‘Christ, I hope they’ve got paramedics on standby.’
Andrew still hadn’t returned with Jasmine’s drink. Seb wondered whether he should offer to go as backup and decided against it. The bonfire’s flames were stretching into infinity now, and even at this distance, he could feel the welcome warmth on his face. Suddenly, with a mighty roar, a cascade of colour screamed into the sky, and Armageddon came to Ampney Crucis. Explosions of light, blinding neon fountains, waxing and waning cushions of fire, all accompanied by a crescendo of staccato thunder bursts, rocked the Benny Clegg Stadium to its newly laid foundations.
‘Oh dear,’ Jasmine said. ‘Bunny’s let them all off at once . . .’
It was nearly midnight when the party finally started to break up. The brief, but impressive, fireworks display had given way to dancing round the bonfire, and the sort of singalong that Sebastian had fondly imagined had been dead and buried with the demise of The Black and White Minstrel Show.
Brittany hadn’t made a reappearance; neither had Ewan. Clara, looking singularly unconcerned, had hugged Jasmine, kissed Sebastian a lot, then left to look for him. The fact that Andrew and the promised pint of Old Ampney hadn’t materialised either seemed to have been forgotten. Seb had made several journeys to the bar for himself and Jasmine, and was now feeling merrily light-headed.
‘You’re not driving, are you?’ Jasmine attempted to focus on his face.
No. Brittany is. I guess I’ll just have to hang around and wait for her. I – um – think she might be with Ewan.’
‘So do I.’ Jasmine squinted up at him. ‘Bugger, isn’t it? Oh, damn – and it’s starting to rain.’
The wind was pushing across the open expanse now with vicious little gusts, each new onslaught bringing with it a sheet of icy rain. Jasmine shuddered inside her Guernsey. We’ll get soaked if we hang around here. Why don’t you leave a note for Brittany on her car and come back to the beach hut and wait for her?’
Seb grinned. ‘Is that a proposition?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Great.’
They staggered back along the cliff path in the darkness, Jasmine linking her arm through his and pointing out the potential pitfalls. The sea boiled and crashed invisibly beneath them and the rain, now horizontal on the wind, slashed at their faces. Slithering down the steps, Sebastian had never felt so happy.
The beach hut offered welcome shelter. Stumbling slightly among the overcrowded furniture, Jasmine lit the lamps and switched on a prehistoric electric heater. Her hair was plastered to her head and little rivulets of rain ran down her face.
‘You look dreadful.’ She wrinkled her nose at Sebastian. ‘Designer jeans, designer sweater, all ruined. You might have to take them off. . .’
‘That’s a bit forward of you.’
‘Is it? OK.’ She clanked two bottles of Old Ampney from the fridge and expertly flipped off the tops. ‘I just thought you could dry them in front of the heater before Brittany comes to claim you. And you don’t have to sit there in your boxers and socks, you know. I do have vast supplies of big boyish clothes.’
‘Boxers and socks sound fine to me.’
‘Men are so naff!’ Halting in the process of handing him his bottle of beer, Jasmine managed to glare. ‘No socks, OK?’
Sebastian laughed, attempted to unlace his trainers, and immediately fell over on to the sofa. Reaching out to Jasmine, he pulled her down beside him. She curled against him, her wet hair resting on his cheek. He couldn’t see her face.
‘We can’t sleep together, can we? Because of Brittany and Andrew?’
‘No,’ her voice was muffled. ‘I suppose we can’t. It’s a bit of a sod having principles. But there are no rules about cuddling, are there?’
‘None at all.’
Sebastian hugged her, listening to the wind screaming and punching against the beach hut, thrusting in straight from the English Channel. He closed his eyes. The rain thrummed a torrential tattoo on the roof and Jasmine was in his arms. It was what he’d always wanted without realising it. This was his dream. He just wanted to stay like this for ever.
Chapter Twenty-four
‘Haven’t you got anything other than the Moody Blues?’ Brittany, sitting alongside Ewan as the car headed for Bixford, drifted her long fingers through his CD collection. ‘I’m not really into this born-again hippie stuff. God – you haven’t. You must be their number-one fan . . . You really should update your musical tastes.’
Ewan sighed. Spending time with Brittany was becoming rather a chore. She reminded him of a much-less-brittle and marginally-more-driven Katrina, and as – thanks to an excellent solicitor and a lot of Peg’s money – his wife was soon to be his ex-wife, he really would never want to repeat that particular marital experience. Not, of course, that he and Brittany Frobisher were going to be plighting their troths, but honestly, the woman was an ace nagger. He’d told her so, many times before, and did so again.
‘Sorry,’ she frowned. ‘I’m just used to being in charge.’
‘With Sebastian?’
Brittany grinned. ‘Definitely not with Sebastian. He’s very much his own man. Anyway, I don’t think he cares enough about me to allow himself to become hen-pecked.’
‘And does that worry you?’
‘No.’ She leaned back in her seat as the urban sprawl of East London rushed to meet them. ‘Well, not in a heartbroken, weeping-copious-tears-into-my-pillow sort of way. It bugs me a bit because I’m used to calling the shots with the brewery business, and having people dancing attendance on me all the time, so I expected to be able to do the same with him – but there, that’s me being a spoiled brat. Seb’s a bit of a spoiled brat too, so we’d never have made a real go of it. Shame. He’s miraculous between the sheets.’
Ewan, who really didn’t think he could take yet another blow-by-blow account of Sebastian Gillespie’s sexual prowess, turned the car towards the city. He immediately felt the claustrophobia enveloping him as Bixford approached. He was so much part of Ampney Crucis now, that not being able to see the horizon, and to find the sky low and grey rather than iridescent and never-ending, always came as something of a shock. There were Christmas decorations everywhere, and although it was only the end of November, the festoons across Bixford High Street were already faded and tatty, like a bedraggled carnival queen on a wet Bank Holiday Monday.
Ewan looked across the car. ‘And have you told Sebastian what you’re really doing with me?’
‘Nope. I’ve managed to evade the issue. Have you told Clara?’
Fat chance. I need to get this right out of my system before I tell her. Then it’ll be over. In the past. Nothing she needs to worry about.’
A final fling, so to speak?’ Brittany shrugged. ‘A bit risky, if you ask me.’
It was a lot less risky for his continuing masculinity, though, Ewan reckoned, knowing Clara, than his original planned seduction of Brittany Frobisher. Brittany had surprised him with her enthusiasm for becoming involved, although at first the whole thing had been full of misunderstandings. Thanks to Peg’s insistence that Ewan should seduce the Platinum Trophy out of Brittany, and Brittany’s quicksilver brain realising exactly what he was supposed to be doing, their first meeting had been highly embarrassing. Still, they understood each other very well now, and if Brittany’s commitment was born more from boredom than desire, it really didn’t matter.
‘Just along here . . .’ Brittany said suddenly. ‘Past these shops. There’s some waste ground just by the entrance to the park. No one will see us. Not, of course, that this is my neck of the woods – I wouldn’t want you to think that. It’s just that, well, since I’ve been seeing Seb, I’ve got to know the area well, and when you said Bixford I knew immediately where it was.’
Pulling the car onto the sort of rubble-strewn terrain much loved in gung-ho blood-and-thunder films, Ewan switched off the engine. It was all very depressing. A thin, icy sleet spat spitefully against the windscreen. All they had to do now was wait.
‘I’ve never done undercover work before,’ Brittany said happily. ‘It’s a pleasant change from lunches and parties and first nights and fashion shows.’
This was the first time that Ewan had taken Brittany on this sort of excursion. It was the last time he’d be doing it too. He’d made that very clear. Oh, he’d be more than happy to be on the periphery in the future, but he had no intention of ever sailing this close to the wind again. Still, Brittany had proved to be reliable at giving him the area information he needed, and surprisingly discreet, and they’d become good friends.
At first, when he’d thought he may have to seduce her to get Ampney Crucis into the running for the Frobisher Platinum Trophy, he’d been plagued by doubts. He certainly didn’t want to risk losing Clara – and he was sure that Jasmine knew that he saw far more of Brittany than he ever let on. He was just glad that they’d now reached the end of their assignations without anyone getting hurt.
For Peg’s sake, Ewan still tried to find out as much from Brittany about the chosen host for the Frobisher Platinum Trophy. Brittany was irritatingly adamant that the selection still hadn’t been finalised – and was subject to a complete embargo until the New Year’s Eve dinner. She had, however, been very impressed with the Benny Clegg Stadium at the opening party, although a lot less impressed with eventually discovering her Sebby curled up on the beach hut’s sofa with Jasmine, both sound asleep and clinging to each other like the babes in the wood.
They’d apparently not even drunk their beer. Ewan thought this sounded serious – especially knowing Jasmine’s capacity for Old Ampney – and had suggested that Brittany could have walked in on a marathon lovemaking session. But Brittany had said no, she somehow doubted it, as they were both fully clothed, and rain-splattered, and more than a little hung over when she eventually managed to wake them.
On second thoughts, he’d decided, aware of Jasmine’s old-fashioned moral values, and her tendency to hang on to bloody Andrew even though anyone with half an eye could see that they were completely wrong for each other, Brittany was probably right.
Oh, I’m definitely right,’ Brittany had said, smiling in satisfaction. ‘As I’ve always said, Sebastian is an amazing lover. If he and Jasmine had been having sex, believe me she wouldn’t have been half so grumpy as she was when we left her. It would have taken days to wipe the smile from her face.’
Ewan decided he probably wouldn’t pass this scrap of information on to Jasmine – just in case.
The Moody Blues were just coming to the end of ‘I Know You’re Out There Somewhere’. Ewan always felt it could have been written for him and Clara. Still, they’d found each other again, hadn’t they? Each time he heard the song it made him wonder about all those I’ll-love-you-for-ever lovers who had then parted over something silly and lived for the rest of their lives regretting it, remembering, wondering if the other person ever thought of them . . .
‘There!’ Brittany clutched at his arm. ‘There’s a greyhound! Is it the right one? They all look the same to me. Thin and pretty – like Kate Moss.’
Ewan peered through the rivulets of sleet sliding down the steamy windscreen. Oh, yes . . . this could be it. The informant hadn’t given much of a description, Ewan knew, but then they rarely did. No one ever wanted to become involved. Still, it was enough to have had it reported. The ill-treatment of any animal made his blood boil; the cruelty to racing greyhounds that he’d witnessed during his travels abroad had made him determined to do all he could to help these gorgeous, vulnerable, almost spiritual creatures.
Rubbing a spyhole in the window, Ewan peered out at his quarry. He felt his anger rising. The dog certainly looked dejected, with its head down and its tail between its legs. It was being led towards the park by a girl wearing a flapping plastic mac with the hood up, and too-big wellingtons, and who, if her body language was anything to go by, was also in the slough of despond. The greyhound’s coat was black-slicked by the sleet, and if it was the dog he’d been tipped-off about, it was apparently being kept in a one-bedroomed flat, for God’s sake, and had been locked out side howling in a tiny yard for weeks on end.
‘OK, go for it.’ He nodded to Brittany. ‘Take some photos – don’t let her see you – and we’ll follow her when she comes back and find out where she lives. Bastards! I’d like to string up the lot of them.’
Brittany, clicking away happily with the Polaroid, had pulled her leather coat up to her chin, and her Kangol beret down to her nose. Ewan personally thought that this was taking undercover surveillance a smidgen too far, but he didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm.
They’d first got into conversation about his greyhound rescue activities completely by accident. Needing both Peg’s offered accommodation and employment – not to mention the hefty loan to divorce Katrina – Ewan hadn’t wanted to refuse to flirt with Brittany Frobisher. It had put him in something of a quandary because of Clara, so he was mightily relieved that the situation hadn’t arisen. By then, though, he’d seen Brittany at Ampney Crucis and spoken to her, and been surprised to find that behind the glitzy paparazzi image was a woman with strongly held views on animal rights.
He’d told her of his exploits abroad, rescuing, nursing and rehoming the half-dead greyhounds that he’d snatched from the illegal circuits, and seen her eyes fill with tears. It had moved him considerably, and when she’d asked to become involved, but only if Ewan would ensure her complete anonymity, he’d been more than happy to rope her in. So far, Brittany had successfully used her A-list celeb contacts, and her It Girl chums to raise enormous funds for the greyhound rescue shelters.
The girl and the greyhound hadn’t returned from the park, and he wondered for a moment if they’d simply left by another gate. The sleet had turned to icy hail now, slashing wickedly at the windscreen, and he was sure that no one would choose to stay out in it any longer than was absolutely necessary.
‘Tell me,’ Brittany pushed the camera and the disgorged photographs back into the glove box, ‘why don’t you tell Clara what you’re doing? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, I’m sure she’d be very proud.’
‘She may well be – I hope she is. Clara loves animals, hates cruelty . . . yes, I’m sure she’d be a hundred per cent behind me. But Katrina – my almost-ex – definitely wasn’t. It wasn’t just that she had no feelings for animals, but she thought my time would be better spent, a) making money, and b) keeping out of trouble. I couldn’t risk Clara feeling the same way.’ He looked at Brittany. ‘Soppy to the point of complete wetness, I know, but I do love Clara very much. I want it to be perfect. I couldn’t bear it if there was a flaw – so I reckoned that if I didn’t tell her then I wouldn’t know.’
‘You’re just like Seb.’ Brittany spoke without rancour. ‘He’s searching for the perfect love too. Silly sod. But – and please tell me to mind my own business here – but if this relationship with your Clara is going to be so idyllic and eternal, don’t you think it’d be a good idea to know how she feels about the things that are important to you before you commit?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Asking for trouble . . . Hey! Angels at two o’clock or whatever it is they say in those old war films!’
Ewan looked in the direction Brittany was pointing. Bingo! The girl, indistinguishable because of the voluminous plastic mac, and the greyhound, wetter and more miserable-looking than ever, were trudging back towards the High Street. Leaning forward, rubbing a larger spyhole, Ewan watched as they crossed the main road, paused outside one of the bleak three-storey houses while the girl found a key, then disappeared dismally inside.
‘So now what?’ Brittany pulled off her beret and fluffed at her short layered hair. ‘Do we go belting in like the SAS and fire accusations like bullets?’
‘Sorry, no. What we do is note the address and bide our time.’
Brittany looked disappointed. ‘God, is that all? No storming the barricades or bringing in RSPCA reinforcements or anything
?’
Ewan, who had scribbled ‘51 High Street, Bixford’ on the back of an envelope shook his head. ‘Nothing like that at all. There are no set rules, of course, and yes, we’d report definite acts of cruelty to the appropriate authorities, but in cases like this I prefer more direct action. The dog is my prime concern, so once I’ve watched a couple more times, I’ll pick my opportunity and move in.’
‘You’re going to snatch it?’ Brittany’s eyes shone. ‘What in a midnight raid?’
‘I think you’ve watched one too many Bruce Willis films,’ Ewan grinned. ‘But, yes – that’s more or less what I intend to do. Hopefully, before long, when the poor thing is tethered in the yard, we’ll find a way in and rescue him without anyone knowing. He’ll be well looked after. Then we’ll see what happens. The owner, if she tries to reclaim it, will be met by the full clout of the law.’
‘Super,’ Brittany sighed. ‘Although I’d hoped for a bit more action. So, what now?’
‘I’m going back to Ampney Crucis and Clara. What about you?’
‘I should go into the office, I suppose.’ Brittany looked at her watch. ‘What with this, and Seb, and organising the Platinum Trophy, I haven’t done much real work for ages.’
Ewan was impressed. It never failed to surprise him that under the designer layers and the gossip-column inches, there was a very hard-working and astute company director. ‘Shall I drop you off at Frobisher House, then?’
Brittany shook her head. ‘I’ll need to go home first and collect some things. I could do with a shower. We’ve a shareholders’ meeting this evening so it could be a long night. Would you mind popping across town?’
‘The least I can do.’ Ewan started the car. ‘And thanks for helping out today.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Brittany, snuggling into her leather coat as the Moody Blues began to tell everyone about their Wildest Dreams.
Nothing to Lose Page 29
