Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  'That's okay. I understand. No problem ...'

  That knocked the present theory on the head then. Feeling increasingly manic, she started to ramble about her shopping trip with Gillian. It was quite clear that nobody was listening. She wished Matt would offer her a drink, or that she felt sufficiently at home in his house to simply help herself. And she was dying to know why her father was there.

  'Gillian's invited us for Christmas.' She looked hopefully at Vincent. 'I said thanks – but I thought we'd be better on our own I'll roast you a turkey portion to go with my nut cutlet. We just have to decide whether it's to be at your cottage or my flat.'

  Vincent grinned sheepishly. 'Ah – I've been meaning to say something about that, Jem, love. Maureen has invited me to hers, actually. What with her Brian being on the Greek run – there's loads of business over Christmas for drivers who don't necessarily want to be at home, you see ...'

  Jemima stared. Bloody hell! So where did that leave her? Alone. Again. At Christmas. She wanted to cry.

  Matt patted her knee. 'You'll be able to spend the day with Gillian and Glen and the boys, though, won't you? It'll be lovely.'

  It would be absolutely appallingly awful.

  'I can't wait.'

  She hated them both. What the hell did they care? Both the men who professed to be important in her life had made plans that excluded her. Well, sod them! In two minds as to whether she should snatch Matt's book back and say it had all been a terrible mistake, she stood up. 'Well, I'm glad that's sorted out. I hope you have a lovely time, Matt. And happy Christmas. No, don't bother seeing me out. I'll find my own way.'

  'Jemima –' Vincent was on his feet. 'I'll come round and see you later. I can always cancel going to Maureen's.'

  She shook her head. He couldn't. She really wouldn't want him to. They'd both had a rough time in recent years. If her father was going to be happy – albeit with someone else's wife – who was she to deny him?

  'No. You have a great time. I'll see you tomorrow anyway for the present-swapping and everything. And maybe you and Maureen could pop round to the flat on Christmas night for supper or something?'

  'She'd like that.' Vincent sounded as though someone had jus' told him he'd won the lottery. 'We both would.'

  'And I'll be back in the New Year.' Matt looked as though this would solve the world's problems at a stroke. 'Shame I'll miss the Nuke though. You'll have to tell me all about it.'

  'I don't think anyone over sixteen is planning on going.'

  'Charlie is.' Matt had kicked her present under the sofa. 'He's taking Lucinda.'

  'I thought he'd be on holiday with Tina.' Jemima was still edging towards the hall.

  Now what had she said? The atmosphere had changed again. Both Matt and her father were trying hard not to look at each other. 'Um – is that something we shouldn't talk about?'

  'Of course not,' Matt said jovially. 'It's just that he's booked to ride in the King George on Boxing Day – and then again at Cheltenham on New Year's Day. He's jealous that I'm able to have a holiday and he isn't. He got really pissed off when I told him he'll have to stay sober on New Year's Eve.'

  She supposed he would. Matt would no doubt be getting legless with his family on scrumpy or something. Vincent was smiling again too. She must have imagined the constraint. She crossed the room again and kissed Matt's cheek. "Bye then. Have a good one.'

  'You too.' He didn't kiss her back. 'And I'll see you next year.'

  And that, she thought as she wandered outside, digging her hands deeper into her pockets and watching her breath spiral in plumes beneath the street lamps, was almost definitely that.

  So Matt hadn't bought her a present – so what? Was she gracious enough to believe in the old adage of it being better to give than to receive? Not a bloody chance. Not in this case, anyway.

  She was desperate to know why Vincent had been in Matt's house. And had been there for some time by the look of it. Relaxing by the imitation gas logs with a glass of whisky. Just what the hell was going on?

  It was one of the first questions she asked Maddy when she was sitting beside the fire in Peapods' kitchen nursing a massive glass of Chablis in one hand and a plate of oven-warm mince pies in the other.

  Maddy, absolutely enormous and looking stunning, managed to lodge herself in the rocking chair. 'Not a clue. Vincent has never seemed to like Matt much. I'd have thought, like you, that it might be a Christmas surprise they were planning between them.' She looked hopeful. 'Maybe it still is?'

  'Absolutely not.' Jemima bit into a mince pie. 'God – how do you manage this in your condition? I couldn't make anything half so good. I bet you could outdo Delia even in labour.'

  'Don't you believe it.' Maddy hauled herself to her feet again and stretched. 'When I was having Poppy, cooking was the last thing on my mind. Vengeance and retribution were uppermost. I wanted to kill everyone – especially Drew. You wait until it's your turn.'

  She'd be waiting a long time, Jemima mused as she relaxed back in her chair. Poppy had been taken to Fran's for the evening while Maddy and Drew pretended to be Santa's elves and decorated Peapods. Maddy's parents would be arriving in the morning ready to take over at the first twinges.

  She looked around at the happy chaos: at the warmth and light and untidiness of busy family living. This was what she wanted. Maddy's contentment. She'd pass on the babies, of course, but she'd happily settle for the rest.

  'You don't know how lucky you are.'

  'I do. Believe me, I do. Still, you're not doing so badly, are you? You're over your dislike of racing, your shop is a stonking success, you've beaten Bathsheba Cox hands down, and you've got Matt. Not bad for less than a year in the village.' Maddy tucked Jemima's presents for Poppy into a box with several others on one of the dresser shelves. 'Thanks so much for these. It's very kind of you. I only hope my son allows me to hang around long enough to watch her opening them.'

  'You know it's a boy?'

  'Drew and I both think it is. Poppy thinks it's a dinosaur. She's pretty hooked on Godzilla at the moment. Finish up the mince pies. I've made dozens just in case. Another drink?'

  She'd left Floss at the Vicarage – and was in no hurry to return to her empty flat – so she accepted happily. If only she could be spending Christmas – and the rest of her life – somewhere like this. With someone like Drew. Well, not Drew, of course. But someone who really and truly loved her.

  Oh, God. What had happened to all her independent feminist principles? It was the Christmas syndrome, she supposed. All this happy togetherness and merry families and feel-good seasonal propaganda. It made her feel lonely every year. It was just a bit more acute this time.

  'Are things all okay now? Oh, I know you and Drew are ecstatic, but with Peapods?'

  'Bonnie winning the Hennessey has put a few more presents under the Christmas tree,' Maddy grinned. 'Complete survival depends on him winning the National, of course. I know Drew will have to give up the National Hunt side next year whatever happens. But a yard that sends out a Grand National winner can bank on getting plenty of interest from other owners. I suppose, putting it baldly, complete survival is all down to Charlie and Bonnie in April.'

  Quite a responsibility. She hoped they'd win. Was that disloyal to Matt? She knew how desperately he and Kath wanted to win, too. And Bonne Nuit's triumph at Newbury may have helped Peapods, but it had caused quite a few headaches at St Saviour's. She smiled to herself, remembering Gillian's frantic coded telephone calls to the bank as she tried to move her money about without Glen discovering.

  'Why the smirk?'

  'Nothing –' Jemima shrugged. 'I was just thinking about Gillian.'

  'Being Bonnie's owner?' Maddy giggled. 'Yes, I do know. Drew told me on our wedding night. I wasn't sure if you knew.'

  'I think it is one of the village's better-kept secrets. God knows what'll happen when Glen finds out.'

  'Murder at the vicarage!' Maddy's eyes sparkled. 'Actually, more intriguing, is where s
he got the money to buy the horse. Drew says she's loaded – but even he doesn't know where it came from. Have you got any ideas?'

  'Mad!' Drew's voice echoed through from the sitting room. 'Mad! I can't get these bloody fairy lights to work! Have we got another set?'

  'Excuse me a sec. Drew's absolutely lousy with anything technical. He'll probably burn the house down. Help yourself to more booze ...'

  Jemima watched as Maddy waddled out into the hall, then closed her eyes. Saved by the fusing fairy lights. The way she felt tonight she'd probably have told Maddy about Bella-Donna Stockings. The dogs were wheezing in their sleep in front of the fire. The cats were holding a purring contest on top of the range. Somewhere, from a distant wireless, carols were playing.

  The waft of ice-cold air as the back door flew open was like being drenched by a bucket of water.

  'Mad! Any chance of a mince pie if I promise faithfully to live in the sauna until Kempton?' Charlie stopped and looked at her, then at the plate of flaky pastry remains. His eyes widened. 'Bloody hell – you haven't eaten all of them, have you?'

  'Every last one.' Jemima eased herself upright in her chair, hoping that she hadn't smudged her mascara, or got crumbs caught anywhere. 'Maddy and Drew are playing with the fairy lights.'

  'Better leave them to it, then.' Charlie sat in Maddy's rocking chair and shrugged out of his leather jacket. 'Drew's shit hot with practical things and horses but he's crap with electricity. Mad'll sort him out. Have you really eaten all the pies?'

  'They're in the bottom oven.'

  'Brilliant.' Charlie squatted down in front of the range. 'Do you want some more?'

  Why not? She handed him her plate. She tried very hard not to stare at the lean thighs beneath the stretched denim, or the powerful shoulders under the sweater. 'Er – what are you doing for Christmas?'

  'Eating nothing and drinking less and hoping I can make eleven stone wringing wet for Kempton.' Charlie plonked the piled plate back on her lap and retook the rocking chair. 'How about you?'

  'No plans.' She tried not to mumble through the crumbs. 'Well, Gillian and Glen have invited me to spend the day with them, and Dad and Maureen are coming round in the evening.'

  'Not seeing Matt?'

  'He's going back to Devon.'

  'Prat.' Charlie demolished a pie in two bites and reached for another. 'Are you and he still – you know?'

  'Probably not. We'd reached a bit of an impasse. I think we might have finished tonight, actually.'

  'You're not sure?'

  She shook her head. She was never sure of anything in the relationship with Matt. She wasn't even sure there had been one. Charlie, she noticed, was smiling. Sod him. He probably found it really amusing that she couldn't even hang on to Matt.

  'Can I give you some advice?' He leaned forward. His hair gleamed in the fireglow. His eyes were surprisingly gentle.

  'As long as it's not a lecture on my fox-hunting cronies. I've learned my lesson.'

  'If you and Matt pick up again when he comes back after Christmas, don't trust him too much. I'm not sure that he's ready for a permanent relationship.'

  'And you think I am?' She laughed. 'You think I'm trying to tie him down to a house and a mortgage and a wedding ring and kids? God, Charlie. Get a life. I have far more important things to do with my future.'

  He didn't seem in the least taken aback. 'I'm sure you have, lust keep an eye on him – and don't let him spend too much time with your father.'

  Christ! There was something going on and Charlie knew!

  Hello.' Maddy thumped back into the kitchen. 'I didn't hear you arrive. Drew's just finished the tree so we're going to have supper. Will you both stay?'

  Sorry, I can't.' Charlie stood up. 'I only popped round to drop off Poppy's present. It's in the outhouse. I've got to fly over to Lambourn. Nicky Henderson's having a party. I'll be around tomorrow if you need hot water and towels and something to bite on. 'Bye, Jemima.'

  Hours later, after she'd eaten an enormous Peapods supper and Drew had driven her home, Jemima curled beneath her duvet. She closed her eyes and started to drift, memories of the day flickering in and out of her semi-consciousness. The bustle and the laughter and the noise and the colour of Christmas had been everywhere. And people were different. More cheerful. And Charlie ... She thought a lot about Charlie these days. And she really would have to ask him what he'd meant. Or maybe she'd ask Vincent. Oh, please God, don't let it be anything to do with gambling....

  Jesus!

  She was instantly awake. Among her replay memories was Matt's room. The suitcases, the neatly folded clothes, the single present for his mother ...

  Why the hell, she wondered, if Matt was going back to his family's farm in Devon, had his passport been on the top of his suitcase?

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Vincent wrapped the last present and mummified it with Sellotape. They all looked the same – sort of long and lumpy. He'd never had a deft touch with a parcel – he'd always left that sort of thing to Rosemary – and latterly, of course, there had been no money for living, let alone gifts. This year, he thought with satisfaction, it was going to be different.

  The radio was warbling 'White Christmas'. Vincent peered out of his window. It might just be. He hoped not. He didn't want Kempton to be snowed off.

  Christmas Eve. He glanced across the cobbles towards Peapods. It was racing's day of rest with no meetings anywhere, but the horses had been exercised and fed as normal, and he'd swept the yard. His fingers had been numbed by the biting wind as he'd clutched the broom and he'd been glad to defrost with a well-rummed coffee. Maddy was still at home, although her parents and Suzy had arrived a couple of hours earlier. He wondered if the baby would be born on time – unlike Jemima who'd had him and Rosemary on tenterhooks for three agonisingly long days after her expected birth date.

  God, he'd been so proud on that day. So bloody happy. It was all very long ago. Another lifetime.

  He pulled himself away from sentimental wallowing. He'd lost one good life – through no fault of his own, really – and he'd started to build another one. He had no intention of losing that. Perhaps what they were doing was morally wrong – but then he wasn't forcing Matt Garside to cheat, was he? Ned was doing that. Just as Ned was forcing his collusion. Nasty little phrases gleaned from The Bill – like accessory and collaborator and conspirator ~ all bubbled to the surface. Vincent pushed them down and slammed the lid. No point in thinking like that. What was done was done – he just had to make the best of it. And after the Grand National he'd confess to everyone and everything would be fine.

  Having sorted out this dilemma, at least for the present, Vincent switched off the radio. The rest of the day stretched pleasurably ahead. Well, not all pleasurably. He was meeting Ned Filkins for a lunchtime drink in the Cat and Fiddle. He wasn't looking forward to that much, to be honest, but he never liked to cross Ned – just in case.

  Still, at least Maureen's part of the day would be lovely. With Brian and his lorry in Greece, she'd invited him to call round for Christmas Eve drinks and stay over. It would be the first time. He hoped it wouldn't be the last. He knew she had no intention of leaving her husband, and he honestly didn't want her to. This arrangement suited them both nicely. He wasn't a hundred per cent sure what Jemima made of it, but even her disapproval wouldn't stop him.

  And the Milton St John jungle drums had failed to pick up on the liaison – at least as far as he could tell. Maybe it was because he and Maureen were hardly Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh. Maybe the stout middle-aged weren't supposed to have desires stirring their sluggish hormones. Maybe it was simply that there were far more juicy titbits on offer.

  Titbits like Matt. If that ever got out... Vincent groaned aloud and poured another dollop of rum into his coffee. He'd promised himself not to think about it until after Christmas. The whole thing had got right out of control. And Jemima walking in on them yesterday – Christ! He hadn't known what to say. And Matt, the cool, cruel
bastard – Vincent stopped. No, he wasn't. Not either of those things. Not really.

  Matt had been caught up in the web of his own deceit – exactly as he had. The more you struggled, the more entangled you became. Still, one thing was clear – the accident during the Hennessey had been precisely that. There was no way that Matt would have managed anything quite so spectacular. Ned Filkins had been jubilant over the Oscar-winning fall – but Vincent had been there. He'd been sure it was genuine. He'd been sure that Matt – against all orders and risking his reputation – would have gone on to win that race. And now he'd spoken to him, he knew that he would.

  Now it was down to Charlie and Bonne Nuit to beat Dragon Slayer at Kempton. Kath Seaward had replaced Matt with Liam Jenkins again, who was nowhere near as good. Ned was convinced that Dragon Slayer would make a further poor showing, possibly be scratched from Cheltenham altogether, and be in the National at an incredibly good price.

  There was of course one way out of all this. It was something he and Matt had discussed yesterday. It involved being very brave and very strong and risking everything – but at least they'd be free from Ned Filkins' blackmailing grip. If they both came clean about their misdemeanours to everyone who mattered, he would have no further hold. They'd decided against it.

  Telling all. How could he? How could Matt?

  Oh, God. Matt. Well, at least he knew what Matt's problem was now. It had sickened him to his stomach. Thank God that Jemima had no idea. Vincent had become very angry at this point, and demanded to know whether Jemima had come to any harm.

  Matt had said that no, she hadn't. It didn't work that way. Matt told him everything. It had shocked Vincent rigid. He'd always considered himself to be a man of the world – but he had no idea that these sort of things went on. And among seemingly respectable people, too. He'd shuddered at the thought of the degradation. Bloody Matt. It was all his fault. If he'd kept his evil, corrupt habits under control, then he, Vincent, wouldn't be in this mess now.