got a captive audience. I don’t need to market.’

‘Well, it’s obviously not working, is it? Or you wouldn’t be practically bankrupt.’

‘Overheads. Have you got any idea how much it costs to run a brewery?’

Caroline flapped her hand to indicate Mickey should shut up.

‘We need to get your name out there. We need Honeycote Ales to be on every beer drinker’s lips. It’s good stuff, right?’

‘Fantastic.’

‘So you should let the world know it. For heaven’s sake, Mickey – everything’s about marketing these days. If you’ve got the right campaign behind you, you could piss in a bottle and make a success of it. But you’ve got an added advantage, because your product’s good. It’s a marketing dream. It’s a slice of English country life; it never goes out of fashion. So you need a bit of hype. A celebrity chef who uses Honeycote Ale to cook his beef in beer. The bridegroom who demands it for his toast instead of champagne.’ She paused for breath, but not for long. ‘How many times have you been in the local paper? You should be in it every week, for one thing or another. And what about sponsorship? You should be sponsoring fences at the local point-to-point. Or the local rugby team. Anything to get your name out and about. It’s just common sense.’

She stared at him curiously.

‘Just out of interest, what have you been doing all this time?’

‘Working bloody hard. That brewery’s going round the clock sometimes, you know – ’

‘And you’re there, are you? Shovelling all the hops or whatever – putting your back into it?’

‘Sometimes, yes. I like to think I’m hands on.’

‘Bollocks, You’ve been messing about. You’ve been handed a goose which should be laying golden eggs – ’

‘Actually, I’ve never considered money that important.’

Caroline laughed heartily.

‘The only people who can afford to say that are ones who are stuffed to the gills with it. You’ve been born with a silver knife, fork and spoon in your mouth. And you’d better get real, Mickey. There’ll be people queuing up to step into your shoes when you go belly up.’

She was telling him exactly what Cowley had said to him only days before. How could she be so well informed? Mickey felt a surge of resentment. How come everybody knew more about his own business than he did?

‘How do you know so much about it? I mean, what gives you the right to criticize the way I run my business?’

‘My job, that’s what. OK, so I’m only in charge of advertising on the local paper. But it gives me a pretty good insight into what businesses work and why. I get all the gossip off the journalists – hot tips as to what leads to follow, who’s doing well. It doesn’t take long to build up a picture.’

Tight-lipped, Mickey stalked over to the window and looked out. If someone had told him he would be sitting down with Caroline Mason, drinking tea and drawing up a marketing plan for Honeycote Ales, he’d never have believed them. But at this stage of the game he had little choice. He had no other ally he could turn to.

By the end of the afternoon, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself coming round to what she was saying. Yes, she was abrasive and opinionated, wouldn’t give an inch, but at least she was positive. And she got things done. She’d fetched her laptop from the car, and Mickey watched, fascinated, as she soon had an elaborate strategy typed up, with bullet points and graphs and targets. She printed it off on her portable printer and Mickey couldn’t be anything other than impressed.

‘It’s all bollocks, of course. But banks and investors love business plans. Even if your figures are totally unrealistic, they like to think you’ve thought it through. If nothing else, it will buy you some time with the bank.’

Mickey felt like retorting that he was forty-three years old, he’d been running his business for more than twenty years and he knew what a bloody business plan was. But when you compared their achievements, he’d managed to run a perfectly successful business into the ground, while Caroline had hit double bonus targets three months in a row. So he decided to shut up. And anyway, looking at the plan it was just the sort of thing that would send Cowley into ecstasies. He put it down on the coffee table with a smile.

‘Well, after all that hard work, I think we deserve a drink, don’t you?’

‘No.’

Her tone was headmistressy. Mickey blinked in shock.

‘What?’

‘When’s the last time you went without a drink?’

‘I can’t remember. But I could if I wanted to.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

Mickey frowned. What was she implying?

‘You’re never going to get Lucy back if you’re as pissed as a fart when she turns up. What if she’d turned up instead of me this morning? You weren’t a very attractive proposition, I can tell you. Snoring and dribbling all over the sofa – ’

‘Don’t mince your words, Caroline. Say what you think.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘I always do. And it’s true. You can’t carry on drowning your sorrows, Mickey. You need to sober up, get a grip, face up to your problems – ’

Mickey sighed. He knew only too well she was right. He’d been on track for doing that, as well, until things had gone so wrong the day before.

‘It’s not that easy.’

‘No. Of course it’s not. Nothing worth doing ever is. But if you’ve got me breathing down your neck, you can do it. Face it, Mickey. You’ve got no choice. It’s sink or swim.’

Caroline didn’t like to admit that she herself could murder an enormous gin with not much tonic, but she had a point to prove. She had to set an example.

‘If you’re going to put that plan into action, you need a clear head. You don’t want to be fuddled by booze. You might think it makes life easier in the short term, but it isn’t doing you any favours. In fact, I’d go so far as to say you’ve got a problem.’

‘What?’

Mickey was outraged. Caroline raised an arched eyebrow at his protestations.

‘Well, if you haven’t, it shouldn’t be difficult to go without, should it?’ she asked sweetly, and stood up. Mickey narrowed his eyes.

‘OK, then. What next?’

‘Have you seen the kitchen?’

Mickey grimaced.

‘I’ll start the washing-up. You go upstairs and make yourself look human. Have a shower and a shave, before anyone else sees you.’

Caroline started gathering up the tea things. Mickey was looking at her, open-mouthed. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that before. She looked down at him and grinned.

‘Go on. I’ll check you’ve done behind your ears when you come back down.’

As Mickey went upstairs, he found it was with a lighter heart than he’d had for the last twenty-four hours. Everything was going to be all right. He’d straighten out, sober up, show Lucy how much he’d changed. She’d forgive him, he was sure of it. Surely everyone was allowed one mistake?

In Eldenbury, Patrick managed to edge his car into a parking space that had just been vacated before anyone else spotted it. The market square was heaving. The meet had just been seen off in all its glory, leaving a throng of onlookers thirsty for yet more alcohol pouring into the Horse and Groom. It was an excellent hunting ground for talent: young girls wrapped up in fake furs and stripy hats, with their long legs and big boots, slugging back Bloody Marys and smoking. But this year neither Ned nor Patrick had a taste for it. They were both encumbered by their own problems, unable to enjoy the ritual that usually allowed them to be the centre of attention. Ned with his merry antics and Patrick with his to-die-for good looks made an irresistible combination.

But today Patrick’s scowl marred his features, rendering him almost unnoticeable, and Ned felt less than merry. The two of them skulked on the outskirts of crowds of friends meeting up for the first time in ages. Patrick suddenly found it depressing how people had changed, gained weight and confidence, and didn’t feel like exchanging small talk. Ned was oblivious, enmeshed in his gloom, his thick blond brows meeting in the middle. ‘Might as well go and get totally trolleyed.’

They shuffled into the Horse and Groom and joined the queue at the bar. Mayday was behind the bar, valiantly pulling pints as if her life depended on it, and was puzzled when neither Patrick nor Ned would meet her eye. They were uncharacteristically truculent. She bit her lower lip and tossed back her hair, feeling hurt. She’d never asked anything of either of them. Why was she being ostracized?

Hugging their pints of Honeycote Christmas Ale, as rich and as satisfying as a three-course meal, Ned and Patrick squeezed themselves into a corner by the window to drown their respective sorrows. Ned was ahead of Patrick, as he’d been taking surreptitious nips from his hip-flask on the treasure hunt, to keep out both the cold and his conscience, so it wasn’t long before he slipped into morose self-flagellation about his predicament.

Patrick was unsympathetic. As far as he was concerned, he’d made his own bed. Ned protested that sleeping with Mayday just didn’t count, she was a rite of passage, fair game. Patrick just raised an eyebrow and suggested he tell that to Sophie. Ned sulked. Patrick clearly wasn’t going to give an inch, or allow him any way out of his dilemma. He didn’t care, because it wasn’t his problem.

Patrick did care, very much, but was wrapped up in an even bigger dilemma that he couldn’t voice to Ned. He had been deeply shocked by Lucy’s revelation about Kay the night before. He was confident that whoever’s baby Kay was carrying it wasn’t his. If life had taught him one thing it was to always have safe sex. Patrick liked risks, but riding bareback wasn’t one of them. On the other hand, he was pretty sure his father never gave safe sex a second thought from one day to the next. He’d be of the old school that considered contraception a woman’s responsibility, if he considered it at all. Moreover, he knew Mickey never learned from his mistakes, and Patrick had been one of his biggest. Add to that the fact that Kay wasn’t of the generation to carry a condom in her handbag and bingo – you could see how it had happened. Apparently Lawrence had been pretty confident it wasn’t his, for whatever reason. Presumably they hadn’t been having sex. So there it was, somewhere Patrick had a half-brother or sister that was destined for the incinerator, if it wasn’t already there. It left him with a sour taste in his mouth, particularly because he knew that if the child had been his, he’d have fought tooth and nail for its survival. For Patrick was all too well aware that if it hadn’t been for his own mother’s liberal outlook on life, he could have ended up being hoovered out himself. He didn’t suppose Mickey had been too thrilled when Carola had announced her pregnancy all those years ago, but she’d stuck to her guns and he’d gone along with it. It was one of the few things Patrick was grateful to his mother for.