‘What – like the Eurovision Song Contest?’ Peg squealed with excitement. Everyone in Ampney Crucis knew it was one of her favourite events. She always backed Norway. ‘Oh, my!’
Seb smiled gently. ‘Well, sort of like that, but maybe not quite so exciting. More like the Booker Prize.’
Peg’s face fell momentarily, then she brightened. ‘And we’re invited? All of us? Up to London?’
‘That’s how Brittany has planned it, yes.’
Taking his face in both hands, Peg kissed Seb full on the lips. ‘If you were only a bit older, pet, I’d give you such a good time!’ She let him go and twinkled at Roger and Allan. ‘Let’s go and tell the news to the rest of the chaps, shall we?’
Jasmine, who wondered if she could get away with kissing Sebastian too and deciding she couldn’t had a sudden rather scary vision of Peg, Gilbert and Bunny at a black-tie dinner. Not to mention Roger and Allan, who would probably wear their de-mob suits and – Oh my God! Her, as well. As a board member she’d be expected to attend – and wear a frock and probably a tiara and have to dance gavottes.
Whimpering, she watched as Peg, Roger and Allan returned to their Wilson, Keppel and Betty formation, wheeled smartly on the new lino and shuffled excitedly out of the kennels’ would-be reception area – obviously hellbent on sharing the good news as soon as possible with Gilbert and Bunny.
‘So – er – are you going back to Bixford now?’ Jasmine asked, blinking at Sebastian as they picked their way out into the afternoon sunshine.
‘Not yet. I wondered if you’d like to join me for a drink? To wash down the doughnuts.’
Having to damp down the overwhelming urge to hurl herself into his arms and declare undying devotion, Jasmine managed to shrug noncommittally. ‘Why not?’
Oh God, she thought, following his long denim thighs through the bomb site – there were a million excellent reasons why not. All of them linked to her heart being beaten to a mulch.
‘They’re getting on really well here with the rebuilding, aren’t they?’ Seb said conversationally over his shoulder. ‘This is going to look really swish. Ms Dunstable was just telling me about the Six-Pack setup as well. It’ll all draw the punters in.’
‘With luck,’ Jasmine muttered, trying hard not to fall over. The hat had been embarrassing enough; tumbling to the ground amongst the debris would definitely be the final straw. ‘Is the Six-Pack something you do at Bixford?’
‘Have done for ages, yes. It’s a great way to introduce greyhound racing to families, and people who probably think going to the dogs involves beating a path through thugs and spivs. But this –’ Sebastian stopped walking and looked back at the building site – ‘this is just brilliant. You can imagine it when it’s finished, can’t you? Almost feel the atmosphere of the crowds, the dogs running under the lights, the sheer adrenaline rush . . .’
Jasmine walked on, waiting for him to catch up. ‘You really love it, don’t you?’
‘I’ve never known anything else.’
She clamped her arms to her sides just in case they took on a life of their own and snaked their way round his neck. ‘And is Bixford one of the shortlisted stadiums?’
They’d reached the new temporary car park. It was a shingle extension of the beach with flocks of gulls swooping and screaming overhead. The old car park had disappeared three weeks earlier beneath skips and corrugated iron and misshapen lumps of concrete. Several small children were risking life and limb by scrambling cheerfully amongst it. Sebastian nodded. ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean –’
Jasmine sucked in her breath. ‘No, of course it doesn’t.’
But she knew it did. Brittany Frobisher would make damn sure that the Gillespies got the Platinum Trophy. It made perfect sense. The black-tie awards ceremony was simply a lavish publicity stunt.
‘Is your car here?’ Seb asked as they scrunched over the shingle. ‘Or shall we take mine?’
‘No and no.’ Jasmine was quite pleased with the jauntiness of her reply. It made her sound almost normal rather than the simpering love-sick fool she felt she was. ‘I haven’t got a car, and you won’t need yours. It’s only a short distance to walk.’
Sebastian looked a bit shocked at her car-less revelation.
You don’t drive?’
‘Yes, I can drive – no, I don’t most of the time. It’s not like London – everything here is really close together. My home, my work, the Crumpled Horn – everything. It’s so easy.’
‘But what about when you need to go further afield?’
‘Oh, I can always use one of my parents’ cars, or get one from Andrew.’
‘Andrew?’
‘My fiancé. He works in a car dealership. Or I could beg a lift with Clara or Ewan . . .’ She stopped. She hadn’t told him about any of them in her letters. He might remember Ewan from his previous visit to the stadium, but she didn’t want to bombard him with unnecessary faceless names. He’d never meet them. ‘Anyway, you just won’t need the car at the moment. It’s a really nice walk.’
Sebastian gave a derisive snort. ‘Christ! I haven’t walked anywhere for years! I’ll probably need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. OK, hang on then while I just grab the doughnuts.’ He headed towards a navy-blue Mercedes convertible, then paused. ‘Are we going to eat them on the beach?’
Jasmine took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’ve got an even better idea . . .’
The walk along the cliff path was one of Jasmine’s lifelong pleasures. This afternoon, seeing it through Sebastian’s eyes, she was anxious that he should find it wonderful, too.
So far, she thought, he seemed to be enjoying it. The sea glittered with sequins; puffs of butterflies, blue and red and yellow, darted up from the scrubby gorse and ferns beneath their feet; and the maze of narrow, overgrown sandy paths snaked away in all directions.
‘It’s an amazing place.’ Sebastian shifted the cool box to the other hand. ‘You’re so lucky to live here. But then you already know that, don’t you?’
Jasmine did. She was also irritated by the fact that she felt unable to chat to him with the ease that she had on their first meeting, or even the way she did in her letters. She felt that if she dropped her guard, he’d be able to read the conflicting emotions tumbling around inside her. And the thought of watching him and Brittany hosting this sham celebratory black-tie dinner, confident with the social situation and about each other, gnawed uncomfortably at her heart.
‘I thought we weren’t going to picnic on the beach?’ Sebastian said as Jasmine turned onto the cliff steps.
‘We’re not.’ She continued to lead the way down. It was quite pleasant to have the upper hand. ‘I thought I’d show you where I live.’
They’d exchanged addresses. Sebastian’s home – Marliver House, The Green, Bixford – she’d imagined as being like her parents’ house on the Chewton Estate. The beach hut would probably therefore come as something of a shock.
‘Oh, right, that’d be nice. You’ve never said what your place is like – although I suppose the address being 12 Beach Walk should have given me some sort of clue that it was near the sea.’
‘Very near.’ Jasmine grinned to herself. ‘Turn left at the bottom of the steps, along this path – no, not on to the next set of steps – they just lead down to the beach . . . here we are . . .
She stopped walking. Sebastian almost collided with her. Although she hadn’t turned round, she could sense that he was perplexed. Having only a momentary pang of doubt over the wisdom of inviting him to the beach hut – it would be awful if Clara was still there, stretched out as she’d been when Jasmine had left her, lithe and oiled and wearing only a thong – she grinned over her shoulder.
‘We just need to squeeze between these – the blue one and this one.’
She stepped into the cool shadow of the gully between the huts and stepped out again at the front of the row. The sun-scorched veranda was mercifully empty of everything – including Clara.
Sebastian was l
ooking at the ice-cream row in total astonishment.
‘Here? You live here? In a beach hut?’
‘Yep.’ She unlocked the door. ‘Oh, and if you’re coming in, I’d better warn you that it’s a bit crowded.’
Sebastian climbed on to the veranda, stepped into the hut and gazed around him, wide-eyed. Jasmine, rescuing the cool box, finding plates in the over-the-sink cupboard and bottles of Old Ampney in the fridge, had to squeeze past him with every manoeuvre. It was lovely.
He still hadn’t said anything, but she was aware of him looking at the chiffonier and the walnut clock and the Staffordshire highwaymen, and her grandparents’ photo, then through the doorway to the bedroom and the tangle of poppies and daisies where she’d forgotten to make the bed, and back to the fat armchair and the sofa and the tiny television and all her worldly possessions.
He sucked in his breath. ‘It’s fucking fantastic.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment then, shall I?’
‘Too right –’ Sebastian exhaled. ‘Jasmine, this is amazing. You can see the sea from the bedroom and from, well, everywhere – and –’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘It’s just the most bloody perfect home I’ve ever seen.’
‘Thank you. I think so as well.’ She beamed at him, all awkwardness evaporating. It didn’t matter that she loved him and he would never know. They were friends, and they’d always be friends. Love would only mess that up. ‘It belonged to my grandparents. Grandpa left it to me. I’ll never leave it.’
‘God – nor me. I mean, that is, if I were you . . .’
Sebastian was studying the pictures on the walls, the photographs, the images of Benny. ‘Is this you and him? He looks great. You take after him, don’t you? Oh, and this has to be you when you were at school! You haven’t changed a bit! Are these all your friends?’
Jasmine nodded. ‘Me, Clara, Ewan and Andrew – yes. We’ve know each other all our lives.’
‘Really? What, Andrew the fiancé – you mean you’ve known him for ever?’
She nodded again, wanting to change the subject. ‘So, what’s your house like? Old? Modern? No – don’t tell me you live in a mansion, don’t you?’
‘Georgian.’
‘Georgian what?’
‘I live in a Georgian mansion.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Jasmine eased her way round him, searching for the bottle opener under piles of envelopes and old newspapers and magazines. ‘With hot and cold running flunkies.’
‘Seriously,’ Sebastian said. ‘I live in an apartment in my parents’ house – due to laziness rather than any deep sense of filial duty. It is a Georgian mansion. Sadly my mother’s sense of history is slightly out of sync – so inside it’s all very Louis Quinze meets Epping. You know – everything that can have a coating of gold leaf and a curly ormolu gets glitzed.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
Unfortunately, no. I call it Tacky Towers.’
Jasmine stared at him for a moment, then laughed. ‘Not in your mother’s hearing though, I bet.’
‘She’d kill me,’ Sebastian agreed. ‘She thinks her taste is impeccable. And if you don’t mind I’d really rather not think about it. This is a million times better. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Get an appetite – I’ll never eat more than two of these . . .’ Jasmine opened the cool box and almost moaned with greed at the sight of a dozen doughnuts liberally crammed with plump strawberries and whipped cream. ‘Do you think I’m that much of a glutton?’
‘I think you’re a lady with a healthy appetite, which is a rare treat.’ Sebastian picked up the plates. ‘And it’s a dream come true to find someone who shares my doughnut addiction.’
Jasmine happily returned his grin. Why did she instantly feel more relaxed here with Seb – a man she’d met twice in her life – than she ever did with Andrew? She pushed the plates and glasses towards him. ‘Could you take these out on to the veranda as well, please? There’s a table and some deck chairs ... I just want to go to the loo . . .’
Squashing herself into the tiny bathroom, she dived into her make-up bag. Now was not the time for the full slap, of course, but a coat of mascara and a touch of lipstick could only improve things. She kneeled on the lavatory seat, peered into the tiny mirror, and screamed.
Red-faced from the sun, and with the top circle of her hair flattened by the limpet grip of the hard hat, she looked exactly like Friar Tuck.
Ten minutes later, with as many improvements made in as short a time as possible, she sauntered back out of the hut. Sebastian was sprawled on one of the deck chairs, looking languid and utterly at home, and Jasmine allowed herself a moment of pure lustful staring. It was all she was going to get, she thought ruefully, especially as she’d spent the best part of the afternoon with him looking like someone about to go trick-or-treating.
He glanced up and smiled. ‘I’ve put yours in the shade. Over there, behind that stuff from the stadium. Hang on, I’ll go and get it. You sit down . . .’
Jasmine sat. She wasn’t going to come over all strident and feminist – no chance. Andrew had never, ever waited on her. ‘Thanks. What stuff from the stadium? Oh, right! The boards and stool and pallets.’
Sebastian removed the doughnuts and Old Ampney from beneath the trappings of Benny Clegg – the Punters’ Friend, and placed them on the table in front of her. ‘And is there anything else madam requires?’
Oh, yes, she thought dazedly. Oh, bloody yes. ‘No, thanks. This is great . . .’
Sebastian sat down again and raised his beer glass. ‘Here’s to you – and to the new stadium. Are you going to keep the Benny Clegg stuff here as a sort of memorial to your grandfather?’
Pausing to lick cream from her fingers, Jasmine shook her head. ‘No, as soon as the rebuilding’s finished I’ll take then back. I’m not going to be modernised.’
Sebastian, his mouth uninhibitedly full of strawberries, looked puzzled. Jasmine wanted to laugh. Of course, he’d assumed that she was simply a stadium board member when they’d met, and he’d worked out the connection between Grandpa’s headstone and the Benny Clegg bookmaking pitch, but she hadn’t told him – not then, and not since in the letters.
‘I’m Benny Clegg now.’ She reached for her bottle of beer. ‘That’s why I’m so involved with the stadium. I’m a bookie.’
If she’d said she was a hot contender for the next Pope, Sebastian couldn’t have looked more amazed. The stunned expression gradually dissolved into one of astounded delight. He stood up, towering over her for a minute, blocking out the sun, then bent down and kissed her lightly, softly, briefly on the mouth.
He tasted of doughnuts, of strawberries and cream, and beer and sunshine. Jasmine, suddenly wanting to bellow the chorus of ‘My Favourite Things’, dazedly kissed him back.
Chapter Twenty-one
It certainly hadn’t turned out as April had expected. The drink with Noah – for old times’ sake – hadn’t been the emotional reunion full of explanations and apologies, ending in declarations of undying love, that she’d fondly imagined. The art groupies and the caftan lady had turned up only minutes after she and Noah had sloped off to the wine bar, and all chance of intimacy was lost.
Not only had she not been able to tell him how much she still loved him, but Beatrice-Eugenie’s existence hadn’t got a look in either. Noah had been bundled away to do press interviews and had mouthed that he’d ring her – soon – and disappeared in a swell of adulation.
Now, four weeks later, he hadn’t phoned, and April was sure she’d never see him again. Jix, Daff, Sofia and Antonio had all been sympathetic, but the ‘I told you so’s’ were dangling unsaid. It had all been such a huge mistake, seeing him. It had merely ripped the scab off the healing scar and left her hurt, alone and vulnerable all over again.
And October had been grey and wet and dreary, and Martina had been even more of a cow than ever, and the Copacabana seemed like hell.
Pouring a Cinderella from the shaker over
a mountain of ice, April felt as if her one chance of happiness had been snatched away. Noah would now be back in France with the improbably named Anoushka, and she’d robbed Bee of the only opportunity of ever meeting her father. She should have handled it differently, been more assertive, clung on to him when the caftan woman had tried to claim him – anything – damn well anything to make sure they had enough time together.
‘Oh, sod! Sorry.’ She looked at the mess spreading across the top of the bar. ‘I didn’t realise I’d overfilled it.’
The customer sighed in a resigned way – as if he’d expected nothing less from a bimbo in a silly costume – and April rubbed angrily at the sticky mess with a J-cloth, praying that Martina wouldn’t notice.
‘April!’ The shriek reverberated around the bar. ‘I want a word!’
Oh God – April hurled the syrup-laden cloth beneath the counter and smiled. ‘Sorry, Martina, I just overfilled the glass.’
‘What?’ Martina’s heavily embossed eyelids flickered. ‘What glass? What are you talking about? You haven’t been doling out double measures instead of singles, have you?’
‘No – er – it was just a bit of spillage.’ The customer had borne away the sticky glass and April quickly shoved a beaker full of brightly coloured umbrellas and twizzle sticks on top of the congealing mess. ‘Nothing major. So which word did you want to have?’
‘Waitress.’
April sighed. She really hoped this wasn’t going to be one of Martina’s gimlet-eyed nights where she stood about six inches behind the Copacabana’s staff and grizzled about everything, comparing their sloppiness with the Debrett’s Book of How to Serve a Cocktail while your feet killed you and your knickers showed.
‘I’m a barmaid first and a waitress second. I haven’t actually dropped a tray or smothered anyone in ice cubes for ages.’
Martina frowned. The little body-pierced bits glittered as her face creased. ‘No, that’s why I wondered if you’d be interested in doing a bit extra.’
Extra? Where the hell in a twenty-four-hour day was April expected to find time for anything else? If she stayed awake all night the money might come in handy. ‘Well, I do work at the Pasta Place as well. I mean, I don’t really think I could squeeze in extra hours here at the moment and – ’
Nothing to Lose Page 24
