Just a Family Affair (40 page)

The thought led him to a fleeting moment of guilt. Should he have given Ginny that tablet? Surely one little pill wouldn’t hurt. If he didn’t drop one himself he could keep an eye on her. It would make the job so much easier, after all. It would be like plucking one of the ripe peaches off the tree in the garden. Otherwise it could be tricky. Alejandro knew he was irresistible to most women, but Ginny had an aura of anxiety and uncertainty that he knew from experience was inhibiting. It might take him days to break through her shield. Whereas his little white dove would have her cooing and billing. She would enjoy it.

After all, it wasn’t called Ecstasy for nothing.

Alejandro pulled up outside the bar he had chosen for them to start their evening. There was a cocktail lounge and a restaurant serving proper Spanish food, not the ersatz crap that so many establishments now churned out for the tourists. His friend Pedro, the doorman, came rushing forward to open the doors for the girls, and they emerged like superstars.

‘Come in with us,’ Kitty begged Alejandro. ‘Come and have a drink.’

‘No, no, no - it’s a girl’s night.’

‘You can be a token hen,’ insisted Sasha. ‘We’re not sexist.’

But Alejandro stuck to his guns.

‘You’re crazy,’ observed Pedro, amazed Alejandro was passing up the chance to chaperone them.

‘Gotta work. But look after them for me.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t take my eyes off them.’

Pedro watched admiringly as the bride and her cowgirl cohorts filed into the bar. Alejandro gave him the thumbs up then got back into his car. For a while he sat there, wondering if what he was about to do was the right thing. Then he thought of the money. Sighing, he switched on the ignition. That was the thing about life. It was always money dictating to you in the end. Making you do things you didn’t want to do. Turning you into a person you didn’t want to be. Even Raoul, slimy though he was, probably didn’t want to be a drug dealer deep down. They were all in the same trap.

 

Patrick decided to go for a walk while Mayday got ready for dinner.

He didn’t want to invade her space. He knew from Mandy that girls spent a long time agonizing about their toilette. Besides, he felt a little bit awkward. He would never have worried before, but he sensed a change in her that was unfamiliar. A curious mixture of both vulnerability and confidence. She carried herself differently, somehow. She was more subtle, more mysterious. Womanly, Patrick decided. Yet there was an underlying fragility to her that unnerved him. Mayday had always been so robust. He decided that she was probably still raw from her grandmother’s death. He could almost pinpoint the change in her to the day of the funeral. The problem was he wasn’t quite sure how to handle this new Mayday. The old one had been so easy: up front, no strings. Patrick could have left her behind with no conscience. But suddenly . . .

When they’d got back from shopping, he’d watched as she’d laid her purchases out on the bed, admiring them, stroking the rich fabrics. She was wearing the scent he had chosen. The smell got right inside his head, intoxicating him, as it occurred to him that he would never see her wear half of these clothes. Who would get the benefit? Who would watch her drop them to the ground? He knew Mayday had no shortage of admirers. It had never bothered him before. Now, Patrick realized with unease that he was jealous. Jealous of those unknown suitors, those rivals for her affection, the fact that someone else might undo her buttons, peel off her stockings . . .

Shit. This had been a mistake. As soon as they had pulled up at Claridge’s he should have put his foot down. It wasn’t what he’d envisaged at all. He’d just anticipated a bit of malarkey with an old mate. Now, here he was, burning with feelings that had ignited when he least expected it. This was turning into something special. Something meaningful.

A week before his own wedding.

He left the hotel and walked briskly around the block. A gentle evening sun was shining, and the city was starting to fill up as people drove in for their Saturday night’s entertainment. Sleek cars glided by, some with tinted windows, some with chauffeurs, and Patrick couldn’t help but be curious as to how the passengers had reached their position in life. He wandered down Bond Street, eyeing window after window of exquisite luggage, ice-white diamonds, gilt-framed masterpieces - everything so ridiculously out of reach that the journey couldn’t fail to make one feel depressed and deprived, unless one had the strength of mind to realize that it was all meaningless rubbish, and that those who could afford to shop here were not necessarily happier than anyone else.

Mandy, he knew, would be in seventh heaven. She’d be pressing her nose against the glass, admiring the shoes, the dresses, the jewels. She adored her labels, and drooled over them in her fashion magazines every month. But to her credit, she had it in perspective. She’d focus on her key purchases, the one item of the season that she couldn’t live without - a handbag, a pair of shoes, a trench-coat - and would save up for it. And once she’d acquired it, she appreciated it and looked after it. She never made mistakes, or rushed on to the next purchase, but artfully managed to mix her prestige pieces with high-street basics. As a result, she always looked a million dollars. Patrick wondered fondly what she was wearing tonight . . .

By the time he returned to the entrance of Claridge’s, he chided himself for being distracted by Mayday. He was about to marry the woman he loved, for heaven’s sake. He was just being a typical bloke, unable to resist what was underneath his nose. He should just walk away, but he couldn’t now - that would be impossibly rude, when she’d spent her grandmother’s bequest on the room. They’d have a nice dinner together, then he’d plead exhaustion and crash out. He could make his escape early the next day. She wouldn’t be offended. Mayday wasn’t like that.

 

Keith opened his eyes and saw Sandra’s face above his, wet with tears.

What did this mean? Was he dead? Was she standing over his corpse? Why else would she be crying? It took a lot to make Sandra break down.

Behind her he could discern a shadowy figure. Mr Jackson. Had he come to apologize for cocking it up? Was he going to explain what had gone wrong? Or was he about to announce the time of death, glancing up at the clock like a character from a hospital drama?

Keith wanted to speak but his throat felt raw and his head felt a bit swimmy. Why didn’t someone tell him what was going on? Though he supposed if he was dead there would be no point in telling him anything.

Sandra reached out and took his hand. She lifted it to her cheek and he could feel her warm tears. Then she kissed his fingers.

That was it. He’d definitely gone over to the other side. Sandra wasn’t one for showing her emotions in front of men in white coats.

Bugger. He’d left so much undone. The wedding was going to be spoilt. And what the hell was Ginny going to say? He should have given her a hint that something was wrong. It was going to be a terrible shock. He hoped that Sandra would be tactful.

‘Mr Sherwyn.’ Mr Jackson’s voice boomed out, making him jump. ‘Good news. Good news. Everything came out as clean as a whistle. Of course we need to drop it over to the lab just to make sure, but I’m very pleased.’

Keith’s eyes swivelled round. He was in a bed. Not on a slab. In a room. Not a mortuary.

Heavenly relief slipped through his veins. He smiled up at Sandra, who was now weeping openly.

‘I love you,’ she sobbed.

Keith summoned up all his strength. ‘I love you too,’ he replied, then shut his eyes, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

Sandra dropped his hand.

‘It might take him a while to recover consciousness properly, ’ said Mr Jackson.

‘No problem,’ said Sandra happily. ‘As long as everything’s all right.’

‘I’m quite confident your husband’s going to make an excellent recovery.’

‘Marvellous.’ Sandra smiled, not bothering to correct his misunderstanding.

‘Although it might be a while before he’s back in full working order.’

‘Never mind that,’ Sandra twinkled, ‘I’m a very patient woman, Mr Jackson. Very patient indeed.’

W
hen Patrick met Mayday in the bar, he had to look twice to make sure it was her.

She was usually shielded by her wild mane of hair, but tonight it was smoothed into a sleek chignon, and he could see that her face was perfectly heart-shaped, punctuated by delicately arched eyebrows. Her eyes were painted with a glimmering pewter; her lips glistened with her trademark dark red. Her dress was a long sleeved pale-pink shift trimmed with black velvet that was saved from being demure by fishnet tights and towering stilettos.

She looked utterly ravishing. The crazy rock chick wild child had been groomed and tamed to produce a tantalizingly exotic young woman. Of course the money helped. The dress was Temperley, the shoes Rupert Sanderson. Furthermore, her art deco earrings were vintage Cartier, and upstairs in her suitcase was the necklace that went with it, but that Mayday had decided that would overpower the outfit.

As Patrick led her through the tables after the waiter, he could feel every pair of eyes in the room feasting upon her, with varying degrees of lust or envy depending on the sex or inclination of the owner. It was clear everyone was wondering who she was. As she slid into her chair she cast a demure gaze around the room, and everyone looked away. Claridge’s wasn’t the place to be seen gawping.

They drank a bottle of Perrier Jouet champagne while they looked at the menu.

‘I could get used to this,’ said Patrick.

Mayday looked at him solemnly. ‘This is our farewell dinner,’ she reminded him.

‘Actually,’ said Patrick, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever been out for dinner before. Not just you and me.’

There had been crazy nights out. Many of them. But nothing like this - one to one, with no distraction but the occasional obsequious waiter. For a moment Patrick wondered if he should have done a bunk earlier, but assured himself he was doing nothing wrong. Most men behaved far worse on their stag nights. He was just having a meal out with his oldest friend, who happened to be a girl. And he was certain the twins and Mandy would be doing their fair share of drinking and flirting in Puerto Banus. That was the whole point of stag and hen nights, wasn’t it? Getting it out of your system . . .

 

The hen party was sitting at their table in the cavernous restaurant, surrounded by glittering silver pillars and palm trees that reached the ceiling while huge plasma screens played Lionel Ritchie videos. The noise was ear-splitting. Everyone who was anyone on the Costa del Sol was out in force, swigging cocktails as the waiters rushed round filling up their glasses as quickly as they finished their drinks.

At the head of the table, resplendent in her head-dress, Mandy looked round at her friends and smiled. It didn’t get better than this: to be dressed up to the nines, in a glamorous restaurant with your best mates, in a glorious sun-drenched hotspot, with handsome men falling over themselves to get your attention. Since they had arrived at their table, three bottles of Bollinger had been sent over by admirers.

‘It’s over a hundred pounds a bottle,’ she’d protested, looking at the menu.

‘More fool them,’ Caroline had announced, unashamedly knocking it back.

Mandy was a little bit dubious, feeling it was unfair to drink the champagne when they were already spoken for.

‘It gives out the wrong message,’ she objected. ‘It implies we’re available.’

‘Well, we are,’ Sasha pointed out. ‘Me and Kitty are.’

‘So am I. For one night only.’ Caroline was defiant.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mandy, shocked.

‘I mean that if I get an offer, I won’t turn it down.’

‘But . . . what about James?’

‘He won’t know.’

Mandy felt her cheeks flush, then decided that Caroline was just trying to shock her. She always got controversial when she’d had a bit to drink. For a moment she felt uncomfortable. The rules were obviously different in here. Filled with well-heeled and dazzling people out for a thrill, it had the air of an upmarket pick-up joint. She felt a flutter of panic, and wished Patrick was with her. Then she told herself to relax. It was her night. She was supposed to enjoy herself, and she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to.

Caroline leant forward, Bollinger spilling out of her glass.

‘James hasn’t touched me for months. I haven’t had an orgasm since Percy was born.’

‘Too much information, Caroline,’ sang out Sasha.

‘I just want to know that I’m still in full working order.’

‘Well, you don’t need somebody else to tell you that, do you?’>

Caroline re-filled her glass. ‘I want to be sure that it’s not me. That I’m not so unattractive that no one wants to touch me with a bargepole. You’ve got no idea what it’s like.’

For a moment, it looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Then she caught the eye of a dark-haired man in a white linen shirt three tables away. He lifted his glass to her and she raised hers in return.

Mandy hid a smile. Caroline was incorrigible, but if it made her feel better about herself, she supposed there was no harm in it. She looked round for the waiter and signalled for him to bring them some more bread. They needed something to soak up the alcohol while they were waiting for their food.

She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

 

Ginny emerged from her sleep to feel a finger trailing itself along her forearm. She opened her eyes to find Alejandro looking down at her. Dusk had fallen while he’d been gone. The room was filled with candles, pulsating with a warm glow.

‘How do you feel?’

Ginny smiled, a slow, sleepy smile that came from deep inside her. She stretched luxuriously. Her sleep had refreshed and relaxed her. She felt filled with energy and yet languid, almost liquid; her veins thrumming with a low-voltage buzzing sensation.