‘Too right,’ Jix simpered in a Julian Clarey falsetto. ‘They’d have just had to assume that I had hormonal troubles . . . Now, let’s get him into the kennels, go through the owner-trainer bit, and see if we need to slip the starter a tenner.’
‘Uh? Bribery? I thought he was being run fair and square?’
‘For putting the headscarf on the hare,’ Jix said. ‘They may not be as accommodating here as that Ewan geezer at Ampney Crucis was. If they turn down hard cash to dress up the bunny, you’ll just have to do your vamp bit – OK?’
April shuddered. She’d been role-playing with Noah for far too long. It would be reassuring to know that he was actually turned on by her body, in jeans and sweaters, just as much as he was by the French maid’s outfit . . . She decided not to think about it. Not now.
Being in time to watch two races before the four thirty, they settled Cair Paravel into the kennels, explained that they didn’t have a separate trainer, made sure that his handler seemed friendly, then decamped to the rails to watch the proceedings.
The crowd was huge, and although the skies were pewter and the wind cold, the atmosphere was buzzing. April bought a racecard and looked with pride at Cair Paravel’s name listed for the four thirty in trap one.
‘He’s got the red jacket,’ she said to Jix. ‘It’ll look lovely on him.’
‘Yeah, and as long as the hare is wearing a headscarf, we might just get a result. Do you want to hang on here while I go and chat up the officials?’
She nodded. ‘Actually, I think I might have a bet on the next race. Just a couple of quid. What do you fancy?’
Jix looked shocked. ‘Gambling’s a mug’s game. We’re here to win money – not chuck it away.’
‘Oooh! Now who’s gone all prim and proper? Go on – I’ll pay your stake. I’m going for Mighty Mabel in trap three.’
Jix peered at the racecard over her shoulder. He smelled of warm leather and lemon shampoo. ‘Trap six. Never Say Die. But only a two-pound bet, April. OK?’
She watched him force his way through the afternoon throng until he was swallowed up by the crowd. It was lovely to be friends again. The niggling little worries over Noah seemed so unimportant now. April grinned to herself as she headed for the trackside bookmakers. Things would all work out right in the end, she was sure of it.
The stadium lights were on, cutting through the gloom, giving the circuit the air of a Christmas market. Because it was an afternoon meeting, the hardened gamblers didn’t seem to be much in evidence, but there were still huge queues at the ranks of bookies, with everyone seemingly eager to join in the fun. Used to the shoving and elbowing at Gillespies, April wriggled her way along the bookmakers’ pitches, checking the odds on the three and six dogs at each one. Deciding that Jeff Mansell – estab. 1803 – and looking it, would be the best bet as he was offering starting prices of nine to two and five to one respectively, she put a fiver on each, and was back at the rails before Jix returned.
He pushed his way in beside her just as the greyhounds were being led behind the traps. ‘I think they thought I was running some sort of drug cartel. At one point I thought they were going to call in forensic and carry off Mum’s best scarf in a plastic bag like they do on television detective films.’
‘But did you manage it?’ April was hopping from foot to foot. ‘Is it OK?’
‘Yeah, actually. Apparently – like Ewan said at Ampney Crucis – there’s nothing in the GRA rules, and as it’s not giving Cair Paravel an unfair advantage – after all, the other five dogs will chase the hare quite naturally – they’ve agreed. What about you? Is my two quid safe?’
‘My two quid, you mean? Yeah, as houses.’
The greyhounds were all in the traps and the starter raised his arm. As they flew out into the darkening afternoon, April was swept up in the shouts and yells and frenetic atmosphere. The three and six dogs were neck-and-neck round the first bend, blurred against the pale sand, with the others all whisker-close behind. Jix had his arm round her shoulders as they leaned forward with the rest of the crowd on the rails, screaming their favourites home.
‘It’s the six dog!’ Jix punched the air in triumph. ‘How much have I won?’
April pulled a mocking face. ‘And I thought you weren’t a gambler. Thirty pounds, actually, with your stake back. Enough to buy your mum a hundred new headscarves from Naz at the charity shop.’
Jix was staring at the odds displayed on the illuminated screen, muttering under his breath. ‘You put a fiver on, didn’t you? You can’t afford to do that – oh, unless Noah’s giving you pocket money, of course.’
‘He isn’t,’ April said shortly. ‘And I enjoyed it and we’ve made a profit. So stop grouching and let’s collect our winnings before we watch Cairey do his stuff.’
Still grinning, and with their arms linked, they thrust their way into Jeff Mansell’s very lengthy payout queue.
Just over half an hour later, Cair Paravel did indeed look splendid in the red jacket. Jix and April watched him proudly as he paraded, looking happy and tranquil, trotting beside his kennel handler in front of the packed crowds. His tail wagged jauntily, and he gazed around him, grinning through the straps of his muzzle, loving every moment of his brief fame beneath the spotlights.
‘. . . and in trap one we have Cair Paravel,’ the Tannoy echoed. ‘A two-year-old blue-brindled dog . . .’
April, overwhelmed by love for him, wanted to rush out and hug Cair Paravel and tell him he was a diamond. That he was, without doubt, the most beautiful, funny, kind, wonderful dog in the world.
‘Are you crying?’ Jix looked at her in concern.
She shook her head. ‘No – well, a bit. He looks so lovely and brave and happy, doesn’t he?’
Jix wiped her tears away with the softly frayed cuff of his leather jacket. ‘I know. He’s a real star. Look, they’re just wrapping the scarf round the hare. And I don’t think anyone else has noticed, thank God.’
Cair Paravel had, though, April realised. He could sense Daff. His nose twitched, and he bounced even more buoyantly on his slender toes, psyching himself up for the chase. Jesus, she thought, if he gets that wound up over something of Daff’s, what on earth would he be like with Noah? Putting a hasty lid on the mental picture of a fang-bearing Cair Paravel belting hell for leather round the track after one of Noah’s prized Patrick Cox boots, she concentrated on holding her breath and praying.
It was really autumnal-afternoon dark now, and the floodlights sliced through mist and smoke. The chattering voices joined together, seeming to rise in a cloud which lay trapped beneath the sulphur layer as the disembodied Tannoy voice built the tension.
Then they were all in, and the hare – with Daff’s headscarf far more discreetly tucked round it than it had been at Ampney Crucis – skittered off on the rail. The crowd was hushed for a split second, then the gates flew up and the greyhounds poured out, and it looked as though they were running on air.
April wasn’t sure if her shouts were silent; she couldn’t hear her own voice. She could hear Jix, though, screaming in the ear, and everyone else screaming round her. Cair Paravel, legs pumping, ears flat, was a length and a half ahead of the field within seconds and gaining on the headscarf with every loping stride. He was a red and blue flash against the brightly lit sand, then the pack seemed to gain on him, and he momentarily disappeared as all six dogs crashed together, parted, and ran on.
‘He’s still ahead . . .’ Jix panted in her ear. ‘He’s going to do it . . .’
He did.
April peered at the winner’s cheque in the gloom of the van as they jogged home to Bixford. It was made out – as the previous one at Ampney Crucis had been – to Bee. It would add nicely to Beatrice-Eugenie’s building society account.
‘Not a huge amount, but with your gambling winnings, we’ve definitely made a profit. And it’s been real fun.’ She sank her head gratefully back into the mock-zebra, stroking Cair Paravel’s slender nose. He opened liquid eyes
and gazed up at her so she kissed him again. ‘He’s such a performer.’ Jix negotiated a roundabout. ‘I think we should enter him for the Frobisher Platinum.’
‘What? We can’t! It’ll cost a fortune just for the fees. We’ve both worked at Gillespies for long enough to know that the most prestigious races attract the wealthiest owners and
‘We’ve got money – my savings and yours. Go on, April, at least think about it.’
‘I’m thinking. I’m thinking. But what about the heats? There’ll have to be hundreds to get it down to just six dogs for the final.’
‘So? If they’re not announcing the venue until New Year’s Eve, and the race is due to be run on Valentine’s Day, there’ll only be six weeks for the heats. We can enter him in one out of town – and see how he does . . .’
April thought. And thought some more. ‘OK.Why not? Brilliant. Yeah – we’ll go for it. Oh God – but what about training? Surely he’ll have to be trained properly for something huge like the Frobisher, won’t he?’
‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ Jix pulled the van up at a set of red traffic lights. A yuppie in a Jag in the next lane looked across in horrified disdain. With a ‘love and peace gesture, Jix beat the yuppie to the green light by a whisker. Cairey’s done just fine so far with the headscarf and the bicycle, hasn’t he? I don’t think we should change a thing.’
And for the remainder of the journey home, April and Jix sang the wrong words to various Top Ten hits and laughed a lot. Cair Paravel, having clambered over their heads, curled round on the back seat, his head on his paws, and slept the deserved sleep of a champion.
The euphoria was still raging by the time they reached Bixford and number 51. Leaving Cair Paravel with Jix, April, knowing she was going to be horrendously late for the Copacabana, dashed into the flat.
‘Noah! Sorry I’m so late. Can you pick Bee up from Daff’s for me? And feed her? I’ll just get changed and then run like hell. I might just make it – ’
The flat was silent. The television was switched off. There were two envelopes on the coffee table.
Lighting a cigarette with shaking hands, April picked up the two notes, not knowing which one would cause more pain: the one with April scrawled across the front in Noah’s handwriting, or the second, addressed to Miss A. Padgett, hand-delivered and bearing the Gillespie Stadium address.
The cigarette tasted sour and April stubbed it out, opening Noah’s letter with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Scanning the lines, the sick feeling lifted almost immediately like a Prairie Oyster meeting the effects of a killer hangover.
Noah simply said that he’d decided to return to France to sort things out with Anoushka, that he’d be back really soon – with his painting stuff – and that he apologised for being churlish, but he’d been bored. Once he’d started working again, fulfilling his creative drive, he wouldn’t be such a mean sod to live with. He also added that he loved her, and would only be gone for a few days and couldn t wait to be back again.
April’s fingers resumed the shaking as she opened the Gillespie envelope. She simply couldn’t afford to lose her Copacabana job now.
It was typed, and signed by Sebastian, and said that he’d been anonymously but reliably informed that April was not only subletting her flat to a male tenant, but that she also had a child and a dog living on the premises. He was sure that April was aware these were strictly in contravention of the tenancy agreement, and would she please contact him at the earliest opportunity to discuss the implications.
Chapter Twenty-three
The invitation to attend the opening of the refurbished Benny Clegg Stadium in Ampney Crucis on 5 November had arrived on Sebastian’s desk the previous week. It wasn’t totally unexpected, as Jasmine’s letters had kept him up to date with the progress – or not – of the building work. However, as the invite was deckle-edged and gilt-embossed, had come from Peg Dunstable and included Brittany, he’d guessed that this was nothing to do with Jasmine.
Sebastian had also imagined that Brittany would not want to attend, amused as she’d been over his friendship with Jasmine. However, like most women he knew, she’d surprised him.
‘Of course we must go,’ she’d smiled teasingly, perched on the edge of her wrought-iron bed wearing nothing but Clarins. ‘They’re short-listed for the Platinum after all. We really should beetle off down there and see what they’ve done to update the antediluvian amphitheatre in our absence.’
‘It’s not a race meeting.’ Sebastian had studied the invitation again. ‘It’s an official opening and celebration party.
‘All the more reason to be there.’
‘And would this enthusiasm have anything to do with seeing Ewan again?’ Seb had asked the question without really knowing why. He wasn’t sure whether Brittany and Ewan were having a fling. He wasn’t sure he even cared.
‘No more than your attending has anything to do with seeing Jasmine,’ Brittany had replied, standing up and curling her naked, expensively moisturised body against him. ‘It should be really interesting, don’t you think? There could be plenty of fireworks . . .’
So, here they were, hammering down the M27 again, in the November afternoon gloom, heading for Ampney Crucis. Brittany had opted to drive this time and Sebastian, who usually hated being a passenger, was surprised to feel drowsy and relaxed in the Daimler’s opulence.
He really was looking forward to seeing Jasmine. It seemed so long since that balmy day in September when he’d kissed her – not with passion, but with pride. He had been completely knocked out by the fact that she was a bookie: by her casual chuckled admission that she had taken on the eponymous Benny Clegg mantle. It had been amazing enough to discover that she lived in a beach hut, but being a bookie to boot . . . He exhaled – making Brittany jab a quick glance across the leather and walnut.
Seb closed his eyes. He’d previously found Jasmine astonishingly friendly, good fun to be with, and fascinating to talk to, the information that she was a bookmaker simply served to move her sky-high into the stratosphere of his admiration. She’d seemed as surprised as he’d been himself, by both his reaction to her profession and the kiss, but not at all embarrassed. She certainly hadn’t swooned and screeched that her devoted fiancé would be scandalised if he ever found out. She’d merely gently kissed him back, then smiled. The kiss hadn’t been repeated, and they’d resumed their easy-going bantering and shared doughnuts as if the momentary slip away from mere friendship had never happened.
Now, almost dozing in the comfort of the limousine, Sebastian felt curiously elated that he would soon be with her again. Probably because she was so unusual – an artless, honest woman without a hidden agenda. He grinned to himself. Martina and Brittany would both squawk for England if they knew how he thought of them, but Jasmine was so different. She’d openly shared her emotions and her hospitality with him – and expected nothing in return. Not that he thought there was anything he could offer Jasmine, to be honest. As far as he was concerned she had it all. The perfect life.
‘Do you want some music on?’ Brittany was driving fast as always, in control, concentrating. ‘Or are you happy to zizz in silence?’
‘I’m easy – as long as it isn’t the Clash.’ Quickly he opened his eyes and tried to look wide awake. Brittany always drove even faster when listening to the Clash and he wasn’t sure his nerves could stand it. ‘Have you got anything more – um – melodic? Early Led Zepplin?’
‘You must be getting old . . . hang on.’ Brittany took her eyes from the road and rattled calmly through the CD holder. ‘This should send you off to sleep.’
It was Nirvana’s Nevermind. Not the lullaby that he’d have chosen, but pleasant enough. The afternoon was rapidly closing in, with dark clouds meeting over a pale grey sky, and a restless wind buffeting the sides of the car across the open motorway. Sebastian hoped it wouldn’t rain. Not that he thought rain would dampen the spirits of Peg and Jasmine and the rest of them at the Benny Clegg Stadi
um, but simply because it was Guy Fawkes Night.
He’d had enough disappointing damp squibs on bonfire nights in his childhood never to want that feeling of anticlimax inflicted on others. Of course, Martina and Oliver had always insisted on him being taken to nice upmarket politically correct public displays, where the fireworks were safely ignited by an unseen hand and the smell of cordite was smothered by wafts of Chanel.
There had been other earlier firework parties at his grandparents’ house, though, where he’d been allowed to run round the garden making rainbow arches in the darkness with sparklers, and light the blue touch paper on wobbly rockets jammed into milk bottles. There had been tumbling, leering guys, their grotesque masks melting in the white-hot flames, and his nan dishing out scalding delicious floury potatoes baked in the bonfire ashes, and mugs of hot chocolate liberally laced with whisky.
These were the times he remembered most – and then the intense agony when his grandparents had died and this blissful part of his childhood was gone for ever. Martina and Oliver had always done their best, he knew, but they thought that the best equated with the financial amount involved. Because of his grandparents, Sebastian knew very well that it didn’t.
The sound of Nirvana became a soothing mantra in the background, and Sebastian allowed his mind to drift over more recent matters. He really hoped he hadn’t upset April. The meeting had been awkward, and he’d hated having to haul her into the office like some grubby fourth-former who’d been caught cheating in exams and being forced to admit all to the headmaster.
Left to his own devices, he would definitely have ignored the anonymous phone call, which had informed him that April was breaking her tenancy agreement. It had been unfortunate that his father and several other Gillespie Stadium directors had been in his office at the time. The voice on the phone had been disguised – Sebastian still couldn’t swear whether it was male or female – and had imparted the information in a very matter-of-fact way.
Sadly, Oliver had picked up on the Gillespie end of the conversation and with much pointing of stubby fingers, had insisted that Seb dealt with it pronto. Then Oliver had turned to name-dropping and let the other board members know that the world-famous artist Noah Matlock had once lived in a Gillespie flat – and that he’d bought one of his overpriced daubs for Martina’s birthday and had even had the bloke to dinner at Tacky Towers.
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