'No – no ... Are you?'
'Fucking pissed off at the time, but it happens. He recovered well. He'd still got the beating of them. He should have won, of course. But at least this time I can't blame the jockey.'
Kath edged up a gear and overtook a convoy of coaches. Everyone on the back seats waved. Matt looked down into the footwell just in case they'd gambled everything on Dragon Slayer and recognised him.
Zigzagging back into the left lane, oblivious to the horn-blowing and light-flashing around her, Kath shrugged. 'Do you remember what he was like in the first couple of years we had him? Real bastard at the water. I thought he'd got over that. Still, it was a good exercise. So, apart from the balls-up, how did he feel?'
'Excellent.' Matt tried to sound normal. He'd got away with it. If he could fool Kath he could fool anyone, surely? 'I mean, really good. He'll win next time out, no problem.'
Kath turned her head and gave him one of her rare smiles. 'Yes, he will.'
Shit. He stretched his mouth into an answering grin. Now he wasn't sure. Did Kath suspect anything? Ever since he'd dismounted, he'd expected the stewards to haul him in. A well-beaten odds-on favourite – especially one of Dragon Slayer's stature – always aroused suspicions. He'd listened to the changing-room chatter without hearing a word. Each time the door had opened he'd expected someone to call his name.
But they hadn't. Everyone had seen Dragon Slayer shy away from the ditch. His fellow jockeys had been sympathetic and mickey-taking in equal measure. They all knew it happened. It had happened to all of them at some time. No one doubted that Dragon Slayer's stumble was anything other than an early-season
faux pas.
After a further hair-raising hour, Kath screeched the BMW to a halt outside his house. 'See you for work tomorrow morning,' she said as he hauled the holdall from the back seat. 'I won't take you back to the yard. I don't think you'll be too popular. The lads will have put their wages on Dragon Slayer today. They'll blame you for buggering up their spending money.' She revved the engine and leaned from the window. 'It'll probably cost you a few pints tonight.'
It was going to cost him a hell of a lot more than that, Matt thought sadly.
Kath revved even harder, then, as the car jerked forward, she leaned from the window again. 'Oh, Matt! One thing you might give a bit of thought to. If Dragon Slayer hated the ditch so much, why did he jump it like a stag on the first circuit?'
Shit. Shit. Shit. With a sick churning in his stomach, Matt unlocked his front door and dropped the holdall in the hall. He should have known he couldn't fool Kath. Oh, God.
He stumbled across the cluttered living room towards the drinks tray on the sideboard. The light on the answerphone was flashing. He played both the messages as he shed his suit jacket and tie and poured a huge gin and slimline tonic.
Jemima, reminding him of the meeting – and asking him to meet her in the Cat and Fiddle if he got back in time. No mention of the race – but of course, there wouldn't be, would there? And Ned, sarcastically congratulating him on a blinding result, and suggesting that they met up for a pint and a chat pretty damn quick.
Christ. He poured a second gin and wiped the messages.
The Cat and Fiddle was bulging at the seams. The Ladies' League of Light meeting was obviously over, and the protagonists had spilled into the lounge bar. Matt veered away from the perms, sandals and cardigans all bobbing round the Vicar, and headed for the Spit and Sawdust. Several morose lads from Lancing Grange were clustered round the juke-box sharing a lemonade shandy. Matt, backing up, gave them a wide berth as he made his way to the Snug.
It was like walking into hell. Not only was Jemima sitting at a table with Maureen and Gillian, but Vincent and Ned were pressed chummily together on one of the benches, and Charlie Somerset was chatting to Kath. Dear God.
They all turned to look at him at the same time. He swept a smile round the room and made for the bar. It was going to take ages to get served. The longer the better as far as he was concerned, even though he was gagging for a top-up of gin.
'I'll get yours.' Charlie elbowed his way in beside him. 'I'm buying another for Ms Seaward and the girls. You can get the next round. Bad luck about today. Still, shit happens. Go and talk to Jemima, I'm sure she needs your support.'
Trying to organise his scattered wits, Matt blinked. 'I didn't know you and Kath were on speaking terms again. When did that happen?'
'What?' Charlie caught the barman's eye and rattled off his order. 'Oh, yeah. Well, a crowded bar makes for strange stablemates. We're not sitting together by choice. She still reckons I'm the pits – don't worry. Your job's safe. Look, Matt, don't misunderstand me, but I reckon you ought to sort out your priorities.'
Sweating with guilt, Matt found himself jostled by several villagers. He jerked away from them irritably. They laughed, making ribald comments about his failure to win. Frowning, he turned his back. 'Which priorities?'
'If you need to ask, then you've got a major problem.' Charlie collected the glasses together. 'Jemima, of course. Stop screwing about me and Kath ripping each other to shreds, and ask Jemima how the meeting went.'
'I did intend to.'
Charlie balanced his collection of gin, beer and assorted wines. 'Well, don't sodding intend – bloody do it.'
Matt did. Easing himself between Maureen's purple satin and Gillian's muted silk, he leaned across the table and kissed Jemima's forehead. He'd aimed for her cheek and hoped he might get her mouth. It was all too squashed to be accurate.
'How did it go? Bathsheba's meeting?'
'Well, as I was excluded – and Gillian swapped sides – I was in the middle of finding out.'
'I've been debriefed,' Gillian smiled radiantly across the table at Charlie. 'And I wish you'd all stop frowning at me. I didn't have a choice. I was strictly Mrs Vicar tonight. With Glen chairing the meeting, what else was I supposed to do?'
Matt didn't really care. He tried to reach for Jemima's hand and couldn't make it. 'So? You're still trading then? Bathsheba hasn't slapped on an embargo?'
'Damn well better not try, duck.' Maureen was displaying her usual generous amount of cleavage. 'No, the silly old bag is having a general public meeting at the end of the month. Village hall will have reopened then, see. She reckons she'll get a full house.'
Jemima appeared to drag her eyes away from Ned and Vincent. 'Tonight was highly undemocratic – all antis barred. Apparently she's stirring everyone up, ordering them not to set foot inside the shop if they want to protect the good name of the sisterhood – that sort of thing. I don't know how it will affect sales ...'
'Not at all,' Gillian and Maureen said together.
Matt shrugged. 'It could have been worse, then.' It could have been a million times worse. Jemima was only being bothered by maybes. His life was being pulled apart by definites.
She still looked unhappy. He wanted to tell her to smile and not worry but the words weren't there. He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful – because she was. He wished that three months ago he hadn't been such a gentleman when she'd been shy and unsure of herself, and he hadn't wanted to take advantage of her vulnerability. Now he knew that he'd left it too late to develop their friendship into anything else. Or had he? He wished they could be alone together to find out. More than anything he wanted to invite Jemima back to his house and sit quietly in the dark and be comforted.
She was sipping her wine, looking distracted. Her eyes weren't on him. They had slipped back to Vincent and Ned in the corner. He wished she'd speak to him about racing.
'Matt –' Kath Seaward had left Charlie and was leaning over their table on her way out of the pub. 'After first lot, come to breakfast tomorrow. There are things I want to discuss. Okay?'
Panic prickled up from his toes. Calm down. 'Okay. Er – anything in particular?'
'Yes.' She swept her glance round the rest of the Snug. 'I've picked up one or two bits of gossip tonight that seem to throw some light on what happened today. I'd like to know what you think. 'Night.'
Christ. Exhausted as he was, there was no chance of sleeping tonight now. He'd toss and turn and the horrors would multiply in the dark, dead hours. He felt like a hunted animal.
Charlie had vanished through to the Spit and Sawdust. Ned and Vincent were draining the last dregs from their glasses. Gillian and Maureen were giggling together. Jemima, still opposite him, looked troubled. He thought about moving the chairs round so that they could at least be side by side. He couldn't be bothered. He didn't want to hear about the bloody bookshop. God, he thought, what a lot of fuss over nothing. Getting panicky over a lot of silly old blue-rinsed bags who objected to a couple of novels. She ought to try walking in his shoes. She ought to try having an entire race of demons riding on her shoulders.
'Any more room for a little one?' Vincent beamed round the table. The beam faltered slightly when it reached Matt. 'Shift up, Jem, love, and make a space for your dad.'
'You park your bum here.' Maureen patted the half-inch of her chair that was visible on either side of the purple satin. 'Jemima can snuggle up a bit to young Matthew. They both looks like they've lost a quid and found a tanner.'
There was a lot of clattering as the seating was rearranged. Jemima looked as though she'd rather be anywhere than snuggled up to him, Matt thought. What was the point in carrying on like this? They were getting nowhere. And if Vincent had joined the group, did that mean Ned was following? And did he really want to be sharing a table with Maureen and Vincent – both of whom could surely blow his cover?
He stood up. 'Actually, I'm pretty knackered. I think I'll call it a day.'
He wanted Jemima to come with him, but he couldn't ask her in front of her father. And she'd probably say no anyway.
'Perfect timing.' Ned Filkins clapped him on the shoulder. 'I'll walk along with you, Matt, me lad. We're going in the same direction, aren't we?'
Fuck it. Matt swallowed. 'Yeah, I guess we are.' He leaned across Maureen and kissed Jemima haphazardly on the top of her head. 'I'll ring you tomorrow. Okay?'
She nodded and sort of blew him a kiss in return.
Outside, the night had closed in. The lights spilled out across the car park and the Cat and Fiddle's clientele were still coming and going. Ned, whose head didn't quite reach Matt's shoulder, looked like a malevolent goblin in the gloom.
'Not quite what we had in mind, Matt, now was it?' His eyes swivelled in all directions. 'Very artistic, I must admit. And lucrative. The lads and me cleaned up on betting against Dragon Slayer – but we don't want to overdo it. We thought you'd get a place. We don't want him fucking up every race and Mizz Seaward deciding that he's past his sell-by and despatching him to the knackers, now do we?'
Matt shook his head.
Ned continued to bob alongside. 'You'd better win for the next couple of outings – or run your best. We still want to be on song for the Hennessey. The ole cow was asking questions in there tonight.'
'I think she's going to be asking me the same questions in the morning.'
'And you've got your answers off pat, haven't you? Stick to what we agreed. No bullshit – the ole cow's too clever by half. Don't want to arouse no suspicions now, do we? Me and the lads'll be in touch. Okay?'
Matt said nothing. There was nothing to say. If only it were that simple. If only it were Ned and a fistful of bent stable lads determined to make a killing. Christ! He could handle that.
Ned punched him playfully on the arm. 'Don't look so down, boy. Just do what you're told and you'll be laughing along with the rest of us come Aintree, won't you?'
Really, Jemima thought, closing her account-books, Bathsheba's boycott had made no difference. If anything, September's sales were slightly up. Fishnets were still very much in demand, and she'd ordered all the new tides. Mind you, after the meeting in the village hall it might be a different story. She'd heard a rumour that Bronwyn Pugh, using the same tactics, had defeated a millionaire alliance which had wanted to turn Milton St John into the next golfer's paradise.
In the quiet of the empty shop, she whizzed through the spreadsheets on the computer, made sure the columns tallied with her handwritten figures, and printed them out. Next stop the accountants in Upton Poges to drop off the paperwork, followed by depositing the takings in the bank, then possibly a veggie kebab take-out from Leon's Turkish Delight in Upton Poges High Street, and an evening of doing nothing very much. There would be absolutely no point in making the meal for two and inviting Matt. He was still existing on lettuce leaves and self-pity, and seemed to spend all his free time in the sauna.
Hurling the briefcase on to Floss's back seat, she reversed away from the lay-by. Bronwyn, collecting in the litter bins from outside the Village Stores, kept her head down. Maureen, sluicing down the pavement in front of the Munchy Bar, waved vigorously. That just about summed it up, Jemima thought, easing off the clutch as she turned Peapods' corner; either for or against. There were going to be no half-measures.
The journey into Upton Poges usually took her about fifteen minutes. At this time of day, in the middle of all the home-going traffic, it would take possibly twice as long. It didn't matter. She had nothing to rush for. To be honest, the lack of life outside the bookshop was beginning to bother her. In Oxford, she'd had various consecutive relationships, and plenty of manless gaps, neither of which had been a problem. She'd always been in control of her love life. This something-and-nothing affair with Matt was beginning to appear pretty pointless. She was sure he felt he same way. Perhaps one of them should be brave enough to say goodbye.
Maybe if she discussed his job with him it would give them some common ground – but because she refused to ask about his race-riding, he ignored everything that happened during her working day, too. It made conversation a bit stilted. And it honestly wasn't just because he was a jockey, she told herself above the hum of TVFM, although that didn't help. No, Matt, she was sure, could have been employed in any profession and there would still be no vital spark.