What Women Want (16 page)

Standing on the balcony, a glass of champagne in her hand, Bea could see below her the race-goers milling like moths around the on-track bookies who were barking the odds, jabbering into mobile phones. She looked down on tweedy jackets, the odd designer outfit that had probably been pulled out of a perfect home-counties wardrobe or bought weeks ago for the occasion. Contrast Bea’s – the result of a department-store dash two nights earlier. Just when she was being forced to give up, with the store closing, she had found a purple and blue swirled sleeveless silk dress, and a blue slightly fitted hip-length jacket. She just prayed she wouldn’t get so hot that she’d have to take the jacket off and reveal what Ben insisted on calling her ‘bingo wings’. Minutes later, on her way out of the store, by some miracle she had spotted a blue pillbox hat with a discreet pink trim. The whole outfit made her feel quite the thing, and a little bit Jackie O. Her new-found confidence was confirmed when she had met Mark at the station. From his expression she had seen that she’d made quite an impression.

They had arrived at Ascot early, at which point she could see that his impression might have been that she was completely over-dressed. She’d imagined that the races would be full of women sporting the sort of outfits she’d seen photographed on Ladies’ Day. But this wasn’t Royal Ascot. The truth was a revelation. Brushing past more Barbours than she could count, corduroy trousers, brown trilbies and an overwhelming assortment of tartans and tweeds, she hoped the dress code would improve once they hit the Members’ section. Her prayers were answered. As they made their way through the brand new grandstand, riding the escalator up through the airy state-of-the-art building to the corporate box hired by Mark’s co-directors, she began to feel she wouldn’t stick out like quite such a sore thumb after all.

In the dining room, a long table was laid with a smooth cream tablecloth, a vase of creamy roses in its centre. She counted twenty-four places laid with gleaming cutlery and sparkling wine glasses while in a corner a flat-screen TV was anticipating the start of the racing. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be a sit-down do.’ Bea was wishing she’d gone with her original impulse to refuse the invitation.

‘Don’t worry. I know you’ll get on fine with them.’ Mark’s reassuring best was far from convincing. ‘Although I don’t really know their wives. Let’s grab a glass of champagne and take a look at the course from the balcony.’

She followed him out, trying not to let her nerves make her drink too quickly. It was hard not to be impressed by the modern curved grandstand that looked over the course. Their box was positioned just before the winning post, giving them a clear view of the finish. They chatted easily together as gradually the other guests arrived and Bea was introduced one by one. As she relaxed, she began to think that perhaps the afternoon wouldn’t be such an ordeal after all. Mark was turning out to be rather a considerate host who made sure she was never left standing alone but at the same time didn’t stick to her side like glue. His frequent laugh as he chatted to colleagues told her that he was never very far away. She could turn to him if she needed to.

Just as they were gravitating towards the table for lunch, the last couple arrived. Bea saw the woman first. She was a head-turner: tall, gamine, with cheekbones to kill for, generous bee-stung lips, wide-set innocent eyes and brown hair pinned up with a yellow silk rose above her right ear. She was wearing a soft yellow figure-hugging dress that was slightly ruched below the narrow waist with a rounded neckline and no sleeves, showing off her perfectly toned, tanned arms and enviably firm cleavage enhanced by a tiny gold cross hanging from a fine gold chain. Standing slightly behind her, in the shadow of the doorway, his hand resting possessively in the centre of her back, was her partner. From a distance he looked slickly suited and as much of a crowd-pleaser as her. As they sashayed into the room together, smiling at the assembled group, Bea realised, to her horror, who he was.

Tony Castle.

She took a step back onto the balcony to compose herself. Thankfully she had seen him before he saw her, so she had the advantage. A deep breath or two later, she returned to the room and took her place beside Mark.

‘Are you all right? You look a bit pale,’ he said, solicitous as ever.

‘Completely fine. I left my bag outside.’

Mark put his hand on the back of her arm. ‘Good. Now, I want you to meet my new colleague, Tom Carter. He only joined the company a couple of weeks ago.’ He steered her towards a place at the other side of the table where she could see that she’d be next to the man she knew as Tony Castle. What a crazy coincidence. Or was it some kind of bizarre joke Mark and Tony had dreamed up together? They must know that they both subscribed to Let’s Have Lunch, surely. Tom Carter! He hadn’t even used his own name. At that moment, to her huge relief, a portly older man insinuated himself into the chair, conveniently scuppering Mark’s planned introduction, and tucked his napkin into his shirt collar.

‘Damn. That’s Brian Anderson, one of the chief execs. I can’t ask him to move,’ he whispered. ‘Never mind. I’ll introduce you to Tom later. There’ll be plenty of time.’

‘Mmm. Can’t wait.’ Her sarcasm floated over Mark’s head as, instead, they found themselves places at the opposite end of the table.

As the starters were brought in, she caught Tom turning his head to look up the table. His expression when he saw her for the first time was a joy: shock and confusion jockeyed with fear, resulting in a dead heat. Bea was quite happy where she sat, opposite Mark and between a couple on his team who were bent on having a good day out. One of them was an old hand at the racing game and, with the benefit of his expertise, she was soon entering into the spirit of the day and marking up her race card. Occasionally, she’d look down the table at Tom, who had lost his initial swagger and seemed frequently preoccupied, toying with his food, paying scant attention to the people on either side of him and barely responding to the attentions of his female companion, whose laugh tinkled down the table as she extended an arm to persuade him to try a forkful of her meal. And at the end of that arm, Bea thought she saw the sparkle of a large ring. Well, she knew from experience how quick a worker ‘Tony’ could be.

Mark’s laugh made her turn back in his direction. Since meeting him for their abortive drink, Bea had managed to arrive on time for their next drinks date and for the couple of dinner dates that followed, as well as speaking to him at length several times on the phone. He didn’t send her lust-meter soaring but, each time, she had grown to like him a little more. He had never made a move that suggested he fancied her either, but there was no getting away from the fact that they got on well. Bea had talked to him about herself and her work, describing the strategies she was using to turn her list around, not to mention the attempts of Amanda Winter to get her feet under her desk – and lie down under Adam’s, judging by the number of times she had shut herself into his office with him. Bea could see that Mark was impressed by her fortitude in the face of stress. God loves a trier and so, it appeared, did he. But, more than that, he was interested, asking questions and making sure he understood.

As the month had progressed, Bea had felt a new energy propelling her through her work. By the time she and Mark had last spoken, she was able to tell him that Stuart had stepped up to the plate and, between them, they had so far persuaded an already bestselling novelist that Coldharbour could publish him better. Bea herself was hot on the trail of one of the great theatrical dames and hoped to convince her that the time had come to write her autobiography. She knew the project had bestseller written all over it. More than that, she was reading a first novel from the States,
Bare Bones
, which reminded her of Donna Tartt’s
The Secret History
. Everyone, including Adam, was going to read it over the next couple of days. With their support, she was confident they could make the book sell.

She took care not to completely monopolise their conversations and began to listen more carefully to what Mark had to say. She found it hard to follow the ins and outs of his career in a world so very different from her own but she stopped and asked him to explain when she got confused. The result was that she had become interested in the financial rigmarole of his working life. When she got him talking about his marriage and the children he only saw when it suited his ex, they had plenty to talk about. Eventually he had asked her to accompany him to his office jolly at the races. By the time the day dawned, she had surprised herself with the discovery that she was actually looking forward to seeing him.

‘Bea!’ Mark looked across the table at her. ‘Tell me you’re not putting your money on that nag, Heavenly Joker. Look at it on the screen. Fit for the knacker’s yard, for God’s sake.’

‘Bollocks, Chapman,’ Bea’s neighbour and now racing adviser intervened. ‘That is a horse in its prime. Take no notice, Bea. Your money’s safe.’

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Tom getting up from his seat and turning their way. He’d obviously decided how he was going to deal with the situation.

‘Well, I may put on a second bet just to cover myself,’ she announced. ‘Come on, Mark. Let’s go down to the paddock and watch the race from the floor.’

‘The floor? I thought you didn’t know anything about racing.’

‘I don’t. I just overheard someone else saying it.’ She grinned at him, all the time aware that Tom was threading his way towards them. The tinkling laugh sounded from somewhere behind him. Suddenly intrigued to find out what his game-plan could possibly be, she slowed down her rush to the exit.

‘Hey, Mark. Good to see you.’ Tom’s overweening confidence had evidently returned, with a decision to brazen out a potentially awkward situation by establishing the upper hand.

‘Tom. This is Bea, a friend.’

‘How do you do?’

Bea took his proffered hand, giving it as strong a shake as she dared. She looked him in the eye, hoping to see him flinch. Nothing. Then came inspiration. ‘How extra -ordinary,’ she murmured. ‘I could have sworn you were someone else.’

‘Really?’ He looked amused.

‘Yes, you’re a dead ringer for someone I once knew called Tony Castle. It’s quite a relief that you’re not, actually.’ The combination of new-found confidence and champagne gave her a sudden feeling of recklessness. By his expression, she could see he was completely thrown by her line of attack.

Mark turned to her. ‘Why?’ he asked. He hadn’t noticed that his colleague’s smile had slipped a fraction. But Bea had. She had also seen Tom’s eyes narrow as if he was working out what she might possibly say next. Suddenly he seemed less confident.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I must just get to the Tote before the next race.’ Tom tried to slip by them but Bea stepped to the side to block his route. This was going better than she could have imagined. She put a hand on his arm to detain him as she leaned forward, taking them both into her confidence. ‘You wouldn’t believe it but this guy Tony was seeing a friend of mine. Then, one day, he stood her up. Wouldn’t return her calls, nothing. Then she discovered that he’d only given her the . . .’ She mouthed the word silently. ‘Sorry, you don’t want to know about that.’ She looked at her audience. Mark seemed bemused that she was telling the story at all while Tom was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost. That would teach him to leave fake contact details with the agency. He’d obviously understood exactly what she was saying. ‘She never saw him again, so she had no way of telling him because he’d given her a wrong number. So it was good riddance, really, but bad luck for the next woman in his life.’ The tinkling laughter rippled down the table again. ‘What a bastard.’ She squeezed his arm. Hard. ‘Funny, Tom. You could almost be his twin.’

‘That’s bad.’ Mark looked decidedly relieved that the story was over without any more intimate detail. Tom gave a weak shrug as he struggled to maintain his composure. He slipped a finger between his throat and the collar of his thinly pin-striped primrose yellow shirt, moving it back and forth as if giving himself more room to breathe.

‘Isn’t it? But it’s true.’ Bea smiled, triumphant. ‘So you can see why I’m relieved Tom isn’t him, after all. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself saying something to him and embarrassing everyone else. So, we must put our bets on the next race.’ She dropped her arm from his and stood aside so he could get to the door. ‘After you.’

They followed Tom out but turned the opposite way so they could take the stairs to the outside. Bea’s heart was singing.

‘What on earth was that about?’ Mark asked.

‘What?’ All innocence. So what if Mark thought she’d behaved oddly? The important thing was that Tom had got the message. And she was sure he had.

‘That story. Tom looked rather uncomfortable.’

‘Did he? I’m sorry. It’s just that the whole business with my friend makes me so cross, I didn’t think. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.’

‘Not at all.’ He laughed. ‘It would take more than that. Here, hold my hand so we don’t get separated in the scrum.’

They stood at the paddock, watching the owners and trainers chatting by their horses, waiting for the jockeys to be legged up into their saddles. Led round by the stable-lads, the horses jinked as the wind caught them under their tails, ears flicking back and forth, heads tossing, nostrils flaring, sweat flecking their necks. A handsome chestnut that looked in peak condition, its conker-coloured coat shining, its stride full of purpose, immediately caught Bea’s eye. She ran her eye down the race card. Blade Runner, trained by Ali Newsome with Jo Michaels up and sporting the owner’s emerald and blue silks. ‘That’s the one for me. Number twelve.’

‘Where? Bea, no. Look at the form. It hasn’t completed two of its last races and it doesn’t do well when the going’s soft.’

‘I don’t care. I like the colours and its name and he looks cute. And it’s been trained by a woman.’