Nothing to Lose (37 page)

Oh, I’m definitely right,’ Brittany had said, smiling in satisfaction. ‘As I’ve always said, Sebastian is an amazing lover. If he and Jasmine had been having sex, believe me she wouldn’t have been half so grumpy as she was when we left her. It would have taken days to wipe the smile from her face.’

Ewan decided he probably wouldn’t pass this scrap of information on to Jasmine – just in case.

The Moody Blues were just coming to the end of ‘I Know You’re Out There Somewhere’. Ewan always felt it could have been written for him and Clara. Still, they’d found each other again, hadn’t they? Each time he heard the song it made him wonder about all those I’ll-love-you-for-ever lovers who had then parted over something silly and lived for the rest of their lives regretting it, remembering, wondering if the other person ever thought of them . . .

‘There!’ Brittany clutched at his arm. ‘There’s a greyhound! Is it the right one? They all look the same to me. Thin and pretty – like Kate Moss.’

Ewan peered through the rivulets of sleet sliding down the steamy windscreen. Oh, yes . . . this could be it. The informant hadn’t given much of a description, Ewan knew, but then they rarely did. No one ever wanted to become involved. Still, it was enough to have had it reported. The ill-treatment of any animal made his blood boil; the cruelty to racing greyhounds that he’d witnessed during his travels abroad had made him determined to do all he could to help these gorgeous, vulnerable, almost spiritual creatures.

Rubbing a spyhole in the window, Ewan peered out at his quarry. He felt his anger rising. The dog certainly looked dejected, with its head down and its tail between its legs. It was being led towards the park by a girl wearing a flapping plastic mac with the hood up, and too-big wellingtons, and who, if her body language was anything to go by, was also in the slough of despond. The greyhound’s coat was black-slicked by the sleet, and if it was the dog he’d been tipped-off about, it was apparently being kept in a one-bedroomed flat, for God’s sake, and had been locked out side howling in a tiny yard for weeks on end.

‘OK, go for it.’ He nodded to Brittany. ‘Take some photos – don’t let her see you – and we’ll follow her when she comes back and find out where she lives. Bastards! I’d like to string up the lot of them.’

Brittany, clicking away happily with the Polaroid, had pulled her leather coat up to her chin, and her Kangol beret down to her nose. Ewan personally thought that this was taking undercover surveillance a smidgen too far, but he didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm.

They’d first got into conversation about his greyhound rescue activities completely by accident. Needing both Peg’s offered accommodation and employment – not to mention the hefty loan to divorce Katrina – Ewan hadn’t wanted to refuse to flirt with Brittany Frobisher. It had put him in something of a quandary because of Clara, so he was mightily relieved that the situation hadn’t arisen. By then, though, he’d seen Brittany at Ampney Crucis and spoken to her, and been surprised to find that behind the glitzy paparazzi image was a woman with strongly held views on animal rights.

He’d told her of his exploits abroad, rescuing, nursing and rehoming the half-dead greyhounds that he’d snatched from the illegal circuits, and seen her eyes fill with tears. It had moved him considerably, and when she’d asked to become involved, but only if Ewan would ensure her complete anonymity, he’d been more than happy to rope her in. So far, Brittany had successfully used her A-list celeb contacts, and her It Girl chums to raise enormous funds for the greyhound rescue shelters.

The girl and the greyhound hadn’t returned from the park, and he wondered for a moment if they’d simply left by another gate. The sleet had turned to icy hail now, slashing wickedly at the windscreen, and he was sure that no one would choose to stay out in it any longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘Tell me,’ Brittany pushed the camera and the disgorged photographs back into the glove box, ‘why don’t you tell Clara what you’re doing? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, I’m sure she’d be very proud.’

‘She may well be – I hope she is. Clara loves animals, hates cruelty . . . yes, I’m sure she’d be a hundred per cent behind me. But Katrina – my almost-ex – definitely wasn’t. It wasn’t just that she had no feelings for animals, but she thought my time would be better spent, a) making money, and b) keeping out of trouble. I couldn’t risk Clara feeling the same way.’ He looked at Brittany. ‘Soppy to the point of complete wetness, I know, but I do love Clara very much. I want it to be perfect. I couldn’t bear it if there was a flaw – so I reckoned that if I didn’t tell her then I wouldn’t know.’

‘You’re just like Seb.’ Brittany spoke without rancour. ‘He’s searching for the perfect love too. Silly sod. But – and please tell me to mind my own business here – but if this relationship with your Clara is going to be so idyllic and eternal, don’t you think it’d be a good idea to know how she feels about the things that are important to you before you commit?’

‘Mind your own business.’

‘Asking for trouble . . . Hey! Angels at two o’clock or whatever it is they say in those old war films!’

Ewan looked in the direction Brittany was pointing. Bingo! The girl, indistinguishable because of the voluminous plastic mac, and the greyhound, wetter and more miserable-looking than ever, were trudging back towards the High Street. Leaning forward, rubbing a larger spyhole, Ewan watched as they crossed the main road, paused outside one of the bleak three-storey houses while the girl found a key, then disappeared dismally inside.

‘So now what?’ Brittany pulled off her beret and fluffed at her short layered hair. ‘Do we go belting in like the SAS and fire accusations like bullets?’

‘Sorry, no. What we do is note the address and bide our time.’

Brittany looked disappointed. ‘God, is that all? No storming the barricades or bringing in RSPCA reinforcements or anything?’

Ewan, who had scribbled ‘51 High Street, Bixford’ on the back of an envelope shook his head. ‘Nothing like that at all. There are no set rules, of course, and yes, we’d report definite acts of cruelty to the appropriate authorities, but in cases like this I prefer more direct action. The dog is my prime concern, so once I’ve watched a couple more times, I’ll pick my opportunity and move in.’

‘You’re going to snatch it?’ Brittany’s eyes shone. ‘What in a midnight raid?’

‘I think you’ve watched one too many Bruce Willis films,’ Ewan grinned. ‘But, yes – that’s more or less what I intend to do. Hopefully, before long, when the poor thing is tethered in the yard, we’ll find a way in and rescue him without anyone knowing. He’ll be well looked after. Then we’ll see what happens. The owner, if she tries to reclaim it, will be met by the full clout of the law.’

‘Super,’ Brittany sighed. ‘Although I’d hoped for a bit more action. So, what now?’

‘I’m going back to Ampney Crucis and Clara. What about you?’

‘I should go into the office, I suppose.’ Brittany looked at her watch. ‘What with this, and Seb, and organising the Platinum Trophy, I haven’t done much real work for ages.’

Ewan was impressed. It never failed to surprise him that under the designer layers and the gossip-column inches, there was a very hard-working and astute company director. ‘Shall I drop you off at Frobisher House, then?’

Brittany shook her head. ‘I’ll need to go home first and collect some things. I could do with a shower. We’ve a shareholders’ meeting this evening so it could be a long night. Would you mind popping across town?’

‘The least I can do.’ Ewan started the car. ‘And thanks for helping out today.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Brittany, snuggling into her leather coat as the Moody Blues began to tell everyone about their Wildest Dreams.

Brittany’s flat – her little
pied-à-terre
she called it – was in London’s latest fashionable quarter. Ewan was slightly dismayed to see a couple of wet and frozen photographers hanging around outside. However, Brittany greeted them gaily, posed prettily, and then beckoned Ewan in through a maze of porters and security devices.

‘Poor things,’ she said as they hurtled upwards in a silent and perfumed lift. ‘Their editors insist they hang around all the likely spots all the time. They’re from the glossy star-goss mags. You know, that’ll come out as “Brewery Heiress Brittany returns from Christmas Shopping Trip or some such crap. They’ll have loads of fun trying to work out who you are, though. You’ll probably be billed as “Brittany’s latest dark and dangerous dalliance”. I hope Clara doesn’t take that edition – you could be seriously in the shit. Ah – here we are . . . This is me.’

The flat – more like an enormous sweeping palatial superstar penthouse, Ewan thought – overlooked the city from a wall of plate glass. Expecting it to be filled with the latest stark and minimalist designer furniture, Ewan was rather impressed by its cosiness. Everything was large and colourful and cushiony. It was very warm and snugly barricaded against the foul weather lashing from outside.

There seemed to be fresh flowers everywhere, and lots of photographs, and the mantelpiece was stuffed with invitations.

‘Make yourself at home,’ Brittany called. ‘I’m just going to get showered and changed. Oh, and if you could be a poppet and put the kettle on, we’ll have a cup of tea before we both depart for pastures new.’

Ewan, who really wanted to get back to Ampney Crucis, and who was still worrying about whether the greyhound would be hoved outside in this appalling storm, felt he had no option other than to obey. Brittany was back in full autocratic mode.

He was just pouring Earl Grey into
Chicken Run
mugs when Brittany appeared in the doorway. The smell of expensive body lotion had preceded her, and she wandered into the kitchen swathed in a towel, her hair slicked back from her face.

‘Super. You don’t fancy a change of career, do you? You’d make a lovely house-boy.’ She took the mug from him and kissed the tip of his nose. ‘Clara is a very lucky woman. You’ve got a pretty face, a gorgeous bod, a brain, and compassion. That’s some package.’

Ewan, who knew that in the past a come-on such as this would have had only one conclusion, backed slightly away. Clara will be pleased to hear that you’ve endorsed me so highly.’

Placing the mug of tea on the large oak table, Brittany let the towel slip. Ewan blinked at the beauty of her nakedness. They stared at each other in silence.

‘You’re going to turn me down, aren’t you?’ Brittany looked slightly surprised.

Ewan shrugged. ‘Yeah, I am – and no one is more amazed than me . . .’

‘Your loss.’ Brittany bent down and retrieved the towel again. ‘And probably mine. Clara’s gain. One day you may regret this.’

One day, Ewan thought, he might – but somehow he doubted it. It was his trial of fire and he’d passed with flying colours. ‘Look, I don’t think I’ll hang around for the tea, if you don’t mind. Thanks for everything you’ve done for the dog rescue stuff – and, well, everything, but it’s a long drive and the weather is lousy and – ’

Brittany, clutching the towel loosely against her, kissed his cheek. ‘Bugger off back to Clara, you smug sod. The greyhounds will still get my financial support, don’t worry. And no doubt I’ll see you at Pop’s dinner at the stately pile on New Year’s Eve – if you’re coming with the rest of the Ampney Crucis brigade, that is. Which I suppose you will be, you being on the payroll. Only I’d prefer it if you didn’t bring Clara. I really hate to see people in love.’

He laughed. ‘Really? So you and Seb definitely aren’t . . . ?

‘Christ, no. He’s in love with Jasmine – but I’m not sure that he knows it yet.’

Three hours later, after a long, slow and arduous journey in which the hail turned to sleet and then back again, and the Moody Blues had sung their greatest hits more times than he’d care to remember, Ewan pulled up outside Clara’s loft.

Ampney Crucis was deserted in the storm, and the sea, slate grey and restless under the onslaught, crashed listlessly onto the beach. There were lights on in most of the houses and the Crumpled Horn had a fully bedecked Christmas Tree visible through the windows beside the roaring log fire. Ewan was delighted to be home.

Clara looked up from the long, white sofa where she’d obviously been reading. ‘Hi. Everything OK?’

‘Fine. No, better than fine.’ Ewan sat beside her. ‘Absolutely bloody fantastic.’

‘Really? I was worried about you. The weather’s so atrocious. Where have you been?’

‘London. Sorting out some final bits and pieces of my life.’ He slid his arms round her. ‘Are we eating in tonight? Or do you fancy skipping across to the Crumpled Horn for a meal?’

‘Sounds great.’ Clara stretched in his embrace. ‘And perfect for you now they’ve included veggie burgers on the menu. Add a bottle or two of burgundy and you could make me a very happy woman.’

He kissed her. She didn’t question him, ever. They’d known each other for so long – and the fact that he’d let her down before only served to make him more aware that he must never hurt her again.

She kissed him back, nuzzling her lips against his throat. Clara, he thought hazily, could arouse him more by the lightest touch than Brittany Frobisher could do with the whole of her exquisite naked body.

‘Do you want me to ring Jas?’ she whispered in his ear. ‘And get her and Andrew to meet us in there as a foursome, or shall we just go solo?’

‘Could it be just us tonight? I sort of want you all to myself. For tonight and for always.’ He eased himself away from her slightly. This was it. This was what he should have done long ago. He took a deep breath. ‘Clara, will you marry me?’

‘Nine to four the field for race seven! ’ Jasmine yelled I against the biting northerly wind. ‘I’m offering Simply The Best at fives! Place your bets now!’

The Benny Clegg Stadium, on the last Saturday before Christmas, was crammed to its newly embellished rafters. Despite the continuing Arctic weather, the punters were out in force. Tonight, on the final Six-Pack Saturday of the year, everyone seemed determined to throw themselves into the festive spirit and hopefully win back some of their seasonal overspending.