'You and naked don't seem to go together somehow. But I simply can't understand why you want to hide that beautiful figure behind all those dowdy clothes.' Gillian stopped suddenly, shaking her head. 'Oh, I'm sorry. That was crass of me.'
Maureen arrived with the coffees. 'You tell her, Gillian. Oh, I know I'm full to bursting at the moment, but we'd have 'em queuing out of the door if she put a pair of shorts on. Pretty girl like her shouldn't be all bundled up like my Brian's granny.'
Brian, Mr Maureen, was a long-distance lorry driver working out of Upton Poges, Gillian had informed her. He only got home at weekends.
'I've always dressed like this,' Jemima protested, laughing. 'It feels right. It's like some people develop into spandex, some become designer-label freaks, some want jeans and leather jackets. Me – I just like long, loose clothes. I think they make me invisible. People don't usually bother to give me a second glance.'
Maureen had bustled back to slicing buns for the lunchtime burgers. Gillian wrinkled her nose. 'Really? They must be mad. But you've had some boyfriends?'
'Loads, thanks.' Jemima grinned. 'But they took the trouble to get to know the me behind the grunge. That was my yardstick. The ones who only wanted instant physical attraction weren't worth knowing.'
Gillian leaned forward across the table, lowering her voice. 'Do you know, I've always longed to wear something skin-tight and sparkly – a bit like Maureen. I'd never be allowed to get away with it, though. Bathsheba Cox would go all Roman and demand three weeks of Hail Marys.' She sighed. 'Of course, I adore Glen, but there are drawbacks to being spiritually pure and morally perfect.'
'God, yes, I can imagine. Er – I mean, I couldn't even attempt it. It must be hell being a vicar's wife. Oh, sod it,' Jemima took refuge in her coffee. 'You have to admit that you're hardly a typical vicar's wife, though, don't you? Is that why the blue-rinse hit squad are gunning for you?'
'That, and the fact that they're consumed with lust for my husband. Bronwyn's okay, really. It's Bathsheba who can inject the real venom. Actually, my unsuitability caused several lively diocesan debates when Glen and I first got together. The ladies of the parish wrote to complain. Luckily the Bishop, bless him, loves me so he came out on my side.'
Jemima stared out of the open doorway over Gillian's head. The early-morning warmth had blossomed into full-blown heat, and Milton St John was shimmering again. Another string of horses wound its way along the High Street towards the Munchy Bar. 'Did you meet Glen in church, then? Did your eyes meet over the altar rail at Communion? Did your hands touch during the offertory?'
'You should be the one writing romance,' Gillian said. 'No, it was far more mundane. We met in Newbury. I was a hairdresser – Glen had just been appointed curate here and came in to get his hair cut. It sort of developed from there. I thought he was drop-dead gorgeous. I went all out for him – started going to church again, joining confirmation classes, everything. Not that it was too much of a hardship. I'd always been a Christian – I think the Bible is the greatest piece of literature ever. I mean – what an opening sentence: "On the first day God created the heaven and the earth...’ It's almost as good as Dick Francis. You'd just have to read on to find out what happened next, wouldn't you?'
'I suppose you would. I'd never thought of it like that.' The horses were much closer now. About half a dozen of them. Their hooves were muffled on the baked road. Dust rose in spurting clouds, hovered and then fell. Jemima watched, drawn again by their beauty. 'And were you already writing? Before you met Glen?'
'Oh yes, I wrote short stories and articles as a hobby. It's taken me several years to become successful.' Gillian stopped and stared into her coffee cup. 'Actually, I meant to mention it before, but if Glen ever again brings up the amount of rent that you pay – I don't think he will – but, if he should, could you not tell him exactly how much you're really paying.'
'Yes, sure. But –'
'There's a very good reason.' Gillian blushed and watched the equine procession. 'Believe me. I don't make a habit of lying to Glen, but – well, let's just say that I have more money at the moment than he thinks I have. I'd rather he didn't know the source. I'd prefer it if he believed – at least for a while – that it came from you.'
Completely mystified, Jemima hoped that she wasn't being sucked into something iffy. Still, if Gillian was selling her body or peddling cannabis to the stable lads, it really wasn't any of her concern, was it? She wondered, fleetingly, if Bathsheba and Bronwyn may have got wind of whatever Gillian was doing, and if this was the real reason behind their spiteful behaviour. God – she'd only been in the village for two weeks and she was already developing the mindset of a village biddy!
'Drew Fitzgerald's lot.' Maureen bounced up to them and nodded her head towards the horses that were now level with the doorway. She gave Jemima a sly grin. 'And even though he's in horse-racing up to his neck, he's dead handsome, isn't he?'
Jemima had to admit that he was. Very Mel Gibson in fact. He raised a hand in greeting.
'He's Maddy Beckett's man,' Maureen said. 'The one she's going to marry now his divorce is through.'
Lucky Maddy, Jemima thought, and smiled.
The smile wasn't lost on Gillian. 'We'll convert you yet. I expect the whole village will be invited when Drew and Maddy get married. And then you'll meet lots of lovely horsy men. I simply love weddings, don't you?'
'Not really.' Her coffee break over, Jemima stood up. 'I suppose you have to. It's part of the job description, surely?'
'Oh, I know. But there are parts of being Mrs Vicar that aren't so pleasant, especially the funerals. I'm supposed to be calm and caring and offer support and sympathy – and I always end up bawling my eyes out. Thankfully people live so long round here that we haven't had too many of those. But the weddings,' she was dewy-eyed, 'all that hope for the future and undying devotion ... everyone looking so beautiful ... the eternal vows ...'
'Which in two out of three cases get broken within the first five years.'
'Don't be such a cynic. Don't you believe in romance?'
'Definitely not.' Jemima picked up their empty cups. 'Romance equates with broken promises and broken hearts in my book. My men are strictly for fun – no strings.'
'And you don't mind being on your own?'
'I've never been on my own.' Jemima thought of the people who had crowded in and out of her twenty-eight-and-a-half years. 'But I'm manless by choice. They've been a pleasant addition to my life – but never the reason for it.'
Gillian frowned. 'That's just because you haven't met the right one. We've got oodles of single men-friends – we'll have to introduce you to them. Milton St John is simply seething with the most gorgeous jockeys.'
'That's what I've been telling her,' Maureen joined in. 'She hasn't seen any of them yet, you know. They're all too bloody weight-conscious and starving to set foot in here – more's the pity. I keep telling her she ought to go to a race meeting –'
'No way,' Jemima said firmly. She'd been convinced that Gillian Hutchinson would be firmly in the anti-racing camp. She was rather shocked to discover she wasn't. 'I disapprove of racing on principle – and gambling in particular. Jockeys are all cruel to animals, and I'm certainly not going out with someone who comes up to my knees.'
'Ouch! Were you dropped on your head by a bookie as a baby or something? All the horsy people I know in Milton St John absolutely dote on their animals. And let me assure you that jump jockeys are perfectly normal – in every way.' Gillian lit another cigarette. 'Even some flat jockeys are taller than you. I'll have to ring round and invite a selection for supper – just to get you to change your mind.'
'Specially Charlie Somerset,' Maureen's leer was lascivious.
'Definitely Charlie Somerset,' Gillian affirmed with a grin.
'Please don't even think about it.' Jemima headed for the counter. 'If you start playing Mrs Bennet and introducing me to a lot of fox-chasing, horse-bashing, bandy-legged midgets, then I'll abandon the
bookshop and be off to do something simpler – like brain surgery.'
'God forbid,' Gillian muttered, flapping the hem of the floaty green dress and scattering cigarette ash over Maureen's just-wiped table. 'And don't knock what you haven't experienced.'
Jemima paused in refilling the coffee percolator. 'What? Being a brain surgeon?'
'No,' Gillian shook her head. 'The men of Milton St John.'
Chapter Eight
Charlie Somerset turned the bridle over in his hands. It comforted him. The feel of the softened leather, the smell, even the way it gleamed in the shafts of dusty sunlight splintering through the high tack-room window, gave him a feeling of security.
He'd cleaned tack since he was old enough to walk. It didn't matter whether it had been at home in the well-appointed hunting yard of the Somerset mansion, or in David Nicholson's high-profile set-up where he'd served his apprenticeship, or those glorious early years with Franklin Pettigrove when he'd been champion jockey, he'd always enjoyed cleaning tack.
Odd really, when most of the lads hated it, and he, being naturally lazy, shied away from any sort of organised labour. But cleaning tack had never seemed like work: it relaxed him and gave him time to think. And today, there were a hell of a lot of things to think about.
Peapods' tack-room, dark apart from the one window, and cluttered with bridles and bits, girths and rugs, all hanging from the overhead hooks, offered him sanctuary. Even the perpetual aroma of dried mud, mingled with sweat and wet leather and warm, foetid air, was pleasing. If he'd stayed in his cottage the phone would ring, or someone would knock on the door. This afternoon he didn't want to talk to anyone.
More than anything, he wanted something calorie-laden to eat and a pint of beer, but he knew he could afford to have neither. Kath Seaward's barbs at Aintree had penetrated deeply. She had been right. If he was ever going to achieve that ultimate jump-racing accolade, he'd have to get in shape. His new fitness regime took in boiled eggs, steamed chicken, and unadulterated pasta. If he was lucky he could even squeeze in a glass of slimline tonic.
He pushed the collection of empty coffee cups, whips, and crash hats a bit further along the bench and applied more dubbin. The small circular movements were as reassuring as smoking and, as Charlie hadn't had a cigarette for twelve-and-a-half days, it gave him something to do with his hands.
This thought led, naturally, to thoughts of Tina Maloret. Charlie sighed. The days in London with her had been as energetic and inventive as usual – and he'd probably burned off more calories than he could have hoped for with any of the expensive diet sheets that littered his cottage. He knew, as every jockey knew, that there was really only one way to lose weight. Not eat and sweat. As he and Tina had scarcely emerged from the bedroom in her West London flat, he felt he'd met the criteria pretty well.
It bothered him to realise, as he ran the bridle through his fingers and replaced the dubbin with brass cleaner, that he'd been almost glad to leave. Of course, Tina was physically gorgeous. Her angular, long-limbed body never failed to excite him. Her ferocious temper, however, didn't. She didn't suffer fools gladly, and would scream and bawl if things weren't exactly to her liking. Charlie, being peaceable and easy-going, sometimes found her tantrums hard to cope with. He'd implore her not to shout, not to express her displeasure – whether it be with a waiter, a taxi-driver or him – quite so loudly. And, despite her profession, Tina was no air-head. She took only the assignments that paid the most money, had a rock-solid shares portfolio, made sure she was in the right place at the right time, and read all the heavyweight Sunday supplements so that she could discuss politics and world affairs, or rave over the latest art exhibition or literary novel, with all the right people.
But there seemed to him to be something wrong with a lifestyle which appeared to involve an enormous amount of pleasure-seeking, and very little giving. Not just in bed, either. When they did venture outside the flat, the giddy whirl of parties and premieres, clubs and trendy restaurants, seemed as shallow as Milton St John's brook. Charlie held the buckles up to the sun. He must be getting old. On that last night in London he'd thought longingly of his cottage, of Peapods, of the horses, of riding, of the village. And, most of all, of winning the Grand National.
He'd ridden in the National five times while he'd been with Franklin Pettigrove, and although he'd never finished higher than sixth, he had at least always completed the course. That was why the fall from Dragon Slayer was so galling. Surely he would never have a better chance? The horse was out of this world, the race had been his for the taking. And he'd blown it. No one, not even Drew, knew just how humiliated he had been. And no one knew how fiercely determined he was now to show that next year, he could do it. He could win the National.
He and Drew had discussed Kath's wager over and over again, watching the dawn breaking across Peapods' cobbles, each of them knowing that it was more than a friendly challenge between rival yards. It meant survival.
The whole business of being a jump jockey was so damn precarious. Applying more Brasso carefully to the buckles, Charlie told himself how lucky he was to still have a future, however brief its duration might be. Fortunately, his disaster on Dragon Slayer had been a seven-day wonder in the village. There was always another triumph, a further catastrophe, to become hot gossip in Milton St John. Apart from Kath Seaward, most of those involved at Aintree, and nearly all those who had backed him, had forgiven him. But he still had so much to prove. It was the one prize that had so far evaded him.
Was there a chance with Drew? There was certainly no chance without him. Charlie was well aware that there were plenty of new apprentices coming up, more fit, less battle-scarred than him. Always supposing Drew found a suitable horse in time, this would be his last shot at it. And if Drew decided to cut his losses and merely run the flat-racing side of the yard in future – which looked increasingly likely – he'd never get another offer. What would be left then? A racing hack for one of the papers? A TV commentator? Without the National under his belt, they'd all seem like consolation prizes. Charlie, desperate for a cigarette, grabbed at yet another bridle.
He was still industriously polishing when Maddy, carrying Poppy Scarlet and accompanied by all four dogs, appeared in the tack-room doorway.
'Don't let me stop you. I like to see a man working.' She plonked Poppy on to his lap amidst the bridles. 'Show Poppy the ropes, Charlie. Drew needs all the unpaid labour he can get.'
The dogs snuffled noisily in the corners, tails wagging. Charlie cuddled Poppy and kissed her. He adored his goddaughter. He reckoned he'd make a brilliant father. Still, no point thinking along those lines, was there? He raised his eyebrows. 'As bad as that?'
'You bloody know it is.' Maddy cleared away more paraphernalia and sat beside him. 'Where is Drew, anyway? I thought he'd be in the yard somewhere.'
'Office, I think. Talking to Alister.'
'Oh. Right.' Maddy stretched her legs out in front of her. 'I wanted to tell him that the new gardener – Vincent – has just arrived. I've left him moving his stuff – what there is of it, poor man – into the cottage. Such a sad life – lost his wife and his home ... Still, he knows everything there is to know about gardening – and his references were out of this world. We were lucky to get him. I've invited him to supper. He doesn't look like he's had a decent meal for weeks.'
Charlie grinned. Drew and Maddy immediately made everyone at Peapods part of their extended family. It was probably the only yard in Milton St John that kept the same stable staff for more than a season.
'Lucky bastard.' Charlie jangled the bridle just out of Poppy's reach and thought longingly of Maddy's incredible cooking. 'Tell me to shut up, Mad, but can you afford him? Vincent, I mean? I thought –'
'Don't.' Maddy pulled an agonised face and pushed her head back against the tack-room wall. 'I've promised Drew I'll pay his wages out of my Shadows money. When we advertised earlier in the season, I don't think either of us realised how dire things were going to be. I
t's just that I need to work full-time – and if I do then this place needs someone to look after it. I can take Poppy to work with me, but I can't take the house and the garden. Whether we can afford him or not remains to be seen.'
'You know I'd help you out if I could.' Charlie lifted Poppy high into the air, making her squeal with laughter. It was a sore point. The Somerset money was all tied up in ninety-year investment bonds or something equally unhelpful. His mother held on to the purse-strings with tightly clenched fingers. He lived, comfortably at the moment, on his racing income and his overdraft. 'Still, maybe Drew's discussing new owners with Alister?'
'And maybe he isn't.' Maddy screwed her curls into a knot on the top of her head. 'I certainly haven't been aware of the Maktoum family queuing on the doorstep. And thanks for your offer – but I know you're in the same boat. We've all been guilty of living over our limits and not giving a toss about the consequences. Anyway, what are you doing in here? Why aren't you out pillaging the village maidens?'
'Didn't feel like it. I'm getting seriously worried about myself, actually. I was indulging in lurid thoughts about fish and chips and lager.'
Maddy giggled. 'Really? You weren't having a fantasy about Gillian Hutchinson smothering you with them, were you? And you can't fool me. I know you fancy her. You're disgusting, Charlie. Really –'
'Oh, come on, Mad. The Vicar's wife! Give me some credit.' He jiggled Poppy again. He really would have to be less obvious. Even he had standards. 'Anyway, Tina does it with beluga caviar and champagne.'
'Still on then, are you? You and the stalking clothes-horse?'
'Just about. She's more or less forgiven me for spoiling her moment of Grand National glory – but it took all my powers of persuasion. Thankfully she's off on the Italian catwalks for a couple of weeks, which should give my back time to heal.'
'You honestly are incorrigible!' Maddy leaned across and squeezed his arm. 'When are you going to settle down and find yourself a wife?'
Jumping to Conclusions Page 9
