Jemima picked up her mug and stared out of the bleak window. It was no good nagging him. Nor would it help giving him a hand-out – even if she had one – because he'd only try and treble it on a nine-way accumulator or something equally disastrous.
'Anyway,' Vincent was already bouncing back, 'I must say I'm pleased that you'll be living in the Vicarage. Oh, not that organised religion has played a huge part in our lives – but it sounds very Jane Eyre. Do you remember when you did it for A level? I spent hours going over and over it with you?'
Jemima gave a small smile. She remembered.
'And,' Vincent continued, 'you never know. You might meet your Mr Darcy there.'
'Rochester.'
'No, no, love – Rochester's in Kent. Milton St John is definitely in Berkshire.'
Jemima gave up pretending to be angry and hugged him. 'You'll be good while I'm away won't you? Promise me? No gambling?'
'Cross my heart,' Vincent beamed. 'And there is one thing, love, before you go ...'
Jemima's heart sank. He was going to touch her for a sub, she knew he was.
'Oh, it's not money,' he looked quite affronted. 'I know you're as skint as I am. No, I just wondered what exactly did happen at that party ... You've never actually told me.'
'And I'm not telling you now, either.' Jemima kissed his cheek. 'Now, take care of yourself and I'll be in touch as soon as I'm settled.'
He was still watching her from the grimy window as she slammed Floss's door and eased away from the wind-blown debris in the street outside. She waved and swallowed her tears. She'd get him out of there if it was the last thing she did...
Deciding to get on to the A34 via the ring road was a horrible mistake. It meant driving through Summertown. Still, she thought, steering her way along the Banbury Road, maybe that was the best way to cope with nightmares. Face up to them. Maybe, as she headed off to start her new life in Milton St John, remembering the worst day of her life in Oxford would lay the ghosts once and for all...
'Where the hell have you been?' Petra Martin's painted-on eyebrows had drawn together across the bridge of her hooky nose and then recoiled in horror. 'I was expecting you at six.'
'Sorry,' Jemima had panted, dropping her patchwork shoulderbag and shrugging out of her battered denim jacket in the hi-tech High Street office. 'It was the Bookworms closing-down do – it went on longer than I expected. We all cried a lot and swapped phone numbers and things. Laura and I are going to ring each other twice a week and visit each other in the summer and –' she tugged her black dress, white apron and flat shoes from the cupboard, 'I can still be at Boar's Hill in ten minutes. It's not a problem.'
'You're not going to Boar's Hill.' Petra's voice had dripped ice. 'Not any more.'
'Why not?' The two glasses of Bookworms sherry and all the tears had given Jemima a headache. 'I'm not that late, and I'm sure you said it was early evening canapés and cocktails for a few chums at Sir Neville and Lady Murtagh's before they swanned off somewhere glitzy to celebrate their silver wedding and –'
Petra had drummed black cherry nails against the side of her computer. 'It was. It still is. I've sent Barbara instead.'
'Why? I'm not that late and I like standing around looking invisible and obsequious and handing out anchovies on rye and diluted Domestos.'
'Don't be flippant!' The eyebrows had arched towards each other, remembered just in time, and slunk apart. 'Barbara is solid and respectable-looking and soirées are far more her sort of thing. They suit her bunions. You're going to North Oxford to replace Magenta and you won't,' Petra had indicated the black dress and pinny with sharp jerks of her head, 'be needing those.'
'Oh, God.' Magenta, six foot tall, gorgeous, black and stick-thin, did the more exotic bookings. Jemima who was none of those things and painfully shy into the bargain, had blinked. 'What's wrong with her?'
'She's gone sick.'
'Oh, poor Mags. How sick?'
'Long term. She's pregnant.' Petra's bee-sting lips had welded themselves together at this folly. 'You should fit into her outfit if you use safety pins but you'll have to hurry. The address is on the sheet and -
'What is it?' Jemima had started to panic. 'I won't strip or do kissograms or anything tacky.'
'Tacky?' Petra's voice had soared an octave. 'Tacky’. Petra's Parties has never done tacky!'
'Well, no, maybe not tacky exactly,' Jemima back-pedalled remembering the rent arrears. 'But there was that thing with the snake ...'
Petra hadn't met her eyes. 'The python was a one-off. Anyway, this is nothing like that at all. It's a straight forward twenty-first for,' she'd scanned her screen, 'Simon Hampton-Hyde. His parents have organised it and will give you full details on arrival. Just hurry!'
Jemima had grabbed Magenta's bag, the Hampton-Hydes' address, and hurried. She'd paused at the door. 'Oh – I wondered if you might be able to give me more hours now? With Bookworms closing and everything – especially as Magenta will obviously be out of action for a while – I wondered if I could work full-time until the summer?'
Petra had looked as though the black death was a more likely option. 'We'll see. Probably. Possibly. It just depends how you do with this one. Now scoot.'
Floss had scooted through Oxford's Saturday evening traffic, nosing her way along the Banbury Road in the rapidly fading light of the April evening. Jemima had turned up Thames Valley FM and sung along with Herman's Hermits, getting the words wrong.
The houses in this lush part of Oxford were old, spacious and luxurious. She'd sighed. Years ago, in her embryo bookseller days, this had been her dream. A home amongst Oxford's upper echelons of academia – if possible with some gloriously bohemian lecturer who just happened to look a bit like Val Kilmer...
She'd flicked Floss's indicators and given a small sad smile at the foolishness of fantasies. Maybe with the Bookworms redundancy cheque – however woefully inadequate – and extra hours for Petra, she might, just might, if she was very lucky, hang on to her three-roomed basement until she left Oxford in July.
Mr and Mrs Hampton-Hyde had been hovering anxiously in their driveway as Jemima scrambled from the car. The anxiety had immediately given way to full-blown panic.
'You're late.' Mrs Hampton-Hyde, plump and wearing far too much turquoise eye shadow, had bustled towards her. 'And you're not black.'
Jemima had carefully locked Floss's battered door. 'No. That was Magenta. She's indisposed. I'm a replacement.'
'We don't want a replacement.' Mr Hampton-Hyde, sucking the ends of his moustache, took in Jemima's five foot five, nine stone, and layers of shaggy brown hair. His eyes had skimmed over the trading skirt, DMs, and baggy denim jacket. He seemed riveted by the glasses. 'They never said anything about specs. We chose Magenta from the catalogue especially. She looked like Naomi Campbell. Simon is especially fond of Naomi Campbell. You haven't even got long hair. Simon is especially fond of long hair.'
Mindful that she was now virtually unemployed, Jemima had continued to smile. 'Never mind. I'll try really hard to be an adequate substitute. Now, where do you want me?'
'Dinette. But I'm going to have to ask for at least a partial refund. We especially wanted Magenta.'
Jemima had hurtled through a rather dark hallway frantically overdone with banners and balloons and into a garishly yellow and blue room hung with Mediterranean plates and very frilly curtains.
Mrs Hampton-Hyde had been only inches behind her. 'You can change in here. Simon and his chums are still at the Dew Drop. I hope he won't be disappointed. We'd so hoped to give him a Naomi look-alike. Hurry up and get dressed – Clifton and I will be waiting in the lounge.'
Propping her glasses on top of her head and slapping on her make-up, Jemima had felt the first stirrings of unease. Surely she was only there to hand over the birthday cheque? Slice the cake? Pop open the champagne? The usual twenty-first rituals. Or had Petra gone into the white slave trade? Just what was Magenta supposed to be doing for Simon Hampton-Hyde? Were his parents goi
ng to gift wrap her and hand her over after the jelly and ice cream? Would they now look shame-faced and mutter, 'Here you are, son. I know it's not exactly what you wanted but make the most of it ...?'
Having shed her jacket, skirt, boots and patchwork cardigan, Jemima had dived into Magenta's bag. Casting aside a pair of black fishnet tights, a pair of impossibly high black stilettos and a scrap of purple tulle, she'd poked desperately into the corners. Empty. With a groan, she'd dug her mobile phone from her handbag and punched out Petra's number.
'Petra's Parties. How may I –'
'Petra. It's Jemima. Look, I know you're going to kill me but I've only got half the costume. There's no skirt ...' Jemima had shaken out the wisp of tulle. 'No, I mean there's no anything, really. Was there another bag? What? You are joking? Not on your life – what? Yes, of course I need the job – you know I need the job – what? No, I don't. I wear far more than this on the beach – what? Petra? Petra!'
Jemima had hurled the phone back into her bag and eyed the wisp of material with hatred.
'I've just come to see if you're ready.' Mr Hampton-Hyde had poked his head round the door. 'Oh, I say!'
Jemima had cowered in a corner. 'Don't come a step nearer. I am not – absolutely not – being seen in public like this.'
Mr Hampton-Hyde's cheeks were very pink. He'd blown on the ends of his moustache. 'You look – incredible ... Um ... very Marilyn Monroe. You only need blonde hair.'
'What I need,' Jemima had muttered, looking down at the fishnet and minuscule purple costume, 'is a vest, a sensible jumper, and a brain transplant. No, I'm sorry, but –'
'Here we are then.' Mrs Hampton-Hyde had crashed into the room wheeling something that looked like a cross between a vast cardboard meringue and a gigantic wedding hat. 'Simon and his pals have just got back. Oh –' Her eyes had narrowed. 'Isn't there any more to that costume?'
Jemima, feeling like a laboratory specimen beneath the scrutiny, had shaken her head.
'It's glorious.' Mr Hampton-Hyde's eyes had glazed. 'Simon won't even notice she doesn't look like Naomi.'
'And that's enough of that talk, Clifton.' All of Mrs Hampton-Hyde had quivered. 'Well, if that's all you've got, we'll just have to make the most of it. Don't flaunt your bosoms at the boys though – that's my advice.' She'd delved into her pocket and produced an envelope. 'We've wasted enough time already, so here's the cheque.'
Jemima had wrinkled her nose. 'You just want me to give him the cheque? Dressed like this? Then what on earth is that cake thing for?'
Mrs Hampton-Hyde had almost stamped her feet. 'Good Lord! Don't these places give you gels any instructions? You pop inside the cake and then when Simon comes into the room, you leap out through the top and present him with the cheque. Simple. Simple.'
'What?' Realisation had started to dawn. 'You mean ....? In there? And then ....?'
Mr Hampton-Hyde blushed. 'It was my idea. I'd seen it on a lot of Hollywood movies. Marilyn Monroe did it all the time. I thought –'
'Then you thought wrong. I'm sorry, but I just don't do this sort of thing. I do have some integrity. Some principles. This is sexism in the extreme. Ow!' She'd glared at Mrs Hampton-Hyde. 'Take your hands off me! I won't...'
Mrs Hampton-Hyde had obviously been Jabba the Hutt in a previous existence. 'We're paying. And paying dearly. In you go!'
Lifted from under the armpits, Jemima had been tumbled inside the monstrous cake while the Hampton-Hydes had frantically fastened the tissue paper top. The spike heels had caught in the fishnet; the tulle had slipped from barely-covering to indecent exposure. Shivering with rage and hating Petra, Magenta and Simon Hampton-Hyde with equal ferocity, Jemima had clenched her teeth, clasped her knees and prayed for oblivion.
Loud roars of very drunk rugby-playing male laughter had echoed above her. She'd heard Mrs Hampton-Hyde's twitter and Mr Hampton-Hyde's answering guffaw.
'Out! Out! Out!'
Jemima had sat, still clutching her knees, not moving.
'I say!' Mrs Hampton-Hyde had rapped smartly on the cardboard icing. 'Come on! Leap!'
'Leap yourself,' Jemima had muttered. 'I'm not coming out of here even if you use a flame-thrower.'
'Out! Out! Out!' the voices howled.
'Bugger off!' Jemima howled back.
Clutched by half a dozen pairs of scrum-trained hands the cake had started to rock wildly from side to side. The stilettos gouged into her calves. Jemima tumbled forwards as the cake rolled backwards. Her spectacles slipped down her nose and crunched ominously beneath her. Sounds of tearing paper were accompanied by loud cheers. Shafts of daylight had penetrated the murky cardboard gloom, and with a further hefty shove, no doubt from Mrs Hampton-Hyde, Jemima had rolled out on to the revolting blue and yellow carpet.
She'd lifted her head and stared short-sightedly into Simon Hampton-Hyde's blood-shot green eyes.
'Wow.' He'd grinned lasciviously. 'And gift-unwrapped, too. Come here, darling ...'
Jemima had scrambled to her knees, and wrapped her arms defensively round her nakedness. Simon's rugby-player chums were whooping with red-faced delight as he reached towards her.
'Take your hands off me,' she'd hissed. 'Here's your cheque. Happy birthday. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home – and don't touch me!'
Simon had pocketed the envelope without opening it and licked his lips. 'I never touch what I can't afford – and I can certainly afford you! Come here ...'
'Leave me alone!' Jemima screeched, turning beseeching eyes towards the blurred outline of the Hampton-Hydes. 'For God's sake – stop him!'
Fuzzily, the Hampton-Hydes had remained rooted to the spot. Mrs Hampton-Hyde had even been smiling indulgently. Mr Hampton-Hyde was practically dribbling. Feeling Simon's hot hands grasping greedily through the tulle, Jemima had staggered upright on the unfamiliar heels. Instinctive self-preservation had zoomed to her rescue.
The baying rugby chums had fallen silent as Simon let out a howl of purple-faced rage and stuffed his fingers beneath his armpit.
'Oh, I say.' Mrs Hampton-Hyde had wobbled towards her son. 'Simon – baby, what's wrong? What say? Oh, you poor lamb! She's bitten you!'
And the rest, Jemima thought, as she and Floss belted along the A34 towards Berkshire and pastures new, was history. Oh, well, one thing was certain. At least it was over now. All in the past. Nothing like that would ever happen to her in Milton St John.
May
Chapter Four
'Holy shit!'
Drew Fitzgerald stared at the screen in front of him with mounting horror. Seconds earlier it had been full of names and numbers, columns of them, weeks and weeks of work. Now it was blank, black, the nothingness accentuated by a galaxy of little white sparkles.
He crashed his chair away from the desk. Give him a horse with rolling eyes and snatching teeth and hooves intent on causing fatal injuries, and he was fine. Face him with an empty screen where there should be oodles of information, or little flashing boxes blinking piously that he'd made an input error and all data will be deleted, and blind panic immediately set in.
He snatched up the telephone, impatiently punching the numbers. 'Holly? It's Drew. The bloody thing's gone again! What? No, I didn't! Or, at least, I don't think I did ... Could you -? Brilliant. You're an angel.'
Holly, Drew's secretary, was an IT wizard. He'd leave the whole thing to her. Right now, he wanted to get as far away from the unpleasant beige box as possible. This wasn't what training racehorses was supposed to be about; if he'd wanted to spend his day behind a desk he'd have gone into insurance or something respectable. Before he'd come to train in Milton St John, before he'd had his aspirational dreams of breaking into the big time, all his paperwork had amounted to names and numbers scribbled in a diary, or on the backs of envelopes – much to his accountant's horror – or, more often than not, was merely kept in his head.
Squinting in the glare of the sun, Drew hurried beneath the clock arch across Peapods' cobbled stable yard towards normal
ity.
Sunday. The nearest the racing fraternity came to a day of rest, although with race meetings now taking place seven days a week, even that was never taken for granted. Still, today, was as close as he was going to get to a day off. Alister, his assistant trainer, had taken the yard's two runners to the meeting at Bath. Drew had thought it would be an ideal opportunity to use the computer to check the entries for the next few weeks. Calculate the possible income. Work out in private just how desperate the financial circumstances were. He hadn't expected the bloody computer to die on him.
The stable yard was divided into two, with thirty boxes in the main yard and a further ten through the ivy-covered gate. Forty boxes for forty potential champions. Drew sucked in his breath. Only half the boxes were occupied – and none of the current inmates, much as he adored them, were going to make his fortune.
The sun dappled over the slate roofs, throwing shadows across the cobbles. The horses had had their Sunday-morning pipe-openers, been breakfasted, and the stable lads had escaped back to the hostel to catch up on their sleep. There was no sound from the stables except the occasional rustle of hooves on bedding, and the odd contented whinny of a well-fed horse. Drew breathed in lungfuls of the yard's air and felt more at peace. The equine smell was the same the world over. Mingled with dusty straw, and the spicy warmth of bran mash – Peapods' Sunday special treat – the indefinable essence of horse, as always, quickened his pulse. This was his life-blood. He'd survive somehow. He'd have to.
Sensing him, the horses poked long noses over their half-doors and snorted pleasurably. He spoke to each one as he passed, patting, pulling ears. It was only his second year as a trainer in Milton St John, and his first had brought a rash of successes. Beginner's luck, he now thought ruefully. But at the time, the wins had convinced him that he would soon be up among the best trainers in the country. That early success had, contrarily, been one of his major problems. He simply hadn't capitalised on it. There hadn't been a winner out of Peapods for far too long.
Any owner with a half-decent horse was going to try for the big yards first. It was only natural. Why would they choose him if they could afford Diana James-Jordan, Emilio Marquez or John Hastings? And that was just the flat-racers. And only in Milton St John. If you started considering Newmarket, or the star-studded National Hunt yards in Lambourn ... Drew sighed again.
Jumping to Conclusions Page 4
