Honeycote (37 page)

She flipped open her suitcase and regarded the few clothes she’d brought with her when she’d fled from Barton Court. Within minutes she concluded that absolutely none of her outfits were suitable or comfortable for a pregnant woman – they were all too streamlined, too harsh, too tailored, too fitted. Even her most casual clothes were sleek.

She decided she’d go to the sales. Bath was only fifteen miles away and had hundreds of shops that were bound to be brimming with suitable outfits. She had a new part to dress for, and she couldn’t wait. She dug out the least severe of her clothes – a grey angora polo neck and a pair of bootcut black trousers from Joseph – and realized with delight she couldn’t quite do the waist up. Thrilled with the novelty, she raided the hotel drawer until she found the mini sewing kit, and gave herself a bit of leeway with a safety pin. Then, scooping up her car keys and her credit cards, she set off on her mission.

Before Lucy went to see Mickey, James gave her a pep talk as she paced around the kitchen like a highly strung horse parading round the collecting ring. He soothed her, reassured her that he would always be there – he didn’t add ‘for you’ as it sounded too cranky and American. Just before she left, she leaned against his chest for comfort, for support, for strength, and he squeezed her tight. To her it felt like reassurance, but he was in fact staking his claim. If he’d believed in voodoo he’d have made a wax doll of his brother and rammed every pin he could find into it.

And now he didn’t want to speculate on events at Honeycote House, didn’t want to torture himself imagining the various scenarios that might unfold, the worst of which was a cosy reconciliation. So he needed a task that was mindless, yet required absolute concentration. He lined all his shoes and boots up on the kitchen table, together with all the tins of polish he’d accumulated, then unearthed several of the neat strips of sheeting that Mrs Titcombe cut up whenever his bed linen was considered to be past its best. Then he began his ritual. Each shoe was inspected for need of repair, or new laces, then the appropriate polish was rubbed in. James spent the next hour and a half buffing, spitting and polishing until his face could be seen in every item of footwear he owned.

Lucy and Mickey faced each other across the drawing room, neither knowing how to start the confrontation. Did one begin with trivialities? Should he offer her a coffee? Or a kiss? She didn’t look as if she wanted any sort of bodily contact. Her arms were crossed in front of her as she glared at him balefully. He’d seen other wives do that, when their husbands had lurched back home drunk and late for lunch, dinner, whatever. But it wasn’t Lucy’s style. Looking at her now, however, she might have been an expert, and spent a lifetime executing the piercing stare that was now making him writhe with discomfort.

‘Well?’

Mickey didn’t have a clue what to say. He’d never prepared himself for this eventuality and the awful reality of it shocked him. He was ashamed. Disgusted by his behaviour. He attempted a line of defence.

‘It was one of those things.’ How lame could you get? ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’ He didn’t add that he didn’t really understand himself, as he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. But for the life of him he couldn’t think of anything that remotely resembled a defence. Short of saying that Kay was forcing him to have sex with her at gunpoint, there was no get-out clause.

‘So – was she the first? Or the fifty-first?’

‘Lucy…’ Mickey had the gall to look hurt. He had a selective memory that allowed him to forget his previous indiscretions. He knew he was pretty safe where they were concerned. The barmaid in question had emigrated to Australia – he remembered a postcard arriving at the pub with a winsome koala that was pinned up for the benefit of the regulars. And the nurse had gone to seek her fame and fortune – or at least a better salary – in London. He was unlikely to get caught out, so as far as he was concerned they’d never happened.

‘And how long? How long has it been going on?’

This was the killer. Mickey was gripped by a dilemma. If Lawrence knew, which he was pretty certain he did, was that because Kay had told him? And if so, what had she told him? How much detail had she gone into? And would Lawrence see fit to compare stories with Lucy? What would be better – to tell the truth so as not to be caught out at a later date? Or could he risk fudging it, passing it off as a one-off bonk with unfortunate consequences? And was a one-off bonk any better than an on-going affair? It sounded more sordid, somehow. At least an affair had some depth to it… though the implications for Lucy weren’t good. God, why was it that your penis always shouted louder than your brain?

Lucy just wanted him to say something. Anything.

Even the tiniest, most pathetic attempt at self-defence, a hint of his motivation, would have been better than his blank, almost catatonic stare. She felt a sudden urge to slap him; Lucy, who was the world’s most passive creature and never felt driven to any sort of physical retaliation, suddenly wanted to belt him across his self-satisfied chops. She let rip instead.

‘For God’s sake, Mickey. I’ve always given you the benefit of the doubt. I’ve sat there and smiled while you chatted other women up at the dinner table, turned a blind eye when you flirted. Because I never really thought you meant it. And in a way I was flattered that other women found you attractive. But I never thought you’d actually do anything. I always thought it was me you wanted.’

‘It was!’

‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ Lucy gave a bitter laugh; the sound was harsh and unfamiliar coming from her. ‘I must be a total idiot – you’ve had me fooled all this time. You’re nothing but a dirty old man, peering down women’s cleavages and sticking your hand up their skirts. I bet they feel sorry for me, married to you with your wandering bloody hands – ’

Mickey recoiled, the harsh words whipping at his heart like forty lashes. He was appalled that Lucy could think the things she was saying, let alone speak them. Could what she was saying be true? Was he a laughing stock, some sort of lech to be neatly dodged at cocktail parties? Was his image of himself as a charming flirt, a delectable rogue to be resisted if you could, some hideous distortion of the actual truth?

The truth, of course, was somewhere in between. Mickey was the archetypal ladies’ man. Even the plainest woman blossomed under his attentions; he made them feel beautiful and desirable by the way he hung on their every word or at least gave that impression – he was adept at looking utterly absorbed while thinking about something else entirely. He took an interest, teased them, touched them – a light hand on the small of their back as he escorted them into dinner, a warm kiss goodbye that seemed full of promise. Yes, he was tactile, but he didn’t bloody grope – he was quite sure he’d never stuck his hand up anyone’s skirt in his life. Behaviour like that belonged in a Benny Hill sketch. OK, so it turned him on to think that women went away desiring him – but surely that was normal. Didn’t everyone want to be loved? Mickey sighed. He was desperate to defend his position, but how could he?

They quickly reached an impasse. Mickey’s tongue was tied, which made him come across as surly, almost truculent, like a naughty child sulking because he’d been caught out. Which frustrated Lucy and made her overreact, invective pouring out because Mickey put up no barriers to stop her. Without the shield of alcohol, each accusation Lucy slung at him hit him like a cruel barb. And while there was a grain of truth in what she said, she didn’t really think that of him – she would never have tolerated that kind of behaviour. But they were both feeling defensive and vulnerable, both terrified of what was going to happen, both keenly aware that how they reacted to the turn of events was going to have serious ramifications upon their future, and neither of them really knew what to think, feel or do.

Mickey leaned back against the fireplace, hooking his arm over the mantelpiece for support. Fuck Caroline – how dare she lock away all the last vestiges of booze? He felt himself starting to shake and knew she would mock him – DTs, she’d call it, but Mickey thought it was shock. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, yet he felt icy cold. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t deny what he’d done. He couldn’t excuse it either. What should he do? Beg, plead, grovel? Apologize? He supposed that would be a start.

‘I’m sorry – ’

Lucy looked at him witheringly.

‘What for, Mickey? Why are you sorry, exactly? Because you’ve been fucking someone else? Or because you got caught?’

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t answer her. Suddenly he was terrified of his beautiful wife, who’d always been so gentle, who was never judgemental. He buried his head in his arms in despair, clinging on to the mantelpiece. Whatever he said would sound whinging, cringing.

Lucy looked at him in disgust. His silence spoke volumes. Obviously he didn’t feel his actions were worth defending. Which must mean he didn’t feel his marriage was worth saving. How could she have been taken in for so long? Mickey just wanted to have his cake and eat it. Selfish, self-indulgent bastard. It could only mean that he loved Kay; wanted her more than he wanted Lucy and Honeycote, and Sophie and Georgina and Patrick…

Lucy turned and ran out of the room, up the staircase and into their bedroom. The bed had been made up, obviously by Mickey, because the pillows weren’t as she’d have them. Everything looked immaculate. There were no clothes littering the floor, no handfuls of loose change deposited here and there, no empty tea or coffee cups. But good housekeeping was hardly going to make up for the wrong he’d done her. If his untidiness had ever displeased her, she’d have done something about it long ago.

She flung open the wardrobe, pulled down a nubuck Gladstone bag and started throwing clothes in at random – the entire contents of her underwear drawer, a couple of nighties, jumpers, sweatshirts, jeans, socks – for some reason she packed lots of socks. She certainly wasn’t going to need anything smart. Lucy didn’t think she’d ever go out again. She grabbed her sheepskin-covered hot water bottle off the bed. She’d need that for comfort. She’d often hugged it to her when she had period pains and it was better than any teddy. She threw in the special hairbrush she needed to disentangle her curls, but didn’t bother with any make-up or jewellery. Or toiletries – James’s bathroom was better equipped than any hotel or pharmacy, and she’d already been given her own brand new toothbrush, still in its cellophane wrapper. She added a couple of pairs of shoes, then snapped the bag shut.

Then she flew down the stairs again and out of the front door. Without saying goodbye. There was certainly nothing good about her departure and even ‘bye’ seemed superfluous. She threw the bag into the boot and was about to bang it shut when she remembered something and made her way back to the house.

‘Pokey!’ Lucy stood at the front door and called into the bowels of the house. She didn’t have to call twice. Pokey shot out of the kitchen and skittered across the flagstones, then bounded after her mistress and leaped into the boot of her car without a backward glance.

Sophie had spent the day trailing round the shops after Georgina and Mandy, who, in an effort to cheer her up, had forced her into trying on millions of outfits at cut price. She was surprised to find she could now get into things she never thought she’d be able to wear, as she’d lost so much weight recently. She’d spent all of her waking hours up until Christmas resisting food, with some success. And here she was, looking at herself in a pair of snakeskin hipsters. Only a week ago she’d have been thrilled at the reflection that was staring back at her.

But what was the point?

She didn’t go on to the others about how she was feeling. There were girls at school who made an absolute meal of their affairs of the heart, banging on and on if they’d been chucked or two-timed or were suffering unrequited love. Sophie thought they were a pain – who wanted to hear ad nauseam what they were going through? She certainly didn’t want to inflict her suffering on anyone else. She was more stoical, happy to suffer in silence. So she put on a brave face to the outside world even though inside she was gutted.

Mandy and Georgina were concerned. They sensed her unhappiness even though she chose not to voice it, but they didn’t press her on the issue, which she appreciated. And the one good thing to come out of it was now she couldn’t face food at all. She had no trouble resisting it whatsoever. And she was beginning to enjoy the gaping, griping emptiness inside her. It gave her a sense of achievement.

‘Go on – buy them. They’re less than half price.’ Mandy was nudging her.

‘Too tarty.’ Sophie unzipped them hastily.

‘Not if you wear them with clumpy boots and a big sweater. They’re really cool.’

Sophie shook her head and put the trousers back on their hanger. She realized now why she was reluctant to buy them. They were just the sort of thing Mayday would wear. She wouldn’t be seen dead in them.

Patrick was starting to panic when he finally heard the shoppers return. He saw Mandy blush pink with pleasure when she saw him and give him a shy smile, a little unsure. He’d returned it, pleased that he obviously still had some power over her. But now wasn’t the time to pursue her. His priority was to buttonhole Keith, who was looking rather grateful for a bit of male company. Patrick had studied Caroline’s business plan carefully, while Mickey wasn’t looking, so he felt fairly well-armed and confident that he could talk about Honeycote Ales with an assured manner. Make it look like an inviting prospect for a potential investor, dangle a few carrots…

There was a flurry of activity while everyone took off their coats and put away their bags, and Sandra went sulkily to make tea at Keith’s light suggestion. Mandy and Patrick found themselves alone in the lounge. He walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek – a non-committal gesture that indicated friendship but not necessarily intimacy.

‘How are you?’

‘Me? I’m fine. But I’m really worried about Sophie. She’s devastated about Ned, you know. Even though she won’t admit it.’