The Sweetness of Liberty James (21 page)

He had enjoyed affairs throughout their relationship, before and after marriage. It made him feel naughty, a sort of childish release to take the pressure and responsibility away from real life. Perhaps a psychologist could have a field day with him, but Percy was essentially a control freak. He liked his perfect life, his perfect wife, and to feel adored by beautiful women. It was his right as a red-blooded male. He loved to own beautiful things; his art collection was probably the only thing that pleased him completely. He owned it, could look at and admire it. No one else could touch it or see it if he chose; he would spend hours locked in his private study gazing at his Pissarro. Now his pride had been sorely knocked. If he met one more person who asked him ‘How on earth could you let her go, she was so lovely, beautiful and clever, what man in his right mind would do anything to jeopardise what you had?', he would scream. She was just so bloody perfect. Although, come to think about it, she always forgot to pick up the dry cleaning and banged on at him to stop smoking cigars and drinking so much whisky in case it stopped their chances of having a baby. Who wanted babies, anyway? They stopped you going out, and when you could, it was mess and noise everywhere; you had to get rid of the Bentley and put up with sticky fingerprints everywhere, and more to the point, Liberty would have had a new love, no time for him.

Percy had started his last affair when Liberty got serious about IVF. He had read somewhere that the more sex you had, the less potent your sperm, so he figured if he screwed Ginny
senseless often enough then he might not produce the goods for Liberty. Ginny had then become far too demanding, as all the best mistresses do. She wanted him to leave his wife and move in. All his own fault; he had given her most of Cartier's stock over the past six months and she figured if they married he would give her the rest, and the family jewels, too.

Percy sat strumming his fingers on his desk. Should he phone Liberty back? Did she now want him back, the silly cow? Just because everyone else thought she was perfect and so bloody lovely. Hadn't she spent the last three years going on about babies, never listening to what HE wanted? Surely it was more worthwhile to spend millions on a chalet in Gstaad rather than on IVF, and a lot more bloody fun. Why couldn't she just shut up, look after him and forget about anyone else? She had given up asking for animals very early in their cohabiting bliss – a pug, for God's sake, just because her mother always had them. What made her think he would walk around looking like a big ponce with a smelly flat-nosed dog on a lead? What would his friends think? Dogs were for shooting, and therefore kept outside – preferably in Scotland.

Oh well, if she wanted to come back it would save on a housekeeper and it would be on his terms – no more baby talk – and she should come and work in his department in the family bank. Then he could keep an eye on her – or even better, not work at all. He would explain that he wasn't ready for a family yet. If she was so desperate to come home, she would have to lump it.

He had also been mortified to be turned out of the Villa San Michele in Florence. The dago prat of a manager had manhandled him out of the place in front of guests and then charged him for the experience (unknown to Liberty, all charges for the room had in fact been sent to Percy, along with a letter explaining he wouldn't be welcome back).

Bloody Italians, only good for pinching bottoms and handbags. After cancelling what was meant to be their trip to Italy, he had
managed to offload Ginny, saying that if he had wanted a new wife he would have chosen someone years younger. This insult had obviously hit home, as when he had recently bumped into her at a party (her husband was a colleague from another bank) she had had a rather bad facelift and her lips looked as though she had been punched in the mouth. Neither of which detracted from her huge boobs, which had pressed him against her in the first place, but made her look far too needy and insecure. This was something that Liberty would never suffer from. Damn her, why was she so irritatingly lovely?

He picked up the phone, having decided to have her back. His parents were going to be thrilled after all.

‘Hello, Liberty. Percy. Yes, of course it's me. I just missed your call. I see you came home to pick up your stuff. When are you coming back?'

‘I'm not. I'm sorry to have just left like that, or rather made you leave. It was a dreadful time to find out about your affair. You realise I was pregnant, don't you? We have no need to speak. I won't be asking for anything financially.'

‘I should bloody well think not, you stupid bitch,' roared Percy down the phone, so loudly that Dijon ran behind Deirdre's legs and Custard began to yap and leapt up on to Liberty's lap. ‘You dare to try to make a fool of me, you think you are better than me . . .' at which point Percy found himself screaming at his disconnected phone.

‘Bugger,' he said, and poured himself a very large glass of Scotch.

‘That went well,' said Liberty, and promptly burst into tears. Custard licked them away and settled further on to her lap, knowing she had scared the horrid man away and feeling very protective.

‘I'm sorry, darling,' said Deirdre, who had also heard the exchange.

‘I'm not. The moment he said my name I simply knew I never, ever wanted to see him again, let alone have a relationship with
the man. It is all my fault. I feel I have changed so much through the entire IVF process. I really began to think of what I wanted then. It probably made me very selfish,' sobbed Liberty.

‘My darling child. It is about time in your twenty-seven years that you thought about what you wanted. It's just such a shame that you didn't know that when you were younger; but then, who does? You are still so young, with a whole new life ahead of you. Let's have a drink and then I'll take you around the village to meet your new neighbours.'

Their first stop was the tea room. Paul was in the front. He served while Gwen warmed teacakes and made pots of builders' tea in the back. As Jonathan had said, neither of them really had any passion for the catering side. When they moved to the village from South London there were rumours about a scandal involving Paul and a pupil at the school he had taught at. This, if true, had forced his retirement in his early fifties. They wanted to get to know people, and the best way was to take over the tea room. Jonathan had willingly given the tenancy, thinking they were people who wanted to help in the community, and their friendly faces would be so useful for the elderly in the village, with the tea room a place where the lonely could go for a chat. Unfortunately, the rosy-faced Gwen was usually pushed into the kitchen by the bullying Paul, who wanted to leer at the young girls who helped serve, and gossip about all the locals. He had an ally in the doctor's receptionist, Miss Scally. She would come in for her lunch break and, just within the laws of discretion and doctor's confidentiality, through nods and carefully worded sentences, she would let Paul know of any unfortunate who may have chatted too loudly in the waiting room. She loved nothing better than hearing the girls from the council estate come in for the morning-after pill. None of them could ever work out how Paul knew to ask them, ‘Good night in Brighton on Saturday, was it?' whilst putting their Coke on the table with a lecherous sideways look.

Paul greeted Deirdre with polite coldness. While his wife
had been thrilled that Deirdre had offered to bake their cakes, Paul hated the fact that their tea room had been so popular since the arrival of apple galette and freshly baked croissants – not because of the increase in income, which was of course welcome, but because of how all the villagers praised Deirdre and said how fabulous it was that someone so well-known would bother to help such a little place as this. Paul was the kind of person who wanted a lot while doing very little to get it. Right now, although the café was quiet, he told Sarah, who had been helping Gwen clean the kitchen down, to serve the women while he went back to the till to do paperwork (though actually he was planning to read a copy of
Hello!
that had been left by a previous customer). He therefore was thoroughly fed up when Deirdre said, ‘Actually, Paul, we are here to chat to you and Gwen. This is my daughter, Liberty. I believe Jonathan has spoken to you about her.'

Paul looked at Liberty for the first time. ‘Oh, yes, hello my dear, what can I get you? Gwen – GWEN! Come here NOW! Get this lovely lady whatever she wants, on the house, of course.'

A bit rich
, thought Liberty, as the cakes had already been provided at no cost by her mother. Liberty had a strange effect on men at the best of times, but old lechers like Paul seemed to turn into jelly under her gaze. True enough, he flapped about, smoothed his comb-over repeatedly, sat down and then stood up again.

‘Sit down, Paul,' said Gwen as she arrived, as patiently as a wife with a flirt for a husband can. ‘Hello, my dear girl, so glad to meet you at last. Deirdre has told us so much about you. We are thrilled you may be moving here.' She placed tea in front of them in chunky, grey-white mugs.

‘Thank you,' said Liberty. ‘I think I may well be, but I don't want to tread on any toes. My idea was to set up a café, and I would only be doing so if, as Jonathan says, you were thinking of giving up this place.'

‘Well,' said Gwen, ‘as much as we love it, it's been five years now and the years take their toll. Our daughter Nicky and her husband have just had their first baby, and we would love to see more of them, and it would be nice to have a holiday once in a while.'

‘Yes, dear,' followed Paul, ‘but money doesn't grow on trees. I thought you could take Gwen on as an assistant?' This was directed at Liberty, although he didn't look at her.

Relieved that she wouldn't have the ghastly Paul around, but amazed that a husband would volunteer his obviously surprised wife who had just said she would like a holiday, and seemingly did all the work in here, Liberty said that yes, she would be needing help, but only if Gwen would be happy about that. Paul, instead of Gwen, replied that of course she would, and hadn't she been nagging him about needing to make friends at the bingo club and getting out more? He was the one who had worked hard in an inner city school while she just raised their children. It was about time he enjoyed his retirement. Liberty thought it best to leave this line of conversation, and asked them more general questions about how much of their business was local and how much from tourists.

‘Well, most of the tourists tend to eat at the stately homes they visit around here, those that have cafés, anyway, and there are quite a few tea rooms in the surrounding villages.'
Surely a reason for improving this place
, thought Liberty, but said nothing. She would have to nose around the competition, and try to get an agreement with local tours to bring groups to her place en route to the stately homes and open gardens.

They chatted about local suppliers. The couple seemed to have little knowledge of them, only using the local cash and carry, and after managing a few sips of the muck that passed as tea Deirdre excused them both, saying they must get on, and that they would love to have Gwen over to discuss what she would like to do on another day.

Liberty told them that her plan would be to open in late
spring, ready for the start of the holiday season. With that, they left and sauntered over the green back to The Nuttery.

‘Odd couple, but every village needs a gossip, and Gwen is a sweetie. She just needs to get out from under Paul's feet,' said Deirdre.

Liberty agreed. ‘I can see your point about them featuring in
Midsomer Murders
, and perhaps that was why I readily agreed to her working for me. But I'm not sure she wants to work, and if I'm honest, I'm not sure I could cope with Paul sitting in my café, taking up a table day after day, as he strikes me as a lazy so-and-so who would delight in free meals, which he would no doubt persuade Gwen to slide to him when I wasn't looking. So I'm not sure she's the right person to assist me.'

Deirdre suggested that they should wait and see. ‘Who knows, she may have killed him by then and we won't have to worry!'

18

As they crossed the green, they were passed by Miss Scally, wobbling along on her bicycle on her way for lunch at the tea room. She had a pointy face like a witch, a too large nose and scraped back steel-grey hair and not a scrap of make-up. Hers was the kind of face that frightened children and stopped hypochondriacs from making too many extra appointments with the doctor. She turned and smiled at them with one side of her mouth, a smile that had no intention of reaching her eyes, and said, ‘Hello, lovely day when you have the time to enjoy it', implying that she worked far too hard, and off she wobbled, ready for a good bitch with Paul, whom she knew hated the elegant Deirdre and hoped now also hated the far too beautiful daughter.

‘Cow,' said Deirdre. ‘Dr Brown is a lovely man. God knows she must be good at her job, as I'm sure she flew into the village on a broomstick. All she does is moan, gossip with Paul and make anyone who dares to get sick and ask her for an appointment feel awful.'

As they walked they giggled about how funny villages were, and Deirdre said she still loved the place, and then asked Liberty if she would like to help with her class that afternoon – bored housewives wanting new repertoires for their dull dinner parties. ‘They always phone up saying they want to learn to cook more elaborate dishes, when what they really want is to meet other bored housewives and talk about Botox and boast that their husbands earn more than anyone else in the room. They only want simple things to cook so they can spend more time getting
ready, which may be sensible – but then why not just buy a cookery book! I used to teach the cordon bleu method; now I feel like Delia Smith telling them to try instant mash and tinned mince.'

‘No, do you really do that?'