Nothing to Lose (42 page)

She smiled round the table. They all looked very swish – Clara in black, Peg in a sugar-pink chiffon copy of something Doris Day had worn to a 1957 awards ceremony, and Roger and Allan’s wives both in a sort of mustard paisley material much beloved for ‘posh frocks’ by ladies of a certain age. Gorf had brought his sister, Waffon, and she’d worn her best dungarees and a diamante bow tie. All the men were in evening dress – all hired from the same place – and all almost fitting, even Bunny’s, although because of his feet he’d had to wear plimsolls. Peg had said it didn’t matter a jot just so long as they were black and he didn’t fall over the laces.

Ewan, of course, looked the most sensational of all in his suit – although by the way he and Clara were scrabbling at each other beneath the white linen tablecloth, Jasmine couldn’t see it staying on for too long.

With a huge commotion, the double doors flew open and the Bixford brigade made their entrance. Jasmine held her breath. They looked, she thought, rather like the Krays on a day trip – tough, glamorous, and stinking rich.

Oliver and Martina she recognised immediately from Sebastian’s descriptions. Oliver’s suit obviously wasn’t hired, and no doubt the cost of Martina’s frock – neck-to-ankle sprayed-on purple sequins to match her aubergine spiky hair – could have wiped out the national debt. The remainder of the party looked very East End and done up too. They all gave the impression that this late entry had been deliberately planned, strolling in, laughing and talking, relaxed. Jasmine, scanning them and trying not to show it, felt her heart plummet. Sebastian wasn’t with them.

No doubt he was frolicking about in the acres of corridors with Brittany, already knowing that Bixford were going to walk off with tonight’s spoils, and totally familiar with every nook and cranny of both Brittany and the Frobishers’ home. Jasmine pulled her bread roll apart angrily, scattering the crumbs on the table cloth. Both Peg and Clara were watching her, so she swept them into her hand and hid them under the plate.

The waitresses were circulating now; filling up wine and water glasses, pouring everyone a promotional pint of Frobisher’s beer – which Jasmine thought wasn’t a patch on Old Ampney – replacing bread rolls, flicking out napkins. They looked wonderful, an army of pretty girls in short black skirts and tight waistcoats, all smiling and moving as if on well-oiled castors.

One of their waitresses, with tendrils of fair hair escaping from her bun, kindly replaced Jasmine’s roll and swept the crumbs from beneath her plate with an amazing sleight of hand. She didn’t smile, and her eyes were red-rimmed under the coat of make-up. Probably a man, Jasmine thought with sisterly solidarity. Bastard.

Ewan, Jasmine noticed, jerked his head up when he saw the waitress and kept on staring. The waitress frowned. Jasmine growled at him for good measure, and nodded her head towards Clara. God, she was glad to be manless.

Oh, no she wasn’t, she thought, a split second later as Sebastian came into the banqueting hall. He smiled briefly towards his parents, and then slid elegantly into his chair round the Gillespie table. Brittany would probably not be far behind, but until she appeared, Jasmine drank him in. The evening suit looked superb on him – even better than it did on Ewan. Clara had swivelled her head round and stared as soon as he’d arrived, and now looked wide-eyed across the table at Jasmine.

‘Wow. Hot or what?’

Jasmine smiled smugly.

‘Jesus . . .’ Clara, still gawping at the vision of Seb scrubbed up, had her mouth open.

Ewan, Jasmine was pleased to notice, had immediately stopped eyeing up the waitress and was belatedly attempting to bring Clara to heel.

The doors opened again – it was like a posh pantomime, Jasmine decided – and this time the guitarist struck up the ‘Blue Danube’ as the Frobisher family glided in. Jasmine wasn’t sure of the connection, but possibly they just liked Strauss, or maybe the guitarist had forgotten the chords to ‘Jerusalem’. Emily Frobisher had her hand resting delicately on her husband, Rod’s, arm – Sebastian had filled Jasmine in on all the names in one of his letters – and they were followed by a phalanx of Frobisher minions. Brittany, glittering and breathtakingly beautiful in pale blue, brought up the rear.

They swerved sinuously between the tables, smiling at everyone, having a few polite words with some, managing to climb on to the podium and take their top table places without the slightest stumble. Jasmine watched, and reckoned they must do this sort of thing all the time. Anyone normal would have teetered on that top step.

Brittany was seated between her parents, and had the microphone in front of her. Jasmine raised an impressed eyebrow; Brittany was certainly in charge of this whole shebang, then. She wasn’t just the pretty packaging for Rod Frobisher’s multimillion-pound business. Ewan nearly fell off his chair, trying to turn round and smile at her, Jasmine noticed with some disgust. Fortunately, Clara noticed too, and started nibbling his ear.

At some unseen signal, the waitresses swarmed in again, once more topping up glasses and sliding Parma ham and warm leaves with croutons on to each plate. Their red-eyed waitress still looked miserable, but managed to be very efficient. Again, Ewan looked at her intently. This time, the girl looked back at him and almost smiled. Jasmine wanted to slap them both, but especially Ewan. This was neither the time nor the place.

Just as she was advising Bunny on the best way to tackle his croutons and explaining that the lettuce was supposed to be hot, Sebastian crouched down beside her.

‘I didn’t see you straight away. God knows how I missed you in that dress, though,’ he smiled up at her as Bunny merrily skittered croutons across the table like marbles in a pinball machine. ‘You look amazing.’

‘Thanks. I’ll probably pop out of it the minute I move. You look really nice too.’ Her mouth had gone dry and her stomach started looping the loop. ‘And your mother is staring.’

‘There’s probably some social law about gossiping with other tables while starters are being served. She’ll look it up. Thanks for your Christmas card – and these . . .’ He stuck out a leg and pulled up a couple of inches of his black trousers, displaying Jasmine’s gift of a pair of Union Jack socks that tinkled out God Save the Queen if you rubbed your ankles together. ‘They were my best present.’

I ate my doughnuts,’ Jasmine said. ‘Before Christmas.’

‘Good. They’d have probably gone off if you’d saved them. So, how was it? Your Christmas, I mean.’

‘Not bad. I broke off my engagement and my parents split up.’

‘Christ.’ Sebastian stared at her. ‘Seriously?’

‘About as serious as you can get.’ Jasmine smiled at the concern in his eyes. She also had a mad urge to lick his freckles. ‘Um, my mum and Andrew were – that is, are – having an affair, you see, and my dad moved out because he was having an affair too, and is living with his secretary. She’s quite nice, actually, and she knits.’

‘You’re joking – aren’t you?’

Jasmine shook her head and held up her left hand. ‘See – no ring. I’d finished with Andrew before I knew about the affair, which makes me feel a lot better. Andrew is history – except, as Clara kindly pointed out, he may one day be my stepfather . . .’

‘Fucking hell!’

‘You just said fucking.’ Bunny frowned crossly at Sebastian. ‘That ain’t fair. Mizz Dunstable said I wasn’t allowed to.’

‘Sorry.’ Sebastian held up his hands to Bunny. ‘I shouldn’t have either. My apologies.’

‘That’s all right. Apology accepted.’ Bunny grinned, instantly losing his grip on a cherry tomato. ‘Ooh! Fucking thing!’

‘You’d better go back to your seat,’ Jasmine said to Sebastian. ‘Your parents are looking murderous.’

Seb stood up. ‘They’ll see it as fraternising with the enemy. We’ll fraternise on the dance floor later, shall we?’

‘For commiserations or congratulations?’

‘I was thinking more for pleasure. And you’re sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine. Really, truly. But thanks for asking.’

Jasmine watched him return to his table. So, she noticed, did most of the women in the banqueting hall, especially Brittany.

Sorbets came and went, so did roast meats on beds of thyme and sorrel mash with baby vegetables, and more sorbets, and
crème brûlees,
and coffee and petits fours – along with bottle after bottle of wine. Jasmine and Sebastian smiled at each other frequently. So did Ewan and Brittany. And Brittany and Sebastian. Somewhere in between the second sorbet and the pudding and all the smiling, the waitress with the red eyes disappeared.

‘What happened to her?’ Jasmine asked her equally pretty replacement. ‘Was she not feeling well?’

‘April? No idea. Just said she had to dash off and would I mind taking over. She’s been really upset this week, mind you, because she’s lost her dog – but I don’t know if she’s gone home. God knows how she’s going to get back there, if she has. We all come from Bixford and we had a coach.’

‘Poor thing,’ Jasmine said, immediately full of sympathy for the red-eyed April.

Bixford, though? Why on earth would the waiting staff be bussed-in from Bixford, for goodness’ sake? Unless, of course – she shot a glance across to the Gillespie table – it was something to do with them. A bit of a sweetener. Wasted, in Jasmine’s opinion, because Bixford were going to walk away with the Platinum anyway. Still, you had to admire Martina and Oliver’s style.

‘Where’s Ewan?’ Peg paused in removing gelatine leaves from her petit four. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while.’

‘He went to the loo,’ Clara waved an inebriated hand. ‘He’s probably got lost in the maze of corridors.’

It was getting closer and closer to midnight. Again, Jasmine knew from one of Sebastian’s letters that Emily Frobisher had planned this evening along the lines of a similar bash put on by the Queen at Sandringham. Not, of course, that Her Majesty was sponsoring a greyhound race, but the premise was much the same: eating, then speeches, then dancing in the attached ballroom to a big band, followed by a disco for the young and sprightly, all culminating in a full English breakfast for those still standing at daybreak.

Jasmine was pretty sure they’d all have passed out long before that.

The other contenders’ tables were getting quite rowdy, as the time for the twelve o’clock announcement approached and the excited tension increased. There was a lot of giggling and speculation round their own. However, apart from wondering whether Brittany would do the deed before or after the witching hour, Jasmine felt very little curiosity. Ampney Crucis, being out in the sticks – and the coastal sticks at that – meant they’d come in a resounding last. She just hoped Brittany would read out the result in reverse order, then at least they’d have the pleasure of being first in something.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Brittany stood up and took the microphone. The room scuffled into a ragged silence. ‘This isn’t going to be a long-drawn-out process. I have no intention of prolonging the agony – or the ecstasy – and once the announcement has been made, I’ll speak to the victorious team alone later, so that you can all enjoy the party.’

There was a lot of foot-stamping and clapping.

‘My parents –’ Brittany indicated Emily and Rod. More foot stamping – ‘my parents, are delighted to see you here this evening, and have obviously been extremely supportive while I’ve worked behind the scenes to make my choice. However, they wish me to stress that it is essentially a traditional New Year’s Eve party and that on the last stroke of midnight, the haggis and whisky will be piped in. There will also be champagne for the toasts – and then if you’d like to make your way through to the ballroom we’ll continue the festivities there.’

The clapping grew louder. There were whistles from the Pullet’s table, and whoops from Bentley’s.

Brittany, shuffling her notes, suddenly smiled across at Sebastian, and Jasmine felt a jag of misery.

‘Ewan’s going to miss the best bit if he’s not careful. Peg seemed to have got a petit four caught in some of her pink netting and Gorf and Waffon were picking it out.

‘Shouldn’t someone go and look for him?’

The Ampney Crucis contingent – including Clara – all stared at the tablecloth. None of them, it seemed, was prepared to miss the ‘best bit’ simply to rescue Ewan from the Frobishers’ lavatory.

‘So, without dragging it out,’ Brittany spoke loudly, ‘I’ve had a lovely time going to the dogs this year.’ She paused for the roar of laughter. ‘And I’ve made some very good friends in the process.’ A quick glance at Sebastian. ‘Choosing four stadiums for the short list was difficult enough, and picking one from those four, almost impossible. However, and it was a very close thing, one stadium just had the edge over the other three. One stadium is able to provide everything that Frobishers require to stage this – the biggest new greyhound trophy race to be introduced for over one hundred years.’ Another pause. The room was silent. The tension now was bow-string taut. ‘We looked for somewhere that would reflect the Frobisher way forward, and at-the same time retain the greyhound-racing traditions. We also wanted a stadium which had the facilities to welcome the crowds that this prestigious event will no doubt attract, without turning it into yet another corporate hospitality bonanza. What we were looking for was somewhere with style.’

Jasmine glanced over at the Gillespie table. Oliver was leaning across the wine glasses and ashtrays, conferring with three of the other portly and polished hit-men types, while Martina was grinning and mentally running through her acceptance speech. Sebastian had his head down. Hah Jasmine thought – can’t look me in the eye now, can he!

So, as I said,’ Brittany continued, ‘one stadium met all these criteria. One stadium had everything I wanted. One stadium will be hosting the Frobisher Platinum Trophy on Valentine’s Day. And that stadium is –’ she swept a teasing glance at all four tables – ‘the Benny Clegg Stadium at Ampney Crucis!’

There were screams from Peg and Clara and Bunny – and possibly from Martina. Jasmine sat completely pole-axed. She wouldn’t get excited because it wasn’t right. Brittany had got it wrong – surely she had? Suddenly the room erupted, and everyone was shouting, pushing towards them, slapping their backs, yelling congratulations.