by Fanny Blake
‘Where? Bea, no. Look at the form. It hasn’t completed two of its last races and it doesn’t do well when the going’s soft.’
‘I don’t care. I like the colours and its name and he looks cute. And it’s been trained by a woman.’
‘What sort of reasons are those?’ he teased. ‘Look at the odds.’
‘Oh, come on, you do better, then. Make up your mind and let’s get down to the winning post.’
By the time they eventually pushed their way through to the rail, Bea was regretting the rush of blood to the head that had made her put twenty pounds on the nose. She’d done it on a whim to show up the more cautious Mark but now she thought she might as well have taken the money to the Ladies and flushed it down the loo. He, on the other hand, had gone through the form, every runner’s last three races, the weights carried, the distance run. If Bea didn’t know better, she might have been convinced there was a science to it.
On the big screens, she could see the horses lining up on the far side of the course. The atmosphere tensed, heads turned in their direction, then they were off. The commentator’s voice crackled indistinctly across the stands as Bea strained to catch the positions of her two runners. To begin with, Blade Runner was too near the back to get more than a mention while Heavenly Joker was up by the rails towards the front of the pack. After one circuit, they were racing down the back straight. At that point, Blade Runner picked up speed, edging his way towards the front, jockey bent forward, crop swishing. The crowd yelled encouragement, Bea loudest of all, as he moved smoothly forward until he was running neck and neck with Heavenly Joker with just one other horse ahead of them, in the way of victory. They came into the final turn, the ground vibrating with the thunder of approaching hoofs. Bea forgot about Mark, forgot about the people around her. Her fists clenched, she yelled, ‘Come on, Blade Runner. You can do it. Come on!’
And suddenly it was over. The front runner had faded in the last few strides. Her horses had taken first and second place. ‘Oh, my God. We won!’ She flung her arms round Mark. As she turned her head to look back at the course, she realised too late that he was moving in to kiss her. His lips smacked awkwardly against her cheek. They backed away from each other, startled.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mark looked embarrassed.
‘Don’t be.’ Bea wasn’t going to let anything spoil her moment of victory. This was something they could discuss another time. ‘Let’s go and see how much I’ve won.’
Two hundred and five pounds later, they were back in the box, toasting her success as if nothing had happened between them. Tom and his friend were nowhere to be seen. Good riddance, thought Bea. The rest of the afternoon passed in a convivial blur of champagne for her, water for Mark, more socialising, a few bad bets, then a couple of wins for Mark and another place for Bea. Eventually they were being swept along in the wave of punters trudging towards the car park while helicopters thudded into the sky taking home the better-heeled members of the racing fraternity. From her bag, Bea caught the sound of her mobile. She fished it out and strained to hear her sister.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon.’ Jess never called unless there was an emergency or she wanted something. Bea waited.
‘Mum’s had an accident. She slipped on the path and was lying there for ages before Janey Blythe found her. They couldn’t get hold of you so they called me. But there’s no way I can get down there.’
‘Where is she now?’ This was the sort of news that Bea had been dreading for months.
‘At the hospital. You can get there, can’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Bea abandoned her plan of blowing her winnings on a slap-up dinner with Mark as a thank-you for the day. As Jess couldn’t be there, she had to go. Her mother had no one else. ‘I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
As they reached the car, she hung up. Mark looked questioning.
‘I was going to treat us to dinner but apparently my mother’s had a fall so I’ll have to go straight to hers when I get home.’
‘Not a good idea. You’ve been drinking and I haven’t. I’ll drive you.’
‘No, Mark. It’s miles out of your way, and I’m sure you’ve got a million better things to do.’
‘Actually, I haven’t. Alison’s taken the girls to her parents for the weekend. Didn’t you say your mum lived in Kent somewhere? We can just go round the M25. Be stupid to go into town and out again.’
Bea hesitated, then said, ‘That’s incredibly generous of you. Incredibly.’ Her urge towards independence was overwhelmed by gratitude and a sense of relief that matters were out of her hands. She let Mark take control while she had nothing to do but worry about what she would find when they got there and what on earth she should do to avoid it happening again.
Chapter 18
By the time Mark finally pulled up at Bea’s house it was well past midnight. To her horror, the lights were blazing from the front room and, even inside the car, the insistent throb of a bass beat could be heard coming from the house.
‘Oh, Christ!’ She flung open the car door and ran up the path, leaving Mark, who had apparently been about to say something of import, sitting slack-jawed behind the wheel. He climbed out and caught her up just as she retrieved the key from the depths of her bag, dropping her hat in the process.
‘Bea, I was about to ask you—’
But she cut him off: ‘Any other time I’d ask you in for a coffee but now is not the moment.’ She jammed a key into the lock.
‘Understood. Completely.’ He stood there as if waiting for something.
‘Well, goodbye, then, and thank you for everything. Oh, no!’ she shouted in frustration – she’d got the wrong key.
‘Here, let me.’ He took the keys, slid the right one into the lock and opened the door. ‘There.’
She ran towards the wall of sound. ‘Thanks, again. Sorry. BEN! Turn that music down.’ If Mark spoke again, she didn’t hear him: she was too busy negotiating her way past two bicycles that were leaning against the wall, taking up most of the corridor, socks on the handlebars to stop them marking the paint. Thoughtful, but she’d have preferred them chained up outside.
At first glance, the sitting room was empty. The sofa had been pulled into the middle of the room, an island in a sea of empty pizza boxes, lager cans, a few crisps packets and much of their contents. Among them were stranded various large male trainers. In front of the sofa, the characters from an animated computer game scurried back and forth across the TV screen, awaiting their instructions from the gamepads that lay abandoned among the general detritus on the floor. At the back of the room, a boy she didn’t know was lying asleep, his pillow a folded linen jacket of hers that she’d left hung over the back of a chair. Beside him Ben’s iPod speakers were blasting out loud rock music she didn’t recognise, the words indecipherable, the noise deafening.
The silence when she switched it off seemed almost as loud. She could imagine the neighbours’ sighs of relief as clearly as the bunches of flowers that she would have to buy the next day to placate them. Neither side had teenage children yet, so they wouldn’t understand at all. ‘Just you wait,’ snarled Bea, as she turned her attention to the youth coming to in the chair.
He ran his hand through the matted tangle that passed for his hair. ‘Ben?’ he muttered. As he unfolded himself, he proved taller than Bea but thin as a bean pole, his black jeans revealing the grubby elasticated waistband of his knock-off DKNY pants. His skimpy black T-shirt had a red scrawl across the front.
She kept very calm as his eyes gradually focused on her, alarm registering as he worked out who she must be. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ she said quietly, snatching up her jacket and giving it a brisk shake, ‘but I think it’s time you went home. I’m afraid the party’s over.’
‘Yeah, right. Thanks.’ He scuttled sideways out of the door, pulling on a tiny black leather bomber jacket as he went. Bea followed him into the hall, at the same time noticing that Mark had d
isappeared. For a moment, she felt a flash of regret that their evening had ended so abruptly but right now she had more important matters to attend to. The kitchen doors were open into the garden and through them wafted the sound of voices and the unmistakable sweet smell of cannabis. She stamped on the equally sweet sense of nostalgia that it provoked. The kitchen radio was on, pumping out more music but at an almost acceptable level. Instead of switching on the lights, she marched the length of the room in the near dark, reckoning that surprise was the best form of attack. So it proved. She neared the end to hear, ‘Ben! It’s your mum!’ and a muttered ‘Shit!’ Before she’d got out of the door, she could see four silhouettes busily putting out a couple of spliffs and picking up lager cans.
‘Ben, I’m back.’ Pleasant but with a distinct warning note. Perfect.
‘Some of the boys came over, Mum. But they’re just going.’ She recognised his if-I-behave-as-if-there’s-nothing-wrong-she-might-not-notice voice. Too late, mate.
‘Well, good night, then,’ she said, firm but not unfriendly, eyeing up the two figures standing closest to Ben, about whom there was nothing visibly boyish at all.
The four figures materialised in the dim light of the kitchen, Ben and another boy, identikits of the one who had already left, and two girls who sported tiny vests and jeans. One had most of her hair in a scrappy ponytail. The other had a short spiky cut that revealed a dark pictorial tattoo of some kind running down the side of her neck. Without looking Bea in the eye, they mumbled, ‘Thanks,’ and scarpered with their bikes through the front door to join the first boy, who was waiting, still dazed, by the gate.
She could see from the set of Ben’s shoulders, and his apparent preoccupation with something on his foot, that he was gearing up for a confrontation. But her day had been too long, too enjoyable, too disturbing to destroy it all with a row. She could only muster the energy for a weary ‘Next time, do keep the music down.’ As for the spliffs, she wasn’t sure what to say. Rather than broach the subject now, when Ben was stoned, she decided on the spot to get Colin involved. His views on the matter were far more draconian than hers and, for once, he was likely to be more effective.
Surprised not to get an earful, Ben grunted something about tidying up. Bea pressed a black bin bag into his hand and decided to wait in the kitchen with a small whisky until he returned. Tidying up his tidying up could be done in the morning before she went to work. It was more important that he made the effort than she moaned about how inadequately it was done. Besides, she wanted a moment to straighten out her thoughts about her own evening.
The drive to her mother’s local hospital had been straightforward enough but by the time they got there Adele had long since been discharged into Janey’s care. Bea discovered her tucked up in bed, shaken, with a bruised knee and hip, her arm in plaster. ‘Darling, you shouldn’t have come,’ Adele had said, as soon as she saw Bea. ‘It’s only a broken wrist and Janey’s looking after me so well. It’s a bit painful but I’ll be up and about again in a day or two.’ Janey assured Bea that she could manage and was more than happy to – Bea was sure that Janey would be much more patient than she would ever be – then Bea kissed Adele, promising to come and see her as soon as she could.
All those hours in the car with Mark should have given the two of them plenty of time to talk, yet things hadn’t quite worked out that way. She had known she wouldn’t be able to get away with ignoring the kiss. And sure enough, as they left Harmchester, Mark broached the subject: ‘What happened this afternoon after you won . . . well, I . . .’
‘Yes?’ Bea encouraged him, keen to get the conversation over with and move on to the next stage in the proceedings. Whatever that might be.
‘Well, the truth is I – er, well, I do like you and . . . Oh, this is awful. I haven’t done this for so long that I’ve forgotten how.’ As Bea watched, a blotchy glow spread up his neck and into his cheeks. His knuckles were white on the wheel.
‘While you’re driving a car probably isn’t the very best moment to try.’ She felt genuine sympathy for him.
He stole a quick look at her and they laughed. ‘No, I guess it’s not. Shall I save it till we get back?’
‘That’s a very sensible idea and it’ll give me time to think how I’m going to reply. Only joking,’ she added, as alarm crossed his face. ‘I like you too.’ Had she really said that?
But did she like him enough? she wondered now, as she pottered about the kitchen straightening things up. The rest of the journey had been spent in a slightly awkward silence or in talking about whether Adele could or should cope on her own. She couldn’t help but think how much simpler the proceedings had been with ‘Tony Castle’, despite the outcome. Not that she was in any hurry to repeat that experience. But what she had enjoyed about their meeting had been the lack of discussion, the way things had moved swiftly and seamlessly to the inevitable outcome. And the outcome had been good. Until he’d done his runner, leaving her self-confidence in tatters, confirming to her that whatever sex appeal she’d once had was in serious decline, and not, of course, forgetting that trip to the clinic.
She became aware that her mobile was ringing somewhere. She sprinted to retrieve it from her bag in the hall. Suppose Adele had suffered some kind of a relapse? She was relieved to hear Mark’s voice.
‘I just thought I’d check everything was all right.’
‘Yes, it’s fine. The pill-fuelled rave I’d imagined turned out to be rather tame and they were quite polite and took themselves off. Ben’s even tidying up as we speak. A miracle in itself.’
‘I’m glad. What I was going to say in the car . . .’ She could tell he was nervous from the way his voice was picking up speed. ‘I was going to ask you if you’d like to spend next weekend or the one after in Norfolk with me.’
‘Oh!’ From a foiled kiss to a dirty weekend in one bound. Not what she had expected. On the other hand . . . The old worm of doubt wiggled its head as she thought of the wider implications. But why not? What was the point of Let’s Have Lunch if she wasn’t going to keep on trying? ‘Well, yes. I would.’
‘That’s fantastic. My sister and I inherited a cottage on the north coast. It’s nothing special but it’s in a great spot near Holkham. I think you’ll love it.’
‘I’m sure I will.’ She remembered the big skies, blowy walks and the broad sweep of Holkham beach from a visit some years earlier. ‘But I can’t do next weekend. I’m going to a friend’s for a family lunch to meet her new man, and the one after we’ve got a work away-day on Friday, coming back on Saturday. It’s the new regime – brain-storming, team-building, all that nonsense.’ She felt quite lowered by the thought.
‘Well, the one after that, then. But we mustn’t leave it any later or the weather will be grim.’
As she hung up, she realised she was looking forward to spending a bit more time alone with him. Mark was no Tom Carter, but that might be a very good thing indeed.
The sound of the front door opening made her look up to see Ben taking the rubbish out to the bin. The sight of him trying to make good sent a wave of maternal warmth rolling through her. He was a good lad at heart. They just rubbed each other up the wrong way sometimes because there was no one else to defuse the tension between a hormonal teenager and his peri-menopausal mum who didn’t want to be the grown-up all the time.
*
The next day she watched Amanda shut the door of Adam’s office behind her once again. What could they be dreaming up, she wondered, irritated yet pleased she could rise (well, almost) above their petty power games. She was due to meet an author in an hour, which gave her just enough time to deal with her emails and work out exactly how to break the news that if he didn’t deliver his long-overdue manuscript she’d have to cancel their contract and he’d have to repay the advance that he’d no doubt spent. She knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. As she sat down, her phone rang. ‘Bea Wilde.’
‘Tom Carter here.’
‘Tom who?’ She must have
misheard.
‘You know who.’ She did. That deep Irish burr was all too familiar. She tried to ignore the butterflies trying to escape from her stomach.
‘What do you want? I said all I had to say to you yesterday.’
‘So it’s true, then?’
So that was why he had phoned. To check his facts.
‘Yes. And if you hadn’t given the agency a fake name and contact details, I’d have told you sooner.’
‘You’re sure it’s me?’
The cheek of the man. As if she’d been lucky enough to have a choice. But she wasn’t going to admit to him her dearth of success in the Valentine’s department.‘Don’t insult me,’ she said, with as much assertiveness as she could muster.
‘I’d like to meet you again.’
A moment of silent incredulity, then, ‘Are you joking?’
‘I couldn’t be more serious.’
‘I don’t think so. What about your fiancée?’ This man was unbelievable. He had the morals of a tom-cat (she liked the unintended pun).
‘She won’t know a thing. Nor will Mark. Just you and me. You know how good it was.’
‘And I know that you left in the middle of the night.’ He began to interrupt but she spoke over him. ‘And you lied to me.’
She hung up, stunned by his sheer nerve.
At that moment Amanda slid into her room. She was petite, immaculate at every hour of the day (and even in the middle of the night, Bea imagined), with a kind of doll-like beauty that belied the steely determination that characterised her business dealings. Her short dark hair was cut with a long fringe that she swept across her left eye. ‘Bea, Adam wants to see us both about the away-day.’ She tapped her nails on the glass wall of Bea’s office.
Bea followed her, part-mesmerised by the brilliant red pencil skirt, the chic black silk shirt and the vertiginous heels, and part-preoccupied by Tom’s phone call. How had he got her number? The brief distance between her office and Adam’s gave her long enough to register that she had to think more carefully about what she wanted from her lunch dates in future: hot, unreliable sex versus consideration and commitment. But why shouldn’t she go for everything, preferably minus the unreliable? She hadn’t yet reached an age at which she was prepared to exchange her sex-life for slippers. But then again, there was the weekend away with Mark to consider. It might be an eye-opener. With that thought, Tom was instantly consigned to the waste-bin of history.
