Nothing to Lose

by Christina Jones

  Yawning and stretching, he thought the best thing to do was to look for somewhere cool and shady . . . somewhere he could relax and catch up on the sleep that Brittany’s acrobatics had denied him last night.

  He drifted away from the sea front, puffing in the heat on the slight incline towards the village. All the seats on display were in very public view, and in the full glare of the sun, and certainly wouldn’t serve his purpose. He walked on, his feet heavy, his whole body suffused with a sleepy, opulent, mid-afternoon lethargy. Each step was like walking in a warm bath, and the air was hot on the back of his throat.

  A clump of dark trees just along the cliff top seemed to offer the most shade, so Sebastian headed for them, hoping against hope that a dozen other day-trippers hadn’t beaten him to them.

  They hadn’t. Probably, he thought, because when he reached them he quickly discovered that the trees belonged to St Edith’s churchyard, and a graveyard would surely not be top of anyone’s holiday must-visit list.

  The cemetery, set apart from the greystone church, was bordered by trees on three sides. One of these looked out to the sea, and Sebastian felt a childlike frisson of pleasure, watching the shimmering water dancing through the shifting branches. The elders of the parish had kindly provided wooden benches dotted around the tombstoned serenity, and he sank down on the one with the best sea view, grateful for the dark cool green shadows.

  God, he was tired. The combination of Brittany’s nocturnal antics, the sizzling heat, and the two pints of Old Ampney ale proved just too much. Stretching out, listening to the distant soporific sounds of the sea, and the gulls, and the happy shouts of the children playing on the beach, Sebastian felt his eyelids droop.

  He woke with a jump. He could smell pine needles and hot spicy privet flowers. Where the hell was he? He blinked, and slowly remembered. Christ – suppose it was late and he’d missed Brittany and the meeting? He glanced down at his watch in the deep dark silence. Quarter-past four – thank God for that. He stretched, feeling refreshed, and just a bit uncomfortable, then realised he wasn’t alone.

  A woman, with her back to him, was tending one of the graves against the sea wall. He watched her for a moment as she arranged a tumble of pastel freesias in the vase, and realised that she was talking. Knowing that he was intruding on something very private, Sebastian wasn’t sure whether to stay still and hope she’d finish and walk away without even knowing he was there, or to stand up and try to sidle off without her noticing. He certainly didn’t want to startle her.

  He sat for a moment longer, hardly daring to breathe, hearing the cadence of her voice but not the torrent of words. It sounded like a proper conversation and his heart went out to her. Squinting at the headstone he could see that Mary Clegg had departed this life some twenty-five years previously, but that Benny, devoted husband of Mary, father of Philip and adored and much-loved grandpa to Jasmine, had only joined her in May this year. Four months ago.

  He stared at the woman’s hunched back again. Poor thing. The grief must still be very raw.

  Was this the Cleggs’ daughter-in-law, then? Sebastian thought probably not. Although he couldn’t see the face, the glossy dark brown hair was girlishly long as it fell forward, and the black T-shirt and jeans indicated a more youthful way of dressing. The granddaughter perhaps? Jasmine? Beautiful name . . .

  With another start, Sebastian realised from the quiver of the shoulders as the girl finished arranging the flowers and remained squatting, still talking, that she was crying. God, this was awful. He really shouldn’t be here. Standing up as silently as possible, hoping that if he stepped off the gravel path and on to the neatly clipped grass he’d be able to exit the cemetery without making a noise, he started to move away. But although he hadn’t made a sound, the girl must have sensed the movement, and jerked her head round, staring at him in fright.

  ‘I’m so sorry–’ Sebastian whispered, not sure why he was whispering, only knowing that it would have seemed sacrilegious to use his normal volume. From the continuing shocked look in the girl’s huge brown eyes, the whisper only further marked him down as a weirdo. He swallowed and tried slightly louder. It sounded horribly like a shout in that quiet place. ‘Er – I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  She pushed the dark hair away from her tear-streaked face. ‘Why are you watching me?’

  She was just like a puppy, Sebastian thought. Gentle, pretty, and very sad. He tried not to look threatening in any way. ‘I’m not, that is, I wasn’t. I – er – I was asleep on the bench there. I guess you didn’t see me. I – um – woke up and you were there – and – er – I’m just going.

  The girl fished in the sleeve of her T-shirt and yanked out a tissue. Wiping her eyes, she gave him a tremulous smile. ‘It’s OK. Really. No, I didn’t see you there, but I don’t think you’re the mad graveyard stalker or anything.’

  She stopped and considered him. ‘You’re not, are you?’

  He shook his head, feeling desperately sorry for her. ‘I was just hot and tired and looking for somewhere cool to catch up on my sleep. Look, sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll go now.’

  The girl sat on the grave’s kerbstone and looked up at him with those huge eyes. ‘You don’t have to. I’ve finished now – well, the flowers and stuff – and I’ve said everything I wanted to say to Grandpa . . .’ She stopped, and chewed her lips. ‘You must have thought I was crazy.’

  Grandpa. So she was Jasmine, then. The name suited her. Sebastian shook his head again. ‘No, of course not. I still go and talk to my gramp’s grave when things are really bad.’

  ‘Do you? Really? And does it help?’

  ‘Always. He was a star.’

  ‘Mine too.’ Jasmine sniffed. ‘I miss him so much. I still can’t believe he’s not around. That I’ll never see him again.’

  ‘It takes ages for that part to sink in,’ Sebastian agreed, sitting down on the bench again. ‘Mind you, I know my gramp is still there for me. He always lets me know . . . I just get this feeling . . .’ He stopped. God. What the hell was he doing? Telling all this to a total stranger? Things that he’d never dared voice to anyone ever in his life before. And he’d said gramp rather than grandfather. ‘Well, you know . . .’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I know. It all comes as such a shock, doesn’t it? I mean, my gran died when I was really little so I didn’t remember, and then I went on for years, literally years, where no one I knew died. No one. It was like life was this constant thing that would go on for ever, with the same people doing the same things and – ’

  ‘That death only occurred on the news or in other people’s families?’ Sebastian remembered only too well the sense of horror, when he’d realised that people he’d grown up with were not immortal. ‘And yet, you still cling on to this vague hope that the people you love will somehow be shielded from death, don’t you? Will go on for ever.’

  Jasmine nodded more fervently. ‘Oh, yes. And do you dream about your – um – gramp? You see, I dream about Grandpa all the time, and I’m not sure which ones are worse – the dreams where he’s alive and I wake up and find that he isn’t – ’

  ‘Or the ones where you dream he’s dead, and then wake up and find out it isn’t just a nightmare.’ Sebastian exhaled. ‘Yeah, I have both of those. They’re both killers.’

  Jasmine nodded and scrubbed at her eyes. ‘You do understand. Oh, it’s such a relief. Sometimes I think I’m going mad and I’ll spend the rest of my life waking up in tears.’

  ‘It’s grieving and it’s natural, and it does get better, believe me.’

  Jasmine looked sceptical. ‘Does it? I do hope so . . . Um – are you here on holiday?’

  ‘Just a day visit. It’s a lovely place. I’ve never been before.’

  ‘I’ve lived here all my life. I think it’s pretty special too. I’ve certainly never wanted to move away or live anywhere else.’

  She looked at him again, as if assessing his face, then smiled. The smile lifted the top layer of the s
adness, and changed everything about her. She was so genuine, Sebastian thought. Totally natural. And she wasn’t even attempting to flirt with him, which came as something of a shock. He was used to women becoming a mixture of arch and coy, or blatantly coming on to him. He didn’t think he was being big-headed about it. It just happened.

  Jasmine fished in the carrier bag beside her. ‘Would you like a doughnut?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A doughnut?’ Jasmine looked at him as though he might need to have the concept of fried dough, jam and sugar explained in detail. ‘Me and Grandpa always had a doughnut when we came here to tidy up Gran’s grave. I’ve – um – sort of carried on the tradition. Doughnuts, you see,’ she continued seriously, ‘are pure carbohydrate. People who eat them for comfort have got it absolutely right. Carbohydrates cure depression and shock and sadness.’

  Sebastian grinned. ‘Do you work for the doughnut marketing board, by any chance? Yes, yes, thanks – I’d love one.’

  They munched in silence for a few moments, and Sebastian felt that far from it being odd, sitting in a graveyard with a complete stranger and eating jam doughnuts was the most natural thing in the world.

  When they’d emptied the doughnut bag, Jasmine fixed him again with the soulful brown eyes. ‘Feel better now?’

  ‘Much, thanks. I think you must be right about doughnut properties. I certainly feel more cheerful. All we need now is something to wash it down with.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Martina and Brittany would have both shrieked in horror.

  ‘Sorted,’ Jasmine delved into the carrier bag and brought out two half-bottles of Old Ampney ale. ‘Mind you, it’s a bit strong if you’re not used to it.’

  ‘I know. I tried some earlier, but I think the effects have worn off now. I’ll risk another one.’ Sebastian accepted the opaque brown bottle. ‘Thanks, again. It’s very kind of you.’

  Jasmine passed him the bottle opener and he noticed the diamond ring on her engagement finger for the first time. Lucky man, whoever he was, Sebastian thought, having a Jasmine to come home to. Someone who was gentle and would listen and be a friend, and not carp or criticise or expect miracles.

  ‘When are you getting married?’

  ‘Uh? Oh–’ she looked down at the ring. ‘Next year sometime.’

  ‘Here? In this church?’

  She nodded. Sebastian drained his bottle of Old Ampney. He really should be making a move now. Not only would Brittany create merry hell if he was late, but Martina and Oliver expected full and detailed reports on each of the rival tendering stadiums that he’d visited.

  He stood up, handing her back the bottle. ‘Thanks again. It’s been a lovely picnic, but I’ll really have to go now. I’m meeting someone and I’ll be in deep shit if I’m late.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be the cause of that.’ She smiled and stood up too. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to be making tracks as well. It’s been nice talking to you, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ Sebastian motioned towards the headstone. ‘And I’m really sorry . . .’

  ‘Yeah, me too. And thanks for talking to me about – well, things, and for understanding. No one else has. I’m very grateful.’

  He watched her as she walked away through the churchyard, and hoped that she’d be really happy one day – and that the fiancé would try to take the sadness from her eyes. Then, with the Old Ampney ale still slightly swirling his brain, he headed back towards the cliff top car park.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Brittany was glitteringly angry. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages.’

  Sebastian glanced at his watch. ‘It’s only half-five. And you said – ’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I’ve had a drink, yes. I’m not drunk. Anyway, you can drive to the stadium. And in my role of observer at these sessions I’m not supposed to utter, am I? Therefore, even if I do have a tendency to slur my words a bit, no one’s going to notice, are they?’ He eased himself into the car, irritably nudging aside the laptop, the mobile, and the folders of paperwork.

  Brittany snatched the ignition key and snapped the Mercedes into life. ‘Have you been in that pub all afternoon?’ The car was skimming recklessly fast over the shale and clumps of grass.

  ‘No, I’ve had a picnic in the cemetery with a woman I’ve never seen before and will never see again.’

  Brittany glanced across at him as they pulled out on to the sea road and headed towards the stadium. She grinned and snaked one slender hand along his thigh. ‘Seb, you’re so funny! I suppose that’s why I can never stay pissed off with you for long.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Peg’s office was bursting at the seams. Ewan sat back in a corner, away from the table, and watched the proceedings with amused interest. As he wasn’t a board member as such, he knew that this time Peg had only invited him to sit in because she wanted him to meet the luscious Brittany Frobisher, who was due to arrive, with a companion, at any minute.

  Ewan wasn’t too sure about the companion. Would it be a Frobisher work colleague, or someone more personal? He hoped it would be the former. He wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of seducing Brittany if she was firmly anchored to the side of some equally well-heeled hulk of a man. Not that he doubted his ability in that area, of course, but it was one thing flirting and enchanting someone who was free as the air – and quite another trying to charm someone who was happily attached. Still, he thought, as he watched the hands of the retro fifties clock clamber up towards six, he’d soon find out which it was to be.

  Peg, Roger, Allan and Jasmine were poring over the plans and their various copies of the tender for the Platinum Trophy. Ewan looked at them all fondly, and hoped that they weren’t all going to be bitterly disappointed. He also wished that Peg had been having one of her more sober Doris days. One of the sharp black suits and the Peter Pan collars would have probably been far more acceptable to the Frobisher contingent than the Calamity Jane outfit she was wearing.

  Ewan looked at the clock again. He hoped that the meeting would kick off on time, because, with tonight’s bank holiday racing starting at eight, and him not only having to greet the greyhounds, their owners and trainers, but also supervise the ground staff and the punters, the evening threatened to be pretty hectic.

  It had not been a restful bank holiday by any means. Most of the day had been frantically exhausting too. He and Clara had tumbled off the futon at somewhere around lunch time, and had immediately gone to the Crumpled Horn for sustenance. Then they’d returned to Clara’s flat and continued their marathon, making love on the balcony, unseen by the day-trippers sitting underneath with their cucumber sandwiches and flasks.

  And as well as being greyhound greeter-in-chief tonight, he had also volunteered to help Jasmine with the Benny Clegg writing up, allowing Clara to catch up on preparing a Makings Paper presentation for the morning. It was an exhausting prospect – especially with another night of Clara to come.

  However, with at least two weeks of enforced greyhound inactivity ahead due to Damon Puckett and his boys wreaking havoc on the stadium, Ewan had already decided that September was going to be a slate-wiper. Not only would he finally make the break from Katrina, and come out to Peg about his greyhound rescue activities, but he’d also prove to Clara that he wasn’t just a freeloading idealist who happened to be able to pass off a reasonable performance under the duvet.

  The blissful and no-questions-asked reunion with Clara in fact, his whole return to Ampney Crucis – had been a catharsis. But there were still these pressing issues to be settled, and once this evening’s meeting at the stadium was over, and Damon and his boys moved in, Ewan knew he’d have plenty of time to play with. There was still one sticking point in all this: Peg’s insistence that, should push come to shove, he’d have to seduce Brittany.

  Under normal circumstances, of course, it would have been a pleasure, but now he and Clara were reunited, he certainly
didn’t want to rock the boat. He only hoped that Clara would understand.

  ‘Right-oh, then.’ Peg bossily tidied everyone’s papers into neat piles in front of them. ‘We all know how to play up our strengths and play down our weaknesses, don’t we?’

  They all nodded. They’d been well briefed. The hands on the clock stuttered upwards to a few seconds before the hour.

  Bunny poked his head in from the kitchen. ‘Do you want some drinks, Mizz Dunstable? It’s durnably hot in here.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Jasmine said, standing up quickly. ‘You might trip again, Bun.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Peg nodded her plaits as Jasmine disappeared into the kitchen. ‘And don’t say durnably or anything like it when Miss Frobisher’s here, Bunny, please. You know I can’t abide bad language.’

  Ewan tried not to smile at this total untruth. Nothing quite so refined as durnably had definitely ever entered into Peg’s four-letter vocabulary.

  The clock’s hands flickered into a perfect vertical. There was a sharp rap on the door.

  Roger and Allan, showing amazing agility considering their combined ages, stampeded towards it. Peg, the suedette fringes swishing furiously, beat them to it by a nanosecond.

  ‘Miss Frobisher! Exactly on time. A woman after my own heart – I can’t abide unpunctuality . . . come along in – Oh, and –’

  ‘This is Sebastian.’ Brittany Frobisher felled everyone with a dazzling smile, allowing only a flash of consternation at Peg’s Wild West appearance to flicker across her face. ‘He’s going to be taking notes.’

  Ewan chuckled quietly to himself. They were obviously very role-reversal then, in the brewing kingdom, with Brittany having a male secretary. Definitely, he reckoned, a case of boardroom and bedroom there. And because he wasn’t a man’s man, Ewan could appreciate that Sebastian was very attractive to women. Feeling a masculine territorial hostility bristling within him, he opted for concentrating on Brittany rather than the tall and tanned Sebastian, who had arranged himself easily in his proffered chair, and who, if he was romantically linked to Brittany, could be more difficult to shift than a barnacle.