Gillian had popped her head round the flat door as she was leaving, looking very demure in a knee-length skirt and a shortie raincoat, and with her long pale hair in a bun. 'Suitable, do you think?'
'Way over the top,' Jemima had said. 'They're all going to know something's up.'
'Glen thought I looked nice.'
'I bet the boys didn't.'
'They said I looked like Olive Oyl.' Gillian had sighed. 'You've got to promise not to look at me tonight. We've got to get through this without laughing.'
No problem, Jemima thought morosely, cupping her chin on her hands. She'd had a little laugh with Charlie that afternoon. And perhaps Matt would be more cheerful tonight, always assuming that he bothered to turn up at all. She'd tuned in, by accident, to the racing from Stratford on 5 Live: Matt on Rainy Monday had beaten Charlie on Sebastian's Bat by a short head.
Because the shop had been empty and the sound system switched off, she had only turned on the radio for company. She had never listened before, or watched televised races, or even eavesdropped on the reruns in the Cat and Fiddle — but despite everything, she had been holding her breath for the final furlong.
She'd had no idea it would be so exciting – hearing the commentator's frenzied tones calling out Matt and Charlie's names when she actually
knew
them. It made her feel quite superior, sharing their reflected glory. It hadn't really occurred to her that Matt and Charlie were household names, and with her knowing them intimately ... Well, no, not intimately, as such. Not a good choice of words under the circumstances. And the strange thing was that she'd wanted Charlie to win.
Maybe that wasn't so strange. She and Charlie didn't share a humiliating secret. Still, hopefully the win meant that Matt's lean spell was coming to an end. With any luck, he'd stop looking like a kicked puppy. One day, they might even be able to cope with the embarrassment.
It was always going to be there. She knew she had handled it badly. She should have reassured him at the time; should have turned it into something they could share – upsetting, but no big deal. If only they could have cuddled and talked and defused the situation. But they hadn't – and she couldn't because it was her fault that Matt found her unattractive – and now it had spiralled out of control....
Hearing a flurry of activity, she looked out of the window. Bathsheba had arrived. Illuminated by the orange glow of the street lamps, a woolly hat pulled well down over her ears, she was busily handing out placards and candles. Jemima sighed. There were loads of them – people, not candles. Although there seemed to be plenty of those too, virgin white tapers in little lantern holders. Left over, Gillian had told her, from the Milton St John pilgrimage to Kensington Palace. And it wasn't simply Bathsheba Bronwyn and Petunia and a handful of the WI, as she'd imagined – but also a cross-section of the villagers. Even some men. Not many of them were her regular customers as far as she could see. She'd have to draw up a blacklist.
And where, oh where, were her supporters? Had they all decided to stay at home with the telly? Surely Maureen would be there – and... She shrugged. Who else could she expect? Tracy had said she'd come but maybe her Bobby hadn't been able to look after the children. Did it really matter to the citizens of Milton St John whether she carried on in business or not? They all had their own survival to consider – would they be the slightest bit interested in hers?
She brightened. Glen and Gillian had arrived, accompanied, due to all their regular baby-sitters being on the protest, by a rather unhappy-looking Levi and Zeke. Her heart plummeted. Of course, even they weren't on her side tonight, were they?
'Jemima!' a voice called through the back door's letter-box. 'Jem, love! Are you in there?'
Smiling, she hurried through the gloom, tripping over the hem of her skirt, stumbling against the shelving. She should have known Vincent wouldn't let her down. She tugged open the door. 'Why didn't you come to the front?'
'With those old bats out there? Not on your life.' Vincent looked around. 'Why are the lights off? Not – um – entertaining, are you?'
She laughed. Almost. Twice in one day might be a bit much. 'I didn't want anyone to see me. I felt a bit isolated. They're all antis out there. Actually, it seems like a waste of time. I mean, if only Bathsheba and Co. turn up, then it's going to be a bit like preaching to the converted, isn't it?'
Vincent headed for the front of the shop and peered through the window. 'Well, they've managed to light their candles without setting fire to their mittens, so I suppose that's a plus. But I see what you mean about it being a bit one-sided. Matt not supporting you, then?'
She was glad the lights were low. She didn't want Vincent to notice that she was blushing. 'He was racing at Stratford this afternoon. I – um – think he'll try and get back in time.'
Getting serious, is it?' Vincent still had his back to her. 'You and him?'
No. Well, not any different. Actually, probably not as much. I mean, we don't see much of each other now that the jumping season is under way. He's really busy.'
Vincent said nothing for a moment. He didn't move. 'Good.'
'I thought you liked Matt.'
'I did. That is, I do. I just thought – well, that maybe – with you not liking jockeys and racing and things, that it might have, well – fizzled out by now.'
Oh God, it had fizzled out! 'I suppose I've mellowed a bit. The jockeys I've met have been really nice, and everyone in the village is great, and they all seem to adore their horses. And even you've given up gambling, which is brilliant. But no, even so, Matt s not destined to become your son-in-law, if that's what you mean.'
She could have sworn that Vincent muttered 'Thank God'. 'Mind you, there's probably going to be a bit of back-pedalling. Did you know that everyone in this village hunts foxes?'
'Who told you that?'
'Charlie. There's an anti-blood-sports poster somewhere –' Oh no, there wasn't. It was in Charlie's jacket. 'Or rather, there will be. They're holding a saboteurs' rally at Fernydown at the end of November. I'm going.'
Vincent raised his eyebrows. 'I think you should be careful, Jem. You could alienate a lot of people.'
She glared at him. Charlie had said the same thing. Bloody men. 'I don't care. I care about animals and I won't condone cruelty. I can't just stand by and let it happen. Not here on the doorstep.'
'Maybe not, love, and I admire your principles. I'm against it myself, you know that. Me and your mum, we always brought you up to love and respect animals. But this village, and your business, depends on a lot of people involved in National Hunt racing, doesn't it?'
'Yes, but I don't see –' The penny dropped with a huge clunk. It was something that Charlie had omitted to mention. 'God! It's connected, isn't it? Hunting animals and National Hunt racing? That's why it's called ... and it takes place at the same time of year and ... you mean, that's what they
do
with their horses when they're not actually racing them? Charge across the countryside killing animals? People like Drew and Charlie and –'
'Some of them hunt, I'm sure.' Vincent looked uncomfortable. 'But then again, lots probably don't. I just think you should find out whose toes you'll be stamping on.'
It would be a damn sight more than toes, she thought crossly. How on earth could these people profess to love their horses – and have loads of dogs and cats spilling about their yards – and then go out and actually enjoy seeing a small, terrified animal pulled to pieces? She had never heard anything so bloody hypocritical in her life.
A squeal of brakes halted her next flood of invective.
'Reinforcements.' Vincent squinted through the door again. He sounded quite relieved. 'Not sure whether they're theirs or ours. A van and an estate car. Anyone you know?'
Still seething at the duplicity of the racing fraternity, Jemima looked over his shoulder at the vehicles pulling into the lay-by. She didn't recognise them. Obviously anti-erotica supporters by the way Bathsheba had stopped waving her 'Purity for the Pure' banner and was peering inside the car.
'Not mine. Theirs, then. Again. Anyway, what about your faithful fan club tonight? Where's Maureen? I thought she'd be along to support me.'
Vincent looked a bit shifty. 'Well, you know how it is. After a long day at work and everything ...'
Jemima sighed. It had happened all her life. People promised things – and then simply didn't deliver.
Christ! The lay-by was lit suddenly by arc lights, the curve of shops illuminated like a Blackpool hotel. Vincent, giving the glow no more than a cursory glance, was grinning.
'What's going on, Dad?'
He shrugged. 'Probably the Ladies' League of Light spontaneously combusting.'
'Oh, my God! It's the telly!' Well, maybe the BBC hadn't considered it came within their social parameters, but Meridian and Central obviously had. 'And Thames Valley Radio have sent an outside broadcast! Dad – look!'
Vincent looked. 'Ah, yes. Bill Rennells. Old honey-voice. Your mum used to have a hell of crush on him when he was on Radio Two. I wonder who could have tipped them off?'
Jemima pulled open the door. If the local media were going to zoom in on the meeting, there was no way that she was going to let Bathsheba hog the limelight.
She needn't have worried. Just as Bill Rennells was setting the scene for his listeners, and Anne Dawson was doing the same for the viewers, the Munchy Bar's double doors crashed open. Jemima blinked. The cameras zoomed in. Levi and Zeke giggled. It was the only sound. Everyone else had stopped talking. Most of them looked as if they'd stopped breathing.
Led by Maureen, they trooped out on to the lay-by: Suzy, Fran, Georgia, Maddy, Diana James-Jordan, Kimberley Small, Tracy, Holly, Kath Seaward and about thirty other women. They outnumbered the League of Light by a mile.
Like the Parish Biddies, they were carrying placards; like them, they carried candles, only theirs were scarlet. Unlike the Parish Biddies they were wearing a wild mixture of basques, teddies and suspenders. Their faces were caked in outrageous make-up, with huge pouting lips and kohled-on eyelashes. To a man they were wearing fishnet stockings.
Jemima didn't know whether to laugh or cry so she did a bit of both. 'Oh, my God! They're amazing! They must be absolutely frozen! And no one breathed a word to me!'
'Maureen's idea, love.' Vincent beamed proudly. 'She went to see Upton Poges's Am Dram version of
The Rocky Horror Show
last year and thought it'd be just the ticket. Young Georgia belongs to the group and was very helpful with loaning the costumes. Maureen's been burning the midnight oil all week letting out seams and organising the make-up. Look a picture, don't they?
They did. Sort of Brueghel meets Beryl Cook.
Maddy, bless her, being so very pregnant, had toned down her costume a bit – otherwise they'd left nothing to the imagination. Jemima's eyes filled with tears again. Oh, they were wonderful! And they were doing this for her! Nothing had ever touched her quite so much.
Parading up and down on their six-inch heels, PVC thigh boots gleaming in the arc lights, giving Girl Power salutes, they were stupendous. Their placards pledged support for erotica, for freedom of choice, for Fishnets, for women's literature, for Jemima Carlisle. The media, ignoring the woolly bonnets and brogues, zoomed in with relish.
'Fucking hell!' Charlie's voice rang through the awed silence.
'I've just walked into my wildest fantasy!'
She turned and grinned at him. Matt, standing just behind him, was slack-jawed.
Gillian, who up to that point had been feebly waving a 'Ban Bella-Donna Stockings!' poster at knee-level and looking sheepish, cast a frantic look at Charlie then slunk up beside Jemima, trying to free her hair from its bun. 'Bugger. You didn't say that he'd be here. Look at me! Frump of the year.'
'Serves you right for not having the guts to come out.' Jemima, on top of the world, poked out her tongue. 'Just think, you could have paraded in your Ann Summers' best solely for his benefit.'
'I don't have any Ann Sum — Oh, right. Metaphorically. Yes, I could, couldn't I? Oh, sod it.'
The noise and the lights had dragged everyone out of the Cat and Fiddle and the neighbouring cottages. The road was teeming with grinning villagers, clapping their hands and catcalling as the Rocky Horror chorus formed a circle round the anti-erotica faction, and marched with majorette precision. Maureen had obviously drilled them within an inch of their lives. Not one pointy toe was out of step, not one goosefleshed bosom drooped. It was awe-inspiring.
The media obviously thought so. Bill Rennells had joined in.
I thought you'd be out there with them,' Charlie said to her, beginning to regain the power of speech. 'Seeing as how you're a professional. You must even have the right costume.'
I don't. I told you – that was ages ago –' She wanted to giggle, and probably would have done if she hadn't caught Matt's eye.
'Oh. congratulations on your win.'
What? How did you know?'
'I listened. I obviously picked the right time to tune in. Well done.'
Matt looked embarrassed. 'Oh, yeah. Thanks. What did he mean about you being a professional?'
Charlie winked. 'God, don't you two share any secrets? Jemima used to be a lap-dancer.'
'I bloody didn't! I worked for a party company – I had to dress like Marilyn Monroe and jump out of a cake – once.'
Charlie nodded appreciatively. 'Not surprising – you've got incredible legs.'
Both she and Matt stared at him. 'How the hell do you know?'
Charlie grinned, raised his eyebrows, and wandered off to join the Rocky Horrors who were now executing a sort of Tiller Girl high-kicking routine across the lay-by. Carefully wrapping his leather jacket round Maddy's shoulders – she'd obviously been excused this part of the plan – he wriggled himself between Georgia and Suzy and kicked along with them.
'Prat,' Matt said, but with no malice. He didn't look at her. 'I'm glad you listened to the race this afternoon. Maybe things will be – well, okay?'