'A nice pink would have been more proper. Or blue. Or –'
Jemima stopped listening. If only that was all she had to worry about; the colour of Maddy's bridesmaids' dresses. The last four weeks had been truly awful – and they shouldn't have been. They should have been fun. It was all Matt's bloody fault that she felt like this. If it hadn't been for him, then she could have joined in with the rest of the village in the excited run-up to the wedding. She and Gillian could have giggled together over Bella-Donna Stockings, and planned their strategy for tonight's League of Light vigil, and laughed about the complete irony of the situation.
As it was, although they'd had a few quiet sniggers together at Bathsheba's expense, and off-handedly discussed hats or not for the wedding, Jemima's heart hadn't been in it. She felt as though all the troubles she thought she'd left behind in her other life, had returned with a vengeance. She felt bloody guilty.
All those years of worrying about money, and her parents, and whether they were going to be allowed to stay in the house, and if there'd be more rows, and if someone even more sinister than the last caller was going to hammer on the door at midnight, had come flooding back.
Peering out of her childhood bedroom window early in the morning, praying that the postman would pass them by, and hating him when he didn't. Stuffing her fingers in her ears when her mother opened the letters and cried. It could have been yesterday.
Watching burly men with clipboards carry away the things that had been familiar to her for as long as she could remember and hurl them into the back of a van. Knowing she'd never see any of them again. Crying herself to sleep.
Listening, hunched under the bedclothes, to her mother shouting and her father saying over and over again that it would be all right. He'd got a plan. They'd be rich one day. The memories had come back to haunt her.
Being there when her mother had said she'd had enough. She was leaving. Leaving Vincent, leaving her. And then she'd known it was her fault. She had done something to drive her mother away. Even though Rosemary had hung on, the threat was always there. The guilt had destroyed her carefree teenage years.
It had taken years to rebuild her confidence. As she got older she'd realised of course that it hadn't been her fault; that she had no reason to torment herself with guilt. Bookworms and Oxford had been like a false skin, useful while the scars healed. But the full recovery had taken place in Milton St John. And now bloody Matt Garside had reopened the wounds.
'You're fretting about tonight, I'll be bound.' Maureen's beehive quivered with indignation. 'Well, you've got no need. A lot of daft old besoms holding a silent vigil with bloody candles! Pah! Anyway, look at the weather. That'll douse a few flames.'
It was a typical grey October day. There had been no gentle decline into autumn. September had been golden, warm and mellow; October had roared in with biting winds and leaden skies. Listlessly, Jemima wiped a spy-hole in the steam on the Munchy Bar's window. The chestnut trees were practically denuded now, their amber and russet leaves clinging to the verges in damp decay, their branches bare and skeletal against the scudding clouds. She'd already seen three seasons in Milton St John. Would she still be around to see the fourth?
'Are you coming tonight?'
'Try and stop me,' Maureen said stoutly. 'We'll all be there for you, don't you fret. Me and the girls have got a little surprise planned for Bathsheba and Co.' She hauled at her bra strap. The cleavage, still on display despite the drop in temperature, wobbled. 'Wonder what Charlie's dreamed up for the wedding reception. He hasn't said anything to you, has he?'
Jemima shook her head. Charlie had been badgering everyone for the last couple of weeks to make a donation for the communal present. Diana and Gareth James-Jordan had provided a marquee in one of their fields. It had been decided, via the stable grapevine, that in the absence of a wedding-present list and the knowledge that Peapods was not exactly flush, Milton St John would get together and provide Drew and Maddy with the reception in place of a gift. Rumour had it that some cheques had been staggeringly large. Levi and Zeke assured her that they knew Charlie had engaged Fizz Flanagan and the Spice Girls for the entertainment.
'Won't be fireworks, that's one thing,' Maureen said. 'Even with it being Bonfire Night. Can't have fireworks near the horses, see. Still, knowing Charlie it'll be bloody good. I can't wait, can you, duck?'
It seemed a very long time ago that Charlie had asked her to jump out of the cake. They'd laughed together, hadn't they? She'd joked with him, hadn't she? It had been merely moments after that, that Matt had spoiled everything.
A flurry of dripping mackintoshes and shaken umbrellas shattered the Munchy Bar's serenity. Maureen sighed and stood up. 'No peace for the wicked, duck.'
No, Jemima thought as she pushed her coffee away, there certainly wasn't.
The night of Bathsheba's meeting had been appalling. Having decided to invite Matt into the Vicarage to talk, turning and seeing him in tears had terrified her. What had she done to him? 'Oh, God.' She'd ushered him inside. 'Matt, don't –' He'd followed her upstairs to the flat. She'd switched on lights, wriggled out of the ethnic patchwork jacket, looked at him helplessly, and done what everyone does in a similar situation. She'd rushed into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
Matt had been sitting on the edge of the sofa when she'd returned. The flat was a mess. There were too many empty wine bottles on the window-sill and two half-finished cups of coffee on the table. Her washing was, as ever, draped on the radiators. If she'd planned on him being there she would have tidied up. As it was, she doubted if he noticed.
She'd sat beside him, not knowing whether to touch him or not. The tears were still in his eyes. She'd reached for his hand. 'It doesn't matter. Look, I'm sorry. It just wasn't right. Not like that –'
He'd looked at her. 'You don't want me.' Oh, God. Did she? Well, no, not in that way. But now was definitely not the right time to say so. 'That's a stupid thing to say –'
'Is it? About right for me, then. Stupid. Bloody, fucking stupid.' He drummed his bunched fingers against his lips, hiding the tell-tale quiver.
'Matt – stop it. Just talk to me.'
'Talk! That's all we ever do!'
They did. She enjoyed it. 'Yes, well, that's what mates do, isn't it? Talk. Share things –'
'We don't share anything!' He had glared at her. His eyes were glittering with a mixture of tears and anger. 'You don't know anything about me!'
Not fair. Okay, so she didn't know about his life as a jockey – but he'd always understood that was part of the deal. That was how they'd started the relationship – it wasn't as if she'd changed her views.
'What's happened?'
'Nothing. Everything. Shit – what do you care?'
But she did care. She hated to see him so unhappy. 'Can I do anything to make it better?'
He'd laughed then.
'Matt, please –'
'Please,' he'd mimicked. 'Please. No fucking thank-you is what you mean, isn't it?'
She'd stood up and walked to the window. The shrubbery was dark, the Downs darker. This was ridiculous. She had absolutely no idea what was wrong with him. Surely it couldn't be over that fumbling in the car? Christ, they were adults! Most people had grown out of that sort of behaviour by puberty.
'Jemima –'
She had turned round. He'd slumped forward, his head in his hands. 'Jemima, I'm so sorry ...'
She'd gone to him again, sat beside him, cuddled him. He'd buried his face in her shoulder. She'd thought, inconsequentially, that the kettle must have boiled ages ago. It didn't matter. Probably tea was the last thing on his mind.
'Tell me, Matt. Please.'
He'd said nothing. She'd stroked his hair. Of course, he didn't eat properly, and race-riding was so strenuous, it must put a strain on him. Especially as he was striving to stay unnaturally thin. And she knew, from the gossip, that he'd hit a bad patch.
Oh, shit, she should have shared it with him. This was her fault...
'Don't say sorry.' She'd taken his face between her hands. 'I've been so wrapped up in the shop and Dad and Gillian and Bathsheba and everything – I've been selfish. Whatever it is, we can sort it out. Nothing's ever that bad.'
'This is.' He'd looked at her again. 'This is as bad as it gets.'
She had kissed him. It seemed all she could do to make amends. His lips had remained unresponsive. She'd kissed him again. Stupid. She'd known it was stupid. She'd always been intelligent – but she'd never been bright.
This time he'd kissed her back. And his hands had clutched at her. And this time she didn't push him away.
'I'm a jockey,' he'd muttered. 'I'm a bloody jockey.'
'That's all right,' someone had said in her voice. 'I've never slept with a jockey before.'
And then they'd gone into her bedroom.
And if everything else that had preceded it had been awful, then what followed was simply horrendous.
Matt couldn't make love to her....
Jemima waved across the headscarves to Maureen and slunk back to the bookshop. They hadn't mentioned it since. They had hardly seen each other. She didn't know which one of them was more embarrassed. She had never felt so rejected, so inadequate – so absolutely awful. He'd wanted her – and then when she'd taken her clothes off, he hadn't. Didn't. Couldn't. Whatever. It had to be her fault. She must be totally repulsive.
They had got dressed again, not speaking, and Matt had slept on the sofa. She hadn't slept at all.
'Hiya.' Tracy peered over an armful of books. 'Just had a delivery. Backlists most of them. I've put one of each out on the shelves and I'll put these in the stockroom. Okay?'
'Fine.'
The shop was quiet. A spectral voice was echoing from the speakers, reading the opening chapters of The Bogwater Witches.
'My little 'uns love this.' Tracy emerged from the stock cupboard. 'And it's Hallowe'en in a few days, innit? Makes you wonder where the time goes. Soon be Christmas. Oh, while you was in the Munchy Bar, some geezer came in and left some stuff for the notice-board. It's on the desk. I said you'd put it up if there was space. Okay?'
'Fine. Yes, great. Thanks.'
There was always stuff for the notice-board. It had been another well-received idea. People came in to read about jumble sales and parties and to pin postcards in the 'Wanted' and 'For Sale' sections. As often as not they stayed on and bought a book.
Tracy was tidying things up. Gathering herself together ready for the trek across the road to collect four of her children from school and the remaining two from her mum's to go home for lunch.
'I'll get my Bobby to baby-sit tonight,' she said cheerfully, 'so I can come back and give ole Bathsheba what for. See ya later.'
'Yeah. Okay. Thanks.'
The shop was empty now. Jemima listened half-heartedly to the Bogwater story. She didn't want to eat anything and Tracy had tidied everything away. She'd even dusted the shelves and straightened the refurbished beanbags. She was redundant. Unwanted. Un-bloody-desirable....
The door rattled open.
'Brilliant. An empty shop and a beautiful woman.' Charlie grinned at her. 'How long have I got?'
She shrugged. A few weeks earlier, she might have been brave enough to say 'As long as it takes' or 'It depends what's on offer' and they'd have laughed. Now she felt she would never be flippant about sex again.
'I thought you were at Cheltenham.' She knew Matt was. He'd told her. Last week some time, she thought.
The October meeting finished yesterday.' Charlie sat on the edge of her desk. 'I've got a ride for Drew in the last at Stratford this afternoon. Matt's picking me up – still, I suppose you know that. We should have left ages ago. I just wanted to say good luck for tonight.'
'Thanks.'
'I'll probably be back, but it depends on Matt's driving. He's slightly more careful than I am. I wish I'd said I'd take the Aston Martin now. Are you still worried?'
About what? Tonight? Not any more. She tried to smile. 'Not really. I think it'll be quite funny – with the candles, I mean. A bit like a Barry Manilow concert without Barry Manilow.'
'Sounds good to me.'
Charlie rifled through the papers on the desk, completely at ease. Still, why shouldn't he be? He'd spent long enough here with Lucinda, hadn't he? And he'd long accepted her as a friend, treating her with the same happy nonchalance as he did Matt or Drew – and no wonder. She must be about as attractive to men as a warthog with halitosis.
However, despite having sworn never to look at another man as long as she lived, it was impossible not to look at Charlie. Gillian was right. He was just so beautiful. Matt, she knew, always wore a suit to go to the racecourse. Charlie, in his faded jeans and black sweatshirt and worn leather jacket, looked totally fantastic. Still, he was serially unfaithful, and arrogant, and a jockey, and, being able to bed the most beautiful women in the world, he was hardly going to look at someone who induced instant impotence, was he?
'What's this?' He swung a vibrantly coloured A4 sheet between his fingers. 'You're not going to put this up, are you?'
'I expect so. Later. It's probably about some Am Dram thing at Upton Poges or the toddlers' group party or something.'
'It's FARTS.'
'It's what?
'FARTS,' Charlie grinned. 'Unfortunate name. I've never worked out whether it was intentional or not. Fighters Against Racecourse Torture or something. They screwed up the start to this year's National, don't you remember? Oh, no – you probably don't. I keep forgetting you're anti-racing. They're animal rights activists, you know.'
'In that case I'll definitely put it on the board.'
He shook his head. 'A word of advice. Don't. Or at least not until after tonight. You'll alienate most of your support if you do.'
She skimmed over the poster. It showed a horrific picture of a fox being torn to shreds by a pack of hounds, and invited everyone who abhorred blood sports to attend the first meet of the Fernydown Hunt at the end of November to make their protest.
'Do you mean people round here support fox-hunting? How can they? I haven't seen any hunting since I arrived and –'
'The season doesn't start until the first of November. It finishes at the end of March. You've missed it so far.' Charlie swung his feet to the floor. 'Look, however you feel about it, there are a lot of country people in favour. I just don't think it would be very clever to show your colours tonight.'
She blinked. Who, of the people she'd grown to know and like, were animal torturers? This was awful. 'You mean – the trainers – and the jockeys – all hunt!'
'Not all, no. But some do. A lot. And a good many of the villagers who have nothing to do with the stables. It's part of the country way of life. They don't see it the way townies do.' He shrugged. 'Milton St John was practically deserted last year when they had those Countryside Campaign marches to Downing Street.'
'But it's barbaric!'
'Everyone has different opinions. For what it's worth, I'd suggest you upset one group of people at a time. Concentrate on the outraged morals of the blue-rinse brigade for the time being. Leave the hunters and fishers and shooters till later.'
Jemima was furiously angry. 'No bloody way! Give me that poster now. It's going up right this minute! Charlie!'
He held the piece of paper above his head. Irritatingly, because he was taller than her, she couldn't reach it. She stood on tiptoe and reached for it.
It's for your own good.' He was laughing as he side-stepped her grabbing hands, folding the poster inside his jacket. 'No, I'll keep it safe until later. I promise you can have it back tomorrow. There now, look – you've lost your glasses.'
'Sod it. I keep meaning to get them tightened. Where are they. She peered at him. As before, being fuzzy didn't even slightly dim his beauty.
'On the desk. It's okay, they're not broken. Here.' Charlie pushed them back on, lifting her hair to hook them behind her ears. 'Better?'
She blinked at him. He was inches away from her
. She could smell the warmth of his skin and the spice of his cologne. 'Thanks.'
'You're welcome.' He rested his hands on her shoulders. 'So? The FARTS poster stays in my safe-keeping for now, okay? Unless, of course, you want to do a body search?'
'Take it from me, she doesn't,' Matt's voice rang from the doorway. 'And get a fucking move on, Charlie. We're going to be late.'
Chapter Twenty-seven
Unsure of what exactly to expect, Jemima had returned to the shop at seven and was sitting in the semi-darkness of the security lamps. The rain had stopped and the wind had died away. Maybe, she thought, as the Ladies' League of Light began to mass their troops on the pavement, despite Gillian's protestations, God wasn't too keen on erotica either. He'd certainly given them a perfect night for it.
Gillian had popped her head round the flat door as she was leaving, looking very demure in a knee-length skirt and a shortie raincoat, and with her long pale hair in a bun. 'Suitable, do you think?'
'Way over the top,' Jemima had said. 'They're all going to know something's up.'
'Glen thought I looked nice.'
'I bet the boys didn't.'
'They said I looked like Olive Oyl.' Gillian had sighed. 'You've got to promise not to look at me tonight. We've got to get through this without laughing.'
No problem, Jemima thought morosely, cupping her chin on her hands. She'd had a little laugh with Charlie that afternoon. And perhaps Matt would be more cheerful tonight, always assuming that he bothered to turn up at all. She'd tuned in, by accident, to the racing from Stratford on 5 Live: Matt on Rainy Monday had beaten Charlie on Sebastian's Bat by a short head.
Because the shop had been empty and the sound system switched off, she had only turned on the radio for company. She had never listened before, or watched televised races, or even eavesdropped on the reruns in the Cat and Fiddle — but despite everything, she had been holding her breath for the final furlong.
She'd had no idea it would be so exciting – hearing the commentator's frenzied tones calling out Matt and Charlie's names when she actually knew them. It made her feel quite superior, sharing their reflected glory. It hadn't really occurred to her that Matt and Charlie were household names, and with her knowing them intimately ... Well, no, not intimately, as such. Not a good choice of words under the circumstances. And the strange thing was that she'd wanted Charlie to win.
Jumping to Conclusions Page 31
