Honeycote (49 page)

Finally, they reached the Horse and Groom. Patrick avoided the front entrance, as it was already thriving with drinkers and he didn’t want an audience. He led Mandy round the side where a crooked wooden staircase led up to the first floor. He stopped outside an oak door. Mandy looked at him questioningly, but the smile dancing on her lips told him she knew the answer. Confident, Patrick clicked the latch softly and drew her inside.

Mandy’s gasp of delight reassured him that Mayday had done him proud. She’d redeemed herself, following his instructions to the letter when, swept up by the romance of the occasion, he’d phoned her from James’s house. The time had come: this was to be their moment, the moment they’d both been waiting for.

And Mayday, with her love of the dramatic and her sense of theatre, had dressed the room to create a fairy-tale setting. It was lit only by a huge candelabra and a fire burning softly in the grate. A lingering aroma hung in the air, not one of Mayday’s usual heavy incense sticks, but something subtly exotic and sensual. Hidden speakers played smoky, sultry jazz that lingered on the consciousness without intruding. The bed was covered with scarlet velvet drapes; one single deep red rose placed on the pillows. A huge silver bucket held a bottle of champagne; two heavy goblets awaited. Patrick couldn’t help feeling they should have galloped up the high street on horses, thrown their mounts to the innkeeper, and that he should have carried her up the stairs, the highwayman and his lady…

Mandy looked round her in wonderment.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed.

‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘You’re beautiful.’

He pulled her into his arms. The time was right; the setting was right. He’d waited a long time, but it had to be perfect.

A parade of guests, many the worse for drink, shoes and hats discarded, staggered out into the street where the dark green Lagonda was waiting to whisk the married couple to the airport. Someone had bought sparklers, hundreds and hundreds of sparklers, and the guests formed an avenue, two lines facing each other, for James and Caroline to walk down amidst cheers and shouts of well-wishing.

Just down the road, on a patch of green, Keith had slipped away to tip someone the wink. It was his present to the bride and groom – he’d had no idea what to get them and he didn’t want to be boring and choose something off the list, so he’d hit on a plan to make their departing moment a memorable one. He knew it was an ostentatious gesture, but he didn’t care: so what if he was a flash Brummie with more money than taste? That’s what he was and probably always would be, and he was proud of it. And anyway, everyone loved fireworks, didn’t they?

He gave the pyrotechnician a discreet thumbs-up, just as James and Caroline were saying their final farewells, kissing Mickey and Lucy by the door of the waiting car. As the first missile shot into the night sky, puzzled faces turned, alarmed by the noise. When it was joined by hundreds of other silver and gold stars that illuminated the whole street, the crowd applauded wildly. He’d been right – everyone loved fireworks.

They brought a sense of magic to the occasion; made it a true celebration. Keith was gratified to see the guests’ faces light up as they watched the spectacular display, which ended in the happy couple’s initials entwined in a heart emblazoned across the sky for the whole of Gloucestershire and probably Worcestershire and Oxfordshire to see.

Sometimes it was right to be naff.

Mandy lay in Patrick’s arms, laughing and crying at the same time, not sure if what she’d just experienced was real. Not that she could ever have imagined that in a million years. He muffled her cries with his lips, smiling and shushing her. She gazed at him, enraptured.

‘I saw fireworks,’ she said dreamily.

Patrick grinned at her.

‘So did I.’

The two of them laughed, rolled into each other’s arms and kissed each other back into a frenzy. This time Patrick entered her gently, controlling his movements and showing her how to move with him until they were making slow, languorous love, aware of each other this time and not just themselves.

As he lost himself inside her, it was then that Patrick realized he’d never actually made love to anyone before. He’d screwed, fucked, bonked, got his leg over and his end away, but this was the first time he’d tipped over the edge and fallen into someone’s soul. It blew his mind.

*

As Lawrence drove the car back over the hill that led down to Honeycote, the sight of a thousand fireworks filled him with wonder. He pulled over to watch, then realized as a large ‘C’ entwined with a large ‘J’ exploded on to the horizon that it was James and Caroline’s nuptial celebrations. Kelly was fast asleep beside him, and he thought about waking her, but the fireworks made him feel rather melancholy, reminding him of his own failed marriage vows.

The day had confirmed that the decision he was about to make was right. He’d seen the amused, arched eyebrows of the other wives as they mentally subtracted Kelly’s age from his and gave each other knowing glances. He’d had envious digs in the ribs from his business associates, who made suggestive innuendos when none of the women were listening and made Lawrence feel like a dirty old man. Not only that, but he felt very protective of Kelly; the implications were that she was some sort of gold-digger, and he knew for a fact she was not.

He knew better than anyone that, despite appearances, Kelly was actually the sort of girl who’d like to spend her own money rather than anyone else’s. She had aspirations and a work ethic, she wanted to be a success, own her own salon, buy her own Porsche. One day. Lawrence admired her deeply for that and, although he knew she was fiercely independent, he thought he could persuade her that a gentle leg up was not a cop out – especially when there were no strings attached.

As the last barrage of fireworks exploded into the night sky, Kelly stirred and woke. Lawrence put a gentle hand on her arm.

‘Kelly?’

She looked at him wide-eyed with expectation.

‘Yes?’

‘We need to talk.’

28

Kelly was sad that her relationship with Lawrence was coming to an end. She was fond of him, but she was a realist. She knew he was too old for her and she wanted someone to fall in love with, not a sugar daddy.

His proposal, however, had filled her with excitement. He’d made it clear it would be a very businesslike arrangement. They would be partners in the business, he providing the premises, she the hard work and her expertise. The plan was to open the following autumn, which gave them time to find a suitable location and Kelly time to pass her exams; it would be no good her opening a beauty salon unqualified.

She’d decorate the salon in white, lilac and silver, soothing, calming colours, with wafting voile curtains and classical music in the background – that was classy. She could barely contain her excitement, though she knew it was going to be hard work. She’d have to do late-night openings, for women who worked. And Saturday would be her busiest day, of course. But Kelly had never been afraid of hard work. Her parents had taught her that. She’d helped out in the pub ever since she’d been able, though her parents had always stressed that she should follow her own career, not follow them into the trade. She’d make sure she never forgot a client’s name, or how they liked their coffee, or what their favourite nail varnish was. It was attention to detail that would keep people coming back. They liked to be pampered and they liked to be recognized. She wondered about a name. Perhaps her mum would help her choose. Eileen was so much happier, now that she and dad had decided to leave the Honeycote Arms. Things really were looking up.

Lawrence too was delighted with the project. It would give him something to think about besides the garden centre, although it was hardly a challenge on the scale of what he’d been planning to do at the brewery. But perhaps it was better to be motivated by altruism than revenge. He genuinely cared about Kelly and had an interest in her future. He could see that she was good at what she did, and didn’t see the point of her wasting time being exploited at someone else’s beauty salon when she could be reaping the profits for herself. He could keep an eye on things – though he suspected in a couple of years’ time she’d be as sharp as the next one when it came to business. Eventually she could buy him out. He’d give her a favourable price; he’d only have to pay tax on whatever she gave him, so she might as well reap the benefit rather than the Inland Revenue. Or perhaps they could open another; start a small chain. As ever, Lawrence started thinking big, then laughed at himself. Lawrence Oakley, beauty salon magnate? No, he’d set Kelly up, get her up and running, then cut loose. After all, he’d got other, more important plans.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to find Kay. She’d changed her mobile phone number; hadn’t notified him of a landline. Well, he’d made it pretty clear that things had ended. He thought of hiring a private detective, but it seemed so tacky and sordid.

Then he thought about phoning her parents. He knew she wasn’t close, but felt it unlikely that she’d sever all means of communication with them. She wouldn’t deliberately hurt them.

When, a week later, Lawrence finally plucked up the courage to call Sylvia Porter, she sounded relieved.

‘I don’t know what’s gone on between you, and I don’t want to know.’

Not much you don’t, thought Lawrence.

‘All I know is that she needs you.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘She was screaming the place down for you in the delivery suite. You should have been there for her, you know. No matter what’s gone on.’

There was a dumbfounded silence.

‘Delivery suite?’

‘I had to go in with her in the end. She insisted she could manage, but I know what it’s like. No woman should have to give birth on her own.’

Lawrence gulped.

‘She’s… had the baby, then?’

‘I’m only telling you because I don’t think it’s right, her bringing a baby up on her own. But for God’s sake don’t tell her I told you.’

‘I won’t. I promise.’

Sylvia gave him the address. Lawrence recognized the village. It wasn’t a million miles from the house she’d sold him all those years ago. He memorized it instantly, thanked Sylvia hurriedly, then went out to his car before he could change his mind. Sylvia put her hands together and allowed herself a quick prayer. Her daughter was doing well, she was inordinately proud of her coping the way she did, but whichever way you looked at it, a baby needed a father and that was that.

Lilac Cottage was at the end of a row of little terraced houses, none of which, thankfully, had been blighted by the introduction of PVC windows or stone cladding. Lawrence stopped at the little gate and stared up the path to the smart navy pram that stood outside the front door. It was a proper Mary Poppins job, and must have taken up most of the hallway in what he could now see was the tiniest of dwellings. Typical Kay. Quality not quantity. He supposed she could have bought a more substantial modern house with the money he’d given her. But she’d been quite right to choose this; a much better investment. Lawrence felt a fleeting bolt of pride. She’d learned at the feet of a master all right.

He flicked back the latch and made his way up the path, coming to a halt by the pram. From inside, Kay watched him. She liked to put the baby outside for some fresh air each morning, but she always watched the pram like a hawk. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment, before bending down and looking in. Inside was an enchanting, doll-like creature, peaches and cream. He watched in wonder as the blankets rose and fell ever so slightly in time with her breath.

He looked up to see Kay standing in the doorway. He had to look twice, she’d changed so much. Motherhood had softened her once angular features. Her hair was longer, darker, and she’d twisted it up into a clip on top of her head. Loose strands fell onto her face, which was bare of make-up. Lawrence was surprised to see freckles. Even her clothes had changed. Gone was the aggressive power-dressing; the statement, the ‘here I am’ outfits. She wore a cream cableknit sweater, sloppy enough to disguise the few extra pounds she was still carrying, over a long chambray skirt and espadrilles.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Flora.’

Flora. The goddess of spring. Why had she chosen that name? His questioning eyes met hers and he was surprised to be met with a soft gaze, not a defiant stare. Kay smiled.

‘Go on. Pick her up. She won’t wake yet. She’s out for the count.’

An assenting nod confirmed her invitation. Tentatively, Lawrence reached down and scooped up the soft pink bundle. He wasn’t sure whether to pick up the preponderance of bedding that went with her, and hesitated.

‘It’s all right. She’s tougher than she looks.’

As Lawrence drew the baby to his chest, a feeling of warmth enveloped him. And as Flora instinctively snuggled into his clasp, he wondered that it felt so right, so natural. He looked at Kay for reassurance and the warmth in her eyes, the pride, suddenly humbled him. It was this little bundle that was important and not whether she was his, or theirs, or Kay’s. Pride, principle, ego – what did they matter?

He bent down to nuzzle the white blonde fuzz on her head. He tried to speak, but only a croak came out.

‘She’s beautiful.’

Just then the baby stirred, perhaps disturbed by the unfamiliar sounds and smells. But she didn’t protest, just opened her eyes and gazed curiously upwards, one pink paw reaching out. And as he looked down at her, Lawrence’s heart did a huge somersault, for what he saw confirmed the wisdom of what he was about to do. The eyes he found himself staring at were a perfect match – not for his own, nor for Mickey’s, but for Kay’s. Twin green orbs, dark ringed, with their curiously russet centres. It was as if she was a clone of her mother, as if the reproductive process had been undergone without the help of another.

He cleared his throat of the huge lump that persisted.

‘If you put this house on the market now, you’d get a good price. It’s the right time of year to sell. Just bung up a few hanging baskets.’