Nothing to Lose (35 page)

Left to his own devices, he would definitely have ignored the anonymous phone call, which had informed him that April was breaking her tenancy agreement. It had been unfortunate that his father and several other Gillespie Stadium directors had been in his office at the time. The voice on the phone had been disguised – Sebastian still couldn’t swear whether it was male or female – and had imparted the information in a very matter-of-fact way.

Sadly, Oliver had picked up on the Gillespie end of the conversation and with much pointing of stubby fingers, had insisted that Seb dealt with it pronto. Then Oliver had turned to name-dropping and let the other board members know that the world-famous artist Noah Matlock had once lived in a Gillespie flat – and that he’d bought one of his overpriced daubs for Martina’s birthday and had even had the bloke to dinner at Tacky Towers.

Sebastian had felt pretty bad at this point. Again, he’d thought, he collected the rents from the properties – via Jix or the bank – without even knowing who his tenants were. He’d never known that Noah Matlock had lived in the High Street. Whether the tenants were famous or not shouldn’t matter, though. They were real people and as their landlord he played a huge part in their lives, but had never even bothered to find out who they were. It really didn’t seem right.

Anyway, the letter had been hand-delivered to April’s flat, and April, looking pale and apprehensive and, Seb reckoned, far prettier in her jeans and frayed multicoloured sweater than she ever did in that ludicrous cocktail bar get-up, had arrived the next day.

She’d gazed around his luxurious glass office overlooking the track. ‘I’ve never been here before. I was thinking as I came up in the lift, I’ve worked at the stadium for so long and never been anywhere near the offices.’

‘I’ve been thinking along the same lines recently,’ Seb had admitted. ‘Not about the offices, of course, but how frenetic our lives become so that we don’t have time to get to know people. We just do our own blinkered rat-run and take no notice at all of anything else. There’s no standing and staring time any more.’

April had looked at him quizzically. ‘Is that your dream, then? Time to stand and stare?’

And he’d had to agree that, yes, it was. A more easy-going,
laissez-faire
way of life all together.

‘Mine, too.’ April had perched on one of the square wooden chairs. ‘That and a proper family and a cottage by the sea.’ She’d looked him straight in the eye. ‘Anyway, we’re not here to trade dreams, are we?’

And he’d said no they weren’t, and almost apologised for sending the letter, but explained about the phone call.

April had continued to stare at him without blinking. ‘I think it was from someone who had just got confused . . . Jix’s daughter – you know, you saw us with her in the summer? – sometimes spends time at the flat – and we, that is Jix and me, walk a greyhound for a friend. I think you saw us with it too, didn’t you?’ Her head was on one side now, waiting for him to take this in. ‘I’m sure that someone has put two and two together and come up with breaking of tenancy agreement, don’t you?’

Sebastian had grinned, and said yes, he guessed that’s what it was. Oh, but what about the man? The informant had definitely mentioned a man.

April had beamed at him. ‘Oh, I wish! Sadly, as you know from the hours I work, I’m manless. It was probably just the guy who came in to check out the satellite dish. It’s always going wrong and wobbly. He’s there a lot, you know . . .’

And Sebastian had heaved a huge sigh of relief and said yes, of course, that must be the answer, and April had stood up and shaken his hand and almost skipped out of the office. And then Seb had wandered behind his desk and played withthe chromium executive stress toy that Brittany had given him, knowing that he hadn’t believed a word of it.

The truth was more likely to be that Jix’s daughter stayed overnight sometimes, and likewise the friend’s dog – both of which weren’t allowed, but honestly, who cared? The man – well, maybe April did have men staying over? It hardly constituted subletting, did it? April, Seb reckoned, had rehearsed her answers very well, but there was someone out there – the voice on the telephone – who must dislike April very much indeed.

‘Thinking of Jasmine?’ Laughing, Brittany reduced the Nirvana volume.

‘No, April Padgett.’

‘Who?’

‘April Padgett. She’s a waitress in the Copacabana. You’ve spoken to her a few times. She lives in one of our flats. I was just wondering who would be malicious enough to want to get her evicted.’

‘Christ,’ Brittany looked across the car, ‘why can’t you have kinky fantasies like normal men?’

Ampney Crucis still managed to look chocolate-box pretty, even in the rapidly falling autumn darkness. The roads were now banked with leaves, red and golden beneath the diffused orange glow of the streetlamps, and the mist swirling in from the sea blurred the bleak seasonal edges, giving the entire village a gentle soft focus. Sebastian felt a surge of pleasure at being back here. Ludicrous, of course, but it felt just like the first day of the holidays. He grinned to himself. Childhood bonfire nights and seaside holidays? He was only thirty – surely that was far too young to be treading the nostalgia trail?

‘Are we going straight to the stadium?’ Brittany was cruising along the coast road now, ‘or do you want something to drink first to fortify the nerves?’

‘Stadium, I guess. I suppose as it’s a party there’ll be food and drinks there, and anyway your driving didn’t scare me too much this time.’

Brittany flicked him an astute glance. ‘That’s because you’ve been preoccupied with other things for the majority of the journey.’

They’d passed the Crumpled Horn, and the Crow’s Nest Caff, and were crawling along the cliff road. Somewhere, Seb thought, down there in the darkness, was Jasmine’s beach hut. He wondered if she would be in there, getting ready, or whether she’d already be at the stadium with Peg and the others, welcoming the guests. Probably the latter, he thought, Jasmine not being the type to spend hours agonising over hair and make-up and which outfit would be best to knock people dead.

Not like Brittany. Her black Versace trouser suit, worn with black rhinestone boots, and with the floor-length black leather coat so casually slung on to the rear seats of the Daimler for wearing later when the wind blew in from the sea, would keep a Third World country in food for a year.

The Daimler cruised towards the end of the cliff road and purred into the new car park. The place was already jam-packed with cars, vans, bicycles and several coaches.

‘Wow!’ Sebastian simply couldn’t hide his astonishment. ‘What a transformation.’

Brittany switched off the engine and leaned back in her seat. ‘The proles have certainly been busy.’

‘Don’t be a cow.’

‘I’m joking. ’ Brittany uncurled herself from the car and shivered in the rapid temperature change. ‘I’m impressed. It’s pretty stunning.’

Seb stood on the shingle, with the wind from the unseen, roaring sea ruffling his hair, and relished the standing and staring. Doris Day, in surround sound, was inviting everyone on a Sentimental Journey. It seemed stirringly appropriate.

While the car park was ringed with soft floodlighting, the stadium blazed with spotlights, white-hot, like a desert city shimmering beneath a midday sun. Above the new black wrought-iron gates, a glorious golden lined-out and curlicued sign proclaimed ‘Ampney Crucis Welcomes You to the Benny Clegg Stadium’. An illuminated brightly coloured stylised painting of racing greyhounds, at least ten feet long, curved over the entrance. It was just like stadiums had been in the old days, Seb realised, remembering nights at Hackney with his gramp, when he’d walked under greyhound arches such as this. Peg and Jasmine and the rest may have chosen to tart the place up, but they hadn’t ignored the dog-racing roots. It put Gillespies ultramodern chrome and steel and glass coldness to shame.

Having shown their invitations to a whiskery woman on the gate, and followed Brittany towards the new open-fronted bar, Seb’s first thought was that he’d never be able to find Jasmine in the crush. The entire population of Dorset must have turned out tonight.

The refurbishment, which had looked so unlikely ever to be completed in September, certainly hadn’t detracted from the informal, cosy atmosphere, and despite Jasmine’s voiced misgivings, it appeared that Damon Puckett and his boys did in fact know their stuff.

All the rails had been replaced, the track was weed-free, there were proper lavatory blocks, and the hot-dog van had metamorphosed into a neon-bright fast-food cabin. The corrugated roof was still corrugated, not now with flapping sheets of tin, but some lustrous pale substance, the stands were sturdy and painted red, white, and blue, and a glass viewing area adorned the boxes overlooking the winning post. Sebastian thought he could see tables and chairs behind the glass, presumably all in place for Jasmine’s Six-Pack Saturdays.

Clutching a plastic glass brimming with Old Ampney, Sebastian found a quietish corner. Doris was crooning about Moonlight Bay and Brittany’s eyes were sparkling.

‘It’s absolutely superb.’ She wrinkled her nose over the top of her beaker. ‘I can’t quite believe it. It’s like stepping back in time, but with all mod cons. They’ve even got Tote windows in place. The media would love this . . . And look at the size of that bonfire!’

A huge pyramid of wood and pallets and various other large combustible items, was set in the centre of the track where the presentation podium had been. Seb could almost smell the acrid wood smoke and taste his nan’s potatoes . . .

‘Christ!’ Brittany spluttered. ‘This stuff is lethal. Pops would adore it. This gets better and better . . . Look, Seb, do you mind if I just go and put myself about a bit? I’d quite like to find Peg Dunstable. We’ll catch up with each other later in time for the fireworks.’

She kissed his cheek, and was gone into the throng. Possibly to find Peg, Seb thought, more likely to look for Ewan. Did he mind? He thought he probably didn’t. Slowly, Sebastian drained the remains of his Old Ampney and decided he was pleased to be alone.

He watched the crowds, all talking loudly over Doris Day, grinning, clutching drinks and fast-food containers. Martina would rather die than offer her guests anything less than a good Romanian Merlot and smoked salmon bagels. He wished she were here to see this. She would be socially outraged. It was all wonderfully pleasant, lounging here, sheltered from the sea breeze, muffled in his thick sweater, having to do nothing but people-watch in the darkness. Life at the Gillespie empire was becoming more and more exhausting and less and less satisfying. Organising corporate hospitality at the stadium, being landlord of dozens of Bixford properties, and travelling the country checking on the efficiency of the motorway service stations’ Gillespsie Guzzler vending machines, no longer held Sebastian in thrall. This, however, was balm for his frazzled soul.

It was while he was crowd-skimming that he saw Jasmine.

He knew he was smiling even though she couldn’t see him, and felt foolish. The smile stayed in place, though. Illuminated by the floodlights, she was chattering to a group of people, laughing, and waving her hands towards the bonfire. Through the shifting gaps in the crowd, he could see that she was wearing jeans and an oversized navy-blue Guernsey, and her dark hair swung around her face as she moved. Seb watched her, fascinated. Jasmine Clegg was as far removed from Brittany and most of his other girlfriends as she could be, but none of the slender, designer-clad, perfectly turned-out women in his life had had half the effect on him that she did.

With a start he realised that he recognised the faces surrounding her. Ewan Dunstable, of course, he’d already met, but the other two were the school friends from the photo in the beach hut. He couldn’t remember the girl’s name, but the stocky man with the fair cropped hair must be Andrew, the fiancé. Sebastian felt a knot of jealousy tighten in his stomach. Jasmine had her perfect life here, with friends she’d known all her life, and the man she was going to marry. She didn’t need him.

Turning away, he crumpled his plastic glass and threw it into a waste bin. Of course he should have realised that Jasmine would be with Andrew tonight. After all, he himself was with Brittany. What the hell had he expected to happen? That Doris would whisper ‘Secret Love’ and the crowds would part and he and Jasmine would run, in slo-mo, straight into each other’s arms?

‘Sebastian? Seb? Oh, great! It is you! I said to Clara I thought it was! How long have you been here? What do you think of the stadium, then? Swish, or what?’

He looked down into Jasmine’s large brown eyes. ‘I think that your grandpa is doing handstands in Heaven.’

Her face crinkled into a huge grin. ‘Me too. I cried so much when they put the Benny Clegg sign up – did you see it? – but I’ve got used to it now. He’d really love it. I mean, he does love it. He’s here, I can feel it. Oh, come and meet Clara. And Andrew. And Ewan, who of course you’ve already met but –’ She stopped and peered into the crowd. ‘Oh, Ewan seems to have wandered off, but come and meet the others, anyway . . .’

Swept along on her boisterous enthusiasm, Sebastian found himself tugged through the crowd. He knew that he didn’t want to meet Andrew at all, and he was pretty sure that Ewan and Brittany were together somewhere, but it would have been churlish to refuse Jasmine’s invitation.

Clara, dark and sultry, had obviously heard a lot about him and kissed him expansively on both cheeks. It wasn’t, Sebastian thought, extricating himself, the genteel luvvie air kissing that went on in Brittany’s circle. Clara went for the full monty. Andrew, who hopefully hadn’t heard anything about him at all, nodded and sketched a smile. Fortunately, there was no time for clipped small talk, as Doris ceased ‘Que Sera’-ing, and the Tannoy system crackled into life.

Ladies and gentlemen.’ Peg, in the blonde French pleat wig and a 1950s crimson two-piece, appeared beside the bonfire, artistically back-lit by several people carrying torches. Her voice wavered across the stadium. ‘It is my very great pleasure to welcome you all here this evening. Many of you are regulars, but many of you are not, and I hope that you all approve of the changes we have made! I know that several of you were concerned that updating the stadium would detract from its originality, and from the traditions of Ampney Crucis, but I’m sure you’ll agree that the finished result is quite spectacular.’