She enjoyed his company, and liked him ... That was it, she thought, trying not to plough Floss into a clump of fitness-freak office workers who were cycling home wearing crash helmets with their sober suits, she
liked
Matt. She'd liked him from the moment they'd met – and nothing had changed. She sometimes wished that he wouldn't be so damned respectful and – well – nice. If only he'd rush into her flat one evening, throatily declare uncontrollable lust and, brooking no arguments, tumble her into bed. She giggled at the unlikely image. But at least then she wouldn't feel quite so bloody
sisterly
towards him.
Everyone else in Milton St John seemed to be firmly into a steamy and satisfying relationship of one sort or another. Except Suzy, of course, but then she'd probably had enough steam in her two years with Luke to last her a lifetime. All the current gossip centred on Maddy and Drew's forthcoming wedding. Whether it was because Gillian still had a bit of pull with the Bishop or not was unclear, but dispensation had been granted for them to be married in St Saviour's. The ceremony had been arranged, rather imaginatively, Jemima thought, for November the fifth, when Maddy would sail down the aisle – or was it up? – at exactly seven-and-a-half months' pregnant.
Couldn't they have arranged it more quickly? Jemima had enquired of Gillian.
Gillian had looked askance at such innocence, and explained that this was the only way the nuptials could be slotted into Bonne Nuit's training schedule. It would also give everyone three weeks in which to recover before the Hennessey. The Hennessey Gold Cup at Newbury was apparently one of the big dates on the racing calendar: Gillian had explained it all to her in words of one syllable. Bonne Nuit would be making his first bid for the major spoils. Charlie would be riding Bonnie, Gillian had said, and Matt would be on Dragon Slayer. Surely he'd told her? Jemima said he might have done. It would be the first time the two horses had been pitted against each other. It would be a great day out.
So it might be, Jemima thought as she indicated towards Upton Poges, but it wouldn't involve her. She'd asked Gillian if Bonne Nuit's ownership would be public knowledge by this time, and Gillian had got quite agitated and said no, she didn't think so. It wasn't important. Bonne Nuit's anonymous training fees were serving their dual purpose. They were making a satisfactory dent in the Hutchinsons' bank account and shoring up the Peapods survival bid. Jemima still didn't quite understand what was going on.
But then, she didn't understand a lot of what was going on in Milton St John if she was honest. The village was like a river-gliding swan – two-thirds visible, calm and serene – and the remainder hidden and churning turbulently at an altogether different pace.
At least Lucinda was settled, she thought with almost motherly satisfaction, as she negotiated the congestion in Upton Poges High Street. After Bathsheba's initial outburst, and that rather surreal incident with Charlie in the chestnut tree, she'd managed via Vincent to get a message to Lucinda at Charlie's cottage. The KGB could learn a lot from Milton St John, she reckoned. They'd met in a suitably cloak-and-dagger way on one of the downland bridle-paths, and decided for the sake of peace that Lucinda shouldn't return to work in the bookshop.
'But I want to work there! I wasn't running away from you. I've never run away! I'll work until I go to university as planned,' Lucinda had insisted, the plait swinging angrily from side to side. 'My ma is not going to dictate to me! Oh go on, Jemima please!'
Jemima had had to be quite firm, and point out that a banshee-wailing Bathsheba stalking through Romantic Fiction every five minutes trying to reclaim her daughter would bankrupt the bookshop even more easily than the bulk-buying operations of the conglomerate chains.
Eventually Lucinda had capitulated, deciding to accept an invitation to spend the remainder of the time before she decamped for Southampton at a schoolfriend's parents' apartment in Spain.
'Real chum, this time?' Jemima had enquired. 'Not another Somerset euphemism?'
'Sadly, not.' Lucinda had scuffed at the dusty ground with the toe of her Buffalo trainer. 'Rebecca Maxwell-Dunmore. Sod all like Charlie. But –' she'd brightened and grinned at Jemima, 'she's got a really ace older brother.'
They'd parted friends. Jemima missed her – and so, she suspected, did Charlie who occasionally drifted into the bookshop for a chat, but never bought anything. Neither of them mentioned the chestnut tree. Sometimes Jemima wondered if she'd dreamed it. Who, apart from the skeletal Tina Maloret, was occupying Lucinda's place in Charlie's Wallbank-Fox, she had no idea; but her place in the bookshop had been taken by Tracy, a rather frighteningly efficient young mum from the new estate.
She parked Floss behind the Masonic Hall, shed herself of the least interesting but vital parts of the bookshop's operation at their various destinations, and decided against the take-away. Instead, she fought her way through Salisbury's, and emerged triumphant with a couple of bottles of Chardonnay and the makings of a blue cheese pasta salad. Deciding that this sounded extremely virtuous, she also lobbed a chocolate fudge gateau into the basket and promised herself she wouldn't eat it all in one go with a spoon. She would invite Gillian to supper – and possibly the twins, she decided, hurling in pizzas. Glen was heavily involved in organising the Michaelmas and Harvest Home church festivals which would mean she could legitimately exclude him.
Her relationship with Glen since the League of Light meeting had become rather strained. Poor man. She liked and admired him and certainly didn't want to make his conflict of interests any worse. Feeling guilty about her part in the latest village uproar, she'd even gone to church on the previous Sunday.
Apart from weddings and funerals and the odd inebriated Midnight Mass during her Oxford Christmases, organised worship had been lacking in Jemima's routine. Sitting between Gillian and the twins – whose usual sacrilegious spikes of hair had been flattened for the morning service – she had gazed alternately at the glorious centuries-old architecture of St Saviour's and Bathsheba Cox and the Parish Biddies who were packed into the front pews, staring at Glen in slavish adoration. She had enjoyed the hymn-singing, and recognised the prayers from childhood. She hadn't felt any spiritual uplift as far as she could tell, but maybe it had earned her some Brownie points.
Leaving Upton Poges and hitting the traffic going the other way this time, the return journey to Milton St John was equally slow. It still didn't matter. Jemima deposited her shopping in the kitchen, opened all the windows to the last knockings of the beautiful evening, and went in search of Gillian.
She found her crouched over the word processor in the summerhouse, a cigarette smouldering in the ashtray, and an empty wineglass beside it. Having issued her invitation, which Gillian accepted with almost indecent haste when she mentioned the chocolate fudge gateau, she also invited the twins. Levi and Zeke were out at a birthday party – the burger and video type, Gillian explained quickly – just in case Jemima should think the boys had gone soft, and Glen was involved with his festival organising and choir practice, so she'd be along in an hour or so if that was okay.
The hour or so gave Jemima enough time to knock up the pasta salad, chill the wine, defrost the cake, have a shower, and rinse through her underwear. Deciding against trailing down the three flights of stairs to the Vicarage washing-line, she draped the scanty bits of lace over the radiators. She'd have to remember to switch them on later. A rather gory detective film on the television added an interesting background to this scene of domesticity. If she wasn't careful she'd be knitting for the Bring and Buy next.
A faint rap on the door interrupted an exciting development in the film; the detective had just got his kit off and was romping – far beyond the call of duty – very enthusiastically with a buxom policewoman. Squinting, her eyes still on the screen, Jemima walked across the room and opened the door.
'Oh!' Glen looked embarrassed. 'I thought Gillian said she was coming to supper. Have I got it wrong?'
Jemima fumbled in her pocket for her glasses. 'No – er – are you joining us?' Would the pasta salad stretch? The gateau certainly wouldn't.
'Sadly, not.' Glen edged past her and seemed transfixed by the television. 'I just wondered if I could have a word about Bathsheba's next meeting?'
'Yes, of course.' She slid across the room and quickly zapped off the humping detective. It was far too late to hide her underwear. 'Is there a problem?'
Glen collapsed on to the sofa. 'It's all one huge problem, to be honest. But I really didn't want you to think that because I'm sitting on the platform with the ladies, that their views are necessarily mine. I'm not in favour of pornography, of course – but Gillian assures me that these – um – Fishnets aren't in the least salacious. The last thing I want is to cause you any professional hardship.' He sighed. 'This has really put both Gillian and myself in an awkward situation.'
Jemima knew. She was touched that Glen had made this effort. She thought she ought to make one of her own. 'I had intended to be at the village hall to fight my corner. Would you like me to boycott the meeting? Would that make it easier for you?'
'Heavens, no. You have every right to defend yourself.' He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. 'I sometimes get very frazzled by the outer limits of being a clergyman. I'd fondly believed at theological college that it would be all services and soul-saving. Maybe a little ministering to the sick and giving comfort. I had absolutely no idea that I'd have to be an ombudsman and arbiter – as well as judge, jury, and executioner.'
'I do understand, really. And I promise, whatever happens at the meeting, I won't blame either you or Gillian for not being on my side.'
Glen looked relieved. 'I also think that your friendship with Gillian has helped to stoke the fires. I'm well aware that Bathsheba has never considered Gillian to be the most suitable Vicar's wife, despite her attention to parish duties. I've tried suggesting that she dresses a little more conventionally – and maybe isn't quite so open about smoking and drinking – but then, that's what makes her Gillian. I love her very much, you know.'
Jemima was getting misty-eyed. 'And that probably gets up a few noses, too. I mean, Bathsheba and Bronwyn and Co. – they're all fixated on you. You're a good-looking man who is gentle and kind – and in a position of power. It's heady stuff. I have a feeling that Fishnets may be just the tip of the iceberg. It's probably got far more to do with them fancying you rotten, and finding any old excuse to have you press your gaiters next to their support stockings in the village hall.'
'You'll make me blush,' Glen said, smoothing his hair.
God, Jemima thought, no wonder he caused ructions beneath the polyester bosoms. He was far too devastating to be let loose on all those middle-aged ladies with confused hormones.
'So, that's it really.' He stood up. 'I'm sure Gillian will echo my words to you. I just needed you to know that I'm not personally insulted by anything you sell – but that in my position –'
'Have you read any Fishnets?'
'What? No, of course not. They're not my sort of thing – and I get very little time –'
'Don't you think you should? You'd have a rounded opinion then, wouldn't you? Oh, I'm not doing a marketing campaign on you – you don't have to buy them. Borrow them from someone. Gillian's probably got all of them.'
Glen paused on his way to the door. 'Oh, I think you're wrong there. Gillian favours more romantic fiction. Haven't you read any of her short stories?'
Jemima had. They were pure hearts and flowers and happy endings. It hadn't stopped the cupboard in the summerhouse being stocked with raunch. So, that was another thing Glen didn't know about. She wasn't sure which would shock him more: the fact that Gillian was a closet erotica fan, or that she owned a racehorse which was tipped to win the Grand National.
'Anyway,' Glen was smiling again, looking even more like Richard Gere, 'I'll let you get on with your preparations. And tell Gillian not to hurry back downstairs. I'll put the boys to bed.' He held out his hand. 'I just wanted to have all this out in the open, you understand? I think I'm fairly liberal and I try to be tolerant, but if there's one thing I can't stand, it's subterfuge. Good night.'
Bloody hell, Jemima thought as she closed the door. Chicanery could be Milton St John's middle name.
They'd eaten most of the pasta salad and had hacked the gateau down the middle and heaped half each on two plates.
'Yum.' Gillian washed down the last remains with a mouthful of Chardonnay. 'Totally blissful. Thank you so much. So? Was I second choice for this evening? Did Matt turn you down? If so, then he's a sad case.'
Jemima pushed the cake plates to one side and topped up the glasses. 'Matt didn't get invited. He wouldn't have eaten anything anyway. He's living on nervous energy and fizzy water.'
'One of the drawbacks of dating a jockey. Still, if he'd eaten all this lovely food he'd have been able to work it off later, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? Jemima!' Gillian's mouth dropped open. 'You mean you still haven't – haven't –'
'No, we still haven't. And we're never likely to. And I don't want to talk about it. And I don't want to talk about him being a jockey, either. So, please change the subject.'
It proved pretty difficult. Most of the village gossip seemed to revolve around horses or sex. They managed to cover Luke and Suzy's estrangement; Maddy and Drew's wedding – Charlie Somerset as best man, of course, with Fran, Georgia, Rosa and Suzy as bridesmaids – and possibly Fran's daughter Chloe, and Lucinda if she wanted to be, and Poppy Scarlet if they could get her to toddle down the aisle; and then went on to Charlie and Tina's rather behind-closed-doors affair; and the forthcoming Hennessey Gold Cup.
'In which your Bonnie Nuts will be aiming for glory, no doubt?' Jemima stretched out on the sofa, relegating Gillian to the edge. 'And, as no one apart from Drew, me and Charlie knows its true ownership, you'll have to stuff a hanky in your mouth if it does well – and, of course, not swan around in the winner's box –'