Nothing to Lose

by Christina Jones

  Tonio and Sofia were enjoying the garlic-scented fug, watching the raindrops trickle down the steamy window’s. April poured herself a glass of milk from the fridge, then forked up the remainder of her salad which had been sitting on the table since her shift began.

  ‘Bloody wet August,’ Antonio sighed. ‘Bloody hate it.’

  Sofia looked askance. ‘Brings the munchers in, though. They don’t want to sit around outside in weather like this. Good for trade. Anyway, it’ll clear up before Bank Holiday Monday – my corns are telling me so.’ Her eyes trailed down to April’s feet. ‘Ooh, new shoes?’

  ‘New to me.’ April also looked down at the flat pink canvas crossovers. ‘Charity shop – fifty pence. Brilliant for work.’

  ‘Bit dowdy, though,’ Sofia sniffed. ‘Not flattering on the legs. You can’t beat a nice pair of Manolos to add oomph to the legs.’

  ‘Maybe not, but these are bloody marvellous on the feet. And they’re mine all mine. Not yours, not Daff’s . . .’ April chewed on the last mouthful of her lunch. ‘And I don’t care what Martina says, I’ll be wearing them in the Copacabana tonight too. They’ll set the fishnets off a treat.

  Despite a mass protest from the cocktail-bar waitresses, Martina had totally refused to allow them to ditch the French maids’ outfits. April secretly hoped that the addition of the pink mumsy sandals would go some way to ruining the overall effect of available sexuality.

  Antonio, who had continued to gaze dismally at the sodden High Street, suddenly rapped on the window. ‘Hey! Jix! You just finished work?’

  April, desperate to impart the news about Cair Paravel, finished the glass of milk and headed back towards the restaurant. ‘Tonio – ask him to pop in for a moment, will you, please? Can I give him a cappuccino?’

  ‘Course, love. And a pastry.’ Sofia had bustled towards the machine. ‘Poor lad always looks half-starved.’

  The traffic warden, obviously in no hurry to head back into the downpour, was still chasing ravioli around his plate. Several other tables were occupied by people delaying their return to the afternoon’s work for as long as possible. The restaurant was as warm and steamy as a sauna. April placed the cappuccino and Danish on a corner table and pulled out a second chair as Jix dripped into the Pasta Place from his debt-collecting round.

  ‘You look nice,’ she grinned at him. ‘Been somewhere special?’

  ‘Leave it out . . .’

  Jix shrugged off his long black PVC trench coat and unwound several chiffon scarves. On any other man, April thought, the outfit would be gay to the point of capriciousness; on Jix, however, the effect was astoundingly sexy. Freda Cope had obviously thought so.

  April raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ve still got strawberry yoghurt in your hair.’

  ‘Christ!’ Jix pulled several strands forward and surveyed them with horror. ‘She’s supposed to get it all out before I leave.’

  ‘What exactly does she get you to do for your money or rather, Oliver’s money?’

  Jix looked gloomy. ‘Don’t ask. To be honest I’m losing my taste for it – and it’s ruined me for yoghurt. Is everything OK at home? Mum, Bee, Cairey?’

  ‘Fine . . .’ April watched as Jix tore into the Danish pastry with strong white teeth. Whatever contortions he performed for the sad Freda Cope, it certainly seemed to have given him an appetite. ‘But I’ve got something to show you.’

  She pulled the folder out from her bag and pushed it towards him across the table. While he demolished the coffee and pastry she filled him in on the finer details of the visit of the junior Outhwaite.

  ‘Ace!’ Jix said when she’d finished. ‘All we have to do now is to change his ownership on the registration forms – not as our dog, though . . . maybe in Mum’s name, or Bee’s even, then we’ll get him racing.’

  ‘You haven’t been listening. Clive Outhwaite’s child says he’s a duffer.’

  Jix tapped the racing papers in front of him with a slender finger. ‘Because they’ve only ever tried him out at Bixford. He’s had seven starts and loused them all up. Not completed a race. So it could be the track he hates. We’re going to take him somewhere completely different.’

  April shook her head. She wanted a cigarette but knew she’d have to wait. ‘Like where exactly?’

  ‘No idea yet. But Sebby’s got a list of all the stadiums that have tendered for the Frobisher Platinum in his office. Some of them are in places I didn’t even know existed. I’ll pinch a copy of them and we can get the map out and find somewhere really out of the way. I reckon if I get Cair Paravel’s papers up to scratch when I finish this afternoon’s collecting, we could have him in for a race somewhere on Bank Holiday Monday.’

  April squeaked. ‘That soon! And how are we both going to get time off? And then there’s transport – neither of us has a car, and I somehow can’t see us managing to smuggle a racing greyhound on to public transport and –’

  Jix leaned across the table and placed his fingers on her lips. They smelled disturbingly of yoghurt. ‘Shut up. Leave it with me. I’ll sort something out and see you later. OK?’

  ‘OK.Oh, and is it also OK if I don’t do the collecting this afternoon? I’m really wiped out. And I’ve got to work tonight.’

  ‘Course it is. You go and get you feet up for an hour but please take those dreggy sandals off first. You look just like my mum!’

  Giggling, April punched him. Happiness swept through her. She had an afternoon off – and even if she used part of it to catch up on her sleep, it would still mean being able to join in the rainy-day games with Daff and Bee. Cair Paravel ever running in a proper greyhound race was probably out of the question, of course, but it was nice to have a new dream. Life, she thought as she stood up and automatically gathered together Jix’s mug and plate, was definitely on the up.

  Daff’s rainy-day games had been great fun. They’d involved a lot of kneeling on the window seat, each of them choosing a fat raindrop sliding down the outside of the pane, giving it a name, and then watching them race. It was like a sort of vertical Poohsticks, and had kept the three of them happily involved for hours.

  Now back downstairs in her own flat, with Bee watching cartoons and Cair Paravel stretched out on the sofa, his long muscular legs overlapping the arms at both ends, April had managed not only to catch up her sleep, but also on having a bath and washing her hair. And there were still several hours to go before she signed in at the Copacabana. She sang as she ironed the pile of second-hand clothes, the feeling of elation still with her.

  ‘April!’ Jix’s voice echoed from outside the door. ‘Let me in, please.’

  Still humming, April unbolted the door. Jix had shed the PVC trench coat and most of the scarves and seemed to have removed the yoghurt from his hair. He waved the folder under her nose.

  ‘Bingo! Cair Paravel is now officially owned by Beatrice-Eugenie Padgett! Everything else passed muster with the GRA, and we’re free to let him rip!’

  ‘Great.’ April smiled at his enthusiasm. And it did seem very apt that Bee should own the dog, as neither of them was supposed to exist. It made it all very Brigadoon. ‘And where and when exactly is this amazing event going to take place?’

  ‘Ampney Crucis.’ Jix budged up next to Cair Paravel on the sofa and gazed at the television over Bee’s head. ‘Bank Holiday Monday. They have meetings three days a week, but are apparently putting on a special for the August Bank Ho – What are you looking at me like that for?’

  ‘Amply Who?’ April turned down the television cartoon s volume, and ignored Beatrice-Eugenie’s grumbling. ‘Where the hell is that?’

  ‘Not sure.’ Jix looked a bit abashed. ‘I nicked the list off Seb s desk, like I said. Sebby and Brittany are supposed to be inspecting the place, but not on that day, so I guess they’ve tendered for the Platinum. Anyway, it’s definitely the smallest and most obscure circuit on the list.’

  April switched off the iron and reached for the dog-eared and out-of-date atlas of Britain which wa
s stuffed into her bookshelves along with dozens of other bargain-basement buys. Opening it on the ironing board, she scanned down the list of As.

  ‘A-m-p? Is that right? A-m-p-n-e-y? No . . . can’t see it – Oh, yes I can! It’s in Dorset! Miles away!’ She flicked to the appropriate page. ‘God, Jix, look! It’s a pinprick! Why the hell would they want to tender for the Platinum? They haven’t got an earthly . . .’

  Jix had uncurled himself from Cair Paravel and was leaning over her shoulder. His hair was silky on her cheek and she brushed it away. He exhaled. ‘Yeah, see what you mean. It does look pretty titchy – but that’s all to the good, isn’t it? No one will know us from Adam there. And look at the location. It’s really near to Bournemouth that means it’s right on the coast. Just think of it: we can all go and have a day at the seaside!’

  ‘Oh, wow! Yes!’

  April closed her eyes. She’d known it was going to be a lovely day. Bee had never, ever seen the sea – and she hadn’t had a day at the coast for years . . . She hardly dared think about it.

  She opened her eyes to the reality. ‘How on earth are we going to get there, though? We haven’t got transport. And you can hardly borrow one of the Gillespie motors for this particular outing.’

  ‘True – but we could hire a car . . .’ Jix sat down again, squeezing underneath Cair Paravel’s front legs. Bee, feeling left out, scrambled on to his lap. ‘I’ve been asking around. For a couple of hundred quid, plus a deposit, we could have one for two days – ’

  ‘A couple of hundred!’ April blinked. ‘We can’t afford that – can we? I mean, I know I can’t – not unless I use the chocolate-tin money.’

  ‘You’re not touching that. That’s spoken for. It’s for the future. And I’m as skint as you are – but I’ve got an idea. Mind you, you’re not going to like it much . . .’

  ‘Oh, no! No way!’ April held up her hands in horror. ‘I am not performing special favours for Oliver’s debtors! Not even for a hundred pounds a time. Not a bloody chance!’

  ‘Hey,’ Jix looked indignant, ‘as if! No, it’s nothing like that – although it is pretty personal.’

  April stared at him. He’d turned his head and was gazing at the paintings on the wall.

  She groaned. ‘Sell another one of Noah’s pictures, you mean? God – do I have to? I really wanted to hang on for them for Bee – and for when Noah comes back.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But when he comes back, he can paint you as many as you want, can’t he? And this is for Bee too, isn’t it? Seeing if Cair Paravel can make you some money?’

  April grimaced. She knew she couldn’t argue with the reasoning. It was just that the few of Noah’s paintings that were left were her only link with her happy past. The only thing she had of his – apart from Beatrice-Eugenie, of course.

  ‘And,’ Jix tickled Bee, making her laugh, ‘you know how much his paintings are going for now, don’t you?’

  ‘Roughly ... I mean, I know what the others fetched. And the woman at the gallery said they were rocketing in price every day. Maybe it’d be best to cash in on them now – before he goes out of fashion, I mean.’

  Jix stopped tickling Bee. ‘Look, I don’t want you to be forced into doing something that you really don’t want to do. You know that. I could always sort of borrow the money from work.’

  ‘Forget that!’ April glared at him. ‘You’ve never been dishonest. That’s why you’ve survived with the Gillespies as long as you have. They may be bloody villains themselves, but they trust you implicitly. And Daff relies on every penny you earn. She’d die if you got the push. Don’t you ever, ever suggest anything like that again, OK?’

  ‘OK,Mum.’ Jix winked at her.

  ‘So, yes, I’ll sell a painting. But only one – and it’ll be the last time.’ April sucked in her breath. ‘And I’ll want a really good price. I suppose it’ll mean having to hike it up West.’

  Jix grinned. ‘It won’t, actually. There’s a new gallery opened up in Bixford South. One of my – um – contacts mentioned that he’d – er – sold a few paintings there. I thought, as you’re not waitressing tomorrow, that we could take the picture along at lunch time.’

  Chapter Twelve

  It had stopped raining, but only just, and the pavements gleamed and steamed in the humidity. April, struggling from the bus with the painting wrapped in sheets of yesterday’s Guardian, was already uncomfortably sticky. Jix took the parcel from her as she negotiated the hordes of students and tourists all trying to get on and off the bus at the same time. They’d left Bee with Daff, while Joel and Rusty had agreed to take Cair Paravel on his usual undercover pipe-opener in the park, getting quite excited about being seen with something as daringly butch as a greyhound.

  Bixford South was far more arty than the other two parts of the borough: there was no industry here, no greyhound stadium, no back-to-back terraces or boarded-up shops. Bixford South had wide roads and leafy pavements, with tall elegant houses and green open spaces. Its residents all worked in publishing and the media, drank caffe-latte in mock-Manhattan coffee lounges, and had wisteria-walled gardens which featured in the Sunday supplements.

  April took the painting from Jix again, cradling it against her to protect it from the rushing lunch-time crowds. They’d chosen the smallest one simply for ease of manoeuvring, but even so it was heavy and bulky. ‘How much further?’

  ‘Just along here,’ Jix said. ‘Round the next bend. Are you sure you don’t want me to take it?’

  April shook her head. She had a knot of sadness in her stomach at the thought of parting with it. It had been one of her favourites: a mass of greens and blues and turquoises, representing, Noah had said, the ocean calming after a storm. She’d watched him paint it, laying the colours on top of one another, scraping them away in swirling curves just before each one dried, to give movement and depth. She hadn’t understood it, certainly hadn’t seen it through his eyes, but the finished picture reminded her of the blissful weeks they’d shared together as it grew.

  The gallery was elegant, quiet and well lit, with lots of white walls and pale wooden floors. Each of the two windows displayed a single painting beneath spotlights: both were abstract, vivid jags of colour on black canvas. Inside, there was one rather ugly floral arrangement, all dried thistles and bits of curling twig, towering in a pale vase in a corner, Beethoven tinkled the Moonlight Sonata unobtrusively from hidden speakers, and a ceiling fan whirred continuously. April thought it gave the place the air of an upmarket funeral parlour.

  A woman, presumably in charge, glided out from an antechamber as though on castors. ‘May I help you?’ The matching set of raised eyebrows and pursed lips immediately suggested that she couldn’t possibly.

  April, wearing the pink sandals and a denim dress, quailed in front of this vision in fawn suede and coordinated make-up, and shifted the parcel under her arm. ‘Er – yes, I hope so.’

  The woman, whose minimalist name badge strained at having to encompass the words Penelope Grieves-Harrison, surveyed Jix in his Glastonbury best and looked as though she would like to telephone the police. ‘Are you browsing?’

  Jix shook his head. Several necklaces jangled. ‘No, we’d like you to look at this painting with a view to buying it.’

  April winced slightly at Jix’s no-nonsense approach to the matter in hand. She’d have skirted around it a bit, made nervous apologetic noises, and probably said sorry a lot.

  Penelope Grieves-Harrison seemed a little taken aback too. The pale gold eyebrows took on a life of their own. April could see ‘Stolen! Stolen!! Stolen!!!’ flashing through the cool brain. The lips peeled apart.

  ‘We don’t buy paintings from casual vendors.’

  April, deciding that Jix needed backup, worked some saliva into her dry mouth. ‘It’s a Noah Matlock.’

  Penelope’s sculpted lips drew back even further, now revealing a set of teeth that wouldn’t have disgraced a racehorse. ‘I don’t think it is.’

  Holding herself b
ack from shrieking ‘Of course it is, you daft bat – I should know – have a bloody look!’, April tried a woman-to-woman smile. ‘It was painted three years ago. During his return-to-nature elemental period.’

  Penelope Grieves-Harrison gave a well-bred snort. ‘Oh no, my dear. I think not. All the Matlocks of that particular period are on permanent exhibition at the Stroud Gallery.’

  April counted to ten. ‘I know. Three for earth, three for air, three for fire – and two for water. This is the third water one. Oceanic Calming . . .’

  Jix seized the moment and, having wrested the parcel from April, laid it flat on the desk and began ripping off the layers of newsprint. Despite her cool indifference, Penelope, April noticed, moved a little closer. As the tumbling colours came into view she gave a small gasping intake of breath.

  ‘There,’ Jix said, when the whole thing was uncovered. ‘See. It’s genuine.’

  Penelope was poring over it, peering at the chunks of paint, looking like a greedy child at a birthday party spotting the food for the first time. ‘It’s certainly a remarkable copy.’

  ‘It’s not a damn copy,’ April said, exasperated. ‘It’s not a forgery. It’s the real thing. Look at the signature – it’s his trademark.’

  Noah, being highly original April had thought at the time, always drew a tiny ark complete with Lowry-type stick animals beneath his name, in the left-hand corner of each of his paintings beside the completion date.

  Penelope had fumbled in the desk drawer for an eyeglass and was scrutinising the signature, her fawn hair all-of-a-piece with the soft suede dress. April exchanged glances with Jix. It had never been like this when they’d sold the other paintings. Then, so soon after Noah’s defection and sick with early pregnancy but not realising it, she had gone sadly with Jix to one of the big West End galleries, offloaded the pictures and pocketed the cheque and no questions had been asked.

  ‘I do have other proof, both of the painting’s originality and my ownership.’ April really hadn’t wanted to do this. Jix had warned her against it. But push was coming to shove here and they needed the money. ‘There’s this . . .’ She took the letter from her handbag and passed it to Penelope Grieves-Harrison. April knew the contents off by heart. She watched as the tawny eyes scanned the pages, taking in the huge scrawled words, knowing exactly at which point the eyebrows would raise, at which part the tongue would dare to protrude between the gin-trap teeth.