Nothing to Lose (6 page)

April and Jix started to skirt the track’s perimeter. The stadium, even in its shimmering early afternoon silence, was still awe-inspiring. The sandy track was silver smooth, the thousand windows reflected the sun in white-hot prisms, and the paintwork gleamed. The unseen army, employed to keep the stadium looking as luxurious as any palace, certainly knew their onions. Tonight, when the moths bumbled against the floodlights, and the dogs’ excited yelping split the air, and the shouts of the punters hovered in a roar above Essex, it would all spring once more into glorious tacky life, but now it stood again like a cruise liner in dock, just waiting.

A large dark red car purred up to the imposing wrought-iron gates with the greyhounds rampant, slowed, and let down electric windows, allowing expensive air conditioning and Mahler to pour into the stifling afternoon. April and Jix stopped walking and squinted, then Jix motioned his head towards the visitor. ‘I’ll go and see what they want. You’d better keep out of sight just in case Oliver and Martina are around. Don’t want too many questions, do we?’

April immediately ducked behind a chromium-plated pillar. The plum-coloured Daimler with the personalised number plate wasn’t a car she recognised: definitely not belonging to one of the Gillespies’ usual celeb cronies – sports stars, entertainers, politicians; she’d seen most of them hobnobbing with Oliver and Martina in the Copacabana. Jix, who was also in charge of car-parking for the chosen few, always gave her the lowdown on their bank-breaking vehicles on their nightly walks home. The Daimler was a stranger.

She watched Jix lope long-leggedly towards the gates, looking for all the world like a time-warped escapee from Woodstock. She watched him duck his head inside the car’s open window, then point towards the offices at the far end of the stadium. He was smiling. The visitor was probably a woman. No, April corrected herself with a grin, it was
definitely
a woman.

Within five minutes he was back, the Daimler purring its silent way round the outside of the track in the direction of Oliver’s suite of offices.

‘Female?’ April hazarded, sliding from behind the pillar. ‘Middle-aged? HRT’d? Well-upholstered? Stinking rich? Invited you to visit her hotel room this evening?’

Jix gave her a withering stare as they headed towards the High Street. ‘No, not at all. Female, yes. About twenty-one, I’d say. Posh Spice-thin. Definitely loaded. And we’re probably going to meet up in the Copacabana tonight – if she’s finished her meeting with the Gillespie tribe. Any other little details you’d like thrown in? Frock by Issy Miyake? Hair by Nicky? Scent by Calvin Klein?’

‘Christ,’ April sighed as the splendour of the stadium turned into the grey, scorching dross of Bixford. ‘For a hippie, you’re so bloody materialistic.’

‘Realistic,’ Jix said happily. ‘Where there’s brass there’s usually more brass. And anyway, I knew her.’

‘Get off! You don’t know anyone with a Daimler – at least, not legally.’

‘I mean I know who she is. So do you. She’s everywhere – on chat shows, in the glossies, all over the broadsheets. She’s Brittany Frobisher.’

April was stunned into momentary silence. Brittany Frobisher, brewery heiress, was currently the media’s favourite It Girl. Brittany Frobisher, however, unlike most others of her ilk, actually seemed to work for her millions. Regularly photographed at film premieres and at hot clubs and parties, usually in the company of similarly loaded children of the famous-for-being-famous, Brittany Frobisher was also seriously beautiful.

‘Why is Brittany Frobisher meeting Oliver and Martina, then? Is she one of Sebastian’s girlies? Are they announcing their engagement?’

‘Seb and Brittany? God, no! Actually, she’s here strictly on business. We – as in we the Gillespie Stadium – are tendering for the Frobisher Platinum Trophy. It’s going to be the biggest dog race ever next year. Biggest prize money, massive telly coverage, huge advertising sponsorship all putting greyhound racing firmly on the must-do map for the entire family – and Oliver wants it more than he wants another million quid.’

‘Told you, did he? In one of your chummy little chats?’

Jix shook his head. ‘I read it off his confidential e-mails. And the beautiful Brittany just confirmed it.’ He paused, managing to look slightly ashamed. ‘I – um – sort of hinted that as Oliver’s ace PA, I had his ear. She says she’ll be delighted to tell me more tonight over a drink . . .’

‘She’ll chew you up and spit out the pieces.’

‘In my dreams.’ Jix sighed blissfully.

April wrinkled her nose. ‘Your mum’ll go mad. You hip-grinding with the Tara Palmer-Tomkinson of the yeast and hops dynasty. It’s not what she voted New Labour for.’

‘Democracy and the devolution of the class system have always been my mum’s strongest suits, actually. She voted for Tony Blair on those issues alone.’ Jix came to a halt outside a block of high-rise cement flats. ‘So I’ll merely be living out her expectations. Now, are you ready for Mr Reynolds?’

‘Nope.’ April looked at the tower block and shuddered. ‘And that was John Major.’

‘John Major owes Oliver money?’

‘No, dope – John Major was always banging on about the classless society.’

‘Was he?’ Jix flicked through his clipboard. ‘Don’t remember that far back. And don’t change the subject. There are seven customers in the flats. Six should be easy-peasy. The seventh is Mr Reynolds. Now, Mr Reynolds still owes thirteen hundred. He’s three payments behind. We need at least fifty. So, by my reckoning, that’s ten kisses . . .’

April punched him again. ‘Pack it in. I won’t stoop to your level. Anyway, why are Frobishers here now if this prestigious race isn’t until next year? I think you’ve got it wrong. I reckon she’s one of Sebastian’s women ready to bang in a paternity suit.’

‘Don’t you know nothing?’ Jix poked out his tongue. ‘These things take for ever to organise, like the Olympics or Glastonbury. Every dog track in the country’s going to be tendering for the Platinum Trophy – and it’s in February, only eight months away. Brittany’s probably going to have to visit each stadium before Frobishers make their choice.’

‘Nobody will outbid Oliver though, surely? Not even Wimbledon or Walthamstow? We all know what Oliver’s like when he sets his greedy little heart on something.’ April tipped her head back and gazed up at the thirty-two floors of Hugh Gaitskell House. ‘And do I really have to do this one?’

‘Yeah.’ Jix blew her a kiss. ‘Unless you’d rather do Freda Cope? She only owes twenty-five quid – but collecting it would involve putting on a bri-nylon wig and miming to
Cliff Richard’s Greatest Hits
– not to mention the baby oil and strawberry yoghurt . . .’

‘Mr Reynolds, here I come,’ April-scowled, easing her feet inside Daff’s sandals. ‘And as the lift is always vandalised, I’ll meet you back here in about an hour, then?’

‘Make it an hour and half,’ Jix grinned. ‘Freda’s got a pretty horny daughter . . .’

Jix had been right, April thought as she thundered on Mr Reynolds’ peeling and graffiti’d door. The first half-dozen of this afternoon’s customers had grumbled about the heat, grumbled about having to cough up, grumbled about life in Hugh Gaitskell house, and eventually parted with their money. She’d written the receipts, stuffed the cash into the triple-lock satchel, and thanked them with a grateful smile.

The heat was all-enveloping, rising from the stairwell in clouds of ammonia and decay. April, trying to breathe through her mouth, wriggled inside the denim dress and knocked again.

‘Yeah?’ Mr Reynolds, wearing a dirty vest, dirtier trousers, and the sort of bad perm that Kevin Keegan had made his own in the seventies, peered through a crack in the door. ‘Oh, it’s you. I ain’t got no money.’

‘Please, Mr Reynolds.’ April smiled, which proved difficult when she’d stopped breathing. ‘Just something. Anything. Just enough to stop Mr Gillespie losing his temper . . .’

‘ ’E can lose ’is bleeding temper all ’e bleeding likes,’ Mr Reynolds affirmed vigorously. ‘I ain’t got no money.’

In danger of passing out, April sucked in some air. The waft of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed body emanating from Mr Reynolds made her gag. ‘Oh God – look – you owe so much. I can’t go away empty-handed again – and no, don’t even think about it. You’re not coming any damn closer . . .’

Mr Reynolds gave a hideous wink. ‘Pity. Nice little bit of skirt, you are. Dirty job for a pretty little thing like you . . . Tell you what – what if I gives you something you can sell? What about if I gives you something that’s worth even more than I owes old Oily? What do you say?’

April shook her head. She knew that Jix sometimes took electrical goods in lieu and sold them in the market to raise Oliver’s cash. She shrugged. ‘Well, maybe . . . but it’s got to be worth it. Not just some old tat.’

‘This ain’t no tat.’ Mr Reynolds gave a stumpy-toothed grin. ‘This’ll make old Olly’s eyes light up and no mistake.’ He closed the door. April, envisaging having to stagger down thirty-two floors carrying an armful of porn, somehow doubted that Oliver Gillespie would be exactly thrilled to ribbons with her business acumen.

‘’Ere.’ Mr Reynolds yanked the door open again. ‘Worth a fortune. That’s me sorted, then. Full and final. What do you think?’

What April thought was obviously irrelevant as Mr Reynolds had slammed the door again and started shooting bolts into place. April stared at the piece of dirty string in her hands, then at the animal attached to the other end.

‘Jesus.’

The greyhound blinked soft brown eyes at her and wagged a spindly brindled tail.

‘Mr Reynolds!’ April thundered on the door. ‘Mr Reynolds! I can’t take him!’

‘You’ve taken ’im!’ The voice echoed from the far side of the graffiti. ‘ ’E’s all yours! ’Is name’s Care Parallel. The castle thing. Out of that kids’ story. The lion in the wardrobe one.’

Cair Paravel, April thought wildly. Brilliant. One of her childhood favourite bedtime stories. She pulled herself up quickly. ‘I don’t care what his name is – I can’t take him! Mr Gillespie won’t want him and – ’

‘You take him home then. E’ll make a nice pet.’

‘I can’t take him home! I’m not allowed animals in my flat.’

‘Tough tit, love. You could train ’im on and win a fortune. Now bugger off – I’m busy!’

April looked down at the greyhound, who was happily licking between her toes. God Almighty. Jix would go mad. Not to mention Sebastian Gillespie, the killer landlord. Not only was there a no-pets clause in her tenancy agreement, there was also a no-children one. She’d managed to keep Beatrice-Eugenie a secret from the Gillespies for two and half years, but she’d never manage to keep a greyhound hidden in number 51 as well – would she?

Jasmine stared at the trickle of people sifting through the rusty turnstiles, and felt a prickle of apprehension shifting along her spine. Would she ever, ever, be able to live up to her grandfather’s reputation?

‘Benny Clegg – The Punters’ Friend’: the signs still stood proudly beside her pile of upturned pallets and above her ancient blackboard. Having told Peg that she had no intention of changing the pitch’s name, Jasmine had thought that simply having the sign there would give her the courage she needed for her first official appearance as a bookie. Now she realised that even six pints of Old Ampney probably wouldn’t provide enough Dutch pluck to get her through this ordeal.

With less than an hour to go until the start of the meeting, the greyhounds, along with the Ampney Crucis holidaymaking punters, were already arriving expectantly in the stadium. Roger and Allan, their joints set up on either side of her, had drifted away to chew the form fat with owners and trainers, and others in the know. Jasmine, who was suddenly convinced that she now knew absolutely nothing, stayed resolutely glued to her post.

It was the last Saturday of June, the evening sun was low and still warm over the sea, and the bookmaker’s licence in her name had arrived from the Levy Board on Wednesday morning. Well, it had arrived at the beach hut on Wednesday. It had been delivered to her parents address some days before, if the postmark was anything to go by. As Jasmine’s relationship with Philip and Yvonne was still frosty verging on cryogenic, Andrew had brought the fat envelope with him on one of his infrequent visits.

Jasmine sighed and sat down on the edge of a pallet, remembering. She’d ripped open the envelope, her eyes filling with tears and making the words on the official-looking forms all blurry. It was Benny’s legacy, and she’d wished so much that she hadn’t got it; she just wanted him to be alive more than anything in the world.

Andrew had been exasperated by the tears, and had clattered around the overcrowded beach hut, muttering that she should be over it by now, and that she should be pulling herself together, and eventually that she was making a laughing stock of her parents and him. Especially him. Then she’d cried some more, and Andrew had flounced out and she hadn’t seen him since.

She’d probably never see him again. Watching the holidaymakers in their shorts and T-shirts, and the Ampney Crucis residents in their dog-going best, all wandering amongst the dilapidated stands, Jasmine wondered if she cared. She’d lost Benny, and she’d alienated her parents – why not break off her engagement to Andrew and make it a disastrous personal hat trick? She’d miss him, of course. She’d got into the habit of loving him. She probably loved him in the sort of way that you loved a favourite, comfortable sweater. Not that Andrew was always comfortable: more often than not he was definitely overwashed and scratchy. But he’d always been there. And she didn’t hold out much hope of a replacement.

Andrew’s tirade, she knew, had been caused only by the apparent ignominy of the bookie-and-beach-hut part of her life. He was blissfully unaware that Benny’s money was going to be pumped back into glamorising the stadium, or that she and Peg were going to tender for the Frobisher Platinum Trophy, or even that Ewan Dunstable was due back on the scene. Andrew, like her parents, simply couldn’t believe that she’d chucked up the security of Watertite Windows, and the comfy family nest on the Chewton Estate, to become a bookmaker.