Nothing to Lose

by Christina Jones

  Angrily, she walked into the bedroom, tugging off the waitressing skirt and waistcoat, and switched on the light. Bastard, she thought. Total tosser. Noah’s clothes, normally tumbled everywhere, had vanished. The top of his bedside cabinet was empty. She rattled open the wardrobe doors: – everything of Noah’s, every trace of him, had disappeared. Slowly, she turned round, too tired to try to make sense of her feelings tonight. She’d have to think about it all in the morning. Worry about the implications. Then she stared at the bed in horror.

  The chocolate tin money box from under the bed was upended, completely empty, on her pillow.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘Come on, Cairey! Come on! Oh God – I can’t look!’ I April closed her eyes as the traps sprang open.

  The shouts and screams of the thousands of spectators skewered into her brain. Only 480 metres – the length of this heat – were all that now stood between Cair Paravel and a place in the Frobisher Platinum Trophy final.

  It was just over four weeks since Noah’s defection. Four weeks in which April had taken stock, licked her wounds, and tried to hold herself together. Because she was responsible for Bee and Cair Paravel, life had had to go on after a fashion, even though she had been left with little money and even fewer dreams. Which was why, on the coldest January night that anyone could remember, she was standing with Jix in a downpour of icy rain at Hove greyhound stadium, and praying for Cair Paravel to win.

  Immediately after the new year break, the heats for the Platinum Trophy final had been held at stadiums across Great Britain: from Swindon to Sunderland, from Sittingbourne to Perry Barr, and at all points in between. Hundreds of greyhounds had been entered in hundreds of elimination races, and now there were just thirty-six left in contention. Thirty-six dogs running in six heats at different venues, all at the same time tonight. The winning dogs from these last six races would be the feted finalists at Ampney Crucis on Valentine’s Day.

  April and Jix, fitting in split shifts and extra hours to enable them to take time off, had already accompanied Cair Paravel and Daff’s headscarf to more than twenty preliminary Frobisher Platinum races across the country. They’d been delighted when he’d won at first, then astounded as he kept on winning, then hardly daring to hope that he might just make the final heats.

  Thanks to Brittany’s relentless PR machine, the race had caught the imagination of both the press and public alike. It was something different for the newspapers to hook into: a fun event, a bit of light relief on the coldest, darkest days of the year. The media had been following the build-up to the Frobisher final with huge interest: after all, it was the first time that greyhound racing had been made so available to the general public, and going to the dogs was being heralded as the new gardening/make-over/docusoap television phenomenon.

  And now there was just this race to go . . .

  ‘Open your eyes,’ Jix’s voice, muffled by the Doctor Who scarf, yelled in her ear, just audible above the other surrounding yells. ‘April! Look!’

  She looked. The greyhounds were approaching the finish line. Cair Paravel, romping through the rain, wearing the black-and-white striped six jacket, was a neck ahead of the Hove pack. It was all over in a flash.

  ‘He’s won!’ The tears mingled with the rain drops. ‘Hasn’t he?’

  Jix hugged April and she hugged him back and then they were being pulled and pushed through the crowd to the presentation podium. The floodlights filtered through the deluge and the darkness, and Cair Paravel, sopping wet, squirmed against them ecstatically as cameras popped white explosions all round, and someone in a bowler hat shook their hands and gave them a statuette and a cheque.

  April, her arms constantly round Cair Paravel’s neck, experienced it all with a feeling of disbelief. It was like seeing it happen to someone else. Like watching the events taking place at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

  ‘She don’t look too good . . .’

  ‘Is she all right up there?’

  ‘Look out, mate, she’s going to keel over . . .’

  The inside of the van was dark and warm, and April could hear the rain drumming on the roof. She opened her eyes. Cair Paravel, sitting in the back seat, was peering at her mournfully across the faux zebra covers. Jix, beside her, was wearing much the same expression.

  She blinked dizzily. ‘Did I faint? Really?’

  ‘You did, really. Scared the shit out of me – and everyone else,’ Jix said. ‘The St John Ambulance guy was really annoyed to find you had a pulse. He looked very keen on a bit of mouth-to-mouth. Mind you, the press thought it’d make a great story – they all had to ask me how to spell Beatrice-Eugenie.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh . . . My head hurts.’ April took deep breaths. Cair Paravel licked her face with a warm, slow tongue. ‘I’ve never fainted in my life – come close a couple of times, but never – ’

  ‘It’s hardly surprising, is it?’ Jix poured her a cup of water. No, just sip it or you’ll be sick. I bet you’re not eating properly, and you never stop working, and with everything else that’s happened . . .’

  April flapped her hand at him. ‘Don’t nag me. I need the money. Now more than ever. And I can’t change any of it, can I?’

  ‘He can, though. Jix fondled Cair Paravel’s ears. ‘Now he’s in the Platinum final, he could win you a fortune.’

  April smiled wistfully. It was a lovely dream, but she wasn’t going to dwell on it. She hadn’t had a lot of luck with dreams lately, had she?

  The letter had arrived from France exactly a week after Noah’s new year disappearing act; although by then, April really hadn’t needed to read the contents. She’d been made a fool of again, and it was all her own fault. She was beginning to get used to the feeling. However, this time, Noah certainly hadn’t pulled any punches.

  Dear April,

  I’m sorry it had to be like this. It was over between us so long ago. I’m afraid I let my lust rule my head when I saw you again at the exhibition. I suppose, if you had been content to have been a bit on the side, then we could have left it like that – me dropping in at the flat for a few days when I was in England – just for sex – no strings. But that was never your style, was it? You wanted the full hearts and flowers, trumpets and rainbows – and I just didn’t feel the same. And, of course, Bee just complicated matters. I’m too selfish to be a parent. I’m too selfish to want to share my life. Anoushka gives me the freedom I crave, the independence I need to create. I took the paintings because they were mine. I came back solely to get them. This probably sounds very cruel, but Anoushka and I had it planned. My early work – as you obviously know – is much sought after, and I wasn’t prepared to let it go. I brought all my stuff so that you’d think I was staying. Sorry, again – a rat’s trick. I hope you find what you’re looking for – but it certainly won’t be with me.

  Noah.

  PS. Don’t think about selling your story to the tabloids – I’ve already negotiated the contract.

  P P S. I took the chocolate-tin money because I was short of readies. Bee showed me where it was. And most of it came from the sale of Oceanic, didn’t it? So, legally it was mine.

  PPPS. If you want to get that bad-tempered gangly mutt back now I’m gone I think he’s at some greyhound rescue place, unless they’ve already put him down. I tipped them off that he was being mistreated. Sorry. I just couldn’t stand him being in the house a minute longer.

  April had sat in silence after reading the letter, staring out of the window at the grey High Street, as the rain lashed down. It was the end of her dream. She’d thought that was what hurt most – that Noah had destroyed her future, leaving her nothing to aim for. It didn’t matter how many times Daff had said she should count her blessings, all her energy had been piled into reuniting her family, finding a proper home, living in cosy comfort. She’d worked so hard, and being exhausted all the time hadn’t mattered, because there was a purpose. Now, with nothing, all she felt was a weary sadness.

  Th
e anger, she’d known, would come later. She’d loved Noah very much, and she knew that she’d made far too many excuses for him. But everyone else had been right – and this time there would be no second chances. She hadn’t cried, or ranted or raved. She’d merely mourned the death of the dream.

  Jix had read the letter later that day. ‘Do you want to keep it?’

  She’d shaken her head.

  What about the others? That crap he wrote about the ocean painting? Anything else – or do you want to keep them to show Bee when she’s older?’

  April had smiled ruefully. ‘Possibly best not to. I’ll tell her one day, of course. But I’ll never colour her judgement. I’ll let her form her own opinions about him – but no, go on – destroy the lot. It’ll make me feel better. They’re in a box on the top shelf of the wardrobe. Leave the photos – not for me, but for Bee. She’ll need to be able to have something to identify with.’

  Jix had disappeared, and April heard him tearing the letters into tiny pieces and then flushing them down the loo. She’d wished that she could flush away her humiliation half as easily.

  Returning, Jix had stood in the doorway. ‘Please try to forget him, April. Not yet – I know it’ll take time – but try. He never deserved you.’

  And she’d turned her head to the window and watched the rain.

  Jix took the cup of water away from her. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I just got a bit overexcited, I expect, and it’s so cold tonight.’

  ‘God knows why this couldn’t have been organised in the height of summer.’

  April smiled as much as her wobbly lips would allow. ‘Because, apparently, according to the Copacabana gossip, Frobishers are launching a new beer to go with the trophy – called something mad like Cupid’s Cuddle Cup – well, no, not that – but along those lines, it being held on Valentine’s Day. I suppose the whole Platinum thing is a brewery marketing ploy anyway. I mean, it must be easy to get people to drink gallons of beer on a red-hot summer day – but a damn sight more difficult in the depths of winter.’

  As Jix started the van, Cair Paravel flicked his ears and curled round happily on the back seat, sleepily thumping his tail. April felt as though she wanted to join him and sleep for a week.

  ‘I wish we could just stay here until I felt less tired. I wish I didn’t have to go to work tomorrow – or ever again.’

  ‘You’d get bored.’

  ‘Eventually, maybe. But it’d be fun finding out what it’s like to be a proper mum.’

  They drove away from Hove, and April was vaguely aware of the motorway signs flashing past. She hadn’t told anyone about the illegal drive with Ewan on New Year’s Eve. She wondered how he’d explained his absence. No doubt he’d tell her when they saw each other again at Ampney Crucis. She watched the lights sparkle on the statuette in her lap, and grinned. It would go with all the others beside Bee’s truckle bed. And the cheque would be put into Bee’s building society account in the morning.

  Courtesy of Cair Paravel, April thought, Beatrice-Eugenie Padgett was now the main breadwinner in the family.

  Jix glanced across the van. ‘Still awake? Look, I know you don’t want me to nag, but you’re wearing yourself out. You’re knackered, you’re miserable, you’re screwed up – you need a holiday.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Thanks to Noah, I’ve just lost all my savings, all those tips, all those months and months of slogging and scrimping and saving. I can’t even afford to live at the moment – let alone go cavorting about in the Caribbean.’

  ‘No one mentioned the Caribbean, did they? I was just thinking that as we’re going to be at Ampney Crucis for the Platinum Trophy, maybe we could go down the day before and stay on afterwards, and have a bit of a break.’

  ‘Ooh, yes.’ Mollified, April nodded. ‘Actually I can’t think of anything nicer at the moment.’

  ‘It won’t be the same as before, of course, as it’s the middle of winter.’

  ‘Don’t care.’ April slid luxuriously down in her seat. ‘It’d be wonderful. Can we all go – even Daff?’

  Jix grinned. ‘I can’t see her allowing us not to take her, can you? I’ll ring round and find a B&B or something. Of course, we’ll have to ask for the whole week off work’

  ‘Martina will love that.’

  Actually, April thought dreamily, the last few weeks at the Copacabana had been quite amusing. Apart from the fact that she’d hoped to be able to retire, and now thanks to Noah, she’d have to work until she was about three hundred and eighty, it had been fun to watch Martina making a million different excuses why the Gillespie Stadium had missed out on the Frobisher.

  And Sebastian was rarely seen: rumours were abounding that he’d resigned from the stadium board, and kicked the Gillespie Guzzler side of things into touch too. April really hoped that Seb was spending all his time with Brittany Frobisher – and not that Jasmine Clegg from Ampney Crucis. Now that Cairey was through to the Platinum final, it would be just terrible to have to face Sebastian at the racetrack and know that, as a result, she’d lose her home.

  Mind you, she thought drowsily, snuggling into the seat and being hypnotised by the swish-swoosh motion of the windscreen wipers, it was going to be almost impossible to keep Cair Paravel a secret for much longer. The Frobisher finalists would be announced in the national press in the morning, which would mean that if his ownership was revealed, Martina would fire her by lunch time, and Seb would evict her before tea.

  The following evening, Martina drummed her talons on the top of the bar and looked furtive. ‘A whole week off? Middle of Feb? It’s very short notice. Why?’

  April, who was still rather shaky, shrugged. ‘I haven’t been feeling very well lately. I could just do with the break. ’

  ‘You’re not pregnant, are you? I can’t have bar staff who are pregnant.’

  April laughed. That was one thing she was sure of. ‘I’m definitely not pregnant. But you do still owe me some time off in lieu for New Year’s Eve.’ She held her breath here. So far, Martina had said nothing about the fact that she hadn’t finished her night’s work at the Frobishers’. April was pretty sure it had gone unnoticed. One waitress looked pretty much like another to Martina. ‘And I know you don’t like any of us taking time off in the middle of the busy season, with the build-up to the Greyhound Derby and all that.’

  Martina tisked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Well, yes, all right. I’ll juggle the rosters. If I allow for two of the days being your rest days anyway, I’ll give you three days paid leave and two unpaid. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘Taken.’

  Martina obviously felt she’d won that round. ‘Good. Now go and do some work.’

  And April, her spirits soaring, wobbled off on another pair of shoes borrowed from Sofia, and started happily stocking the sparklers, twizzle sticks and umbrellas in their containers. Sofia and Antonio had already agreed to give her as much paid leave as she needed, and the thought of a few days beside the sea at Ampney Crucis, was just what she could do with. The Frobisher Platinum Trophy, and Cairey’s involvement, was something she’d think about later. The holiday was a definite – Cair Paravel’s victory wasn’t. And April had decided that she wasn’t going to bet on uncertainties ever again.

  The finalists for the Platinum Trophy had been trumpeted in the Racing Post and all the sports pages of the dailies that morning. April and Jix had beamed at each other with parental pride at the inclusion of Cair Paravel’s name. As well as Bee being registered as his owner, they’d also used an anagram of their own first names as a trainer. So the identity of Cair Paravel, owned by Beatrice-Eugenie Padgett and trained by L. X. Piriaj, would hopefully stay a secret for a while longer.

  ‘April! A word!’

  Martina, looking frazzled, was motioning from behind the plastic palm tree. April, pausing in slicing limes, slid her feet back into her shoes and tottered towards her. Please God don’t let her have changed her mind about the holiday. ‘Is it about my w
eek off?’

  ‘Indirectly . . .’ Martina’s eyelashes were aquamarine tonight to match her body studs, and they flapped in agitation like the fronds of something more usually found in an Amazonian rain forest. ‘I’ve just pencilled you in on the leave chart, and Oliver informs me that he has given Jix the same week off.’

  So? April thought. So?

  ‘Are you going away together?’

  ‘Yes, sort of. Well, not together as in a couple, but yes, we’re going to the same place . . . with Daff. You know, Jix’s mum? She doesn’t get out much and we thought – ’

  ‘It is company policy that the staff do not have relationships. Well, I mean, not with each other, so to speak.’

  ‘Oh, we’re not. We’re just friends.’ April floundered a bit, then went for the throat. ‘Did you say that Oliver was doing the leave chart? Isn’t that Sebastian’s job usually?

  ‘Not any more.’ Martina’s lips pursed themselves together in an angry pucker. ‘You might as well know that since New Year’s Eve, and the failure of Gillespies to secure the Platinum Trophy – not that we really wanted it, you understand – Sebastian has relinquished his seat on the board.’

  So the rumours were true, then. ‘Oh dear – does that make things difficult?’

  ‘Not really. To be honest, his heart hasn’t been in it for some time. He’s having a rather late attack of adolescent itchy feet as far as I can gather. He just decided to up sticks, move out of his apartment, leave his job here and –’

  ‘Backpack around India? Work in Tesco? Tread grapes in Tuscany? Be a beach bum in Thailand?’

  ‘Christ!’ Martina’s eyelashes snapped fiercely up and down. ‘Nothing as irresponsible as that! He’s merely decided to go out on his own for a while, and gain some independence.’

  ‘So does that mean I’ll have a new landlord, then? With Sebby off the scene?’

  Martina winced, as always, at the use of the diminutive. ‘Sebastian’s duties will be shared out among the other directors, yes. We’ll not be electing anyone new to the board – just in case he decides to come back. In this instance, the property side of things will revert back to Oliver. ’