Nothing to Lose (18 page)

‘And you’ll pay for it,’ Martina hissed. ‘OK?’

‘Of course.’ April gave a blissful smile. The majority of the three thousand pounds, the notes rolled in bundles and secured with elastic bands, was stashed in the chocolate tin – and not in a bank since that could only reduce her overdraft. Tonight, the cost of one Queen Mum was neither here nor there.

Five hundred pounds of the money had already been earmarked that afternoon for hiring a car for Bank Holiday Monday and registering Cair Paravel for his first race under his new ownership at Ampney Crucis stadium. Jix had done both the deals by telephone and at the end of the second conversation had hung up and looked bewildered.

‘Everything OK?’ April had asked.

‘Yeah – I suppose so.’ Jix had continued to look flummoxed. ‘But that lady I’ve just been talking to –’ he’d gazed at the pad in front of him where he’d been jotting down details – ‘what was her name? Oh, yes, Peg Dunstable – she’s a bit odd. She says she owns the stadium, but she kept singing Whatever Will Be Will Be at me.

April had giggled. ‘Really? She’s probably just the cleaner or something. And, you never know, the song title might be an omen. We’ll find out soon enough when we get there, won’t we?’

The feature race of the evening was just starting. Through the plate-glass windows April could see the crisscross of the spotlights, and hear the excitement rising in a cloud. The customers were drifting away from the bar, clutching their Kir Royales and Viva Glams, towards the viewing balconies. She took the opportunity of leaning back below the optics and flexing her toes inside the absolute bliss of the pink canvas crossover sandals.

‘Don’t let my mother see those.’ Sebastian grinned at her from the plastic palm tree end of the bar. ‘She’ll have a fit.’

She hadn’t seen him arrive. April really wanted to squirm her feet away out of sight. She certainly didn’t want to indulge in light-hearted banter with Sebby. He’d been over-friendly for weeks now. She gave a girlish giggle. ‘I know! But they’re so comfortable.’ God! Now she really did sound as if she was in her dotage.

Sebastian nodded in a distant sort of way. She couldn’t blame him. There wasn’t much he could say to that, really. He looked lovely, April thought, in black jeans and a white T-shirt. She unpeeled herself from the back of the bar.

‘Sorry – did you want a drink?’

‘No, thanks all the same. I’m waiting for Brittany to meet me here, then I’m taking her out to supper.’ Sebastian sighed. ‘Which means somewhere in Chelsea where there’ll be at least half a dozen other A-listers and a load of paparazzi.’

‘And you don’t enjoy that?’

‘I hate it. But for Brittany it goes with the territory. Sometimes I’m sure that she encourages them – lets them know in advance where she’ll be, you know?’

Possibly, April thought, tidying the swizzle sticks in a mindless way. Maybe she’d do the same if she thought her face would be all over the papers the next morning. It must be a heck of a buzz. ‘So where is she at the moment? Getting glammed up?’

‘Hopefully belting back down the M40. She’s been on a recce.’

April looked blank. ‘Oh, right.’

‘She’s sussing out the stadiums that have tendered for the Frobisher Platinum. She’s been to Oxford today.’ Sebastian hitched himself onto one of the bar stools. ‘It’s all a bit embarrassing really, because, of course, my parents want it to be here – and think that because Brittany and I are – well – seeing a lot of each other, that it’s a foregone conclusion.’

‘Oh well, yes, I suppose they would . . .’

April suddenly wished there would be an influx of drunken footballers all wanting Gilda Tops. Anything rather than having to sit here chatting to the dreaded Sebastian, who at any minute was bound to fire off a barrage of questions about Bee and Cair Paravel. Sadly, everyone had decamped to watch the Gillespie Cup.

She shrugged. ‘And it isn’t, then? A foregone conclusion?’

‘Not at all.’ Sebastian looked quite shocked. ‘Brittany is doing everything above board. All the tracks that have tendered are being inspected and considered in the same way. I’ve been along with her to most of them, but there are still plenty to see.’

April nodded and mopped up pools of water where the ice-making machine had got a bit overexcited. She knew all this, of course, from Jix. It was all so damned difficult, pretending all the time, having to remember exactly what she was supposed to know. ‘Um – so Oliver and Martina would obviously be really upset if this – er – Frobisher thingy went somewhere else.’

‘Livid!’ Sebastian looked horrified. ‘Bloody devastated. But Brittany’s her own person. She’ll make the final decision. I just wish I could explain that to them. They’re really pushing us together all the time in a bid to secure the Platinum Trophy. To be honest, I feel totally manipulated.’

April pulled the bowls of pistachios into neat rows and wondered just how long it would be before Sebastian realised he was chattering with wild indiscretion to one of the Gillespies’ more junior employees.

‘Yes, it must make it a bit tricky for you, sort of running with the fox and the hounds, I suppose . . . It’ll be chronic if Brittany decides to stage the race somewhere else and then you have to explain it to your parents.’

They looked at each other – both letting the awfulness of the situation sink in. It occurred to April that maybe Seb wasn’t quite so appalling after all, and she could certainly empathise with his fear of the combined wrath of Martina and Oliver should Bixford not be the selected stadium.

The orgasmic roar from beneath the viewing balcony indicated that the Bixford Cup had been run and won. In less than five minutes, the designer brigade would be back clamouring for Big Apples and Prince Williams. April straightened her mob cap and tugged the frou-frou skirt down over her knickers and moved slightly away from Sebastian.

‘Hi!’ On cue, Brittany breezed round the plastic palm tree, dressed in see-through black and swinging a Lulu Guinness handbag. She kissed Sebastian on the cheek. ‘Sorry to have kept you. The traffic was murder. Are you ready to go? I’m starving!’

Sebastian uncurled himself from the bar stool. ‘Me too – although I’d be happier with pie and mash than a minuscule piece of transparent ham and three artistically arranged cubes of beetroot.’

Brittany wrinkled her nose in disbelief. ‘Once you’ve downed the first bottle of Chardonnay you won’t know what you’re eating.’ She glanced at April without recognition, but smiled anyway. ‘I’ll remove him, shall I? It looks as though you’re going to be busy.’

It did. The hordes were pouring back towards the bar. April sighed. It would mean she wouldn’t be able to fantasise about the Noah reunion for ages . . .

Sebastian motioned his head in a farewell gesture, and as they left April heard Brittany’s well-modulated voice giving the precise lowdown on the pros and cons of Oxford stadium.

‘So, where’s the next one on the list?’ Sebastian asked, as he steered her away from a leering bunch of men in big suits.

‘Oh, I thought we’d go to that one that sent us the plans for their restructured stadium. They sounded so sweet. The – what was it called? Oh yes – the Benny Clegg place. Should be fun.’

April heaved a sigh of relief as she reached for the shaker and two bottles of Moët. If Brittany had said Ampney Crucis it would have completely ruined her perfect day.

‘They certainly look impressive.’ In the eyrie office Jasmine leaned over Peg’s shoulder, being very careful not to dislodge today’s bouncing blonde ponytail. ‘Are you sure Damon will be up to it?’

The plans for the new Benny Clegg Stadium were spread across two tables. Jasmine and Peg had approached several local building firms with regard to the refurbishment, and eventually accepted the tender from Ampney Crucis’s answer to Me Alpine: Damon Puckett.

‘Course he will, pet,’ Peg said stoutly. ‘He knows exactly what cash we’ve got – and exactly how long he’ll have to finish the job. If we close the stadium immediately after the August Monday meeting, we can be up and running again in two weeks.’

‘Two weeks!’ Jasmine nearly tumbled from her chair. ‘Good God, Peg – this is Damon we’re talking about. It’ll take him two weeks to unpack his sandwiches! Look how long he took to build that extra bit on to the Crow’s Nest Caff! They were out of action for months!’

‘That was because of his hernia. And the paucity of his workforce. I told him it was bloody stupid timing – building an extension at the same time as the Glastonbury Festival. ’

‘Not everybody’s labourers clutter off after Glastonbury in the works van to join a convoy of New Agers in the Brecon Beacons, though, do they?’ Jasmine frowned. ‘Damon always picks such strange people. How do we know that they won’t do it this time?’

‘Because August is the Reading Festival and they don’t go to that because they don’t like heavy metal – and because Ewan is acting as foreman.’

Jasmine grinned. ‘If he ever manages to tear himself away from Clara’s futon, you mean?’

Peg pulled a face. ‘To be honest, pet, I’m not sure that that little rekindled liaison is a good idea.’

‘They both seem ecstatic about it.’

Ecstatic, Jasmine thought, was putting it mildly. That night they’d all met up at the beach hut, and Jasmine had expected there to be a lot of cold-shouldering and huffing and playing hard to get, had been like the last serious partying and pulling opportunity on a Club 18–30 holiday. No sooner had Ewan and Clara clapped eyes on one another than they were chewing each other’s faces and shedding clothes. Feeling very ancient, Jasmine had exchanged affronted glances with Andrew and retired immediately to the privacy of the hut.

When she’d emerged in the morning – after a horrendous night of alternately fighting off Andrew’s amorous advances and listening to him spouting vitriol about Ewan and berating her for her lack of takings that evening – she’d discovered Ewan and Clara curled together on the veranda, all sort of welded together and looking like a piece of modern sculpture, and very bug-eyed. They seemed to have remained in that blissful state ever since.

Peg tutted. ‘Ecstatic they may be, and Ewan is an angel, but he’s still a married man. Not that I ever liked Katrina that much, but there were vows taken that should not be broken.’

Jasmine shrugged. She really didn’t want to get involved in moral issues – at least not Ewan and Clara’s. She still had her parents to worry about. She hadn’t been home again, but had seen her mother twice sitting at the bar in the Crumpled Horn, wearing clothes a decade too young for her, and sipping something cloudy with impaled cherries from a retro glass. Philip had proved immensely difficult to pin down, and Jasmine was still no nearer finding out whether or not the Merry Orchard Shopping Plaza was going to be a reality.

‘I’ll really need to speak to Dad.’ Jasmine pushed her hair back behind her ears. ‘Especially if we’re seriously going ahead with the plans so soon.’

The plans weren’t as drastic as she’d first imagined. The corrugated tin roof was going to be replaced with something more weatherproof, the rickety stands were going to be strengthened and have proper steps and seating and a glass-fronted viewing gallery, there would be a lavatory block at either end, and proper lighting. Trackside, the wood-wormed railings were being rejuvenated with plastic, and Gilbert’s hot-dog stand was getting a permanent site and extending its menu. There was even going to be brand-new kennel accommodation for the visiting greyhounds, and a podium built in the centre of the circuit for presentations.

It probably still wouldn’t drag the place into the twenty-first century, Jasmine thought, but it would definitely move it on a touch from the nineteenth. And Benny would have loved it.

Folding the plans. Peg leaned from the window. White puffballs of cloud danced along the sea line and the wet sand was the colour of honey. Peg sniffed rapturously. ‘Going to be nice for a while, thank heavens. I couldn’t abide much more of that rain. Let’s hope it holds off until after the bank holiday.’

Jasmine silently agreed. However, the business hadn’t been too bad, despite the weather. There were still plenty of holidaymakers desperate for something to do, and they’d dripped from their boarding houses in surprising numbers. She knew, though, that Peg’s agenda was completely different: it wasn’t the lack of people through the stadium’s turnstiles that depressed her when it rained, it was the lack of appropriate Doris Day apparel. Doris, it appeared, had never really gone in for wet-weather gear, and Peg’s mood was infinitely sunnier when she could scramble into her floral shirtwaister and a pair of ankle socks.

Peg hauled herself in from the window, pulling the ponytail into place. ‘Fancy a spot of lunch, pet? Ewan says they’ve gone continental at the Crumpled Horn and are offering pizza.’

‘Really? That’s daring of them. Still, I don’t think pizza will last long on the menu when the boat blokes come in looking for fry-ups and shepherd’s pie, do you? And I’ll have to say no to the invite – I mean, I’d love to try it out, but I’m going to see if I can catch Dad as he leaves work for lunch.’

‘Best of luck, then,’ Peg said. ‘Will you be telling him what we’re up to?’

‘Of course. Although I’m sure he already knows.’

‘From smarmy Andrew, you mean?’

Jasmine shook her head. ‘Definitely not from Andrew.

I haven’t breathed a word of it to him.’

Peg looked shocked. ‘Honestly? Good Lord, pet, don’t you think you should? After all, you’re supposed to be marrying the man. There shouldn’t be secrets.’

No, Jasmine thought, as she left the stadium. There shouldn’t be. But there seemed to be an awful lot. And not just between her and Andrew either.

The council offices, built on the Ampney Crucis-Boumemouth road, and looking like every other municipal building in the country, were disgorging their desk-bound employees like so many ants into the midday sunshine.

Jasmine hung back in the car park, watching as pale-faced people hauled themselves into hatchbacks and headed for an hour’s freedom. Philip’s car was parked beneath the huge reflective windows, in the space allotted for senior officers. Not sure whether she should wait for him to emerge, or march in and demand to see him, she opted for the latter. At least that way, she reasoned with herself, he couldn’t escape so easily, could he?