backless, strapless: all were rejected before Mandy finally came to rest in front of a red velvet creation with a boned bodice. Sophie looked horrified. It would cling to all her lumps and bumps.
‘Not with the right undies,’ Mandy assured her. She held the dress up against Sophie and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Pull-you-in knickers and a push-you-up bra. And we’ll get some fake tan.’ Sophie gulped, and felt a surge of excitement. Mandy grinned.
‘Let me make you over. It’ll be cool. You won’t recognize yourself.’
Sophie looked at the dress again, wanting to feel as sure as Mandy. Just as she felt nearly convinced, she flipped over the price tag and her heart sank. It was more than double what her father had given her.
‘I can’t afford it,’ she said flatly.
Mandy tossed the dress over her arm and marched to the nearest cash desk. ‘I’ll pay for it. As a thank you for having me. You’ll need your dad’s money for accessories. And make-up.’ She peered at Sophie. ‘Have you got any make-up?’
‘I’ve got some mascara. And some spot cover.’
Mandy passed her credit card over to the sales assistant and turned decisively back to Sophie.
‘Make-up first. Then accessories. Then lingerie.’
Mickey had remembered that this particular shop didn’t bother to check on your credit card limit if you spent under a certain amount, and so came out of lingerie with a pair of cream satin pyjamas for Lucy. To have bought anything more suggestive would have been crass and, moreover, suspicious. Besides, Lucy wasn’t an expensive underwear sort of person. She looked utterly sexy in whatever she wore, whether it was her own Marks & Sparks briefs, Sophie’s old gym knickers or, when she was behind with the washing, Patrick’s beloved Calvin Klein boxer shorts. It wasn’t that she didn’t like clothes, but she reasoned that if it didn’t show it didn’t matter, and would rather spend the money on vet bills or shoeing the horses.
Satin pyjamas were indulgent but sufficiently utilitarian to please her. On Sundays, the one day that she didn’t get up at dawn to exercise one or another horse (a couple of girls from the village were more than happy to do it), Lucy loved pottering about for hours without getting dressed, especially after one of their infamous parties. They always had chilli con carne and lemon meringue pie followed by dancing on the flagstones in the huge entrance hall, where it didn’t matter if the gallons of red wine being drunk got spilled. Lucy had an admirable quality that eluded many women: she was able to leave the clearing-up for a time when she felt equipped to cope with it. No two a.m. skirmishes with the Marigolds, no manic dawn raid with half a gallon of Fairy Liquid and a J-cloth. She was quite happy leaving the detritus festering in the kitchen while she sat curled up in the window seat rehydrating with orange juice and watching snowdrops or daffodils or honeysuckle, depending on the season, nod in the breeze. And Mickey thought cream satin pyjamas would be just the thing to do that in.
Not for the first time, and not for the last, he asked himself why it was he was treating Lucy so appallingly. Not that she knew. Or, if she did, she hid it beautifully, adding yet another qualification to her status as the perfect wife. Why the hell was he jeopardizing their marriage? Any man would jump at the chance of a lifetime with Lucy. She was pretty, sexy, funny, good-natured, self-motivated, a brilliant mother, could whip up a feast for fourteen at short notice without complaining and didn’t whine if something needed fixing – she either fixed it herself, got someone in to do it or put up with it. Even the aspects of her personality that could, at a stretch, be considered faults were the quirks and eccentricities that made her human. She was untidy, but never sluttish, and her untidiness merely added to the chaotic charm she left in her wake. She was scatty, forgetful and often
‘Not with the right undies,’ Mandy assured her. She held the dress up against Sophie and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Pull-you-in knickers and a push-you-up bra. And we’ll get some fake tan.’ Sophie gulped, and felt a surge of excitement. Mandy grinned.
‘Let me make you over. It’ll be cool. You won’t recognize yourself.’
Sophie looked at the dress again, wanting to feel as sure as Mandy. Just as she felt nearly convinced, she flipped over the price tag and her heart sank. It was more than double what her father had given her.
‘I can’t afford it,’ she said flatly.
Mandy tossed the dress over her arm and marched to the nearest cash desk. ‘I’ll pay for it. As a thank you for having me. You’ll need your dad’s money for accessories. And make-up.’ She peered at Sophie. ‘Have you got any make-up?’
‘I’ve got some mascara. And some spot cover.’
Mandy passed her credit card over to the sales assistant and turned decisively back to Sophie.
‘Make-up first. Then accessories. Then lingerie.’
Mickey had remembered that this particular shop didn’t bother to check on your credit card limit if you spent under a certain amount, and so came out of lingerie with a pair of cream satin pyjamas for Lucy. To have bought anything more suggestive would have been crass and, moreover, suspicious. Besides, Lucy wasn’t an expensive underwear sort of person. She looked utterly sexy in whatever she wore, whether it was her own Marks & Sparks briefs, Sophie’s old gym knickers or, when she was behind with the washing, Patrick’s beloved Calvin Klein boxer shorts. It wasn’t that she didn’t like clothes, but she reasoned that if it didn’t show it didn’t matter, and would rather spend the money on vet bills or shoeing the horses.
Satin pyjamas were indulgent but sufficiently utilitarian to please her. On Sundays, the one day that she didn’t get up at dawn to exercise one or another horse (a couple of girls from the village were more than happy to do it), Lucy loved pottering about for hours without getting dressed, especially after one of their infamous parties. They always had chilli con carne and lemon meringue pie followed by dancing on the flagstones in the huge entrance hall, where it didn’t matter if the gallons of red wine being drunk got spilled. Lucy had an admirable quality that eluded many women: she was able to leave the clearing-up for a time when she felt equipped to cope with it. No two a.m. skirmishes with the Marigolds, no manic dawn raid with half a gallon of Fairy Liquid and a J-cloth. She was quite happy leaving the detritus festering in the kitchen while she sat curled up in the window seat rehydrating with orange juice and watching snowdrops or daffodils or honeysuckle, depending on the season, nod in the breeze. And Mickey thought cream satin pyjamas would be just the thing to do that in.
Not for the first time, and not for the last, he asked himself why it was he was treating Lucy so appallingly. Not that she knew. Or, if she did, she hid it beautifully, adding yet another qualification to her status as the perfect wife. Why the hell was he jeopardizing their marriage? Any man would jump at the chance of a lifetime with Lucy. She was pretty, sexy, funny, good-natured, self-motivated, a brilliant mother, could whip up a feast for fourteen at short notice without complaining and didn’t whine if something needed fixing – she either fixed it herself, got someone in to do it or put up with it. Even the aspects of her personality that could, at a stretch, be considered faults were the quirks and eccentricities that made her human. She was untidy, but never sluttish, and her untidiness merely added to the chaotic charm she left in her wake. She was scatty, forgetful and often
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