'You've lost me straight away,' Vincent said. He liked Lucinda. Nice kid. The old woman was a battle-axe, though. 'Anyway, the bookshop is nothing to do with me. If you want a refund you'll have to wait until Jemima opens up in the morning.'
'Jemima? Jezebel!'
'Here, hold up.' Vincent was instantly on the defensive. 'What the devil are you talking about?'
'This!' Bathsheba shook the bag open, allowing a bright pink-and-black book to tumble on to the table. 'This filth! I found this in my daughter's bedroom! My little Lucinda is being corrupted by your daughter's pornography!'
Spanky Panky by Bella-Donna Stockings. Christ. Vincent blinked. It probably wasn't the best moment to say that he doubted if the book – however raunchy – could teach Lucinda anything that Charlie Somerset hadn't. 'I don't know anything about any books. And I'm damned sure that Jemima wouldn't stock anything iffy. Why don't you ask her?'
'I've tried. Believe me.' Bathsheba was turning a sort of mottled purple. 'The Vicarage is empty. I'm quite prepared to wait outside all night if necessary. The Vicar must be told what sort of harpy he's harbouring! And that – that – den of vice must be closed down.'
'Don't be so bloody stupid.' Vincent was defensive. 'Jemima's a proper bookseller. Trained. With certificates. She wouldn't stock no under-the-counter stuff. Look, I think you might have got the wrong end of the stick, my love.'
'Don't you "my love" me! I know exactly which end of the stick I'm holding, Mr Carlisle. And, should you see your daughter before I do, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell her that I'll not rest until her shop is closed. Milton St John is a pillar of moral rectitude. We will not be desecrated by outsiders!'
'Stone me.' Maureen eased herself and two double vodkas between Bathsheba and Lucinda. 'What's going on here then?'
Vincent, aided and abetted by Bathsheba, filled Maureen in on the salient points.
Maureen picked up the book from the table and laughed so much that the lurex sparkled off in all directions. 'This isn't pornography, you silly woman. This is Fishnets. I've got 'em all – and darn good reads they are, too. My mum loves them an' she's well into her eighties.'
'Does Jemima stock them, then?' Vincent was a bit at sea here. 'I can't say I've noticed them.'
'Well, they're hardly your thing, duck, are they?' Maureen sat down accompanied by that tempting rustle of silk underwear. 'Of course she stocks them. And,' she glared at Bathsheba, 'they sells like my hot lardys. You'll have a battle royal on your hands if you try and ban them.'
'If that's what it takes.' Bathsheba's lips quivered. 'I shall be calling my ladies together first thing. Come on, Lucinda, let's go and start making plans.'
Hell's teeth, Vincent thought, watching as Bathsheba shepherded the still-silent Lucinda through the Cat and Fiddle's throng. And just when things were going so well for Jemima and the bookshop, too. Poor kid – not only was her boyfriend not all he seemed, but now she'd got the Ladies' League of Light up in arms, too. She'd need a bit of parental support from her old dad now, and no mistake. The thought pleased him. It was far too long since he'd been able to help Jemima.
'Sad old cow. She won't do nothing.' Maureen, knocked back her vodka. Her eyes twinkled. 'I've got a copy of that book back home. So drink up duck, I think you could do with a bit of a reading lesson – if you catch my drift.'
Vincent caught it. No double vodka had ever been consumed faster. He couldn't remember a better August bank holiday. With his arm round Maureen's cushioned shoulders, he walked jauntily out of the Cat and Fiddle.
Outside, Maureen gave a shuddering sigh. 'Oh, shit and corruption!'
'What? What's up?'
'That.' Maureen's sigh was like a dozen deflated air balloons. 'Look! Bloody look!'
Vincent looked. Brian's, Mr Maureen's, forty-foot articulated lorry was just pulling to a halt outside the Munchy Bar.
Chapter Twenty
Drew didn't want to open the door. So far the day had been good. Well, as good as a wet bank holiday Monday could be. And certainly better than most of his days recently. At least Bonne Nuit's trip to Fontwell had been successful. How the rest of the evening would go was anyone's guess.
He stood in the no-man's-land room between the kitchen garden path and the flight of uneven stone steps leading to Peapods' back door. He'd always thought of it as an outhouse, but Maddy had insisted that he had delusions of grandeur and that it was simply an overgrown porch. In the two years that they'd been together it had acquired a personality of its own, becoming filled with odd bits of riding gear, Wellington boots, old coats, dogs' leads, things that might come in handy if they ever remembered what they were for, and the larger of Poppy's toys. In the six months that his wife – no, ex-wife, now – Caroline, had been in charge of the house, the room had been cold, clutter-free, and empty. Just like his life.
Maddy had changed everything for him and Peapods. And now she was going to take it all away. He was sure she was. Despite all his efforts since the Newmarket sales, the barrier was still there. He'd tried talking to her, asking her what he'd done, telling her how he felt, but she kept saying there was nothing wrong. Maddy, who he knew better than he knew himself, was telling him there was nothing wrong! He had even resorted, on Charlie's advice, to wining and dining and sending flowers. She'd been pleased but it hadn't melted the pain in her eyes.
He took a deep breath and pushed the door. It wouldn't budge. Locked? He jiggled the handle. Definitely locked. Still, Maddy quite often put the catch on if she was alone. Drew knew she still hadn't got quite used to living in the echoing vastness of Peapods. It didn't necessarily have sinister connotations. Should he knock? On his own door? Get real. Maybe he should just trail round to the front of the house and let himself in the main door. Or through the office, or the conservatory. It wasn't that unusual to find the back door locked, after all.
Bending down, he peered through the keyhole. He could see into the kitchen. The key wasn't there. Maddy must have locked it from the outside. He felt along the dusty ledge above the lintel and found the key. Maybe she'd taken the dogs out for their last run. If Poppy didn't want to sleep, Maddy would take her out in her buggy with the dogs trotting alongside. That was bound to be what had happened. She'd probably left him a note.
He opened the door. He had to talk to Maddy tonight. Cards on the table. It couldn't be put off any longer. They'd shilly-shallied round it for long enough. If she was going to leave him he had to know. The decree absolute was through – at least it had been posted in both the court in Jersey and in Newbury. Caroline had telephoned happily to relay the news even before his solicitor did, and to say that the vital piece of paper would probably arrive in about two weeks' time and could she be invited to the wedding? He'd assumed she'd been joking. He hadn't been sure. He wasn't sure about anything any more.
The kitchen was as chaotic as usual. He loved what Maddy had done to this room. She was everywhere. All her cooking paraphernalia jostled for space with books and magazines, more of Poppy's toys, and things that got put down on the way through to somewhere else and stayed put. He and Maddy had always gravitated there at the end of each day. It was lovely on winter nights to come in from the yard, sit in front of the fire, ease off his boots, eat one of Maddy's dream meals and talk to her above the background hum of the radio. Or on summer evenings, when the windows were thrown open to the scents of the garden and the air was soft, they'd sit at the table in the dusk and drink wine and eat cold new potatoes in mayonnaise and laugh about getting fat together.
Would they ever do anything together again?
Tonight the kitchen was empty apart from the animals. There was no note. The dogs scrabbled across the flagstones to greet him, the cats stretched out in front of the switched-off boiler, looked up, yawned, and slept again. There was the remains of beans on toast on the table, and half a cup of cold coffee.
'Maddy!'
Silence.
'Mad! Maddy?'
Drew exhaled. Peapods was totally silent.
There was no sound of the television in the sitting room, or Poppy's laughter from upstairs. There was no sound of anything except the ticking of the clock echoing in the hall. Maddy might have gone to bed, of course, exhausted by her stint in the refreshment tent at the Jamboree, but somehow he doubted it. The house had a hollow feel, an air of emptiness, as if there had been no one there for quite some time.
Throwing open doors, calling, Drew covered every room. Maddy and Poppy Scarlet had gone. Trying not to panic, not to allow the horrendous thoughts to bubble to the surface, he thundered back through the house. She must be somewhere. He flicked the answerphone in the hall. A string of messages from friends and owners – but not the voice he wanted to hear. Maybe she'd phoned through to the office. Maybe she was in there. Poppy liked playing with the computer. He almost laughed – she certainly didn't take after him.
There was nobody in the office. Outside in the yard he could hear the lads piling out of the hostel on their way to the Cat and Fiddle. They were joking and swearing. It all sounded so normal.
Maddy might have gone to Fran's after the Jamboree; she might have gone to see Suzy. She might have gone to any of the dozens of other friends she had in the village. But, if she had, why hadn't she left him a note? Should he ring round and ask them? If he did, would they guess why? Did they all know why, for God's sake?
Making sure the dogs were secure in the kitchen, he crashed out into the yard. The rain misted through the twilight. Vincent's cottage was in darkness. So was Charlie's. They were Maddy's other bolt-holes. He'd hoped against hope that she might be there. He rubbed his eyes. He couldn't bear to lose her. He couldn't live without her. God! How many times had he heard other men moan similar words in maudlin drunkenness? How many times had he felt some pity for their plight, but not truly understood? But then, they hadn't been losing Maddy, had they?
He crossed the cobbles and unlocked Bonne Nuit's box. In the dark-red glow of the stable Bonnie regarded Drew with calm and intelligent eyes. He patted the chestnut neck. 'Sorry to disturb you. I need someone to talk to.'
Bonne Nuit pushed his head against Drew's arm. Today he'd believed that this horse would be his salvation – but what was the point of Peapods surviving without Maddy?
Merely hours earlier he and Charlie had congratulated each other on their buy, and wondered if Gillian had had the advantage of spiritual guidance. Bonne Nuit had finished in third place behind two experienced jumpers and, as they'd hoped, had drawn no interest from the punters whatsoever. Plenty of time now, they'd said, to organise his training schedule and build him up into a potential National horse. There would be ample opportunities over the next couple of months to try him out at various meetings and develop his stamina and fitness. And if everything went to plan, the Hennessey at Newbury in November would be his first big race.
Charlie had reported that Bonnie knew exactly what had been needed today, had kept plenty in reserve, and thoroughly enjoyed his trip. They'd grinned at each other, almost convinced that they might just have pulled off the miracle. The coup that every trainer dreams of: a horse from nowhere that has big-time ability. And not only was he a star on the course, Bonne Nuit had a dream of a temperament. He'd travelled back calmly in the horse box, eaten well, and settled easily.
Drew tugged the velvety ears. 'Where's she gone? What am I supposed to do? Hang around like a wimp? Or am I going to make a king-sized prat of myself and rampage round the village like Othello in overdrive?'
Bonnie snuffled his contempt. Drew wasn't sure which part of the sentence he'd disagreed with. Probably both.
'Okay, then. Half a pint of whisky and the telly until she comes home?'
This seemed more acceptable. Bonnie head-butted Drew's arm. He rubbed the horse's long bony nose. 'But what if she doesn't come home? What if she never comes home again?'
It was unbearable. Drew hadn't felt this aching desolation since his parents had died. The pain of knowing he'd never see them again. He couldn't bear it.
Blinking, he bolted Bonne Nuit's box, gave the other horses a cursory glance and dragged himself back to the house.
He turned on the television and poured half a tumbler of whisky. Neither offered any comfort. The cats, seeking warmth, crept in and curled by the empty hearth. They stared at him over their shoulders, as if blaming him for the lack of crackling flames. The dogs, more forgiving, all flopped on the sofas.
Another half-tumbler of whisky from the decanter. It wasn't Glenfiddich. He couldn't touch Maddy's Glenfiddich. What a selfish bastard he was. All he'd worried about was Peapods' survival, about winning the Grand National, about being a top trainer. He'd always assumed that Maddy would be there to share it with him. It was because of Maddy that he'd got this far. Without her there was nowhere to go.
The dogs pricked their ears above the irritating roar of the television. Drew was instantly on his feet. He was already smiling. They hadn't barked. Their tails were thumping as the sitting-room door opened.
'Mad! Where the hell have you been? Oh —'
Charlie shrugged. 'Wrong size, wrong colouring, wrong sex – otherwise pretty close. And much as I like you, I really wouldn't want to share your bed.'
Drew slumped down on to the sofa again as the dogs wagged round Charlie. 'I thought that –'
‘I was Maddy.' Charlie helped himself to a small whisky and a lot of slimline ginger ale. 'Yeah, I gathered. Where is she, then?'
'I have no hacking idea.'
'Jesus.' Charlie lolled into a fireside chair. 'Don't scream at me. I came for a bit of comfort and advice – not a bollocking.'
'Comfort and advice are in short supply.' Drew drained his glass. 'She's gone.'
'Gone where? No – no, sorry. I mean, she can't have gone. This is Maddy we're talking about. Maddy wouldn't have gone anywhere – you and Maddy are like sausages and mustard. Steak and chips? No, well, Morecambe and Wise – er – perhaps not. Still, you get my drift.'
'Shut up, Charlie.'
Charlie sank back into his chair. 'Have you had another row?'
'A row would be a step forward. No, she just wasn't here when I got back. Not a sign of her or Poppy. Shit, Charlie – what's happened to us?'
Charlie shook his head. 'I don't know. I've tried to talk to her. She seems the same to me –'
'No, she doesn't. That's bullshit and you know it. Everything started to go wrong when I told her about the divorce coming through. As soon as she knew I'd be free to marry her she changed.'
'Don't marry her then.' Charlie swirled his diluted whisky. 'Just carry on as you are. I know I'd run a mile if I thought my freedom was about to be curtailed. Maybe she's just scared of the actual ceremony. Have you tried asking her?'
'Of course I've tried bloody asking her!' Drew roared, making the cats flinch. 'What do you think I've been doing for the last three months! All she says is there's nothing wrong and she doesn't want to talk about it – oh, and why are we rushing into it when we're okay as we are?'
'There you are, then. Tell her you don't want to get married –'
'But I do! I've wanted Maddy to be my wife from the first moment I saw her! I want Poppy Scarlet to have proper parents, I want everyone to know how I feel about Maddy – I want the whole world to know
'That's an awful lot of "I wants",' Charlie interrupted. 'I didn't actually catch any "Maddy wants" in there –'
'Fuck off! Don't sit there and lecture me! You can't hold down a relationship for more than five fucking minutes!'
Charlie laughed. 'Very true. Which is one of the reasons I came to drown my sorrows with you. I was going to drag you to the pub and bend your ear a bit — but it's obviously not a good time.'
'No, it isn't. But go on, anyway. The trivia of your love life just might take my mind off my own problems.'
He hadn't meant to sound so bitchy, Charlie had always been a good mate, but he really didn't want to hear about the acrobatic Tina, or Lucinda, or whoever else was currently topping Charlie's seduction list. His ears stra
ined towards the telephone and the door.
'Lucinda had left a message for me on the answerphone when I got back from Fontwell.'
Big bloody deal, Drew thought. Charlie's answerphone was always being used up by women. He constantly missed spare rides because trainers couldn't get through. If that was all he'd come over to moan about -
'Her ma, the mighty Bathsheba, found a book I'd given her in her bedroom –'
Jesus! So what?
'And it was still in Jemima's bookshop bag, and Bathsheba is now on the rampage. She wants the shop closed down. And she's told Lucinda she's not to work there any more. And she tried to get Lucinda to tell her who'd given her the book, and Lucinda being a little star said she'd borrowed it from Maddy –'
Was there any point in this? Drew tried to work out any relevant implications. Lucinda was going to study English at university, wasn't she? Surely the discovery of a book in her bedroom was likely to make News at Ten?
‘– which would explain away the inscription, of course. But it does mean that Bathsheba may start asking you some questions. And –'
Why the hell would Bathsheba Cox want to close the bookshop because Charlie had written in a book he'd bought there, and – 'What bloody inscription?'
'I sort of wrote something appropriate ...'
'What?'
Charlie had the grace to stare at the carpet. 'You wouldn't really want to know – but I didn't sign it, so I wondered if Bathsheba asks you, if you would be a real pal and say that you'd written it and given it to Maddy ...'
'Not a bloody chance. I warned you early on about messing with Lucinda. She's a lovely kid – and, while she may well have her head screwed on and got you sussed, Bathsheba definitely won't see it that way. You may have some very heavy parental questions to answer regarding your activities over the last few months. I've got enough problems – I don't need yours as well.' He slumped back into the cushions. 'Oh, shit. You know I don't mean it. Go on then. Tell me about it.'
Charlie did. Drew reached for a further whisky and wished he hadn't asked. Still, it would be nice to see Bathsheba go ballistic when he told her he'd written in the book – just what exactly was cliterature anyway? – for Maddy. He'd have to tell Mad, first, of course. They'd share the joke and then -
Jumping to Conclusions Page 23
