Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  The biggest problem in the world. It was as awful as a vegetarian discovering that the love of their life worked in an abattoir. And just when she'd thought she'd found someone....

  'We're quite civilised,' Matt said, as the horses streamed out on to the track. 'Some of us can even read and write.'

  And torture horses and bankrupt the unwary....

  'Jemima –'

  It was hardly a road to Damascus revelation, but Jemima knew that the decision she made now would probably change her life. Her life – her new life – depended on the goodwill of the Milton St John residents. All her life – her old life – she had hated everything that this evening stood for. Forwards or backwards? There wasn't a choice. She looked steadily at Matt. 'I'll watch the race with you.'

  At just after eight o'clock they made their way back to the Milton St John contingent. There had been five races so far. Drew's horses had won two and been placed in the others, so the atmosphere in the tent was euphoric.

  Jemima had been reluctantly impressed by the spectacle. Thanks to Matt's information about the whips, she'd watched carefully and discovered that he was right. And the jockeys didn't wear spurs as she'd always believed. And the horses seemed to enjoy themselves. And none of them were limping or bleeding at the end. Of course this was flat racing – they were only doing what came naturally to them – running as a pack. Jumping, she was sure, was far more barbaric.

  'It wasn't too bad, was it?' Matt bit into a fat-free prawn. 'You'll be spending all your spare time in the Vicarage tuned to Channel Four and poring over the Racing Post.'

  'Hardly, but thanks anyway.' Jemima accepted a cold cloudy glass of white wine. 'You've laid several of my ghosts this evening.'

  'I'm glad. I was wondering ... Can I give you a lift home when all this is over?'

  Jemima looked across the crowd to where Gillian was hobnobbing with Drew and Charlie Somerset. It was a bit of a Solomon's baby dilemma. Being forced to choose between travelling with Gillian, who would no doubt try to coerce her into giving her name to this secret horse, or a jockey who was, of course, an animal abuser and the scum of the earth.

  Put like that, it wasn't so difficult.

  'Yes,' she said to Matt. 'That would be lovely.'

  Chapter Thirteen

  'Holy hell!' Suzy Beckett's voice echoed along the flagged hall from Peapods' kitchen. 'Bloody men! Why do they have to have sodding selective hearing? They never listen to a whole story, do they?'

  'Have you tried talking calmly to him?' Maddy's big-sisterly concern was apparent from her tone. 'Luke's never going to take you seriously if you just yell at him –'

  'Luke doesn't take me seriously full stop. He doesn't understand. He can't see why I don't want to stay here for ever. This is it as far as he's concerned. He thinks that because he's made it to the top with Emilio Marquez, and now that I'm a fully-fledged jockey and John Hastings has offered me a retainer, that I should grab the good life here and be grateful!'

  'Well, he's got a point ...'

  Suzy's voice had risen sharply. 'No, he damn well hasn't! I don't just want to live in Luke Delaney's shadow – however wonderful it is. I want a career of my own! I've got ambitions – plans –'

  'You're still only nineteen, Suze. You've got years yet –'

  'Ten at the most! I want to win Classics! I want to be –'

  Maddy had interrupted gently. 'Do you still love him?'

  'Of course I love him. I've always loved him. But that's not the point, as you well know. Come on, Mad, if you're going to tell me that love can conquer all, then it's a bit pot and black kettle, isn't it?'

  Drew, who unseen in the study had been half-listening to the conversation while digging out his car keys and mobile phone, suddenly wished he was somewhere else. Maddy was silent for an unsettlingly long moment. Suzy and Luke's problems were fairly commonplace: their relationship was volatile, and it was well known in the village's racing circles that Suzy wanted to move on, move away, achieve greater things. But if Maddy was going to reveal some inner secret....

  'So?' Suzy had demanded. 'Have you told Drew yet? You haven't, have you?'

  Maddy's answer had been almost inaudible. He'd had to hold his breath – God forgive him – to hear her.

  'No. Not yet. How can I? The decree nisi is due any day and he's dead set on getting married as soon as the divorce is absolute ... I simply can't tell him –'

  'Well, you're going to have to soon. He's already making plans. God, we're a right pair, aren't we?'

  Should he wait and hear more? Of course that would have been the obvious thing to do: stand there and listen. Find out. But he'd known he wouldn't. He never had. Since childhood he'd tended to look on the half-full glass side of life. If things were bad, he'd always reasoned, he'd know soon enough. No point in panicking too early.

  That may well have got him through the angst of his youth, he thought grimly, but he was a big boy now. He'd had to face up to the reality of Peapods going bust. But he couldn't ever face losing Maddy.

  Feeling sick, Drew had coughed loudly, dropped his car keys several times and then, whistling cheerfully, had walked into the kitchen.

  Maddy and Suzy, nursing coffee cups at the table, had both smiled at him.

  He'd stretched his face into the shadow of an answering grin, bending down to kiss Poppy, stroke the cats and pat the dogs. Anything to delay looking into Maddy's eyes. 'I'm just off. I don't know how long I'll be. I'll ring later ...'

  'Take care.' Maddy had kissed him as he straightened up, and Suzy had winked, and he'd wondered if he'd dreamed the whole thing.

  Sadly, he knew he hadn't. As he drove away from Peapods, his head felt wrapped in cotton wool, and there was a nasty punching pain just beneath his ribs. Suzy was obviously no longer deliriously happy with Luke – and Maddy ... Maddy didn't want to marry him.

  He had driven away from Milton St John on autopilot, and was scarily on the M4 before he realised it. He'd opened the windows, turned up the volume on the radio, and managed to concentrate for the rest of the journey.

  Things had been going really well in the three weeks since the string of successes at Windsor. His chasers were at least being placed – albeit at the smaller meetings – and Kit and Rosa Pedersen had agreed to help him out financially for a further twelve months. Not that it was a complete rescue package, of course. Things would still be very tight. But they'd agreed to pay for the mortgage on Peapods so that all his money could go into running the stables. It wasn't brilliant – but it was a help.

  And they'd also agreed, in private, that this should be Peapods' last year as a mixed yard. One side would have to go. It looked, as he'd suspected, as if it would be the jumpers. They simply didn't command the same prize money. Which meant that Charlie, of course, would definitely be out of a job.

  Drew sighed heavily. Since Alister's defection, Charlie had been taking on the role of unpaid assistant trainer. He was pretty sure he wouldn't want to do it full-time. Charlie had no plans to retire yet awhile. Charlie still had dreams to chase. Charlie wanted to win the Grand National as much as he did – and now it looked as though this would be their last chance. He'd have to sell off the National Hunt side of the business immediately after next year's Aintree meeting.

  Which was why he was tearing across the breadth of England to go to the Newmarket sales when he should be at home facing the crisis in his relationship with Maddy. But then he wasn't supposed to know there was a crisis. And this trip to Tattersalls had been arranged for over a week. Not that he thought Gillian Hutchinson had a clue what she was doing. But if she wanted him to buy her a Grand National horse, then buy her a Grand National horse was what he was going to do.

  'Drew!' Gillian's voice brought him back to the present. 'Wake up!'

  'Sorry.' He blinked in the sunshine. The bustle of Newmarket's Park Paddocks seemed muted and far away. 'What have we decided?'

  Gillian waved her catalogue under his nose. She had travelled from Milton St John in C
harlie's Aston Martin and still looked a bit shell-shocked. 'Lots 37, 96 and 102. Well, not all of them, of course. As long as they're as good as they sound in the catalogue. Charlie's gone for a scout round.'

  Drew forced another smile. He still had this nagging empty feeling round his heart. As soon as the Tattersalls catalogues had arrived, and he, Charlie and Gillian had holed-up in Charlie's cottage to read them, Gillian had wanted to buy every one of the eight-hundred-odd horses listed. She seemed very hazy as to how much money a horse – plus its upkeep and fees – would cost, and Drew was no nearer finding out how much she intended spending.

  She had just waved her hands vaguely and said, 'Whatever it takes ...'

  Drew tried to concentrate on the catalogue again. All three horses that they'd short-listed had good National Hunt credentials, having been placed in previous races, and had excellent three-generation pedigrees. Any one of them could be a superstar. Any one of them could be an expensive failure.

  'We should go and have a look at all three in their boxes and then have them walked and trotted before we make a final decision on which one we're bidding for.' His voice surprised him. He sounded normal. Should he ask Gillian or Charlie if Maddy had said anything to them about getting married? No. He'd rather not know. Or would he? 'And if I'm buying it for you, you're going to have to let me know how much we're spending.'

  Again, Gillian looked irritatingly vague. 'I suppose I'll just tell you when to stop.'

  Brilliant, Drew thought. He was beginning to have serious doubts about all this. If she'd dragged him here with a couple of hundred pounds' pin money that she didn't want Glen to know about, he'd throttle her, so help him.

  Gillian hadn't even wanted him to tell Maddy where they were going today. And Glen, for God's sake? What on earth was he going to think when he found that St Saviour's was the proud owner of several thousand pounds' worth of horse flesh? And Bathsheba Cox and Bronwyn Pugh would have a field day! And then there were all the other assorted problems – like colours and ownership and registration – all of which would be impossible if Gillian wished to remain anonymous.

  'Did – um – thingy – the girl from the bookshop – did she change her mind about you registering the horse in her name?'

  'Goodness, no!' Gillian flapped her hands a bit more. 'We've had a few very strained days. We're only just back on speaking terms. I suppose I was pretty insensitive to even suggest it.'

  'Why?'

  Gillian blushed. 'Well, no – I can't tell you. I promised I wouldn't. Although,' she smiled sweetly through the pale wisps of her hair, 'it looks as though she may have changed her mind about disliking everything connected with racing.'

  Drew, who was beginning to wish that he'd asked Maddy outright what was going on because at least that would have stopped the panic churning in his stomach, said nothing.

  Gillian sighed. 'Matt Garside. She went home with him from Windsor, remember?'

  'Oh, yeah.'

  'Well, he's taken her out twice since!'

  Not finding anything either remarkable or interesting in this statement, Drew again remained silent. Sometimes Gillian Hutchinson was too wet for words. Not like Maddy, who could make him feel that everything she said was significant to him. Her gossip was never cruel, she usually made even serious topics sound funny, and it all had some point. Maddy's gossip, Maddy's warmth, Maddy's love, had changed his life. Christ, he'd rather lose Peapods a million times over than lose Maddy. And Poppy – how could he live without Poppy Scarlet?

  'And Gillian was practically jigging on the spot, 'Matt's a jockey!'

  'Yes. So?' Drew attempted to shake off his inertia. The paddocks were getting crowded. 'He's a nice bloke and Jessica... no, Jemima, seemed very pleasant. Good luck to them.'

  'But she hates jockeys!' Gillian said. 'She hates racing and gambling and – oh, well, everything.'

  'Good,' Drew said, staring into the distance. 'That's lovely.'

  The Park Paddocks sales complex reminded him of a very upmarket holiday village on the Costa del Sol or somewhere – not that he'd ever been – but the vast spread of long low whitewashed stables, and the black-and-white half-timbered buildings, and the blue-and-white striped awnings, all had a sort of seaside atmosphere. The sun dazzled from the whiteness, adding to the Mediterranean feel. He almost expected to see waiters with umbrella-laden cocktails and pretty girls in bikinis.

  He wished Charlie would hurry up. The place was filling quickly, and they should examine the three horses before the start of the sale. The big fishes were out in force. He recognised several very influential trainers and their well-heeled owners, all milling around, wearing their tweed caps and cavalry twills and hacking jackets like the badge of some exclusive club. Drew, who trained in jeans and a battered leather flying jacket in the winter, and jeans and T-shirt in the summer, knew that in his black cords and denim shirt he looked like an outsider.

  Maybe he was. Maybe he should never have left his little pond in Jersey. Horses were being trotted now, showing off for their prospective buyers. If he'd stayed in Jersey, training his few horses for their appearances at Les Landes, shoring up the stables' existence by hiring out hacks to holidaymakers, then he wouldn't be in these dire financial straits. But then, if he'd stayed in Jersey, he would never have met Maddy....

  Money! Was that it? It was as if an electrical current had shot from the soles of his feet. Was that why Maddy didn't want to marry him? Because Peapods was only just breaking even? Was she disappointed because he couldn't even afford to give her a clothes allowance each month? Caroline, his almost-ex, had insisted on a clothes allowance even though she'd had her own business. Well, Maddy had her own business, too, and Shadows paid for Vincent and Holly, and dog and cat food, and Poppy's Pampers -

  'Crap.'

  'I beg your pardon?' Gillian looked up from her catalogue. 'Was that a general observation, or have you spotted a specific?'

  Drew, who hadn't realised he had spoken aloud, stared at her in irritation. 'What?'

  'You said crap.'

  Had he? Bloody hell. 'Sorry. Thinking out loud – Gillian, do you think Maddy wants a dress allowance?'

  'I should think Maddy would rather have her navel pierced. Good Lord, Drew. You know Maddy. She's the most unmaterialistic person in the world. She hasn't the slightest interest in money. She still shops in Oxfam because she enjoys getting a bargain. She tells me I'm a real spendthrift every time the Next Directory arrives. What on earth gave you that idea?'

  He really didn't know. It was just preferable to any alternative.

  'Forget 37 and 102 –' Charlie panted to a halt beside them. 'It's got to be 96. Number 37 is far too green – he'll maybe come useful in a couple of seasons but no good for what we want – and 102 has bitten his lad three times while I was there. So 96 it is. Bonnie Nuts – awful name, of course, but lovely compact quarters. Sound jumper, I'd stake my life on it. I reckon that's the one. Okay?'

  'Bonnie Nuts ... Lovely ...' Gillian smiled serenely. 'It sounds like Christmas.'

  God Almighty, Drew thought. What the fuck was he doing here?

  Several rather expensive-looking women were gazing at Charlie with undisguised lust. One or two of them flickered their Elizabeth Arden eyelashes in Drew's direction. He ignored them. Charlie, of course, didn't.

  'Pack it in. You've got enough problems with Tina and Lucinda.'

  'And we should be having a look at Bonnie Nuts.' Gillian had got hold of Charlie in an almost proprietary manner and was steering him away from the Jaeger brigade. 'The sale's about to start. Drew, I said – Drew!'

  Again, he had to drag himself back. Somewhere, from one of the offices, Gershwin was flooding across the emerald lawns. Maddy loved Gershwin. Maddy was always singing snatches of Gershwin songs – always off-key and usually with the wrong words. At least, she always had been – How long was it since he'd heard Maddy singing? How long since he'd bothered to ask her why she'd stopped? When had he become so wrapped up in the yard that he'd a
ssumed she was as concerned as him, without bothering to ask? In fact, just how long was it since he'd actually asked Maddy anything personal about herself?

  That was it! She'd found someone else because he'd become complacent! Selfish bastard that he was! He'd ring her. Tell her to get a baby-sitter in. They'd go out to eat tonight, and hang the expense. It would probably be the Cat and Fiddle so that they could both get drunk and walk home, like they'd used to: arms round each other, stumbling and giggling as a result of copious alcohol and the dubious contents of the Cat and Fiddle's entrées. God, he couldn't wait to ring her! It was going to be all right!

  'You go on to the upper sales paddock. Get a look at the horse from close quarters. I'm just going to make a phone call.'

  As Gillian dragged Charlie away from the predatory female danger, Drew punched Peapods' number. The answerphone was on. Shit! Where was everyone? He tried the office line. Engaged. Bugger! He dialled the house again and left a message.

  Having told Maddy how much he loved her, and to get Holly to baby-sit, and to get herself ready for one of the Chef's Specials at the Cat and Fiddle, and he'd be home as soon as possible, and adding how much he loved her again for good measure, he felt almost euphoric. Stupid sod! How easily he could have blown it!

  Bonnie Nuts was no Desert Orchid. However, Drew knew from experience that it was a good rule of thumb to assume that the less visually pleasing a horse, the better its physical ability. Not always, of course. Maybe not this time ... Good God – what was the matter with him? This horse, this undistinguished chestnut gelding, could be bringing home the bacon at the next Grand National.

  He looked more closely. Bonnie Nuts had an intelligent, handsome head, and a muscular neck. He was moving well. Drew homed in on the hind-legs – the most vital part of any jumper. They were powerful, promising supersonic propulsion. The hocks were straight, wide and well balanced, a good indication of nimble and athletic movement.

  Beside him Charlie was muttering enthusiastically about the excellent slope from shoulder to elbow, the high withers, the short back. Gillian was cooing over pretty eyes and a sweet little face. Drew really felt he should be at least grabbing the middle ground. There were several other prospective bidders watching Bonnie Nuts as he progressed round the ring.