Nothing to Lose (12 page)

He gathered up his car keys from one of the mirror-varnished side tables. Even the furnishings in his flat had been organised and supplied, wall-to-wall, by outside designers. It was his own fault. As with everything else, he’d allowed it to happen simply because he didn’t have the energy, interest, or inclination to do otherwise.

‘I’ll go and see if Jix needs a lift to the shop, then.’ And before his parents could protest, he was leaping down the gold and marble spiral staircase, three steps at a time.

Outside, the air was sultry and warm and hung with perfume. The roses exuded heavy, heady scent, and the grass was damp and earthy. Jix was dragging wooden chairs round the oblong table, adjusting the umbrella, plumping the matching navy and white striped cushions.

‘Do you need a hand?’

Jix stopped, pushed his hair away from his eyes, and blinked. ‘Sorry?’

‘I wondered if I could help.’

With a shake of the head, Jix pushed the last chair under the table. ‘No, thanks. Your old man would have my guts if he thought I’d asked you.’

‘But you didn’t bloody ask me – I offered.’ Sebastian frowned. ‘Anyway, they need mayo. I’m going to get some.’

Jix shook his head again. ‘I’ll go. It’s what I’m paid for. I’m a gofer. A fixit. Are you trying to do me out of a job?’

‘Of course I’m not. I’m trying to be – well – friendly.’

Jix looked more frightened by this remark than anything. ‘Why?’

‘Fuck knows. How long have we known each other?’

‘We don’t know each other, Seb, that’s the point. I work for you. For your family. I live in your house. It’s been like that for ten years – why the hell have you suddenly decided that we need to be mates?’

‘I haven’t. Christ – I don’t know . . .’ Sebastian kicked at the perfect turf. ‘Maybe I’ve seen the error of my ways.’

Jix took a deep breath. ‘You haven’t been brainwashed, have you? Got at? Not by Jehovah’s Witnesses or someone? My mum had a bout of that. You know, with her agoraphobia she likes having people in. We couldn’t move for tracts and prayer sheets for weeks. Only got shot of them by telling them she’d turned Satanist.’

Sebastian grinned in triumph. There! He now knew something about Jix that he hadn’t before. Daphne had agoraphobia! They’d known there was something wrong with her, of course, but had always believed it to be arthritis.

‘Do you find it funny or something?’ Jix was looking po-faced. ‘Agoraphobia? Only it’s, not amusing for my mum, I can assure you.’

Sebastian quickly sucked the grin into tight lips. ‘God – no. It must be awful for her. For both of you. It’s just that you’ve told me something personal . . . Something else. Until the other day, I didn’t even know you were a father – ’

‘What?’ Jix jerked his head up, his mane of hair swirling with an astonished life of its own. ‘Who? Jesus! I never –’

‘It’s OK.’ Sebastian gave what he hoped was a man-of-the-world smile. ‘It can happen to any of us. She’s a pretty little thing too. I suppose you have access rights? That must be tough – just seeing her occasionally . . . What’s her name?’

Jix remained looking poleaxed. ‘Who?’

‘Your daughter. April told me all about her – Oh, shit. Maybe she shouldn’t have . . .’

Jix suddenly seemed to need to rearrange the six place settings. ‘She doesn’t live with us. She doesn’t even stay overnight. We know about the tenancy rules and everything. Don’t think–’

Bloody hell! Sebastian longed to sweep the crystal and bone china to the ground and stamp on it. ‘Jix, I’m only making conversation. I’m not interrogating you – ’

‘Bee. She’s called Bee. Short for Beatrice-Eugenie.’

Sebastian tried hard not to laugh. Well, hell, Sebastian wasn’t that great, was it? Especially not for someone who, despite the ministrations of various elocution teachers, still sounded as if he came from Stepney. ‘Oh, right. Are you a royalist, then?’

‘Nah, not really – um – but Bee’s mum thinks – that is, thought – that Sarah Ferguson got a raw deal. Er – that is, she reckoned that she was a bit of a star to dig herself out of the mess she was in. She – um – thought that Beatrice-Eugenie was like a fitting tribute . . .’

Sebastian grinned again. OK, maybe it wasn’t quite like propping up the bar in the Goat and Turnip with a bottle of Bud and discussing Chelsea’s dismal away form and the previous night’s conquests, but it ran a pretty close second. ‘And – er – are you still seeing each other?’

‘What?’ Jix gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Me and Bee? Of course. And look, Seb, nice as it is to chat, your old man’s got me on a deadline here and if you need mayo as well – ’

‘I’ll get the bloody mayo. And I meant you and – um Bee’s mother. Do you still see her?’

For some unfathomable reason, Jix seemed to find this highly amusing. ‘Oh, yeah – I see Bee’s mother all the time . . .’

‘More wine, Emily?’ Martina proffered the bottle across the table. ‘Or perhaps some fizzy water? That sushi was a bit saline.’

Sebastian, his knees – still in jeans – resting comfortably against Brittany’s bare ones, leaned back in his chair. Brittany, who was wearing a tiny cream slip dress, some slender gold chains and possibly nothing else, had cheered him up considerably. So far so good. Rod Frobisher had turned up in jeans and a CK T-shirt. Oliver had promptly gone to change. Emily, in white trousers and a severe navy overblouse, had sadly had no such sartorial influence on his mother. However, he had noticed that as the meal went on, Martina’s accent was more and more aping Emily’s clipped Home Counties tone.

‘Ten to one they mention the Platinum Trophy before we get to pudding,’ Brittany whispered. ‘Either that, or how super the Seychelles are for honeymoons.’

‘Make that evens.’ Seb saluted her with his wine glass. ‘On both counts.’

The conversation had been lunch-party polite so far; there had been four-way non-confrontational discussions on politics, the joys of having your children working for you in the family business, exotic holidays, the current tax system – and how to avoid it. Both sets had amusingly skirted round the main topic like mongrels eyeing the same bone.

Martina’s weather forecast having been correct, the sun was now simmering in a cloudless sky, and the lawn was dazzling dizzily with its jade and emerald stripes. The umbrellas cast welcome shade over the table, and threw sharp black shadows onto the nearest water feature. Sebastian hated the Tacky Towers water features. They were irritating trickles and bubbles, tiny plumes of water being regurgitated endlessly over pebbles. They played havoc with his bladder, and made him long for wild, unfettered oceans, roaring and crashing on to deserted beaches.

‘So–’ Oliver pushed a piece of oil-drizzled lamb’s lettuce round his plate. ‘Have you reached your decision on the Platinum Trophy yet?’

Seb and Brittany exchanged grins.

‘Not yet, no.’ Rod Frobisher concentrated hard on an olive that seemed determined to avoid his fork prongs. ‘Anyway, that’s Brittany’s province. She’ll collate all the reports from the tracks which have tendered, and will make the final decision.’

Oliver’s attention shifted immediately. ‘And have you visited all the interested stadiums yet, my love?’

Sebastian flinched a bit at his father’s familiarity. Brittany was an ardent feminist.

She smiled sweetly. ‘No, Oliver, love – I haven’t. No one has yet been ruled out – or ruled in for that matter. I know what the television boys are looking for – and obviously I know what Frobishers need by way of publicity and promotion. There are some places I’ve visited that probably won’t do on either count – but I still have several out-of-town stadiums to see throughout the summer. I’ll have made my final decision by the end of the year.’

‘But it’ll stay in the London area?’ Oliver’s tone had an edge of urgency.

Martina gave a little scream. ‘Lord love us! Of course it’ll stay in the London area! All the big boys know about the city tracks. It’s where the crowds come to – where the money is. It’d be madness to go outside – to somewhere where there’s no transport, no facilities–’

‘Oh, there has to be all that, of course.’ Brittany stretched her bare legs under the table, so that they brushed silkily along Sebastian’s. ‘But if we’re going to be linked with something so high-profile I think we’ll need originality too. After all, the well-known stadiums may be a bit – jaded . . .’

‘Jaded? Jaded?’ Oliver rocked dangerously on his chair.

Then he stopped. ‘Ah, right . . . yes, I can see where you’re coming from, love. You mean, with Wimbledon and Walthamstow already having the big meetings, the punters might be looking for something a little newer? A bit different?’

Sebastian, his concentration shattered by the proximity and movement of Brittany’s legs, held his breath. Brittany stopped her seductive sliding and leaned across the table towards his father.

‘Exactly. Which is why I’ve planned to ask Sebastian if he’d accompany me when I visit the smaller tracks. Naturally, I will expect him to be impartial, but I do need his expertise.’

Eleven thirty. Only another half-hour to go, and he’d be there. Ampney Crucis. Home. By midnight. Like a returning Cinderella.

Ewan Dunstable turned up the C D player in his ancient Citroën, flooding the interior warmth with the hippie harmonies of the Moody Blues, and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The car rattled through the humid July night, catching freefall moths in the bouncing headlight beams. He was longing to be with Peg again; with her outspokenness and her honesty and her complete eccentricity. Peg had taken him on through his disruptive teenage years after his parents had emigrated to New Zealand and he’d elected to stay and finish his schooling. The plan then had been that he’d join them in Christchurch after A levels, or in vacations if he went on to university. He’d done neither. He’d fluffed his exams, stayed on with Peg, living in Ampney Crucis, and then he’d met Katrina.

He saw his parents once every couple of years; they had happy reunions and all parties seemed quite relieved when they were over. Peg, he knew, meant more to him now than his own mother. Of course he should have been in Ampney Crucis weeks ago as promised; he should at least have let Peg know that he’d be delayed; but things had got rather out of control.

His life, Ewan thought as he turned from the bypass on to the coast road, had a habit of getting out of control lately. Well, not just lately, if he were honest. Things had been haywire ever since he’d married Katrina. He hadn’t made many mistakes in his life – being naturally lazy he’d just taken whatever came along and made the best of it – but marrying Katrina in that first hot flush of lust had been the biggest mistake ever. Not fair on either of them: not then – and definitely not now.

Whether Katrina knew or cared where he was at the moment was immaterial. They both knew that divorce was the only answer to their problems, but neither had so far had the inclination to make the first move. Living apart had been sufficient. Katrina had her career, earned her own money, had her own savings, and had more or less kept him throughout their marriage. Ewan shrugged ruefully. While Katrina may or may not miss him when they eventually split, she’d definitely be pleased to see the back of the financial burden.

The coastal roads were deserted. High-banked verges like waves breaking over an ocean gully surrounded the car on either side, their tops white-crested with shepherd’s-purse foam. Ewan felt the tension draining away as the surroundings became more familiar. More dear. What a fool he’d been to leave.

All those years ago, when he’d joined Katrina in Cambridge, hopelessly infatuated, and sure that his idealism would lead him into charity work, or the social services, or maybe even local politics, he’d considered Ampney Crucis far too insignificant a place for his talents. He’d bragged to Clara and Andrew and Jasmine that they’d be stuck in the village rut for ever while he went out and set the world alight.

He grinned as he turned at the rickety Ampney Crucis signpost; his crusades had led him into more trouble than he wanted to think about – and, each time, when everything got too much, the very place he headed for was the one he had been so eager to leave.

Slowing the Citroen to a respectable speed, he cruised through the sleeping village. Down the hill past St Edith’s, where Benny was now buried. Ewan felt a pang of regret; Benny had been one of the constants throughout his young life in Ampney Crucis; everyone had loved him. He couldn’t imagine how devastated Jasmine must have felt when he died. Must still feel. The love Benny and Jas had shared would live on for ever. The Moody Blues had reached a sad track, so Ewan switched off the CD player. He’d sent a card, of course, but not until afterwards – which had really been far too late. He hoped Jasmine would forgive him, but he’d been busy in Spain and postal communications had been at a minimum, and by the time Peg had eventually managed to get hold of him, even the funeral was over.

Towards the village now. The new estate – which was actually not new at all any more – was in darkness. Ewan thought of Jasmine again: was she still living at home here with Yvonne and Philip, or had she and Andrew married by now? He shook his head. Peg would have let him know, and he’d have been invited to that – surely? He felt a pang of guilt about letting his contact with Ampney Crucis slip in such a cavalier fashion. Peg, Jas, Clara – God, even Andrew – meant more to him than anyone else. They were his roots. He’d been far too hasty in ripping them up and thinking that Cambridge and Katrina and the educational élite were all he needed to flourish.

Still cruising, he now drove along the harbour road – past the old three-tier fishing huts, which had been bought up by property developers and optimistically rechristened ‘Marina View’ – where Clara had her minimalist loft conversion overlooking half a dozen lobster boats and the occasional pleasure cruiser offering trips around the bay.

Clara ... Was it too late to make amends? Stupid of him really to have ignored what was under his nose, and left Ampney Crucis for Katrina’s ice-cool intelligence. Then, of course, he’d fouled up big-time a couple of years ago when he’d sworn that he’d left Katrina for good – and Clara had believed him . . .