Jemima had wished he would stop smiling at the bloody camera. She had been kidding herself that he was smiling just for her. She wanted to cry.
'I wouldn't mind living in Milton St John,' Laura had sighed. 'All those gorgeous men – and horses thrown in. Heaven.' She'd wriggled round on the sofa. 'If you're ever looking for an assistant, give me a shout.'
Jemima said she might well do that. The shop was doing extraordinarily well. Tracy didn't want to work full-time. And Laura had been Bookworms-trained. Why not?
'Jemima! You're not watching the race,' Laura had said later. 'Aren't you interested?'
She had shaken her head, averting her eyes from the screen. 'I told you I wasn't. Chuck me the
Oxford Times
– I want to see what's on at the cinema tonight.'
Gillian's voice wrenched her back to the present. 'Jemima! Wake up! I said, the first race is only a two-mile hurdle
'What? Oh, right – but I'd like to find Dad and Maureen. I mean, once the National starts, you'll be the centre of attention, won't you? I'll have to find another shoulder to hide my eyes in.'
'And I bet you hid behind the sofa in
Dr Who,
too!'
'I did not! That was years before my time!'
'Mine too – oh, goodness – look at the screen! The jockeys are coming out for the first race. That means only two hours to go to the National. There's Matt – looks very dour in dark green, doesn't he? I can't understand why more owners don't have bright colours –'
'Gillian!' Jemima practically stamped her foot. 'Please tell me where I can find Dad.'
Eventually, after much oohing and aahing about Matt as he forced his way into the parade ring, Gillian pointed her in the direction of the Owners' and Trainers' Bar. 'Arkle,' she said. 'I'm still not sure if that's the beer or the racehorse.'
Jemima found Vincent and Maureen sitting at a table overlooking the Chair and the Water Jump. The winning post was just visible if you leaned forwards. Jemima took one look at the jumps on the National course and felt sick. Gillian had been right. They looked big on television – in real life they were simply enormous.
'Jem, love!' Vincent was on his feet, hugging her. 'You look a picture! I didn't think you'd come. This is wonderful. Sit down, I'll get some drinks...
She sat, still staring at the Chair. Last year, she'd ignored the Grand National coverage, dismissing it as cruel and a complete waste of time and money. Then she'd had absolutely no idea what it really entailed to be a jockey facing those obstacles. Charlie and Matt – and Liam and Philip and all the other men who she'd met in Milton St John – risked their lives doing this every day. And today more than ever.
'That outfit really suits you – oh, I say ... You all right, duck?' Maureen, absolutely dazzling in black-and-gold lurex, leaned across the table. 'You've gone as white as a sheet.'
'Fine. I'm fine, thanks.'
'Right exciting all this, don't you think? And so kind of Gillian to get us into the toffs' enclosure.'
Jemima nodded. The jumps drew her back with horrifying fascination. What about the horses, though? They had always been her main concern. The jockeys had a choice – but no one asked the horses, did they? She'd spent enough time in Milton St John now to know that no one forced the horses to jump: it came naturally. And the horses entered for the Grand National were trained specially to cope with these mountainous fences. She knew how much training went into getting horses like Bonne Nuit and Dragon Slayer absolutely ready for today. She knew all this – but it still worried her.
'They're off!' Maureen roared along with about three million other people, craning her neck to see the start of the first race on the screen. 'Pull your chair round, duck, and get a better view.'
'No, thanks. Honestly, I'm fine here.' Jemima tried very hard not to listen to the commentary; she didn't want to hear the roars or the gasps or – even worse – the shocked silence which obviously marked a tragedy. She closed her eyes and prayed that Matt got round safely.
Jockeys' wives, she reckoned, must die a thousand deaths.
'Here we are.' Vincent put the tray on the table just as the whole bar erupted. Maureen was practically hanging out of the window. 'Took a bloody age to get served. Just in time. Did you – er – have any money on young Matt, then?'
'No, of course not. And I hope you didn't, either.' 'Me? Not a penny.' Vincent sat down and squinted through the window. 'Which is probably just as well, because he's come in fourth of five ...'
At least he was still alive.
'Have you seen the prices for the National, then, love?' Vincent sat back in his chair sipping his vodka-and-lime.
She hadn't. Somewhere, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of gold. Looking up quickly she was just in time to see Maureen's vigorous shake of the head.
'Why? Should I? Is Bonnie favourite?'
'Ten to one and going in all the time.' Vincent clanked the ashtray across the table and span it round. 'The big Irish horse, Jack's Joker, is favourite. Probably the housewives' choice because of the name. Can't think of any other reason. He hasn't got much form to speak of. Maybe he'll be another Foinavon.'
'Who?'
'I don't think Jemima wants to know about Foinavon, Vincent, duck.' Maureen was quivering iridescently.
Jemima thought she just might. 'Who was he?'
'Oh – a horse. Rank outsider. Hundred to one. Won the National in 1967. Practically the only one left standing after a multiple pile-up at the fence after Becher's.'
Jemima felt sick again. 'What? They all fell? All the horses in the field?'
'Most of 'em.' Vincent's eyes gleamed at the memory. 'Just a couple left, I think. Foinavon was plum last, so he avoided the carnage, see? What?' He glanced at Maureen who was nodding towards Jemima like an automaton. 'Oh, right – but of course, that sort of thing doesn't happen nowadays. No – there'll be nothing like that today.'
'Of course there won't be,' Maureen said briskly. 'Now, who says yes to another tipple?'
Jemima pushed her glass forward. What would she do if that sort of thing happened again? How could she just sit and watch while horses and jockeys were trampled underfoot? How could she bear it if it was Charlie?
... so Bonnie could end up second favourite – or even joint ..Vincent was still playing with the ashtray.
Again, Jemima was aware of Maureen almost imperceptibly twitching her head.
Gillian would be over the moon if he won. She'd put a lot of her Fishnets money on him already. She was bound to pile even more on today. And she didn't need to lose it again now that she'd come out, did she? 'What about Dragon Slayer?'
Vincent dropped the ashtray with a clatter. Maureen snatched it away and put it on the next table. 'Thirty threes,' she said tersely. 'And lengthening. Now go and get those drinks, duck. I'm fair parched here.'
Jemima managed, by the same method of steadfastly not looking or listening, to avoid watching the following Red Rum Chase and the Aintree Hurdle. Neither Charlie nor Matt had been riding, and she'd clenched her hands beneath the table each time she knew from the intake of breath that someone had fallen.
'Up on their feet,' Maureen said, patting her hand. 'All safe and sound and hunky-dory.'
She still wished that she hadn't brought Floss and could have drowned her nerves in a gallon of gin-and-tonic.
'We making a move then?' Vincent said, as the tannoy announced that the jockeys had weighed in from the last race and that the Grand National preparations were now under way. 'We want to get down there and get a good view of them in the ring, don't we?'
Jemima didn't think she did, actually. But she was determined not to let Vincent out of her sight. Although, she thought as she pushed back her chair, he certainly hadn't had any money riding on anything so far. She'd recognise the signs if he had. She'd seen them often enough. Vincent had stayed calm and detached throughout all three races.
Not now though. He was simply buzzing. Firing on all cylinders. And why, she wondered, following them out of the bar, had Maureen been giving him semaphore messages throughout the discussion on the Grand National?
She shook her head. He was an old rogue. Well, he'd have her to deal with if he thought he was going to go within sniffing distance of a bookmaker this afternoon.
They stood on the rails and watched the horses parading prior to the big race. Thirty-nine of them. Jemima hoped they'd all be alive at the end of it. Gillian and Glen, with Levi and Zeke, were standing with Drew and Maddy in the middle of the ring. Everyone waved.
Then the jockeys spilled out. Oh, they looked so glamorous! So young. Debonair. Like knights about to joust, Jemima thought. Matt was sauntering boldly towards the tall fiery black Dragon Slayer. Tina Maloret, again all in black, was smiling at him. So was Kath Seaward in her trench coat and maroon beret. Matt didn't turn his head. His eyes seemed to be fixed on Tina. Jemima wondered if he still disliked her as much as he had. She hoped not. It would be nice if they all got on. She hadn't expected him to look for her, of course. He had no idea that she would be there.
Still, she thought as she stared at Tina, her bets must be well and truly hedged. Matt riding her horse – and Charlie ... Well, Charlie would be marrying her – or at least announcing his intention of doing so – probably right after the race. Jemima felt her hands tighten on the white rails.
She was, she realised, as jealous as hell of Tina Maloret.
'There's Charlie.' Maureen nudged her. 'Dead glam, isn't he?'
Oh, God. He was. Totally, totally, bloody gorgeous. He was signing autographs all the way into the paddock, smiling, flirting, with no apparent trace of nerves. Jemima devoured him with her eyes. He didn't know she was there, either.
The horses were led into the centre of the ring by their lads. The tension was mounting. Adrenalin fizzed around the course like fireflies on an August night. Bonne Nuit, so much smaller than Dragon Slayer, with his sweet face, nuzzled up against Charlie. Charlie kissed his nose which brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.
Lucky, lucky Bonne Nuit, Jemima thought, sighing.
At some unheard given signal, the jockeys were all legged-up into the saddles. Everyone sucked in their breath and prepared to move to their allotted vantage points.
Not long to go now.
Jemima continued to stare at Charlie as Bonne Nuit plodded round the ring. Oh, God, she prayed, please, please let them be all right. I'll never lust over him again, or be jealous of Tina, or, well – anything – as long as you let them get round safely ...
He was walking towards her now, leaning down, whip in one hand, adjusting his stirrups. As he straightened, he saw her. His grin was broad and beautiful and wildly infectious. He stared at her, still grinning crookedly, then winked and blew her a kiss.
Blushing from her head to her toes, she watched Bonne Nuit's gleaming quarters disappear towards the course.
'I'm going to break the habit of a lifetime,' she beamed at Vincent and Maureen. 'I'm going to put a tenner on Bonnie.'
There was a stunned and strange silence. All around them, people were rushing away, eager not to miss a second of the action on the course.
'I wouldn't, duck.' Maureen spoke softly. 'He ain't going to win.'
'What?' Jemima was still as high as a kite from Charlie's smile and the air-kiss. 'Are you psychic or something? He's got as good a chance as any.'
'No he hasn't, duck.' Maureen's blonde hair, tucked beneath the black-and-golden hat, was falling in brittle strands across her forehead. 'Has he, Vincent?'
Jemima looked at her father in complete bewilderment. 'Dad? I don't understand.'
'Tell her, Vincent. Tell her.' Maureen touched his arm with tenderness. 'Tell her what's going on. It's been keeping you awake at nights for too long. And Jemima's got a right to know.'
He told her.
She stood, transfixed, unable to believe it. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to kill Ned. And she definitely wanted to kill Matt.
Apparently some of it was news to Maureen, too. 'You never said that, Vincent. You just said Dragon Slayer would win the National.> You never said he'd bump Charlie out to do it. I wouldn't have condoned that. And I've put all my holiday money on Dragon –‘
'Sod your holiday money!' Jemima howled, grabbing Vincent's shoulders. 'What about Charlie and Bonnie? Charlie could be hurt _ he could die – Bonnie could die! You stupid, stupid, greedy bastard! You've got to stop him! You've got to tell someone! Oh – if you won't, then I bloody well will!'
And gathering up the borrowed coat, she tore towards the course.
'Can't get through here now, madam.' The steward barred her way. 'They've all gone down to the start. Race'll be off in next to no time. You best find yourself a good viewing spot – if there are any left. Don't want to miss any of it, do you?'
Jemima stared up at the Star Vision screen as Charlie and Bonnie circled round with the other horses, taking a look at the first fence, then cantering back towards the start.
She had to warn him. To tell him what Matt was going to do.
They were lining up now. The starter had raised his flag. She had to tell him. She simply had to ...
'They're off!'
A scream of excitement rocked Aintree as the tape flew away cleanly and thirty-nine horses cavalry-charged towards the first fence.
A year. A whole year on. And it was so different. Charlie sat, crouched over Bonne Nuit's burnished-conker neck, knowing that he was strapped aboard a rocket. If he'd thought Dragon Slayer was the best horse he'd ever ridden in last year's National, Bonnie, in this, had got the beatings of him hands down.
Having endlessly discussed various strategies, winning formulae, and plans of action, with Drew, and after watching hours of video tape, he'd elected to start in the centre of the pack. This way, both he and Drew felt that if there were fallers ahead, it would give Bonnie two directions in which to swerve to avoid a pile-up. So far it had worked well.
One circuit completed. Half the horses already out of the race. The Chair – the most hazardous fence to occur only once on the circuit – had been successfully completed, and he still had bags in hand. Bonnie was a star.