'I thought that I should put in a word for Jemima.'
Everyone was staring at her now. She fixed a rictus smile and gave a sort of nervous-tic nod of the head.
Charlie carried on happily. 'Well, it doesn't seem fair that a minority want to put her out of business. The bookshop has become a real focal point of the village – there's something for everyone. And that's how it should be. Freedom of choice. I don't think these Fishnet books can harm anyone,' he glanced down at Jemima, 'not that I've read them, of course. Anyone who knows me will realise that I never got further than Janet and John Book Two. I just wanted to say that I've been told by people who have, that they're all about women being in control of their own lives. Which is,' he turned the beam to Bathsheba, 'exactly what you're arguing for, I believe, Mrs Cox?'
Gillian led the clapping, which was much louder than Bathsheba had received, as Charlie sat down. Maureen and Vincent leaned across Jemima to congratulate him. Jemima stared into her lap.
'Okay?' he whispered. 'I thought I ought to say it. I've felt so guilty.'
'Thanks – but I wouldn't have thought guilt bothered you too much.'
'It doesn't usually.' Charlie looked a bit perplexed.
Bathsheba had lumbered to her feet. 'I don't want to put Jemima out of business! I don't see why I should be painted as the villain of this piece! All I want is for her to stop selling corruptive material. And if she doesn't, then –' still clutching Spanky Panky she held a rather pudgy arm aloft, 'to that end I intend to hold a candlelit vigil outside the bookshop! I shall expect every decent woman in this village to support me – including Mrs Hutchinson.'
Gillian nearly tumbled off her chair. Jemima chewed the inside of her mouth to stop the giggle escaping. Glen was nodding. 'Of course. I'm sure my wife will be delighted to lend her support in any tangible way. The least we can do – although I'm not sure that a vigil as such will make any difference
'That's as maybe.' Bathsheba resumed her seat with a crash, 'but it will be a display of purity against sleaze. It may not stop the books being sold – but it will make a point for all respectable women! I will be posting notices later regarding the date.'
The meeting came to an untidy conclusion at that point. Desperate to get outside and have a good laugh, Jemima belted towards the door. Watching Gillian join in the candlelit vigil to protest about her own books was going to be absolutely wonderful.
It was raining. The light from the village hall spilled in gleaming puddles. The people following her were pushing up umbrellas and turning up collars.
'Coming for a drink, Jem, love?' Vincent asked. 'That wasn't as bad as it could have been, was it? Silly old bat – who'll want to take part in her vigil anyway?'
'Not many,' Charlie said, joining them and shrugging into his leather jacket. 'I'll have to give Lucinda a ring and tell her how it went.'
Jemima had received a postcard from Lucinda in Spain a couple of days earlier. It had mostly been concerned with how Rebecca Maxwell-Dunmore's older brother was shaping up. Maybe, she thought, Lucinda had written this because Bronwyn Pugh read all the unsealed mail that passed through the Village Stores and this was what she wanted Bathsheba to know. Jemima hoped so. She realised suddenly that she didn't want Charlie to be hurt.
'I won't have that drink, thanks, Dad,' she said quickly. 'I'm sure Maureen will be ample company – and I've got a lot of paperwork to get through. I hadn't realised that it would be so busy. We're getting all the Christmas books in now. I might even have to ask Tracy to work full-time until the new year.'
'Whatever, love. Just don't work too hard.' Vincent kissed her cheek, and linking his arm through Maureen's, headed pubwards. He stopped. 'And you can tell me to mind my own business, of course, but when you see Matt I think you should give him a bit of a bollocking. He should have been here tonight.'
The other villagers also seemed to be making a bee-line for the Cat and Fiddle. Charlie grinned at her. It was a nice grin. Lopsided. And his teeth were crooked. 'Pity you're so busy. I was going to suggest the pub, too. I wanted to ask you something.'
'Can't you ask me out here?'
'It's wet and you'll probably say no.'
'That sounds promising.' She dodged to one side as Bathsheba, Bronwyn and Petunia waddled from the hall, all tying rain-mates beneath their chins. They looked as if they were going to form a three-pronged attack. Oh, God. Why was it always like this? Charlie or the Parish Biddies? She shrugged. 'Okay. Cat and Fiddle it is. But just one drink.'
Avoiding Vincent and Maureen and all other interested parties in the Snug, they settled for the Spit and Sawdust. Jemima had to wipe her glasses on the hem of her skirt while Charlie was at the bar. They always steamed up on wet nights. He carried two glasses of dry white wine carefully to the table, and it annoyed her that she noticed that he was a million times more attractive than any other man in the pub.
'Go on, then.' She sipped the wine. 'Ask.'
'It's to do with Drew and Maddy's wedding.'
She blinked. She'd imagined a million things, but not that. 'It's still on, isn't it? There hasn't been another hitch?'
'God, no.' Charlie pulled a face at his wine. 'They're embarrassingly ecstatic. No, it was more to do with a wedding present.' 'They said they didn't want anything – need anything. Gillian said there wasn't a list. I think we're just going to buy them a vat of Glenfiddich.'
'They'd love that. And no, there isn't a present list as such. And this is not strictly a present. Shit.' He put the wineglass down on the table. 'Look, I've discussed this with Suzy and Fran and Georgia – them being closely involved, and they said I should ask you –'
'Do you want to buy them a book as a wedding gift?' She was a bit doubtful. It hardly seemed appropriate.
Charlie shook his head. 'We wondered if you'd do a turn?'
A what? 'I'm not an entertainer
Charlie had the grace to look embarrassed. 'Gillian said that you took your clothes off and leapt out of cakes.'
Jesus Christ! She'd kill her! She'd emblazon 'Gillian Hutchinson is Bella-Donna Stockings – True!' on every bloody wall in the village! Indiscreet cow!
'I almost leapt, almost dressed, out of one cake. A long time ago. I'll never do it again.'
Charlie looked crestfallen. 'Are you sure?'
'Absolutely positive. It was one of the worst moments of my life. Sorry, no, I won't. And Gillian shouldn't have told you.'
'Probably not – but I wish I'd been there.'
Jemima clutched at her wineglass and took a huge mouthful. She'd suddenly come over all hot. 'You'll have to think of something else.'
'I can't – Oh, you mean for Drew and Maddy? Oh yeah, I have.' Charlie gave up on his wine. 'But it won't be half so exciting. You leaping out of a mock-up cake would have added tons of Pizzazz.'
'I'm sorry to disappoint you.'
'You don't.'
She laughed and finished her drink. 'I'll have to go. I honestly do have a lot of work to get through. If I'd known tonight's meeting was going to be such a damp squib I wouldn't have even come –' She stood up. 'Thanks for your contribution, though. I'm glad someone's on my side.'
Charlie stood up too. 'Most people are. Your shop has added a lot to the village.'
'And my kitchen and my erstwhile assistant even more?'
'Dunno about erstwhile.' Charlie grinned. 'If it means dead sexy, then yeah.'
She laughed again – then stopped. 'Bugger.'
'What?' Charlie followed her eyes. 'Oh, yeah. Double bugger.'
Matt and Tina Maloret had just walked into the pub. Vincent and Maureen must have got it wrong, Jemima thought. They must have been talking tactics. They looked as though they still were.
'I'm going out the back way through the kitchen,' Charlie said. 'I really can't cope with bondage and torture this evening. See ya.'
She watched him go. Was he joking? She couldn't imagine for the life of her why Tina Maloret would even contemplate hurting him. Still, maybe he enjoyed it. Wh
at did she know?
'Jemima!' Matt's smile was plastic. 'I wasn't expecting to see you in here. The meeting over, then?'
'Obviously.' She was annoyed that he hadn't asked how it went, and knew that she shouldn't be. It must be how he felt every day when he'd been hurtling over hurdles and she never even mentioned it.
Tina, turning heads in sprayed-on leather jeans, a transparent shirt, and a fur jacket – Jemima hoped it wasn't real – frowned. 'Were you with Charlie just now? I thought I saw him.'
Jemima shook her head. Matt's laugh came as an either-end-of-the-mantelpiece pair with the plastic smile. 'Hardly. Jemima doesn't like jockeys, remember?'
'Who does?' Tina nudged him.
It was quite a familiar nudge, Jemima thought. Was this developing into another of those Milton St John-type Shakespearean: romantic tangles? Did she care? Would Charlie? Coming up with two maybes and a don't know, she shrugged. 'I was just leaving. I've got tons of orders to catch up on. I still haven't got used to dealing with reps yet – and I'm not very good at saying no. I'll probably have enough books to stock Hatchards.'
Neither Matt nor Tina seemed to find this in the least interesting. She picked up her patchwork jacket. It was still damp.
'I'll – er – run you home,' Matt said. 'Tina and I had finished talking business. And I'm sure she's dying to find Charlie.'
There was a lot of eye-meeting going on between them. Tina nodded. 'I hope I come as a pleasant surprise. He doesn't even know I'm in the village. 'Bye then, you two. Be good.'
Her laugh followed them out into the car park.
There was no need at all to run her home, Jemima said. They could walk it in two minutes. Matt said they'd get wet and to get in, so she did. They parked outside the back door of the Vicarage.
'Do you want to come up to the flat?' She knew it sounded as though bubonic plague would be more pleasant. She couldn't help it. She was completely knackered. 'For a coffee or something?'
'There isn't a "something" on offer though, is there?' Matt's face looked very pale beneath the Vicarage's security lighting.
There wasn't. They both knew it. Feeling very tired, and fazed by the hours of paperwork ahead of her, Jemima touched his cheek. 'Maybe another night?'
Matt grabbed her hand, holding it trapped against his face. His eyes were almost sad as he bent to kiss her. 'Yeah. Maybe.'
The kiss became suddenly more intense. Jemima started to kiss him back, and immediately realised it wasn't right. She began to push him away. 'Sorry – Matt – no, I can't –'
'Won't.' His voice was bitter as he fumbled with the buttons on the patchwork jacket. Being damp, they gave littlle purchase. 'Why not? Am I that repulsive?'
'No – of course not.' The buttons had given way. 'But not like this – not now.'
'Now or never.' Matt lunged at her again. 'Come on, Jemima. Stop playing at being the Virgin Queen – or aren't I good enough?'
He was hurting her. She wasn't afraid. Just angry. 'Matt – you're great. We just can't – I can't –'
'You can. Oh, you can.' He had managed to get himself anchored in the gap between the seats. Most of his weight was pinning her down. His free hand was scrabbling at her skirt, trying to yank it past her knees. 'See – it's not that bad.'
'Bloody pack it in!'
Oddly she was far more concerned about the outside light illuminating the sordid scene to the entire Hutchinson family, than she was about Matt violating her body. She'd had enough experience of gropers in Oxford to know she could handle him.
'There! Is that nice?'
It wasn't. She wriggled towards the passenger door, turning her head away from his probing mouth. 'It's damned uncomfortable. Look, stop playing silly sods and come indoors. At least we'll be comfortable in there.'
He turned her face towards him again. 'And you'll let me stay the night, will you? Even though I'm a jockey?'
'It's got stuff-all to do with you being a jockey.'
Hallelujah! She'd managed to find the door-catch. Fiddling with it, the door suddenly sprang open and they both tumbled sideways. The Vicarage drive was wet and pebbly. From Here to Eternity it wasn't.
Jemima scrambled to her feet and ran towards the house. Matt, panting slightly, followed her. Where was her bloody key? Why could she never find it? Ah! She shoved the key into the lock.
'Well?' Matt, looking dishevelled, stumbled on the doorstep. 'Am I coming in?'
She knew she should say no. She didn't want to sleep with him. If she slept with him, it would move things in a direction she really didn't want to go. On the other hand, if she said no, she'd feel like a complete cow. Maybe she could make him the offered coffee, and they could sit and listen to some music, talk. It might calm him down. She almost laughed. She'd actually wanted him to behave like this, hadn't she?
'If you promise not to leap on me again. If we can just sort a few things out. I'm not a lump of meat, Matt. Nor am I some sixteen-year-old who enjoys a quick grope and fumble. Yes, okay – but only if – oh, God!'
She stopped and looked at him. He was crying.
October
Chapter Twenty-five
Handing over five thousand pounds in cash to anyone would be a bit risky, Vincent felt. Handing it over to Ned Filkins in the windswept darkness of the Downs was downright insanity.
'That's it, Vince, mate.' Ned flicked through the collection of fifty-pound notes. 'Your pension. Your security for your old age – or not-that-much-older age, come to mention it. Only another five months to go, then think of the bonuses you'll pick up in April. Better 'n any bloody Tessys or Peppas.'
'And it's guaranteed? Safe?'
Ned tapped the side of his nose. 'Safe as the Bank of England. Have I ever let you down?'
Vincent had to admit that he hadn't. The stakes may have got increasingly high, but the returns had grown to reflect them. He'd got no complaints. Well, not about the money. But as gambling went, it was a bit boring, if he was to tell the truth. Half the fun of betting was making your selection, piling on the dosh, and then sweating through the race, living or dying on the result.
Gambling on horses was all about being there at the race meeting, sharing the excitement, soaking up the atmosphere. The smug feeling you got watching the real mugs waving their tenners at the bookies, knowing that they'd made the wrong choice – and that your horse would be romping home to glory ahead of theirs. Watching their faces as they ripped up their betting slips while you queued at the pay-out bag for yet another wad of crumpled notes.
With the selective memory of all addicted gamblers, Vincent only ever remembered the winners.
This handing over of cash with no idea how it was being spent, and then being clinically paid the winnings days later, took the edge off the fun. Still, he couldn't complain about the income his outlay generated. The stash under the mattress made it difficult to sleep at night.
'Couldn't we have done this in the pub?' Vincent queried as they picked their way unsteadily down the bridle track in the pitch dark. Milton St John, emblazoned by a thousand pinpricks of light, curled far below them. 'Do we really have to be this furtive all the time?'
'Fewer people who knows, the better.' Ned's voice was whisked away over his shoulder on the reed-whistle of the wind. 'But now you've brought it up, I've got a little surprise for you. No – leave your car here. It's well hidden. We'll take mine. I think it's time you got involved with the big boys.'
Vincent, climbing into Ned's leatherette seat, had dire feelings of foreboding. The big boys didn't sound like the collection of grouchy stable lads he'd already met. They didn't sound much like jockeys on the take either. They sounded scarily like the huge men with fur collars and padded shoulders with whom he'd had dealings in the past. He never wanted to become involved with them again.
Wasn't he getting a bit out of his depth here? He shook himself No – it'd be all right. Course it would. If Ned was to be believed, then this scam would bring in far more than he could have hoped to have earned
in a lifetime's hard work. There would have to be some risks. It wouldn't be half so exciting without them, would it?
Ned didn't turn the engine on, and freewheeling, they bumped down the bridle track in darkness. Ned had left the car's headlights switched off, too. It felt a bit like plunging down a lift-shaft – not knowing when you were going to hit the bottom. There were still dozens of things Vincent wasn't too clear about, and Matt Garside was top of the list. Ned had got very cagey when he'd mentioned him.
'No sweat, Vince, old chum. Don't even think about old Matt He's a good 'un.'
Was he? Vincent sincerely hoped so. He still wasn't sure how Jemima felt about the lad. They'd been seeing each other for some time now, so she must feel something for God's sake. He'd swing for anyone who hurt Jemima, so help him.
Ned had become a touch more brittle when Vincent had mentioned that he and Maureen had spotted Matt hobnobbing with Ned on bank holiday Monday.
'Ah – right. Yeah... Bit of unfinished business. Lancing Grange business, if you get my drift. Mizz Seaward, the ole cow, hadn't paid me everything I was owed. Matt was sorting it out for me. What? No, nothing to do with our bit of business, Vince, mate. Nothing at all.'
Vincent hadn't believed a word of it.
They'd reached the web of single-track roads now, and Ned switched on the headlights. Dipped. Tunnel vision. They didn't show anything other than the dank October hedgerows and a sweeping arc of blackness where the night sky dissolved into the downland horizon.
Ned's car didn't have the luxury of a heater and Vincent pulled his padded jacket more closely around him. And now there was this other thing with Matt. It had bothered him a great deal. Maybe if he'd spent more time with Jemima they'd have had the free-and-easy father-daughter relationship you saw on the telly. As it was, despite loving her to distraction, he was a little in awe of her. She'd grown up without him. She was a woman, for heaven's sake. She could sleep with whom she liked.
Vincent winced. He closed his mind to that side of Jemima's life. It was just that he was sure – dead sure – that Jemima wasn't in love with Matt. And that seemed to cheapen it somehow.
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