Still, remembering her barbed opening remark regarding his ignominious exit from the National, she was not as gentle as she looked. And she always made him feel intellectually inferior. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone except Bonnie, of course. And Matt was a well-read bugger. They'd have loads in common.
So, where was he? Oh, yeah, Lucinda or Tina? Well, Lucinda certainly had all the plus points. But then again, being seen around with Tina Maloret was bloody good for the ego. He rocked in the saddle, conscious of the fact that he should be working. Bonne Nuit bucked a bit and side-stepped prettily, becoming as adept as his jockey at putting on a show. No, the women in Charlie's life had suited him admirably up to now, giving him laughs and satisfaction in equal measure. But neither Lucinda or Tina could give him what he suspected Matt and Jemima had; the thing that he'd envied most in Maddy and Drew's relationship: a special something, a togetherness, a friendship, something more than merely sex.
Bollocks. Forget women. At least for the moment. He kicked Bonne Nuit into a canter, crouching low, instinctively adjusting his body to the striding rhythm. These early-morning workouts were becoming as soothing as the tack-cleaning. They understood each other so well. And while Bonnie didn't immediately look like a champion – Charlie was the first to admit he had none of Dragon Slayer's broad bands of muscles or fiery, tossing head – he knew from all his years in the saddle that the potential was there.
The canter became a full gallop, with the dust from the tracks puffing up in clouds beneath Bonnie's hooves. For a full five minutes Charlie concentrated on nothing else but the power beneath him, the timing, the awesome realisation that Bonne Nuit knew exactly when he was supposed to change gear. And he jumped magnificently. His lad at the Newmarket sales had said as much, but Charlie had taken it with a pinch of salt. For once, as he and Drew had discovered when they'd first popped Bonne Nuit over the Peapods hurdles, there was no need to add seasoning. It happened to be completely true.
'Time for another breather.' He slowed Bonne Nuit to a collected walk, just in case Drew was watching. 'No need to overdo it. Just keep exploding like that on the hill at Cheltenham and the elbow at Aintree and you and me will be in the money.'
He yawned and stretched, gathering the reins between his hands again, straightening up in the saddle. The sky was streaked with pink, the Downs still shrouded in their dawn mist. There was no noise except for birdsong and the constant whisper of the wind through the coarse grass. Other yards were just bringing their first lots up on to the gallops, but he and Drew had already been there for two hours. Drew's insomnia and sudden feverish desire to work for twenty-six hours a day was beginning to take its toll.
And there was still Bonnie's daily schooling over the jumps in the privacy of Peapods' yard to do before he even thought about his training stint with Drew's flat horses. If Tina was expecting an all-night performance from him he'd have to get some sleep this afternoon. It really would, he decided, be sensible to finish the Tina fling. But he never knew when he might be called upon to replace Matt on Dragon Slayer. And, anyway, there was always the risk that Lucinda would read something heavy, like commitment, into her being the only woman in his life.
And there was no bloody way that he was ready for commitment.
Drew, on Solomon, was belting up and down the short gallop, head down, looking like a manic Paul Revere. He was an excellent jockey but Charlie watched the performance with some concern. These early-morning sorties, away from the prying eyes of the other stables and the scouts, had become a regular occurrence. It was as if Drew had to prove something to himself. He rode like a man possessed. Charlie was pretty sure that Solomon, who was knocking on, would die from exhaustion long before Drew did.
'Time to call it a day.' Drew wheeled round in front of him, motioning towards the ribbon of horses heading for the gallops. 'Especially now Kath's out. I don't want any of the Lancing Grange crew getting wind of Bonnie's ability yet.'
Charlie let Bonne Nuit fall into step beside the sweating Solomon. 'I think they already have. You can't keep secrets in this place.'
'You're not supposed to, I agree.' Drew's tone was bitter. 'Although some people seem to manage it. Gillian, for one, seems to have kept milord here secret from Glen. And Maddy isn't doing too badly either, is she? Or am I the only one in the whole fucking village who doesn't know what's going on?'
And kicking Solomon into a lung-splitting canter, he disappeared towards Milton St John.
Fifteen minutes later, back in Peapods' yard, Charlie swung himself from Bonne Nuit's saddle and stormed through the melee of lads and horses, and into Solomon's box. He was rugged, but not sponged.
'Drew!' Charlie removed the rug and briskly rubbed the flecks of foam from Solomon's quivering body. 'Drew! Where are you?'
'He's giving instructions to the first lot,' Frank, the yard's head lad poked his head round the door. 'Do you want me to do Bonnie?'
'Please. Ta.' Charlie continued ministering to Solomon. Poor bloody horse. What the hell was Drew playing at? Charlie had – briefly – been around trainers who didn't care and only saw their animals as money-making machines. But Drew had never been like that. He loved them, for God's sake!
Once Solomon was warm and dried, calmed and babied, and eating his head off, Charlie bolted his door and stood in the yard. The first lot had vanished into the early morning, already winding their way up on to the gallops. Vincent, who had now added yardman to his various duties, was sweeping up the stray bedding which had wafted from the stables, watched with lazy curiosity by the indolent cats. The dogs were chasing imaginary rats in the food store. The smell of bacon wafted from Peapods' kitchen, and the blackbirds were trilling from the roof of the clock arch. It was all so normal.
'Did Drew go out with the first lot?' Charlie called across to Vincent.
'No. He's in the tack-room. Least, that's where he went – I guess he's still there.'
'Cheers.'
Charlie practically kicked open the tack-room door. Even at this hour it was fustily warm, with the rays of the sun gleaming from the leather. Charlie inhaled the smells; it was even better for relaxation than that lavender-oil rub that one of his ex's had experimented with when she was on an aromatherapy course. Mind you, it wasn't half as much fun....
'Drew!'
'Don't shout.' Drew emerged from the saddle room. 'What's up?'
'Solomon. I've seen to him.'
'Jesus!' Drew smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. 'I'd forgotten –'
Charlie, who was all fired up to yell, took one look at the despair in Drew's eyes. 'He's fine. Warm, dry, fed and watered. Are you going to tell me what's going on? Is it this place? Are you going bust? I thought Kit and Rosa –'
'Maddy.'
Charlie blinked. He loved Maddy. Awful things like terminal illness flashed through his head. He coughed. 'What? Is she ill?'
'Of course she's not ill.' Drew clutched a light-weight racing saddle against his chest as if he wanted to choke the life out of it. 'She's never ill. She's going to leave me.'
Charlie laughed. Afterwards, he realised he was damned lucky that Drew hadn't punched him, but really – it was ludicrous. 'Of course she isn't going to leave you. What the hell gave you that idea?'
'I overheard this conversation ... She was talking to Suzy ...' Drew slumped on to the bench, not bothering to clear away the debris. Cups and packets of biscuits, crash hats and gloves all tumbled to the floor.
'Is that all?' Charlie said when Drew had finished. 'That's all you heard? And you haven't asked her?'
Drew shook his head. 'It's not just that. And no, I haven't. I don't want to hear the answer. She's changed. I know she doesn't want to marry me. She's not happy. And don't make some fucking fatuous remark about her being worried over money. I tried that one, but it didn't fit. Maddy has never given a toss about money. What would you do?'
'Ask her,' Charlie said. It seemed relatively easy. Mind you, he'd never felt about any woman the way Drew did about Maddy. Maybe that made things a bit more difficult, but even so ... And the conversation with Suzy could have been about anything. Women always had such heavily coded communication systems. No man was ever
supposed
to understand what they were talking about.
He picked up a bridle and ran it through his hands. Automatically, he reached for the saddle soap the way he would once have reached for his cigarettes. Poor Drew. Bottling it up for God knows how long, letting the fear fester. He tried to make a joke of it. 'So? What other evidence have you got? You only need to worry when she turns her back on you in bed.'
'She does.'
Holy shit. 'What? Since when?'
'Months. Weeks – oh, I don't sodding know!' Drew stood up as suddenly as he'd sat down. 'I can't even remember the last time I actually saw her naked!'
Charlie blinked again. Drew had never discussed the intimacy of his relationship with Maddy. He loved and respected her far too much.
'I'm going to get a cup of coffee.' Drew kicked at the door and stomped into the yard. 'And apologise to Solomon. I don't want you to breathe a word of this to anyone, okay?'
'You don't think if I had a word with Maddy ...?'
'No, I bloody don't!'
They'd exercised the third lot together; put Bonnie over half-a-dozen hurdles, and had breakfast in Peapods' kitchen with Vincent and Holly and most of the lads who just happened to drop in. Maddy, with Poppy Scarlet under one arm, had kissed Drew on the forehead in a sort of distracted manner and gone to work. She looked okay, Charlie thought. But she was – well – distant. Maybe he could have a word with Fran or Gillian or one of her other friends. Maybe she'd said something to them.
It was still playing on his mind when he drifted into the bookshop just before lunch-time. There were a handful of customers looking round the shelves, a couple sitting reading at the table while their children romped on the beanbags, and Jemima was serving someone at the counter.
'Lucinda's just popped into the Munchy Bar for sandwiches,' Jemima said across the head of her customer. 'Go through and put the kettle on.'
Charlie did. Jemima treated him as part of the furniture now, and much as he hated to admit it, he actually liked being in the shop. The books had a distinctive smell, and the brightly coloured jackets were fascinating. How on earth did publishers keep coming up with something different? And it was successful – well, so far, at least. The trade, Lucinda said, was steady and Jemima, getting towards the end of her first month, was confident about her figures. Despite his early misgivings, he could now see the appeal of a place like this in Milton St John where, by necessity, most leisure-time was active. Like Jemima, the bookshop was serene ... Serene – he mulled over the word as he spooned coffee into three mugs. Yeah, it was a good word for her: she seemed to glide, with those long skirts, and her eyes were always calm behind her glasses, and her voice was soft.
The customer had gone when he carried the tray back to the counter. Jemima, who was running a Stanley knife through the tape sealing a box of books, pushed her hair out of her eyes. 'Cheers. You're a star. Were you taking Lucinda out – or did you intend – um – staying in?' She was laughing. 'Oh, hell – you know what I mean.'
'We're staying in. Fully clothed.' Charlie grinned back. 'Here, you have your coffee and I'll do that.'
He had almost expected her to refuse the offer, to become all feisty and feminist and insist that she could manage. Instead she smiled, handed him the knife, and sat on the high stool behind the counter, lifting her skirt and curling her legs round beneath her as she watched him. Slicing the tape on the first box, Charlie nearly had his fingers off. Those legs! Wow! Why the hell did she keep them hidden?
Stephen Fry's voice flowed quietly from the audio system and, apart from the occasional turning page, the shop was silent. After the rigours of the morning, Charlie wallowed in the tranquillity. Course, he thought, lifting the first armful of books from their confines, it wouldn't always suit his mood to be this quiet. Some days a blast of Judas Priest would please him far better than the mellifluous Mr Fry – but right now it was perfect.
'Where do these go?'
'Over there.' Jemima leaned from her stool and pointed. No jewellery, he noticed. But scarlet nail varnish. 'Adult Fiction. Just dump them anywhere. I'll sort them later.'
'I can put them away. I do know my alphabet.'
'Really? Okay. Go on then.'
He started pushing Venice de Bono and Star Windsilver and Emmanuelle Synclaire – God! the names these authors dreamed up! – on to the shelves. The books were all the same: shocking pink covers criss-crossed with black – like fishnet – and their titles ...
'They're porn!'
'No, they're not.' Jemima giggled. 'They're erotica. Female writers writing for the enjoyment of female readers. Don't be so sexist.'
Charlie was shocked rigid. He couldn't wait to read one. 'Do they sell well?'
Jemima uncurled her fabulous legs from the stool and padded across the shop. 'This is my first consignment. We sold Fishnets in my previous shop in Oxford and they went very well – but we'll have to wait and see.'
Bathsheba Cox and the Ladies' League of Light – or whatever they called themselves – would have a multiple heart attack. Charlie finished unpacking the first box. He picked up the top book from the next.
Spanky Panky
by Bella-Donna Stockings. Fucking hell! 'Can I read this?'
'If you pay for it and then only when you've finished the shelf-stacking.'
Charlie did both. Jemima was just sliding the Fishnet into its green-and-gold bag when Lucinda returned with lunch.
She stared at the bag. 'Is that a present for me?'
'Charlie's suddenly developed a taste for literature,' Jemima said, her eyes innocent behind the spectacles. 'No doubt he'll share it with you later.'
She took a round of tuna salad and returned to the stool. Charlie, drooling with starvation, dragged his eyes from the Munchy Bar's squishy delight and watched as, unself-consciously, she lifted her skirt and curled her legs again. Matt Garside was a lucky bastard.