He kissed her. Gently. And then not so gently. And then she was kissing him back, and all the noise and colour and explosive vibration was inside her head and invading her body.
The DJ welcomed in the New Year with a blast mix of Roni Size and 'Auld Lang Syne'. Jemima simply didn't hear a thing.
March
Chapter Thirty-seven
He hadn't won the King George. He was pretty sure he wouldn't win the Cheltenham Gold Cup which was now only an hour away. And the Grand National? Forget it. And it was all Jemima's fault. Since New Year's Eve, Charlie simply hadn't been able to get her out of his mind.
It could have been so different. If only Gillian hadn't come belting up at what seemed like a split second after midnight, yelling that they'd found the twins bopping to Fizz Flanagan in the Ragga tent, and wasn't it a hugely tremendous relief? If only Lucinda hadn't shed her St Hilda's chums and said oh, hi, to Jemima, and then entwined herself around Charlie and said they had a lot of New Year's kisses – and the rest – to catch up on. If only Jemima hadn't looked at him shyly and sadly and said Happy New Year and walked away....
And he'd tried to follow her, but she'd disappeared into the throng outside. He'd stood in the icy early morning, the first snowflakes dissolving in his hair, and wanted to cry.
Charlie, who reckoned he'd performed every sexual equation known to man – and woman, of course – had been blown away by a kiss.
The snow had continued intermittently through January and into February. When it wasn't snowing, the temperatures plummeted to subzero again, and covered the Downs with royal icing. Now it was March and a reluctant thaw had set in.
Drew and Kath, like every other National Hunt trainer in the country, were tearing their hair out over the disruption to their Blue Riband schedules. And, even more worrying, the weather in Ireland had been fairly mild by comparison, and the trials at Fairyhouse had thrown up some surprising, and extremely hot, competition.
Charlie had spent a lot of time sitting on the counter in the bookshop, or sprawling in Jemima's chair behind her desk. They'd talked – as they'd always talked – about everything.
They'd discussed the wave of gossip that had roared through Milton St John after Gillian's revelations. She had appeared on breakfast telly and all the local news programmes. Glen, after his initial shock, had been inordinately proud and supportive and, having received a rather censorious letter from the Bishop, had declared his intention of turning Baptist.
The Bishop, who had always had a soft spot for Gillian, Jemima told Charlie, had then battled his way through the Berkshire snowdrifts, and spent a weekend at the Vicarage. Gillian had shown him the classic works of other erotica writers such as Anaïs Nin, and pointed out that eminent writers such as D. H. Lawrence, and even good old Shakespeare, were not above hurling in huge chunks of pure titillation. The Bishop had left, convinced that God worked in mysterious ways indeed, with a parcel of Fishnets in his suitcase.
They'd talked about Matt's rather surprising suntan on his belated return from Devon. Jemima had said she hadn't seen much of him since he'd been back. Charlie hadn't been sure whether she meant she hadn't seen Matt, or she hadn't seen all of his suntanned body, and had been too scared to ask.
They'd talked about Lucinda's return to Southampton for the new term. They'd even discussed Tina's nation-wide television advertising campaign for a shampoo, which meant that they both saw her in their living rooms far more often than they wanted to.
Neither of them had mentioned New Year's Eve.
Bored to tears with the enforced lay-off because of the weather, Charlie had cleaned every bit of tack he could find at Peapods a million times; driven Maddy to distraction by picking Daragh up just as she'd got him to sleep; and started smoking again.
'For God's sake – tell her,' Maddy had insisted, falling over Charlie's legs in Peapods' kitchen yet again. 'Because if you don't, I will.'
'It won't make any difference, Mad.' He'd thrown his half-smoked cigarette into the embers of the range. 'She thinks I've got about as much depth as a puddle.'
'Charlie.' Maddy had dumped Poppy Scarlet and one of the new litter of kittens on his lap. 'You're absolutely gorgeous. You're kind and funny. You've never, ever failed to get any woman you've wanted. You've got Tina – well, not so much now, granted – but then she's working abroad a lot. And Lucinda in the vacs. And the postmen still get hernias from delivering your fan mail. Why the hell should Jemima turn you down?'
The kitten had turned round three times, purred, and fallen asleep on his knees. Charlie had buried his face in Poppy's dark, silky hair, curly like Maddy's. It smelled sweet and fresh, and made him want to cry. For more than a decade he'd known that these surrogate babies were the nearest he'd ever get to having his own child. An accident had put paid to any chance of him ever establishing a Somerset dynasty. It had never been a problem. Until now. Because until now he'd never met anyone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
He lifted his head from Poppy Scarlet. 'Because I don't just want to go out with her.'
'Well, no, you wouldn't.' Maddy stopped in the middle of sorting out Daragh's Babygros from the tumble dryer. 'But I'm sure Jemima wouldn't mind going to bed with you eventually. It wouldn't be that much of a hardship.'
'I want to marry her.'
There. Now he'd said it. It had been hammering inside his brain for ages. Months. From long, long before New Year's Eve. For the first time in his life he had found the woman he wanted to marry – and he couldn't.
Holy hell!' Maddy dropped the clutch of multicoloured towelling all-in-ones, and plonked herself in the rocking chair opposite him. 'Are you sure?'
He'd never been more sure of anything in his life.
Maddy picked up another kitten which was about to investigate the bottom oven. 'What about Matt? Are they still together?'
'No – yes. I'm not sure ... I don't think so.'
'Then why the hell haven't you asked her out?'
'Because she has given me absolutely no reason to think that she wants me to.' He'd tickled Poppy Scarlet. 'Christ, Mad, you can always tell when someone wants to take things further, can't you? She's still as cool as she ever was ...'
'Except for the New Year kiss?' Maddy had cuddled the kitten. 'That didn't sound very cool to me.'
'Don't.' Charlie had groaned. 'It was the hottest thing ever. But now I think I might just have overamplified her response in my imagination – the way you do, you know? It may well have turned me upside down – but it probably didn't have the same effect on Jemima. And I've got absolutely nothing to offer her.'
Maddy had looked endearingly indignant. 'Of course you have. As well as all the attributes that are extremely well-chronicled, you'll also have a secure future here – either as Drew's assistant trainer if you and Bonnie win the National, or as a very much sought-after freelance jockey even if you don't.'
'I know. But that wasn't really what I meant.'
Maddy had wrinkled her nose. 'Wasn't it? Well, if you're asking for my advice, which I don't think you are, I'd say test the water. Ask her out. The poor girl might be longing to become a notch on the Wallbank-Fox for all you know. Oh – sorry, you want more than that, don't you?'
'I want her to be a permanent fixture in it.'
'She's never going to get past the duvet if you don't damn well ask her out to start with though, is she?'
'I can't.' Charlie had sighed. 'I can't – because I don't want her to say no. If she said no, then that would be the end of it, wouldn't it? I know she likes me – we've had some nice friendly times together. I think she thinks I'm incredibly lightweight. I don't think she could ever – well – love me.'
Maddy had laughed and shooed the kitten away to find its mother. 'Charlie Somerset – I honestly think you're really and truly in love!'
He was. He wasn't sure he liked it. He had loved every single one of his girlfriends, however casual. It was the in bit that was a totally new experience.
And
Maddy had asked about Matt. Well, Matt was another problem. Matt had thrown away the Hennessey – he was sure of it – especially now after the conversation he'd overheard at the wedding reception. Fortunately, the resulting injuries had prevented him from ballsing up anything else. And obviously, as the King George had proved, Liam Jenkins hadn't been in on Ned's scam.
'He's only on the end of a bloody phone,' Kath Seaward had said laconically in the Cat and Fiddle. 'No point in him kicking his sodding heels here when he can be getting himself into shape somewhere in the sun. Lucky bastard! Wish I could do the same. He'll be back in time for Cheltenham.'
And he had been. But he'd still been almost impossible to talk to. He'd worked Dragon Slayer every minute he could, spent hours in the sauna, and had refused all Charlie's offers of reinstating their double-act in the Cat and Fiddle on the grounds that he needed to be two hundred per cent fit after his lay-off.
Jemima hadn't seen much of him either, apparently. Or so she'd said. The fact that Jemima and Matt were no longer together as such, and therefore Charlie didn't have to worry about their blood-brothers pact, failed to lift his gloom. What the hell did it matter? His own reputation was his undoing.
Jemima would never take him seriously. She'd been with Matt for ages, even though he was a jockey and she hadn't liked racing, because he was well-read. Charlie Somerset, jump jockey and ladykiller. That just about summed him up. What the hell would someone like Jemima ever see in someone like him?
And then, of course, there was Vincent. If Vincent and Ned and Matt were in on some sort of fiddle together – and he was still sure despite Jemima's assurances to the contrary – then he'd have to let him know that he knew. Jemima would be devastated if she ever found out. She was so proud of her father – and she'd hate Charlie if he colluded with him, wouldn't she? Christ – it was so complicated.
And once that was cleared up – if it ever was – and he'd told Tina and Lucinda that they were both a thing of the past, which he felt neither would really mind about too much – he still couldn't offer Jemima anything. Well, nothing that he felt she wanted. And certainly not what she deserved.
And now it was Cheltenham. Gold Cup Day. The last day of the meeting. He'd had two winners on the previous days for trainers other than Drew, and a couple of seconds, and a third for Martin Pipe in the Champion Hurdle. Matt had been even more successful, having just won the prestigious Triumph Hurdle on Kath's Boating Party. The media were now revving up over Dragon Slayer in the Gold Cup – and the possibility of the most spectacular double of the decade.
'Don't worry,' Drew had said, patting his shoulder. 'I know Cheltenham is the punters' paradise, but I'd be happier with you winning the National. Bonnie will come good for the Gold Cup in future years if Gillian keeps him in training – although, sadly, not with me ... Still, concentrate on getting him round safely. Dragon Slayer – and that bloody Irish raider are the ones we'll have to beat.'
Charlie had nodded and drifted back to the changing room to pull on the Fishnet colours. No horse had done the Gold Cup and Grand National double for more than twenty-five years. Garrison Savannah had been the nearest – and that had been ages ago. He knew he had very little chance.
The changing room, as always highly-charged with fear and excitement and the stench of sweat, was chaotic. Matt was sitting alone, already wearing Tina's colours. Charlie, getting cursed by everyone, yanked his stuff from his allotted peg and shoved his way towards him.
'Congratulations. Great win.'
'Thanks.'
>Charlie fastened his stock, pulled on his breeches over a pair of laddered >tights and picked up his jersey. 'Do >you reckon you'll do the double?'
>Matt seemed to flinch. 'Which >double?'
'Today. The Triumph and the Gold Cup.'
>'Christ knows. I'm >bloody knackered now. I >didn't think I>'d feel so unfit.'
And that, Charlie thought, was the longest sentence Matt had uttered for months.
He pulled Gillian's shocking pink and black colours over his head. 'Tina will be rooting for you, anyway.'
There was a definite flinch this time. 'What? Has she said so?'
'Christ, no.' Charlie sat on the bench and tugged on the paper-thin riding boots. 'I haven't seen her for ages. I know she's flown in for today because it was all over Ceefax this morning. To be honest, I think me and Tina are a thing of the past. I'm pretty sure she's frying other fish.'
'Fucking stop talking about food!' an anguished voice howled from the far end of the room. 'I'm sodding starving!'
Everyone laughed. Matt didn't. 'Really? Does that bother you?'
'It's a relief, actually. I've now got all my required layers of epidermis. So – what about you?'
Matt practically jerked from the bench. 'What about me?'
'You and Jemima ...' Charlie felt like he was wading through treacle. He hadn't got a clue what murky undercurrents were tugging at this particular conversation, but something seemed very wrong. Still, at least Matt was talking. 'I take it you're no longer together?'
'We're still friends ... we've decided to call a halt on anything else.'
He tried not to beam too broadly. 'So Jennifer got an engagement ring for Christmas, did she?'
'Who?'
'Jennifer. Your faithful bit of Totnes totty. She must have been delighted to see you at Christmas – and the temperatures must have soared on the Torquay Riviera.' Charlie stood up and collected his whip, gloves and cap. 'That suntan could have come from the Caribbean ... Although I'm no expert, I'd say it came from somewhere very like the Virgin Islands.'
Matt glowered at him. 'Fuck off.'
Bingo! Charlie thought, pushing his way jubilantly through the weighing room. Bloody, sodding bingo!
Tina and Matt! It had to be. He wasn't sure why or how or even when – but it didn't matter. Not any more. Had it been Tina that Matt had been with at Drew and Maddy's wedding, then? Yeah – it must have been – it all made sense. He laughed. What an actress! No wonder she was getting so many offers of television work.
So, that was one problem solved. He wouldn't tell Jemima. Not yet. And even when he did, he'd fudge the timing for her. No woman liked to feel they'd been cheated on, did they?
Shit. He pulled up short at the door. He'd been cheated on, too. Bloody hell. No one had ever done that to him before – and with Mao? What the hell had Matt Garside got that he hadn't? What on earth had Tina found in Matt that he hadn't provided? And if Tina preferred Matt to him – then why shouldn't Jemima? Oh, God ... Matt had Tina – and he'd had Jemima, too. Lucky, lucky sod.
He shivered in the biting wind that still prowled over the southern half of the country and was having a grand time playing havoc with the hats in Prestbury Park. This really was the most spectacular racecourse in the country. With its natural amphitheatre, and Cleeve Hill as a backdrop, it was no wonder that the whole steeplechasing world made the pilgrimage to Cheltenham for the festival.
The three-day meeting provided every racegoer with everything he or she could want: top-class horses jumping an incredible selection of obstacles over various distances; a classy social event a chance to spot the potential National prospects; and a party atmosphere to celebrate the end of winter.
It was a real rite of spring. Or at least, it should be. Charlie shivered. There had been Gold Cups run in blinding snowstorms and although snow seemed unlikely today, it was still freezing.
The intrusive eye of the television cameras peered at him as he stood in the doorway. He wondered if Jemima was watching and smiled just in case. Milton St John had organised a coach, as always, and were putting up in various Cheltenham hotels for the meeting. Jemima wasn't amongst them. She wasn't in Milton St John, either. She'd gone back to Oxford to stay with Lauren or Louise or someone who she'd worked with, leaving Tracy in charge of the shop.
'There'll be no one in the village,' she said to Charlie. 'It'll be dead quiet. And I haven't seen any of the Bookworms crowd for almost a year. I'm looking forwar
d to it.'
Charlie had hoped that she wouldn't be looking up old boyfriends – and then hated himself for the thought. He'd asked her if she'd be watching the meeting.
She'd smiled. 'Maybe. If I'm anywhere near a television set.'
He hoped she was.
The stir indicated that the Gold Cup was getting under way. The first horses were already in the paddock, and the watching crowds were yards thick. He could hear the clerk of the scales starting the weigh-in, and shrugged his shoulders. He hoped Bonnie was up to it.
The paddock was crammed full. Every horse seemed to have countless connections, all milling around, looking glamorous. He walked from the weighing room, matching Matt stride for stride.
'About Tina – it's okay.'
Matt said nothing. Charlie, aware that the television cameras Were on them, and knowing that the most ardent armchair punters craned their necks to read lips at this juncture in the hope of picking up some hot tips, spoke through his grin. 'Honestly, Matt. It doesn't matter. Good luck to you. Both of you.'
Matt looked sick. He always worried before a race, but this was something different. God, Charlie thought, why the hell do we do it? Starve and live unnatural lives – simply to gamble with death. He smiled again at the cameras. That was probably why. The risk, excitement. The sheer undeniable thrill of chasing a race.
They were very close to the horses. Charlie, still smiling for the all-invasive electronic eye, touched Matt's arm. 'You and Tina being together is fine – but if you throw this race I'll go to the stewards.'
'Uh?' Matt looked even more sick. 'I don't know what you mean.'
'I don't know why you're doing it – especially not now you're with Tina – but I know you are. Matt, if you're in some sort of trouble...
'Shut up!' There were tears in his eyes. 'Just shut up. Christ, Charlie – we're mates. Please, please keep your mouth shut.'
'You're cheating. Tina, Kath, the punters ...'
'I'm fighting to survive.' Matt's teeth were gritted. 'And if you say anything – one word – to anyone, then I'm finished.'
Jumping to Conclusions Page 44
