Bunny pressed his button, and the hare, the headscarf fluttering jauntily, bucketed off around the track. Within seconds the traps flew open, and the six dogs tore out into the night, sand flying up in puffs of gold behind them.
By the first bend, Cair Paravel’s blue jacket was already four lengths ahead of the rest of the field.
Chapter Eighteen
April really couldn’t believe that September was actually coming to an end. Despite the joy of Cair Paravel’s success at Ampney Crucis, the days since had simply crawled by. She’d been marking them off on the calendar at number 51, trying to cram as much into each waking hour as possible, knocking herself out physically so that her six hours of sleeping would be assured. So far it hadn’t worked; every night she’d fallen into bed, exhausted by waitressing at the Pasta Place, debt-collecting with Jix, and serving cocktails in the Copacabana, only to be infuriatingly mentally wide awake the moment her head touched the pillow.
All she could think about was Noah. She’d practised seeing him for the first time – her reaction, her approach, her opening lines. Should she take Bee with her, or leave her at home, for the first all-important father-and-child meeting to take place in privacy? Should she get glammed up to compete with the ex-loft-now-gîte-living woman, or should she dress as she had when Noah had loved her, in jeans and baggy sweaters, no make-up, and with her hair flowing?
These, and a million other things, had kept April awake for four weeks. But not for much longer. Tomorrow, Noah would be attending his exhibition at the Corner Gallery in Swaffield.
It being her late split shift in the Copacabana, it was nearly nine o’clock before she left the flat for the second time that evening. Cair Paravel, as befitted a champion, was sprawled on the sofa, snarling happily at Daff. Beatrice-Eugenie was sleeping soundly in the truckle bed, still honey-coloured from that glorious day at the seaside, and the only benefit of the split shift, as far as April could see, was that it meant she got back to the flat in time to bath Bee, put her to bed, read her a story, and watch her as she slept.
As Jix was chauffeuring Sebastian and Brittany to a film premier up West, it meant April having to negotiate the High Street and the dingy Bixford back streets on her way to and from the stadium alone in the dark, but tonight, she knew, that wouldn’t be a problem. Tonight she felt immortal and untouchable. She was sure if some leery dope-head loomed from the shadows, the elation she felt would enable her to punch him on the nose and send him squawking on his way.
Closing the front door behind her, she breathed in the smoky air, the scent of decaying leaves fighting the smell of diesel fumes. Although the September days were still warm, the nights already had the iced, spiced chill of autumn. With the heels of Sofia’s Manolo Blahniks clicking along the pavement – Martina had spotted the pink canvas crossover sandals and banned them two weeks previously – April set out for her final stint behind the bar.
The orange glow of the streetlights was harsh, and clashed discordantly with the yellow brightness spilling from the Pasta Place. Just like one of Noah’s paintings, April thought dreamily, as she turned up the collar of Jix’s leather jacket and hurried towards the white light in the sky that indicated it was greyhound racing as usual at the Gillespie Stadium.
How different, April thought, as she had all month, to the wonderful track at Ampney Crucis. How different Ampney Crucis had been in every way to grey and dreary Bixford. And what a difference that night had made. Cair Paravel winning the race had been extraordinary – and although the prize money had barely covered the petrol costs for the Toyota, the thrill had been stupendous.
Since then they’d risked the Gillespies discovering Cair Paravel’s identity and ownership, and entered him in a couple of minor midweek races at Catford, without the aid of the headscarf, of course, and he’d been left standing at the start. Considering that they were chancing eviction and dismissal by doing so, they’d agreed not to repeat the operation. Disappointed, April and Jix had decided that if he was ever going to make it as a champion sprinter, it would have to be at tiny out-of-city tracks with understanding managers – like that lush Ewan Dunstable – who didn’t object to draping Daff’s headscarf round the hare. However, they now knew that Cairey had the ability – if not the constant motivation – and could earn his keep.
Jix was going to get in touch with the Ampney Crucis people again and see if they had finished the rebuilding that had been planned, and enquire if maybe they could enter Cairey for a race on a monthly basis, just to keep his hand, or perhaps paw, in. Still, April thought, carefully crossing the busy ring road outside the stadium, when she and Noah got back together and moved to live in Ampney Crucis, all the subterfuge would be over, and all the problems would be solved.
With still half an hour to go before she was due back behind the bar, April followed the late-coming crowds down the stadium’s crimson entrance tunnel, with its millions of pinprick wall lights, and out into the brash glare of the amphitheatre. It was like a space station, April thought, all lights and flashing electronic boards under the black September sky, with stainless-steel walkways round the tiers of stands, and the chromium and glass viewing platforms, five restaurants, six bars, and every inch sardine-packed with thousands of noisy people.
Never having been to another stadium before, she realised now just how antiquated Ampney Crucis was. Poor things. They had no chance of Brittany Frobisher choosing them for the Platinum Trophy – which was, of course, a good thing as far as she and Jix and Cair Paravel were concerned. Maybe, in time, they’d get to know of other rural racetracks that few London dog people frequented, and Cairey could become the star of the back-of-beyond circuits.
She watched the race in progress with a professional eye now: the dogs sprinting, bumping and barging round the bends in pursuit of the Day-Glo hare, the feral, deafening roar of the punters, the torrent of commentary from the public address system, the frantic last minute ticktack of the white-gloved bookies, the row upon row of red jackets in the Tote windows. It was like another world. The Gillespie Stadium was a teeming night-time city built round greyhounds, where the staff were numbers on the payroll, not individuals. She and Jix had gawped in amazement at Ampney Crucis at the three solitary bookies’ pitches, and no Tote, no bar, no restaurant – and the fact that everyone knew everyone else’s names.
Hauling herself up the stairs towards the bar, already tired, her feet already hurting, she prayed that this last couple of hours would be easy – and give her plenty of Noah-dreaming time. Having traded her day off with one of the other waitresses for tomorrow, April wasn’t sure that she’d sleep at all tonight. She still had to decide on her outfit, and have a bath and wash her hair and –
‘April!’ Martina, wrapped in skin-tight sequins, was in corncrake mode. ‘You’re late!’
‘I’m not.’ She shrugged out of the leather jacket, and pulled the skirt down as far as it would go. ‘I’m actually five minutes early, and’. She looked around the bar. Barry Manilow and ‘A Weekend in New England’ had it practically to himself. ‘It’s not busy, is it?’
‘But it will be as soon as this race is over. With presentations and everything, it means there’s twenty minutes before the next one – and we’ve run out of sparklers.’
‘I’ll just have to set fire to the umbrellas, then,’ April muttered, easing her pinching toes behind the bar.
It was much as Martina had predicted: the next hour was a rugby-scrum rush. No one however, seemed to miss the sparklers.
Jix’s arrival at ten thirty relieved the tedium. In his smart black chauffeur’s uniform, the bangles tucked up beneath his cuffs, and with his long hair tied back in a neat ponytail under his peaked cap, he caused quite a stir amongst the micro-skirted Lycra women.
Shoving his way through the crowd, he leaned his elbows on the bar. ‘April! Have you got a minute?’
‘You’ll have to hang on – this is rocket science.’ She paused in the middle of pouring a whole flight of B-52s into l
owball glasses. It wasn’t one of her favourites: the mixture of Kahlua, Baileys and Grand Marnier always seemed to want to separate at the wrong moment.
Eventually managing to get all six drinks looking reasonably the same, and covering any mishaps with two umbrellas and a mini-kebab of impaled fruit, she placed them on a tray and eased her way out into the bar. For once the recipients were housetrained, said thank you and gave her a huge tip. Still smiling her thanks, she tottered back behind the counter and pushed the ten-pound note into her pocket.
The shoes had now cut off the circulation to her toes.
‘I thought you were supposed to be in Leicester Square.’ She clung on to the bar in front of Jix, easing her feet out of the shoes, and immediately shrinking by six inches.
‘I am. I was. I’ve got to be back there in an hour to collect them when they come out. I just had to tell you something.’
‘Couldn’t it keep? Oh –’ she bit her lip – ‘it’s not about Noah, is it? They haven’t cancelled his exhibition?’
‘No – well, not as far as I know. It’s nothing to do with Noah.’
April sighed happily. ‘OK then, so what is it?’
‘Seb and Brittany were at Ampney Crucis the same night as we were.’
‘No! God – they couldn’t have been! You must be mistaken.’
‘No mistake. They chatter away in the back of that car like I’m a proper chauffeur – you know, signed the Gillespie official secrets act and all that. They were talking about the Frobisher Platinum, and about the places they’d been to, and they were discussing who was in and who was out, and all like I’d got my ears stuffed with cotton wool.’
April considered the implications. It had been a month since August Bank Holiday, and they’d both seen Sebastian a lot and Brittany a bit in that time, and nothing had been said. Therefore, even if Seb had been there, he couldn’t have seen her or Jix – and certainly couldn’t have connected Beatrice-Eugenie Padgett and Cair Paravel with two of his employees, could he? Someone – more than likely Martina would have definitely sacked them, not to mention evicted them from number 51, if he had.
‘Well, supposing you’re right, and they were there – we must have got away with it, mustn’t we? He can’t have seen us. He can’t have had a clue.’
Jix shook his head. ‘No, by some miracle, I think you’re right. I’ll tell you, it took all my powers of concentration not to steer off the road when they were talking about it, though. I had to sit there, all impassive, and I thought my heart was going to stop beating. But this is the best bit: Brittany was saying that Ampney Crucis are still in with a chance.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘No. Seriously. She’s seen everywhere now that’s tendered, and there are four stadiums left in contention. Us at Bixford, Pullet’s near Dagenham, that snazzy one at Chingford that I can never remember the name of –’
‘Bentley’s?’
‘Yeah, that’s it. And Ampney Crucis. So, three city ones, and one as far removed as you can get! My money, considering Seb’s involvement, was on us. But –’
‘There’s more?’ April grinned, after breaking off to serve a failed professional golfer and two born-again rock stars. ‘You ought to do this chauffeuring thing more often. Go on.’
‘Well, then Brittany said that she’d heard from that geezer that helped us out at Ampney Crucis – Ewan, was it? – and he’s coming up to town to see her apparently. And Sebby didn’t seem too concerned to be honest – and then she gets all bitchy and flings this Jasmine thing at him.’
‘What, like a bunch of flowers? Or a twig? Or, no, jasmine is a bit shrubby, so I suppose it would be a branch, then. What – in the car? That’s pretty dangerous.’
‘April – shut up. Jasmine, as far as I could gather, is part of the Ampney Crucis setup and Brittany sounded dead sarky, which means it could be someone Sebby fancied. Anyway, if he’s interested in someone from Ampney Crucis, and Brittany gets the nark about it, then it doesn’t look good for the Platinum being held either here or there, does it?
April mulled it over. ‘No, I suppose not. But then, if Brittany is going to be seeing Ewan, that makes things even more complicated, doesn’t it? Does she go with Ampney Crucis because of Ewan? Or against it because Sebby is dallying with the fragrant Jasmine? Christ, it’d finish Martina off completely if we lost out at Bixford because she thrust Sebby and Brittany together and they’ve each found someone else. A true case of biter bit or what?’
‘I know – but I suppose the best part of it is, as long as they’re preoccupied worrying about Ewan and Jasmine, and whether or not Bixford will get the Platinum, it’ll certainly take the heat off Sebastian finding out about you having Bee and Cair Paravel in the flat, won’t it?’
April smiled. ‘Too true. God bless Ewan and Jasmine then, that’s what I say. Oh, sod it. Here comes Martina – you’d better make yourself scarce.’
Jix unpeeled himself from the bar. ‘I’ve got to be getting back to the cinema anyway. Look, if I don’t see you before, good luck for tomorrow.’
‘Thanks,’ April nodded, watching him as he forged a path through the cocktail drinkers. The Lycra ladies all drooled in unison. It was kind of Jix to be so magnanimous, she thought. He’d never liked Noah.
Martina, dizzyingly resplendent in the skin-tight sequins, looked like an enraged twizzle stick as she wobbled her way towards the bar. Serve her damn well right, April thought, if Bixford lost out on the Frobisher’s Brewery sponsorship and the subsequent massive influx of money that the Platinum Trophy would bring in, simply because of her meddling.
‘April!’ Martina’s eldritch screech rocked the plastic palm tree to its man-made roots. ‘You get them bloody shoes back on this minute!’
September the twenty-sixth, the day that had been ringed in fluorescent marker pen for weeks, dawned blue and golden and misty-warm. April, who having overnight made at least one decision, had opted against the father-daughter introduction taking place at the gallery, and dispatched Bee upstairs to Daff. She’d also taken Cair Paravel out for his run at dawn because she couldn’t sleep, and was now shaking from head to foot.
‘Stand still,’ Sofia said. ‘I can’t get these damn pins in. God, girl, anyone would think it was your wedding day.’
April, with her teeth chattering, felt that in a way, that’s exactly what it was.
Sofia and Tonio, who like Jix had lambasted Noah after his defection with the loft-liver, had turned up trumps. Antonio’s brother had a nearly-new clothes stall on Bixford market, and Tonio and Sofia had arrived just as April and Cairey were returning from their morning exercise, with carrier bags full of potential outfits.
Sofia had again donated the Manolo Blahniks – it had been decided that today the glamour must outweigh the discomfort – and was now shortening a navy-blue cashmere sweater dress with ruthless determination.
‘It’ll look wonderful,’ Sofia mumbled through a mouthful of pins. ‘Elegant, classy – and like you’re now worth a million dollars. Turn!’
April turned. ‘I won’t need a jacket or anything, will I?’
Sofia shook her head. ‘Going to be warm. Just this and the shoes – oh, and a shoulder bag for your hankie for when you bawl. Not a handbag, mind. You’ll need to keep your hands free. Turn!’
Antonio came through from the kitchen with more coffee supplies. April, who knew she couldn’t eat anything, felt that she’d be jizzing with caffeine fizz for days. Never before had she been so nervous – not even when she went into labour with Beatrice-Eugenie, or when Cairey was about to run his first race.
‘Hair up or down?’ Sofia demanded when the hem was the right length and the dress had been whisked off to be pressed under a damp cloth.
April, in borrowed Agent Provocateur underwear from one of the other waitresses at the Copacabana, huddled on the sofa with her teeth rattling against her coffee cup. ‘Down. Noah liked my hair long.’
‘Make-up?’
‘Just mascara and
a touch of lippy. Noah hated made-up women.’
Sofia heaved a sigh and carried on ironing.
The taxi arrived at ten. April had decided to fork out for a cab from the chocolate tin money, because she knew she’d be far too anxious to cope with buses and the tube. Anyway, she’d thought, if by any chance Noah saw her arrive, it would do more for her image to be stepping from a black cab than to emerge blinking from Swaffield underground station with the rest of the tourists.
With everyone from number 51 waving her off – except Jix, of course, who had to be working at the Gillespies’ house that morning – and Sofia and Antonio beaming at their handiwork like proud parents seeing a child off for its first day at school, April gave directions to the cab driver, and shrank back into her seat, feeling sick.
The journey took a little over half an hour, and tottering onto the pavement outside the Corner Gallery, April paid the driver, tipping generously because she knew better than most how important tips could be, then dared to look at her reflection in the gallery’s plate-glass window. She had to admit that given the raw material, Sofia had done a stunning job. She looked elegant, assured, and had just the right amount of daytime glamour.
If she could just prevent her knees from knocking, she’d be fine.
The Corner Gallery’s windows, white and spot-lit, all proclaimed that world-famous artist Noah Matlock would be attending to discuss his latest work and meet people during the day. It didn’t say exactly when, but April was sure she couldn’t have missed him. Noah wasn’t an early riser. There were two of his paintings on display in the window, neither of which she’d seen before, but she guessed they belonged to his new French period. They were all greens and greys and blocks of granite-coloured shadows.
Trying to stop her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, she pushed open the door.
Inside, the Corner Gallery was a smaller version of the one where she’d sold the painting. Noah’s pictures were all displayed on three-sided open screens, giving the room the air of a rather haphazard and unfinished maze. The gallery owner – at least April presumed the large woman in the autumn-hued caftan with matching lips and eyelids who was huddled in a corner with several people in baggy suits and thinning hair – was the gallery owner, was energetically extolling the virtue of a triptych of dark squares. Several other people were standing in front of the hessian-mounted paintings, referring back to their catalogues and murmuring.
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