Charlie shook his head. He really felt dizzy now. 'No. No – it'll keep.'
Holy shit! What sort of callous bastard was he? His immediate reaction wasn't sympathy for Jemima because she was being cheated on, but absolute relief. So who was outside with Matt, then? He couldn't swear that he'd recognised the voice, but, to be honest, there hadn't been that much to go on. Women, in his experience, all sounded roughly the same at that point.
Could it have been Lucinda? Not a chance. Even if Lucinda had the hots for Matt, there simply wouldn't have been enough time. Tina? God, no! He knew only too well that Tina never sounded throatily ecstatic. She was too busy inflicting damage' And there had been no accompaniment of ripping flesh. Suzy Beckett? Possibly. She and Luke Delaney had been skirting each other all evening, pretending indifference, flirting like mad with everyone else. It could well be Suzy, especially if she'd had a lot to drink.
Jemima was still looking happy. 'Bronwyn Pugh, radiating sherry fumes, has just told me on the QT that she bears me no grudges about stocking pornography. Isn't that nice? Oh, and I really must congratulate you on organising all this. It's totally brilliant. I've had a wonderful time.'
'Thanks – um – do you want to sit down?'
Jemima shook her head. The shaggy layers of her hair gleamed beneath the chandeliers. The long autumny dress moulded itself to her. Matt Garside, Charlie decided, was completely mad. God, please don't let her say she wanted to go round the fair. He couldn't bear it. Matt could just be going in to bat for the second innings. He really didn't want Jemima to find out. Not that way.
He gulped the remains of the whisky. 'How about a dance?'
To his surprise she smiled. 'Okay.'
'Even if it's the Birdy Song?'
'One of my favourites.'
It wasn't. The Upton Poges DJ, mindful of his eclectic audience, had headed for a selection of the New Wave Romantics. Charlie felt quite nostalgic. Dancing with Jemima wasn't easy. Oh, she wasn't one of those stiff, windmilling women, far from it. Her movements were fluid and assured. It was just that she swayed tantalisingly close in front of him without touching. His instinctive reaction was to slide his hands on to her hips and pull her towards him. It was the way he'd danced for the last fifteen years. But he couldn't. Not with Jemima. Bloody strange. Still, maybe they'd move on to that stage later. They were going to have plenty of time. Charlie was determined that Jemima wasn't going to leave the dance floor until Matt and Suzy were safely – and separately – back in the marquee.
They didn't talk. He didn't need to. He was captivated by her.
This was awful. He'd never, ever nicked anyone else's woman. Well – that wasn't strictly true; but they'd always been willing Participants, bored with their current partners, happy to have a fling. Charlie felt he was almost providing a service to disillusioned relationships. Everyone always seemed to be happy enough afterwards.
But this was different. He would like to be able to ask Jemima out. Publicly. But even if she agreed, which of course she wouldn't, he couldn't. Because she was Matt's girlfriend. Matt and Charlie had made a pact years before that they would never, under any circumstances, get involved with the same woman at the same time. It was a code of honour. Blokeish? Yeah, maybe. But it had worked really well. Neither of them would dream of reneging on the agreement.
'It all sounds very bizarre, sweetie,' Tina had said when he'd told her about it some weeks earlier. They'd been discussing Matt and Dragon Slayer and Matt and him, and friendships generally. She'd eased herself off the Wallbank-Fox and rolled a spliff. 'Very Four Musketeers. So, there's absolutely no point in you yearning for that rather dreary girl in the bookshop, is there? Not if Matt has his brand on her.' She'd laughed when he'd said he had no interest in Jemima, and raked her nails down his back. 'I must say, I really adore these rural customs.'
Charlie was under no illusion that Matt having a quickie with Suzy Beckett was anything other than just that. A mutual arrangement between consenting and like-minded adults. Nothing serious on Matt's part at all. Christ knows why he'd want to, of course, but Jemima, hopefully, would never know.
The music changed. Jemima seemed more than happy to continue dancing. She really was good. She had natural rhythm. She was bloody damn sexy. And lovely. And funny. And tough. And intelligent – and – hang on – if it hadn't been him thinking about Jemima, it would be beginning to sound like a severe case of falling in love. Lust, Charlie cheerfully recognised; love was a virtual stranger.
'Charlie!' Lucinda pushed in between them, then grinned. 'Ooh, sorry, Jemima. Didn't mean to interrupt – mind, it could be rescuing you from a fate worse than death. You two don't exactly see eye to eye, do you?'
'We've managed to disagree about most things so far,' Jemima grinned, still dancing. 'I was merely keeping him warm for you.'
Lucinda was dancing with them now. Charlie prayed that Jemima would stay. He had a quick scan round the marquee for Matt. The bastard was still nowhere to be seen. He looked across at Lucinda. 'Where did you get to?'
'The fair. I've had tons of free rides on the ghost train.' She laughed without inhibition. 'There was this absolutely lush bloke running it – he looked just like Rudy Yarrow! You know, out of the Australian soap on Channel Five? AD suntan and floppy hair. You'd have loved him, Jemima. Anyway, he kept jumping on the back of my car in the darkest scariest bits and she shrugged at Charlie, 'we got on really well and I'm sorry I've been such a long time.'
The plait, he noticed, had been unravelled. Someone had kissed all her lipstick off.
'Your ma will have a fit if she finds out,' Jemima said. 'I'm sure she's already got you lined up for some clean-cut graduate.'
'Speaking of which,' Charlie winced as Bathsheba powered her way across the sprung pretend-parquet, making it bounce, 'I have a feeling we're just about to find out.'
'Keep dancing,' Jemima hissed. 'Maybe she won't notice that Lucinda's all mussed-up.'
'Lucinda!' The roar drowned Duran Duran. 'I do not want you consorting with these people!'
Few around them took any notice. It was far too late in a heavy-drinking day for most of the guests to be fazed by anything. Charlie stared down at the floor – not from cowardice, but because he was sure that if he looked at Bathsheba he'd laugh. Which could be fatal. His own feet were inches from Lucinda's green satin sandals and Jemima's brown suede ankle boots. They were all moving in the same way.
'Charlie!' Bathsheba's roar was even more scary than his housemaster's had been. 'I've been keeping an eye on Lucinda all day. I she's over eighteen, and thus officially out of my parental control – but I'm afraid I simply cannot condone this sort of behaviour.'
Which behaviour? Lucinda dancing with him and a cast of thousands – or being snogged senseless by some guy she'd met five minutes earlier on the ghost train? It was hardly fair... 'Sorry, Mrs C. I'm not sure that I get your drift.'
'You have an appalling reputation; your current girlfriend dared to attend church wearing no underwear – and this young lady,' she flicked her head towards Jemima, 'sees nothing wrong in the sale of pornographic literature. I'm sorry, but I really cannot agree that you're fit company for any healthy and pure young gel.'
Which pure young -? Oh, Lucinda. He wanted to laugh. He caught Jemima's eye. She already was. Her shoulders were shaking as she studied the chandeliers.
'Excuse me.' Gillian's voice cut in. 'Can we have that dance now, please, Charlie? Only the boys have gone to sleep on Bronwyn, and Glen thinks we should be making tracks and – oh, hello, Bathsheba. Were you waiting to dance with Charlie, too?'
'I certainly was not! And you should think twice, about it, Mrs Hutchinson. You've salvaged your reputation in this village by backing our anti-smut campaign. But publicly colluding with the main protagonists won't do it any good, will it?'
Gillian looked as though she'd lost the plot somewhere around the word 'salvaged'. She smiled sweetly. 'Won't it? What a pity. Goodness – are you all queuing up to dance with Charlie
? Not that I'm surprised, of course –'
Lucinda and Jemima managed a synchronised head-shaking. Charlie shrugged. 'Bathsheba was just suggesting that I wasn't suitable company for Lucinda.'
'Goodness!' Gillian's laugh tinkled off the twinkling glass droplets high in the canvas stratosphere. 'Little bit late for that, isn't it? You and she have been an item for simply ages, haven't you?
It was like hearing the Queen swear. Nobody quite believed it – The silence was immense.
Gillian, obviously registering her faux pas a second too late, immediately made matters worse. 'Well, I don't mean an item as such. Of course, you and Tina have been together as well, and Lucinda has just been a sort of chum for you in your free moments, hasn't she?'
'What sort of chum?' The four words made Bathsheba's chins tremble. 'Lucinda?'
'Charlie used to chat to her when he came into the bookshop,' Jemima said quickly. 'That's all, isn't it?'
Charlie grinned, praying that a boyish smile and a quick display of the crooked teeth would dispel any maternal fears. 'God, yes. Nothing more. Absolutely not.'
'Crap.' Lucinda picked the remaining amber ribbons from the tendrils of her plait. 'Charlie's given extra-curricular studies and cramming a whole new meaning.' She smiled sweetly at Bathsheba. 'We've been at it ever since I came back from St Hilda's.'
Bathsheba caught the inference with both hands. 'You mean – he – deflowered you?'
Jemima gave a snort of laughter which turned into a sneeze. Gillian kindly handed her a Kleenex.
'Of course he didn't deflower me – I lost my virginity at Dominic Birkett-Spence's fifteenth birthday party bloody years ago.'
Bathsheba's cry of anguish was almost swamped by Gillian's cry of delight. 'Oh, super! He's such a nice boy! I know his parents. Lovely family.'
Lucinda swung the crimped hair angrily away from her face and glared at her mother. 'So, before you go hurling accusations of sleaze at nice people like Charlie and Jemima, why don't you look on your own doorstep?'
'Back yard,' Charlie said. 'Or maybe it is doorstep ...'
Bathsheba hasn't got anything as common as a back yard.' Gillian's brow was furrowed. 'She's got a nice little patio. Did you mean patio, Lucinda?'
I think we all got the gist.' Jemima stepped in bravely and grabbed Gillian's arm. 'I think perhaps Glen's right and you should be heading home. It's been a long day ...'
Bathsheba looked old and defeated. She had sort of sagged. Charlie felt sorry for her. It must be hell having kids and loving them and wanting to protect them from people like him. He pulled a sympathetic face at Lucinda. It had been nice while it lasted.
'See you at Christmas,' she said brightly, kissing him on the cheek. 'I'll be home for the hols – unless the Maxwell-Dunmores invite me to go ski-ing. I hope you win the Hennessey. I'll watch you on the telly and tell everyone at college that you're absolutely bloody marvellous – at everything.'
It was small comfort. Jemima had disappeared with Gillian, and now Lucinda was escorting Bathsheba away to the cloakroom. Which left him what? Tina. Every man at the wedding had been lusting openly after Tina. They'd probably all want to go the full twelve rounds in the Wallbank-Fox. As far as he was concerned, they were welcome to try.
She was sitting alone, twirling a champagne flute, smoking something dubious, and swinging her Patrick Cox'd foot in time with Little Jimmy Osmond. It was a relief to notice, as he crossed the marquee towards her, that Drew and Maddy were sitting down too, Poppy Scarlet fast asleep between them, as they toasted each other in Bollinger.
He was suddenly fiercely jealous. It was what he wanted. Well, not the Poppy and bump bit – that was out of the question – but the rest. He wanted to share his life with someone, not just his bed.
'Hi.' Tina pushed blonde hair away from smoky eyes. 'Had a nice time?'
'Great. You?'
'Surprisingly, yes. I thought it would be very quaint, but actually there are some really cool people here. Did you know that Diana and Gareth are going to keep the marquee erected and hold a rave at New Year?'
'No, I bloody didn't.' It would cause ructions in the village – Still, it might keep Bathsheba occupied – which wouldn't be a bad thing. He stared at the spliff. 'Sure you're not hallucinating? You didn't get that off Jace, did you?'
'Sweetie, you know I never touch the cheap end of the market- It's true. I was talking to Diana in the cloakroom. She says there’s still a lot of money to be made from raves. Well, as I said to her, there probably is out here in the sticks. There's not a decent club for miles – and, let's face it, in this village they still consider putting cheese and pineapple together very avant-garde.'
Charlie laughed. She was always funny when she was stoned. 'Do you want to go home?'
'If home equates with bed, yeah. If home equates with pints of whisky and Aerosmith at killing level, no.'
'No whisky. No Aerosmith. Give me five minutes. I just want to say goodbye to Matt. Have you seen him recently?'
'Not for ages. He was going round the fairground last I heard. He's probably still attempting to win a coconut.'
He walked out of the marquee again. The Memory Lane Fair was still packed. The gallopers revolved in golden glory, the organ playing raucously. Whoever Bradley-Morland were, they were obviously in for an all-night session. He was close to the roundabout now. Perhaps Bradley and Morland were the couple cuddling in the middle, oblivious to everything. She was extremely pretty. Christ! Was the entire world in love tonight?
He wasn't sure what he was going to say to Matt – even if he found him – but it was important to him to say something. Matt had covered for him on countless occasions, so it wasn't exactly a moral issue. It did occur to him briefly that if it had been someone other than Jemima who was involved, he probably wouldn't feel so concerned. Jemima was different – sort of vulnerable – she simply didn't deserve to be hurt.
It was colder now. The last of the bonfire smoke had dispersed, revealing a clear black sky studded with stars. The swell of people pressed all round him, laughing, shouting greetings.
Seen Matt?' he asked each of them. None had.
Sod it. He'd give up and go home. Maybe Tina would be gentle with him.
It was the furtive whispering that caught his attention. The shouts and yells and loudness were everywhere. Hearing someone speaking urgently and quietly in the darkness made him stop and listen.
Ned Filkins! For Christ's sake! What the hell was he doing here? He hadn't been on the guest-list.
'... just a final word, mate. We don't want nothing dramatic, understand? A couple more wins'll go down a treat – and then the little mishap at Newbury. Okay?'
'Okay.'
Charlie's skin crawled.
'And we'll be watching you, me and Vince, so no funny business. Not unless of course you want everyone to know what we know. Understood?'
'Yeah.'
'Good, lad. You'll be paid well, son, have no fears. And it'll all be for the best, won't it? Now you run back in to your young lady – we wouldn't want her getting any ideas now, would we?'
'Bastard.'
'Takes one to know one, mate. Takes one to know one.'
Two sets of footsteps swished through the grass in opposite directions. Both of them hidden in the darkness. Charlie wiped his hand across his mouth and exhaled. Bloody sodding hell! Matt – taking backhanders from Ned – for what? Something at Newbury? Not the Hennessey – dear God. Surely not? And Vincent was involved. Jemima's father....
Charlie groaned. What the hell should he do? Confront Matt? He'd deny it. Tell Kath? She wouldn't believe it. He must warn Jemima. But he couldn't, could he? How the hell could he tell Jemima that the two people she trusted and loved most in her life were cheating – and Matt doubly so?
Shit! She'd hate him for telling her. She'd hate him even more for knowing.
Chapter Thirty
It was cold. The wind swept across Newbury racecourse on a steel-grey day, blowing discarded betting s
lips around snugly muffled ankles like cut-price confetti.
Matt sat in the changing room and wondered whether, if he killed himself, anyone would care. He might as well be dead. He was risking losing everything he'd ever wanted. There were no guarantees that he'd gain anything at all out of this; his reputation would be shot whatever happened. Being dead and out of it seemed like a good idea. Getting there, though, appeared to have its disadvantages. Matt reckoned you had to be pretty brave to commit suicide. And he wasn't.
'Cheer up – it may never happen.' Liam Jenkins, half-dressed, slapped him on the shoulder. It hurt. Every part of his body hurt.
Matt grimaced. He'd heard the same words all day. He really should try to look a touch more cheerful. He was riding the bloody favourite in the Hennessey in – what? – just under an hour's time. Almost an hour in which to decide. Such a simple choice. Should he go along with Ned and Vincent and throw the race in Bonne Nuit's favour, even if Dragon Slayer was miles ahead, or not?
Win or lose, the stakes were high in both deals. All he had to do to stop Ned telling Jemima – and, infinitely worse, Charlie and the rest of the world – about his habit, was to chuck away the Hennessey. Oh – and probably the Cheltenham Gold Cup. Sod all, really. Then Dragon Slayer would be out the back door in the betting come the National – and they'd all clean up. Once bed knocked Charlie out of the frame at Aintree, of course. Nothing to it.
He laughed bitterly. What the hell. If he won or lost he would be finished in Milton St John, finished in racing; he wouldn't even be able to crawl home to the Devon farm and find solace in Jennifer's arms. That was part of Ned's squeeze on him too.
Matt was under no illusions that his parents and his home-based girlfriend would be informed in graphic detail about his nocturnal habits long before he'd even left the Berkshire borders.
The changing room was charged with high energy. The Hennessey was steeplechasing's greatest early-season test. Win this one and you were up there in the highest echelons: your previously unfancied horse ranking alongside the all time greats like Sea Pigeon or See You Then or Red Rum, and hotly tipped for Cheltenham and Aintree. The Hennessey had thrown up stars like Arkle and Mill House. It was everyone's ambition to be the next Scudamore, Francome or Dunwoody.
Jumping to Conclusions Page 35