'And you're sure it's safe to leave the twins to their own devices?'
'Stop chucking in obstacles. Glen's having his meeting here. He's rescheduled from the Cat and Fiddle. The twins will be chaperoned by Bathsheba Cox and Bronwyn Pugh and the rest of the village's sturdy-ankle brigade.'
The invitation to Maddy and Drew's picnic had, as far as Jemima was concerned, been a mixed blessing. True, it would remove her from the Vicarage on Bathsheba's anti-sleaze campaign night which meant that, yet again, she wouldn't have to admit to ordering Fishnets, but it also meant that most of her fellow guests were going to be connected – however tenuously – with horse-racing.
Gillian delved into her bag and sprayed on scent. 'It's going to be an ideal opportunity to introduce you to some men. And don't look like that. I know what you're thinking. You've gone all wrinkly-nosed which means you're getting sniffy about the company. It'll be a complete mixture of people. They won't all be from the stables. I'm not asking you to announce your engagement to Charlie Somerset or anything —'
'Who?'
'Charlie Somerset. You mean you've never heard of Charlie Somerset?'
Jemima put on her glasses. 'I think I might have done. Isn't he a jockey?'
'He's sex on legs.' Gillian gathered up her handbag. 'But don't tell Glen I said so.'
'Where exactly are we going?' Jemima asked as Gillian eased her elderly Triumph away from the twisty Berkshire lanes and headed for the M4.
'Windsor.' Gillian concentrated on the road ahead.
'Really?' Jemima swivelled round. 'As in the castle?'
'Not exactly. It's not a royal command – but close – yes ...'
Windsor. Wow! Jemima wriggled happily in her seat. Life was very definitely on the up. She stared out of the window, completely relaxed. The sensation of bowling along with her bottom about six inches off the road, made her feel silly and giddy and eighteen again – and took away the weight of responsibilities which for so long had threatened to overwhelm her.
The journey across Berkshire went very quickly. 'Heavens!' Jemima looked around with total surprise as they bumped across cattle grids. 'Is it a stately home? It's beautiful. And all these cars! It must be a very big picnic.'
'Huge,' Gillian said quickly, as they scrambled from the Triumph beneath a canopy of chestnut trees. 'Drew Fitzgerald and Maddy are well-known for their hospitality – but, of course, not all these people are their guests.'
'They're not? Is it a sort of communal thing, then?' Jemima followed Gillian in the direction of a shingle path running alongside various single-storey buildings which were labelled with notices saying 'Stables', 'Visiting Lads', and 'Permit Holders Only'. The penny took a second to drop. 'Bloody hell! It's a bloody racecourse!'
'Jemima, look, I was going to tell you, but I talked it over with Maddy, and we knew you weren't too keen on racing and we thought that you'd change your mind once you were here and –'
'You thought wrong then.'
The still-warm sun filtered in dappled patterns through the trees as crowds of other early racegoers, all decked out in their summer finery, tramped past them. Horses whinnied from behind the high walls. Jemima, incensed by Gillian's duplicity, stopped walking.
Gillian cannoned into the back of her. 'I'm sorry if I wasn't exactly truthful about the venue, but I'm sure you'll enjoy it
'And I'm sure I won't.'
'I had no idea that you were this anti.' Gillian sighed heavily. 'I thought we were friends. I thought I knew everything about you.'
'No one knows everything about anyone.' Jemima sucked in her breath. She should have explained the situation to Gillian ages ago. It was her own fault. She had always, through force of habit, kept things to herself. 'My parents divorced because of racing. We never had any money because my father was addicted to gambling. He lost his business and our home because of horses, dogs, cards, dice – two flies crawling up a window. Have you any idea what it's like to be scared of the postman? Or terrified of a knock on the door?'
Gillian shook her head. 'Oh, God. I had no inkling –'
'That's why my father lived in a sordid bedsit. And why my mother has a live-in job in a hotel. Nothing to do with the recession. Nothing to do with being made redundant. Because, thanks to my father's gambling, they lost everything and neither of them will ever be off the blacklist.'
'Oh, Jemima – you poor thing. You should have told me –'
'Well, now I have.' She swallowed. 'I would be very, very grateful if you never mentioned this to another soul. And definitely not to Drew and Maddy. I really don't think they'd want an undischarged bankrupt – not to mention an addicted gambler – living on their property and working for them.'
'Of course I won't breathe a word to anyone.' Gillian still looked pole-axed. 'I'm so sorry. But Maddy and I – well, we honestly thought it was some animal-rights thing ...'
'It's that as well. But it's mainly the gambling.'
Gillian pulled a face. 'Then this is about as insensitive as taking an alcoholic's family on a day-trip to a distillery, isn't it?'
'On a par, yes.'
A doubt was wriggling through Jemima's mind. Vincent must have known the picnic was on a racecourse. Working at Peapods he couldn't possibly not have known. So why – in the name of all the saints – when he had a bona-fide reason to come racing, had he chosen to remain in Milton St John?
'Do you want to go home?' Gillian was pushed against her by a tide of ladies in hats. 'I'd totally understand if you did.'
'And spoil it for everyone? No, I'm here now. After all, I suppose I've been lucky so far – living in Milton St John and not getting even a whiff of a jockey. But don't expect me to enjoy it. I promise not to be po-faced for the entire evening, but it'll cost you. I'll think of something really awful for you to do in return. And don't expect me to be nice to anyone – because I won't.'
'You're an angel.' Gillian hugged her. 'Look, I need to have a little word with Drew about something – but I promise you, once I've done that if you're absolutely hating it, then we'll go home. Deal?'
'Deal.' Jemima gave Gillian one of the twins' high-fives, and feeling quite brave, followed her along the scrunchy gravelled paths.
Gillian waved their permits and invitations at a panama-hatted steward as they passed through the towering wrought-iron gates. Windsor, Jemima thought as she gazed around, especially on this glorious June evening, didn't look anything like she'd imagined a racecourse to look. A steel band was playing calypso music beneath the trees, the air was filled with the seduction of philadelphus and honeysuckle, there was a background scent of trampled grass and hot horse, and, somewhere, someone was frying onions.
And everyone, Jemima had to admit, looked very respectable. She'd imagined it would be dirty, grey, bleak. She'd imagined racegoers to be shabby and furtive. This was beautiful.
Gillian pointed to a small ring where sleek, long-legged horses stalked round wearing their rugs and a haughty demeanour. 'Those are the runners for the first race.'
'Aren't they gorgeous? They look like supermodels at a Calvin Klein show. What a pity they've got to be mistreated.'
'Shush!' Gillian steered Jemima firmly in the opposite direction. 'I think you'll soon realise that ill-treatment is not one of the priorities of either training or race-riding. I can understand your reluctance to have anything to do with gambling – but trainers and jockeys love their horses. Cruelty doesn't come into it. Not anywhere. Animals don't react to cruelty, only to respect, love and understanding – and believe me, racehorses are the most spoiled brats in the animal kingdom.'
Jemima wasn't convinced. She continued to stare over her shoulder at the circling horses. 'What are they doing, then?'
'Waiting to go into the parade ring. The first race is a selling handicap. That means that the winner is put up for auction immediately after the finish. Sometimes owners end up buying their own horses back at amazingly inflated prices.'
'What on earth for?'
'Because
they hadn't expected them to win and realise that they might have a potential money-spinner on their hands.' Gillian touched Jemima's elbow. 'And sometimes because they simply can't bear to part with them. Drew's is the one with the red-and-gold rug. Suzy's riding him – Maddy's sister. You've met her in the Munchy Bar, haven't you? Anyway, you'll probably get to meet Suzy again later. She lives with Luke Delaney who –'
'Even I know who Luke Delaney is!' Jemima retorted. 'You can't watch a chat show, game show, or anything else on the telly these days without seeing Luke Delaney, superstar jockey.'
Gillian laughed. 'Oh, goody. You've managed to mention a jockey's name without turning to stone. I doubt if I'll have you placing Waterfalls or Each Way Multiples with friendly Joe Grimshaw down in the Silver Ring by the end of the evening, or even actually watching a race, but you never know. God moves in mysterious ways indeed, and no one is more aware of that than I am.'
Gillian had stopped walking and Jemima trampled on her heels. 'You said a picnic! Not a Common Ball!'
The gaily striped marquee with its own bar, a huge covered food table, and a collection of white filigreed tables and chairs arranged on the roped-off lawn, looked awesome. Gillian smiled encouragingly. 'This is a picnic – Milton St John style. Just a bit more comfortable than grass and rugs. No, don't you dare run away!'
'What good timing!' Maddy was relaxing in her chair, her auburn hair in a loose cluster of curls on top of her head. 'We're just going to refill the glasses. Food will be dished up in about an hour and carry on for the rest of the evening.' She stood up and hugged a rather bemused Jemima. 'How nice to meet you again. I'm so glad you came. Gillian said you didn't really like racing. It's Jemima, isn't it? Vincent's daughter?'
Oh, God. Jemima, having hugged Maddy back, nodded.
'You should have told me when I was in the Munchy Bar that your father had applied for the gardening job. You must have thought I was being very superior.' Maddy giggled. 'And I can promise you that I'm not. He's very talented, isn't he? Kimberley Small and Diana James-Jordan want to talk to him about developing Japanese gardens for them.'
Jemima tried not to laugh out loud. He had the luck of the devil, her dad.
Maddy indicated the chairs beside her. 'Do come and sit down, both of you. I'll go and get the drinks. Gillian, be an angel and tell Jemima who everyone is –'
Gillian groaned, staring at the crush by the bar. 'Looks like I've got the short straw. Are you ready for this?'
Jemima shook her head. 'I'll never remember their names. Still, as I'm unlikely to ever meet them again, I don't suppose it matters. Go on then, do your who's who of Milton St John.'
'The blonde girl in the linen shift-dress is Maddy's best mate Fran who, according to Mad, got back to size ten five minutes after she had her baby so now she hates her. Her husband Richard is riding in the first race – as is Suzy, Mad's sister, and Luke Delaney who –'
'I said I know about Luke Delaney.'
'Yes. Sorry. I forget about his publicity machine. Next to Fran are Kit and Rosa Pedersen. They're friends of Drew's from Jersey, and his business partners.'
'They look nice. And who is Maddy talking to?' Jemima stared at the tall fair-haired man with his arm round the shoulders of a very pretty dark girl in a vivid pink-and-orange sundress.
'Rory and Georgia Faulkner, mates of hers from Upton Poges. They had a whirlwind wedding after a whirlwind romance and still can't keep their hands off each other.'
'Ah, sweet. Aren't they handsome? Oh, goodness – so is he!' Jemima, forgetting to be disinterested, sat up and blinked at a totally devastating man with silky dark red hair, in tight, rather grubby white jeans and a navy polo shirt. 'Who on earth is he?'
'Charlie Somerset. Told you, didn't I?' Gillian sighed wistfully. 'Charlie has more notches on his bedpost than anyone has a right to have. He's completely incapable of being faithful. But he does it so beautifully that everyone still adores him afterwards. Georgia once called him a serial cheater.'
'Really?' Georgia – wasn't she the newlywed? 'Did she go out with him, then?'
'Charlie tries it on with everyone. Even Maddy went out with him once – when Drew and she had separated. Don't you think he's absolutely stunning?'
'No,' Jemima said shortly.
'Liar.'
Maddy returned from the bar with the drinks then, sitting down between Jemima and Gillian. 'I think nearly everyone's here except Matt, of course – he'll be along later. And Charlie's date for this evening – she's just gone in search of the loo. So, has Gillian done a suitable character assassination on the assembled guests so far?'
'Brilliant, thank you.' Jemima sipped her wine.
Racegoers swept past in waves, eager to get their bets on before the selling stakes. The disembodied voices of the bookies could just be heard echoing from the enclosures. Jemima cringed. She recognised the language. Vincent had used the words frequently, and she had to concentrate hard on the steel band which was strolling between the flower-beds playing 'Island in the Sun', to block out the raucous shouts of 'Five to two against!'
Gillian leaned forward. 'Is Drew around, Mad? I'd like to have a word with him.'
'With Blue Ruin in the saddling boxes, I expect. Go and have a look, and take Jemima with you. Introduce her properly.'
Jemima panicked. It felt safe enough sitting here. All these people seemed – well – normal. And Maddy was, as she had been in the Munchy Bar, just lovely. And hopefully no one would mention Vincent any more. But she didn't, truly didn't, want to know anything more about racecourses, or horses, or racing, or, well, anything.
Gillian drained her glass and stood up. 'Come on, Jemima, you'll love Drew – good Lord! Who on earth is that?'
The girl shimmying towards the tent had brought even the most eager punters to a standstill. Tall, slender and tanned, with long black hair in a single plait down her back, she was wearing tight denim shorts cut to display the pert cheeks of her bottom to their best advantage. Her full brown breasts spilled out of a minuscule black bikini top. The air around her was heavy with CK One.
'Oh, she's Charlie's current wild child. Tina Maloret is still in the States – and you know what he's like.' Maddy waved a lazy hand. 'Come over here, Lucinda, and join the rest of the party. Of course, you already know Gillian, but have you met Jemima yet?'
Lucinda beamed hello at them both.
'Bloody hell!' Gillian grabbed Jemima's arm. 'It's Lucinda! Little Lucinda! Bathsheba Cox's schoolgirl daughter! I'm sure we can capitalise on this. Charlie Somerset, I love you! Come on – let's find Drew.'
Unable to free herself from Gillian's grasp, Jemima was dragged rather reluctantly across the grass.
Drew had just finished saddling Blue Ruin for the first race, and smiled and shook her hand as Gillian introduced them. He had a lovely smile, Jemima thought. Warm and friendly and sexy all at the same time. And he was even more Mel Gibsony close up than he'd been when she had seen him riding past the Munchy Bar. It was all so confusing. He seemed far too nice to be cruel to animals – and far too charming to realise what heartache he caused gamblers and their families.
She had never been this close to a racehorse before either. Blue Ruin was beautiful. So huge, with fabulously gentle eyes, and strong glossy muscles – and those fragile ankles! How on earth could they support the weight of a galloping horse? They looked as though they'd snap like a twig.
'Tell me something,' Gillian tapped Drew on the arm. 'Lucinda Cox. How long has she – er – been with Charlie?'
Drew followed his horse with a critical eye. 'She's a recent acquisition, I think. Why?'
'Does Bathsheba know?'
'Christ, I shouldn't think so.'
'Oh, goody. It's always handy to have a few aces up one's sleeve. Just let her start laying the law down about immorality and impropriety in future. People in glass houses and all that. Still, it wasn't Charlie's sex life I actually wanted to discuss with you – fascinating though it is.' Gillian paused. 'I want your ad
vice.'
'I thought I was supposed to come to you for spiritual guidance?'
'Spiritual guidance I can handle.' Gillian leaned her elbows on the flaking white rails of the pre-parade ring and indicated to Jemima to squeeze in beside her. 'This is financial. I want to make an investment. I – er – need to lose some money, and not with a bookmaker. A lot of money.'
'You've come to the right place then,' Drew said bitterly. 'All contributions gratefully received. I've no doubt that you're well aware of Peapods' financial crisis – which is one of the reasons why Kit and Rosa are over from the Channel Islands. They're trying to work out a strategy for our survival.'
'Oh God, yes, I know and I'm so sorry. But I'm looking at more of an investment for me than a rescue package for you. Although, it might amount to the same thing.'
'I doubt it.' Drew shrugged. 'I don't think I can be much help. If you were going to ask me to divert some of your cash to a bank in Jersey, you've left it too late. I'm afraid the Chancellor has tied up all the offshore loopholes.'
Jemima, still feeling confused and pretty sure that she shouldn't be listening to this, moved away.
'I wasn't,' Gillian said, making a grab for Jemima. 'Please hang on a minute. It's okay. I need you to be here too, actually. I want to invest my money in bloodstock. I want to buy a horse.'
Jemima blinked.
Drew seemed equally as stunned. 'Gillian, exactly how much does Glen get on the offertory plate? Have you any idea how much a horse costs?'
'Not really. Look, I don't particularly want to go into details, but I've earned far more than Glen thinks I've earned by – well, writing. I don't want it appearing on the bank statement. I love racing and I love horses – and I've been thinking about this for ages. I want to buy a horse and I want you to train it for me.'
'If you're serious, then of course I'd be delighted. Do you want me to put in a bid for the winner of this seller tonight, then?'
Jumping to Conclusions Page 13