Brittany’s flat – her little pied-à-terre she called it – was in London’s latest fashionable quarter. Ewan was slightly dismayed to see a couple of wet and frozen photographers hanging around outside. However, Brittany greeted them gaily, posed prettily, and then beckoned Ewan in through a maze of porters and security devices.
‘Poor things,’ she said as they hurtled upwards in a silent and perfumed lift. ‘Their editors insist they hang around all the likely spots all the time. They’re from the glossy star-goss mags. You know, that’ll come out as “Brewery Heiress Brittany returns from Christmas Shopping Trip or some such crap. They’ll have loads of fun trying to work out who you are, though. You’ll probably be billed as “Brittany’s latest dark and dangerous dalliance”. I hope Clara doesn’t take that edition – you could be seriously in the shit. Ah – here we are . . . This is me.’
The flat – more like an enormous sweeping palatial superstar penthouse, Ewan thought – overlooked the city from a wall of plate glass. Expecting it to be filled with the latest stark and minimalist designer furniture, Ewan was rather impressed by its cosiness. Everything was large and colourful and cushiony. It was very warm and snugly barricaded against the foul weather lashing from outside.
There seemed to be fresh flowers everywhere, and lots of photographs, and the mantelpiece was stuffed with invitations.
‘Make yourself at home,’ Brittany called. ‘I’m just going to get showered and changed. Oh, and if you could be a poppet and put the kettle on, we’ll have a cup of tea before we both depart for pastures new.’
Ewan, who really wanted to get back to Ampney Crucis, and who was still worrying about whether the greyhound would be hoved outside in this appalling storm, felt he had no option other than to obey. Brittany was back in full autocratic mode.
He was just pouring Earl Grey into Chicken Run mugs when Brittany appeared in the doorway. The smell of expensive body lotion had preceded her, and she wandered into the kitchen swathed in a towel, her hair slicked back from her face.
‘Super. You don’t fancy a change of career, do you? You’d make a lovely house-boy.’ She took the mug from him and kissed the tip of his nose. ‘Clara is a very lucky woman. You’ve got a pretty face, a gorgeous bod, a brain, and compassion. That’s some package.’
Ewan, who knew that in the past a come-on such as this would have had only one conclusion, backed slightly away. Clara will be pleased to hear that you’ve endorsed me so highly.’
Placing the mug of tea on the large oak table, Brittany let the towel slip. Ewan blinked at the beauty of her nakedness. They stared at each other in silence.
‘You’re going to turn me down, aren’t you?’ Brittany looked slightly surprised.
Ewan shrugged. ‘Yeah, I am – and no one is more amazed than me . . .’
‘Your loss.’ Brittany bent down and retrieved the towel again. ‘And probably mine. Clara’s gain. One day you may regret this.’
One day, Ewan thought, he might – but somehow he doubted it. It was his trial of fire and he’d passed with flying colours. ‘Look, I don’t think I’ll hang around for the tea, if you don’t mind. Thanks for everything you’ve done for the dog rescue stuff – and, well, everything, but it’s a long drive and the weather is lousy and – ’
Brittany, clutching the towel loosely against her, kissed his cheek. ‘Bugger off back to Clara, you smug sod. The greyhounds will still get my financial support, don’t worry. And no doubt I’ll see you at Pop’s dinner at the stately pile on New Year’s Eve – if you’re coming with the rest of the Ampney Crucis brigade, that is. Which I suppose you will be, you being on the payroll. Only I’d prefer it if you didn’t bring Clara. I really hate to see people in love.’
He laughed. ‘Really? So you and Seb definitely aren’t . . . ?
‘Christ, no. He’s in love with Jasmine – but I’m not sure that he knows it yet.’
Three hours later, after a long, slow and arduous journey in which the hail turned to sleet and then back again, and the Moody Blues had sung their greatest hits more times than he’d care to remember, Ewan pulled up outside Clara’s loft.
Ampney Crucis was deserted in the storm, and the sea, slate grey and restless under the onslaught, crashed listlessly onto the beach. There were lights on in most of the houses and the Crumpled Horn had a fully bedecked Christmas Tree visible through the windows beside the roaring log fire. Ewan was delighted to be home.
Clara looked up from the long, white sofa where she’d obviously been reading. ‘Hi. Everything OK?’
‘Fine. No, better than fine.’ Ewan sat beside her. ‘Absolutely bloody fantastic.’
‘Really? I was worried about you. The weather’s so atrocious. Where have you been?’
‘London. Sorting out some final bits and pieces of my life.’ He slid his arms round her. ‘Are we eating in tonight? Or do you fancy skipping across to the Crumpled Horn for a meal?’
‘Sounds great.’ Clara stretched in his embrace. ‘And perfect for you now they’ve included veggie burgers on the menu. Add a bottle or two of burgundy and you could make me a very happy woman.’
He kissed her. She didn’t question him, ever. They’d known each other for so long – and the fact that he’d let her down before only served to make him more aware that he must never hurt her again.
She kissed him back, nuzzling her lips against his throat. Clara, he thought hazily, could arouse him more by the lightest touch than Brittany Frobisher could do with the whole of her exquisite naked body.
‘Do you want me to ring Jas?’ she whispered in his ear. ‘And get her and Andrew to meet us in there as a foursome, or shall we just go solo?’
‘Could it be just us tonight? I sort of want you all to myself. For tonight and for always.’ He eased himself away from her slightly. This was it. This was what he should have done long ago. He took a deep breath. ‘Clara, will you marry me?’
Chapter Twenty-five
‘Nine to four the field for race seven! ’ Jasmine yelled I against the biting northerly wind. ‘I’m offering Simply The Best at fives! Place your bets now!’
The Benny Clegg Stadium, on the last Saturday before Christmas, was crammed to its newly embellished rafters. Despite the continuing Arctic weather, the punters were out in force. Tonight, on the final Six-Pack Saturday of the year, everyone seemed determined to throw themselves into the festive spirit and hopefully win back some of their seasonal overspending.
The floodlights sliced silver paths through the December darkness, and despite several thermal layers, Jasmine was frozen both inside and out. Allan and Roger, used to years of working in this weather, were almost invisible on either side of her, snuggled into sheepskin coats and balaclavas, but for Jasmine, her first winter as a bookie-proper had come as an awful shock to the system. She almost wished that just for tonight she could be one of the red-jacketed Tote ladies, cosy and sheltered behind their Perspex windows.
Several people, their faces purple and their hands blue, thrust notes at her, and mumbled their selections through rigidly clenched teeth. Jasmine uncurled her fingers enough to take their money and hiss, ‘Eleven pounds to five, twenty three’ to Muriel, who was now employed as her permanent writer-upper.
Having worked for forty-odd years on the fruit and veg stall in Ampney Crucis market, Muriel, a crony of Peg’s, was well used to inclement weather. Dressed in a velveteen pixie hood, donkey jacket, zip-up ankle booties and fingerless mittens, Muriel still looked just as likely to dole out five pounds of King Edward’s as the winnings on the last race.
Clara, who was definitely a warm-weather person, had made all sorts of excuses not to turn out and keep the ledger as soon as the temperatures started to dip. Anyway, Jasmine reckoned, Clara and Ewan – since the engagement had been like damn Siamese twins. It was almost impossible to spot the join. Still, at least it must mean that Ewan had stopped his Brittany thing – which must also mean that Brittany and Seb were reunited. She sighed and pushed her thoughts aw
ay from that path. It was lovely enough that Clara, proudly displaying a very ostentatious opal and jet engagement ring, was talking about a definite Easter wedding and a hoped-for next-Christmas baby.
The greyhounds started to parade for the seventh race. Jasmine looked at them with intense pity. They’d just been dragged, without warning, from the sumptuous luxury of the centrally heated kennels into the freezing night. Poor things. Even though she knew that they were all loved and well cared for, tonight they appeared more shivery and undernourished than ever, with their knees knocking and their tails uniformly down.
The punters, at least, seemed to be having a good time. The Six-Packs had gone down really well, with coaches disgorging people from all over Dorset and beyond every Saturday night. In the illuminated eating area, behind the glass stand, Jasmine watched them all now tucking into their chicken and chips and downing their Old Ampney ale as the heating roared at blast-furnace level. She fervently wished that she could join them.
Gilbert, who, harnessed with Eddie Deebley, had made a more-than-passable job of providing meals for the many visitors, was reeling off the list of runners over the tannoy. Jasmine knew that he was wearing, as were Bunny, and Gorf – who had been promoted from security to starter a Santa Claus hat. Peg had tried to persuade Jasmine into one too, but after the fiasco with the hard hat, which would haunt her for ever, she’d resolutely refused.
‘You lose most of your body heat through your head,’ Peg had warned. ‘You could get frost bite in your brain.’
Jasmine had said she’d risk it.
Peg was bouncing around, looking very festive in a red velvet get-up trimmed with swansdown, plus, naturally, the ubiquitous Santa hat. Several fir trees, ablaze with flashing fairy lights, were dotted about the stadium, all seriously overloading the mains circuit, and the music echoing from the tannoy in between races had been changed to a perpetual loop of Doris Sings Christmas. For Jasmine, the night’s twenty-third rendition of ‘Little Donkey’ was just beginning to pall.
The greyhounds were in the traps now, and Gorf had raised his green flag. Bunny, his Santa hat touching his forest of eyebrows, was poised with the hare. Three more races and that would be it until after the New Year. Jasmine sighed. No more racing until she’d got through potentially the two worst days of her life – her first Christmas without Benny and New Year’s Eve at Frobisher Palace.
The roar as the dogs sped free was frozen solid, a zillion droplets of breath instantly crystallised in the crisp night air. Jasmine watched as the greyhounds scurried round the first bend, close together as if for mutual warmth, and bounded on into the straight. Everyone was standing up behind the glass panels, their meals abandoned, soundlessly cheering on their favourites. The stalwarts, too hooked or too drunk, or both, to notice the cold, were yelling from the rails. The six-packs had certainly improved the fortunes of the Benny Clegg Stadium. Jasmine just wished that Peg would stop heaping her hopes on their staging the Platinum Trophy too. It simply wasn’t going to happen.
The screams, as the greyhounds completed their far-side circuit and rounded the last bend before the finishing post, grew louder and more frenzied. Jasmine did mental calculations and hoped that Love-A-Dove, the six dog, would win. It didn’t.
‘Simply The Best,’ muttered Muriel, blowing on her fingers. ‘Five to one. Bollocks.’
‘So, what about Christmas, pet?’ Peg, with her Santa hat now at a rakish angle, was doling out treble measures of single malt in the fiery warmth of her new office. ‘Have you decided yet?’
The greyhound meeting was over, the coach parties had left, and the floodlights were out. Gilbert, Gorf and Bunny were clearing up. Everyone else had gone home.
‘I’ve tried not to think about it.’ Jasmine rolled the Glenmorangie round her tongue. ‘Clara and Ewan have asked me to go to them, but if I’m honest, I’d rather stay in the hut on my own.’
Peg didn’t immediately insist that Jasmine shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Day. Peg understood. ‘Might be for the best, pet. Nasty time, Christmas, for memories. And with Clara and young Ewan being so happy it could get a bit wearing. What about your mum and dad?’
‘Not even in the frame. I mean, even when I lived at home, I always spent Christmas Eve night and all of Christmas Day with Grandpa . . She stared into her glass, willing the tears not to fall. ‘We had little routines, silly traditions, you know . . .’
Peg leaned across and patted her hand. ‘I know. And Andrew?’
Jasmine sighed. ‘We’ve never had Christmas Day together, so I don’t see why we should start now. I mean, Andrew always just used to see me on Christmas night at Grandpa’s for an hour or so, because he liked to spend the day with his family. He hasn’t suggested that I go to his parents’ this year or anything awful. Or even that he comes to me in the hut. He did say some time ago that maybe we should both go to Mum and Dad’s – but that was before they looked likely to be the next candidates on the Jerry Springer Show.’ She took another gulp of whisky. ‘I really think I’ll stay in the hut with the telly and get very drunk and eat myself silly and just be glad when it’s all over.’
‘Sounds a good plan to me. And we’ll have the lovely swanky do at the Frobishers to look forward to, won’t we?’
Jasmine tried to look enthusiastic. ‘We will. And what about you? Are you having Christmas Day with Ewan and Clara?’
‘I am, pet. Clara’s promised to do a full vegetarian roast just for Ewan. I’m pleased that they’ve got engaged. I’m still angry with him for not marrying her in the first place. It’s all so messy – the divorcing Katrina business.’
‘And expensive.’
‘That too,’ Peg agreed. ‘Look, maybe you should come along to Clara’s on Christmas night or something – just so that you won’t have to spend the whole day alone.’
‘Maybe.’ Jasmine downed the rest of her Glenmorangie in silence. There were only two people she wanted to spend Christmas with and, of course, they were both out of the question. Benny was dead and Sebastian wasn’t.
She’d had a Christmas card from Sebastian. It was very pale, a solitary log cabin beside a frozen lake all surrounded by snow drifts. He’d written, ‘This is the nearest thing I could find to a beach hut in splendid isolation by the sea. Not a patch on the real thing. I hope your Christmas is all that you want it to be and more. I won’t insult you by suggesting you relive your happy memories – it’s far too soon. I’ll be thinking of you. Love, Seb.’
She’d lingered on the word ‘love’ and then decided that unless he’d put yours sincerely, there weren’t many other card-signing options open to him. He’d also sent her six doughnuts looking like plum puddings, complete with dripping glazed icing and a sugar-crafted holly sprig on top.
Peg yawned noisily. ‘Oh, excuse me, pet. I must be getting old. I used to be able to take running the stadium and a few whiskies and the mayhem of Christmas all in my stride. Once we’ve got the Frobisher Platinum out of the way I think I’ll loosen the reins a little – hand over more responsibility to you and Ewan . . . Oh, don’t look like that. I’m not retiring. It’s just that you’ve done so much already to make this place successful, and I can see that you younger ones have the clout and guts to keep my dreams – yes, and your grandpa’s dreams – alive. We’re all knocking on – me, Roger, Allan, Gilbert – and we may still have the enthusiasm but we haven’t got the get-up-and-go.’
‘You’ll be here for ever.’ Jasmine felt drowsy now, the Glenmorangie and the warmth of the office wrapping her in a cosy blanket.
‘We’re none of us here for ever, pet. But the stadium, hopefully, will be. That’s why I’m looking to the next generation. Ewan will have children, you’ll marry someone – ’
‘Andrew.’
Peg exhaled. ‘If you say so. Although I thought you were going to break off the engagement some time back?’ ‘I was. I kept trying to find the right moment. There wasn’t one.’
Peg stood up and kissed her. The papery skin smelled of
loose powder and rouge. The swansdown was moulting. ‘Just don’t marry the wrong man, pet. You’ve taken some brave decisions since Benny died. You’ve ignored your parents and damn Andrew, and flown in the face of convention by taking on more here than most people would have ever thought possible. You’ve carried on the true Benny Clegg tradition and you’re a successful bookie. Don’t throw all that away by marrying Andrew because you think that not doing so would hurt him.’
‘I don’t think it would,’ Jasmine sighed. ‘It’s just that we’ve always been together. And I know he really hates me being a bookie. But he likes the money I’m making and – ’
Peg pulled away and held up her hands. ‘Jasmine, pet, listen to yourself.’
‘I can’t finish with him at Christmas!’
‘Why not?’ Peg was gathering her bags and coat and scarves together. ‘Most people are at each other’s throats over the festive season. At least you and Andrew will have a good reason. Now, do you want Bunny to see you home?’
Jasmine shook her head. ‘No thanks. The last time he did that, I then had to walk home with him because someone had been reading Harry Potter to him and he thought that there were bad wizards lurking in St Edith’s graveyard.’
The next morning the gale was still howling and the sky was still slate grey. Jasmine, snuggled beneath the poppies and daisies, could hear the sea tugging restlessly at the shingle and the occasional angry squawk of a gull as a gust of wind blew it off course.
She looked at Sebastian’s Christmas card on her bedside table. She loved him. And because she loved him, she couldn’t carry on being engaged to Andrew. It wasn’t right. Not, of course, that she thought by breaking off her engagement Seb would then immediately be hammering at her door with Tiffany diamonds and a life-promise. That may well be the Mills and Boon denouement she always read with such satisfaction, but she was well aware that it simply wouldn’t happen in real life.
Jasmine punched her pillow. In real life, she’d finish with Andrew, and stay friends with Seb; but at nearly thirty and not prepared to take second best, not to mention being no great shakes in the beauty stakes, she’d spend the rest of her life single and sinking slowly into eccentricity. It was quite a pleasant prospect, really. She’d manage alone, being a bookie, and loving Sebastian Gillespie in the same distant and hopeless way that she’d once loved the Bay City Rollers.
Nothing to Lose Page 30
