Jumping to Conclusions (58 page)

'Charlie!' Drew's frantic hiss carried across the paddock. 'For Christ's sake – there'll be tons of time for that later!'

Charlie grinned, kissed Tina's cheek, shook his head sadly at Matt, and ran back to Bonnie.

'About bloody time.' Drew's eyes were laughing. 'You really do take womanising to the nth degree. Now, get up in the saddle.'

He swung himself on to Bonne Nuit's broad chestnut back. He'd done all he could. He hoped he'd scared the shit out of Matt. He couldn't do any more. The Hutchinsons were gazing up at him with delight. Even Glen. He hoped that he wouldn't be struck down by some celestial deity on the run-in.

'Don't worry if he's not going to get there,' Drew said quietly. Keep him safe. Matt's going to go at this one like the hammers of hell, no doubt. With the double being up for grabs for Lancing Grange, Kath will have told him to ride a hard race. Keep away from him. Just let Bonnie do what he does naturally. The National's only two weeks away. I don't want him crocked.'

'Okay. Understood. No problems.' Charlie touched his cap. 'See you in the winner's enclosure.'

You stupid bastard!' Charlie panted from the side of his mouth when they were three-quarters of the way through the race. 'You're not trying!'

Matt was scrubbing along on Dragon Slayer, keeping out of danger, looking as though he was working flat out. Charlie knew he wasn't.

'Mind your own pissing business,' Matt hissed. 'Ride your own race. Keep your mouth shut.'

Bonne Nuit was third, almost level with the easily-moving Dragon Slayer. Christ, but it was an artistic performance. Kath would never spot that she'd been cheated of the double. Tina would think both horse and jockey had worked their socks off. But Matt and Dragon Slayer wouldn't win. And they could have done it easily. Matt had buckets in hand. Charlie couldn't, for the life of him, understand why he'd want to throw it away.

'Sorry ...' he muttered as Bonne Nuit lost the plot a bit. He couldn't worry about Matt. Not now. He had far too much to do. 'Sorry – just keep ploughing on, baby ...'

He was exhausted. Every muscle ached. Cheltenham was a killer of a course. It really tested your stamina. And the Gold Cup, packed full of stars, was always run at a cracking pace. It had been a hard festival. Maybe he should be thinking of giving it up ... But not until he'd won the National.

He thought briefly of Jemima watching on television in Oxford ... Horses were crashing to the ground behind him. He didn't dare to look. He hoped they survived the carnage. He pulled slightly ahead of Matt at the fourth from home, Bonne Nuit meeting the fences just right.

Matt was falling further and further behind. Sodding hell – He'd thrown this one just like the Hennesey. But why? In God's name, why?

Christ, he thought suddenly, as Bonnie surged over the notoriously difficult third from last, countering the dizzy downward slide, they might just win it. They might win the Gold Cup.

They didn't. But third was pretty damn good – especially behind a previous winner, and the well-in-form raider from Ireland. Drew and the Hutchinsons were jubilant.

Matt and Dragon Slayer came in last of the ten finishers.

So, Jemima wondered, what sort of masochist was she? Just over two weeks after Cheltenham and here she was at Aintree. Where she'd have the immense pleasure of being able to watch Tina and Charlie together all day. She'd managed to avoid him since Cheltenham, pretending to be busy if he called into the shop, and not visiting Vincent at Peapods unless she knew Charlie wouldn't be there. What was the point of prolonging the agony?

Gillian had been convinced there'd be an engagement announcement pretty soon – but maybe it would be after the National – not Cheltenham. She hadn't been too clear.

A lot of the villagers, including Vincent and Maureen, had travelled up for the full three days. Jemima had driven up to Liverpool in Floss that morning. She had avoided all the organised coaches, and even refused the offer of a luxury lift in Gillian and Glen's chauffeur-driven car – hired from Fernydown Limousines – especially for the occasion.

Most of the village crew were staying at the Adelphi. Maddy had even brought Poppy Scarlet and Daragh, having left Suzy, who was now irrevocably estranged from Luke, at Peapods to look after the animals. Jemima, who until the last minute had been refusing to go, had been practically coerced into it by Gillian.

'You don't have to watch the actual race if you're worried about the horses,' she'd said. 'I always used to keep my eyes shut and catch the replay later. But I want you to be there to watch Bonnie and Charlie line up with me. We've shared this – all of it – right from the beginning, haven't we?'

Jemima had sighed and said yes, but she still thought she'd stay at home.

Gillian had persisted. 'Oh! But you've been brilliant about everything. No one else is half so important ... At least, think about it.'

And Jemima had said it was a very kind thought but she looked awful in hats. She'd looked a complete fright at the Hennessey in that brown one she'd borrowed from Gillian.

'You don't have to wear a hat! I shall, of course, because I love them. But you don't have to.'

'I haven't got anything half decent to wear anyway ...'

'Just wear what you want. Anything goes, apparently.' Gillian had waved her hands expansively. 'Help yourself from my wardrobe. Borrow whatever you fancy.'

Jemima had shaken her head.

'Just say you'll think about it.' Gillian had hugged her. 'I've got you all the necessary tickets and passes. Take them anyway. Just in case you change your mind. Go on, Jemima, please ...'

She'd shaken her head more firmly this time. 'It's really kind of you – and I wish you all the luck in the world, of course. But I'll just stay at home and watch it on television.'

And so here she was, standing in the middle of Aintree, done up to the nines in Gillian's special Ghost collection, wondering if she needed certifying.

It was daunting. She needn't have worried about seeing Tina and Charlie together. She doubted if she'd ever see the same person twice. Thousands and thousands of people were jammed everywhere. It was akin to the Cup Final being held on a village football pitch.

The noise was amazing. It was like listening to the roar of the ocean. Incessant. Rising and falling. Always changing. And she could taste the excitement. The anticipation.

She'd never find Vincent or Maureen – let alone Gillian and Glen and the boys. Jesus. What the hell was she doing here? She jostled her way towards one of the many maps.

There were three courses! God! Being punched and pushed from every direction, she reluctantly decided that maybe using Gillian s pass would be a good idea. At least she wouldn't be trampled underfoot. She squinted at the map again. Not the Mildmay Course or the Hurdle Course then – although they both seemed to be joined to the National Course by a mind-boggling array of criss-cross lines like the London Underground. Jemima groaned. She had never been able to fathom that, either.

Clutching the necessary paperwork – proclaiming her to be Guest of Owner – she started to elbow her way in what she hoped was the right direction.

The sky was a sort of pale watered silk, with a matching pale lemon sun. It was reminiscent of a muted version of the Hampton-Hydes' decor – over a year ago ... Over a year ago since she'd reluctantly rolled out of Simon Hampton-Hyde's birthday cake and changed her life.

The ground was surprisingly flat. She had expected the hills of Cheltenham or at least the undulations of Newbury. The flatness had the disadvantage of making the crowds seem larger than ever. She could see the tops of a million heads and the edge of several giant Star Vision screens, but very little else.

Eureka! By raising herself on tiptoe she could see the stands! And tents! And boxes! And even chalets! It looked like Butlins.

Jemima cannoned into a group of top hats and fur coats and apologised, then clammed up when she thought the fur might be real. Still, it meant she was probably heading in the right direction. Showing her pass to every steward she encountered, she entered a slightly different scrum. Here, everyone was practically manic, slapping backs, puffing on nervous cigarettes, calling to people who were completely hidden from view. And everyone seemed to be wearing sheepskin.

'Jemima!' A tall vision in shocking pink and black, courtesy of the combined talents of Nicole Farhi and Philip Treacy, moved through the crowd towards her. 'Oh, isn't this simply wonderful!'

She smiled at Gillian. It would be impossible not to smile. Happiness glowed from her and radiated in the cool grey air around her like the ectoplasm in
Ghostbusters.

Glen and the boys are having a tour of the course with Drew – but I was far, far too nervous. Have you seen the size of the fences! Enormous! I can't ask Bonnie to jump those. The poor thing will faint with fright. You look wonderful. The colour really suits you. It looks far better on you than it ever did on me ... And you're just in time for the first race.'

Jemima, feeling extremely wimpish, shook her head. 'Honestly, I'd far rather not watch. I know I was fine at Newbury – and I managed to sit through Cheltenham on the telly —'

Oh yes, she thought. Cheltenham. Bloody Cheltenham.

In Oxford, Laura had turned on the television. It was no problem, she'd said. She always watched the Cheltenham Gold Cup herself – she'd got twenty quid on the Irish horse – and just exactly when had Jemima changed her opinion about horse-racing?

When? God knows ... It had been a slow process. And Charlie? Just when had she changed her mind about him? Months ago. Long before New Year's Eve, anyway. Although, if she hadn't, that kiss would have definitely swayed things.

She'd touched her lips, remembering. Savouring the memory. It had been utterly blissful. But then Charlie was a genius, wasn't he? Lucinda had said so. And now she knew for herself. The man who had become her friend and ally, had changed her perspective on life and love and men. And it was too late.

She had pushed out of her mind what might have happened on New Year's Eve if the whole world hadn't suddenly decided to gatecrash their party.

'Jemima?' Laura had been staring at her across the room. 'You okay? I said –'

'Yeah – sorry. I – um – haven't changed my opinion,' Jemima had said, snatching her fingers away from her mouth, realising that Laura was grinning. 'Not really ...'

Then Charlie's face had been smiling at her. She'd almost kissed the screen. Sod. Damn. Bugger. Just when exactly
had
he crept up on her? They'd shared so much. Become friends despite everything. And now, when she would never want to be just friends with him again, it was too damn late. He and Tina were just about to announce their engagement. Probably straight after Cheltenham. Gillian had said so.

'He is sooo gorgeous.' Laura had draped herself over the arm of the sofa, ogling him. 'He's got to be the sexiest man in the whole world. I've even forgiven him for screwing up in last year's Grand National. And you actually know him? You lucky cow!'

Jemima had said, well, she sort of knew him, and hoped she wasn't blushing too much.

They had shared such a lot of things: thanks to Charlie Somerset she would never feel the same about trees again. She'd probably still be climbing trees way into her dotage and boring people rigid with the story of this beautiful man who had introduced her to the art.

She would see him around the village, of course. It would be impossible not to. Unless he and Tina moved away – she'd felt sick. Which would be worse? Seeing him with Tina – or not seeing him at all? She wasn't sure...

They'd discussed Matt. Not that there was a lot to talk about. Neither of them had seen him for long, but they'd spent a lovely hour speculating on the origin of his sun tan – and it had surprised her that she hadn't minded in the slightest that Matt had lied to her about where he was spending Christmas.

And hunting... They'd congratulated each other on the ill-wind effect. If the icy weather had meant Charlie couldn't work, it had also meant a halt to the fox-hunting brigade's jollies, as well. They'd even toasted each other in coffee in the bookshop's kitchen when Reynard/Morpheus, aka Trev Perkiss, had got a custodial sentence for dealing at the Nuke.

'Best place for him,' Charlie had said. 'Banged up. It leaves the way clear for people like Millie and Frank and Enid and us to get the anti-hunting message across, doesn't it?'

She'd raised her coffee cup to him, loving the reference to 'us'.

And they'd laughed, and teased each other, and it had been lovely. But he hadn't asked her out – and she was too afraid of rejection to ask him....

Back in Laura's parents' front room, the television cameras had Panned across the parade ring as the jockeys came out of the Prestbury Park weighing room – and there had been Charlie chatting to Matt, who looked so nervous, poor thing. She would always be fond of him. Probably more so now. So what if he hadn't fancied her? It wasn't really that much of a surprise. And after his holiday – she hadn't asked him where he'd been, merely told him the suntan suited him – he had been so much more relaxed. Nicer, somehow.

She had parted company with a fair few men in her time: as break-ups went, hers and Matt's had been among the most amicable. Pity, she'd thought, that Charlie hadn't seen it as an invitation. But then, why should he?

'Where's Charlie off to?' Laura had giggled, squinting at the screen. 'I thought you said he was riding for that vicar's wife you live with?'

'He is. He does.'

'Oh, God!' Laura had moaned, hugging a cushion. 'Look at those thighs!'

Jemima already was. And then she had watched as he'd kissed Gillian briefly and walked over to Dragon Slayer's camp.

'Wow!' Laura had said. 'Tina Maloret! She's awesome! So stunning! Don't they make the most perfectly glamorous couple?'

Yes, Jemima had thought, her teeth clenched together. They did.

He'd been talking to Tina, his mouth close to her ear. Jemima had felt hot with humiliation, as Tina laughed straight into his eyes. Then, even worse, he'd kissed Tina's cheek and walked away.