Jump! (77 page)

Now they were making a fortune, he was revolted by the obscenely large bonuses the board were intending to pay themselves, including him. So Valent had resigned, refusing to accept the bonus. His fellow directors were outraged, terrified that once word of his defection got out, shares would plummet, so he’d agreed the news should be kept from the press for a few weeks.

Valent felt very bad about abandoning the junior staff of Goldstein Phillipson, who had become friends on his many visits. As a condition of his temporarily keeping quiet, he had asked if his bonus could be divided between these junior staff, but he wasn’t very hopeful. The fights had been bloody.

He was also depressed about Bonny. If she was going to spend the next few months filming or touring with Seth, the inevitable must happen, if it hadn’t already. Yet she swore she loved him, was angling for marriage, and made scenes if he suggested things weren’t right.

‘It’s a generational thing, Valent. You cannot expect me to engage with football.’

She had great plans for him to help her develop her own make-up, fragrance and clothes labels. ‘Bonny Richards should be as universally known as Kate Moss.’

Arriving at Badger’s Court late in the afternoon, he was cheered to see that the great sweep of snowdrops had been replaced by gold and purple carpets of crocuses, pale blue scillas and an emerging host of white daffodils. Etta had been at work.

‘And then my heart with pleasure fills,/And dances with the daffodils,’ Valent quoted happily.

He was still reading a poem from the Everyman anthology every day, no longer just to upstage Seth but because he really enjoyed them. Today, most appropriately where Goldstein Phillipson was concerned, he’d read a poem by George Herbert which started:

‘I struck the board, and cried, No more.’

There still seemed to be a lot of rubble and bulldozers around but at least his octagonal office in the cockpit was finished. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. Joey had framed and hung the signed photographs of Gordon Banks outwitting Pelé in the World Cup, and of the Colombian goalie who had prevented an England victory with a legendary scorpion save, kicking up his legs behind him to stop the goal.

Most importantly, on his desk was the photograph of his son Ryan, his wife Diane and the grandchildren. Valent had been working on a new lighter-but-tougher football boot to prevent so many injuries to the vulnerable top of the foot.

He longed to involve Ryan in the marketing. He had dreams of buying Searston Rovers, the fast-rising local football team, and putting Ryan in as manager. Ryan, however, was still violently opposed to Bonny and a more chilling voice inside him said if the all-too-handsome Ryan came back into the fold, Bonny would surely ensnare him.

‘Christ,’ Valent opened a can of beer. ‘I strook the board and cried no more.’

He looked out towards Etta’s bungalow. As he’d planted those stupid trees to protect Bonny’s privacy (goings-on, more like) he couldn’t see if her lights were on. Dribbling a football, signed and given him by Bobby Moore, across the room, he opened a window and heard robins and blackbirds singing in dark trees silhouetted against an orange sunset.

There was a thump as a plump, fluffy black cat landed on his desk, mewing importantly. Her rusty purr was more like a crow’s caw as she weaved around him, butting his arm, blinking at him with fearless lemon-yellow eyes.

Valent helped himself to another beer from the fridge and poured the cat a saucer of milk, which she sniffed and rejected.

‘Faddy cow,’ said Valent, and dialled Etta’s number.

Digging her garden in the twilight, Etta was soothed by the stream that hurtled over yellow and brown pebbles and brushed against the first primroses and coltsfoot. There was a soft violet blur on the trees, the first little green kiss curls on the willows. Birds, who had fallen on her bird table a week ago and emptied it in half an hour, were now abandoning it to sing to their loves. She was gratified that Pavarobin, who now took crumbs from her hand, had not deserted her. He was keeping a shiny black eye out for worms as she turned over the liver-chestnut Cotswold earth.

It was a few moments before she realized the telephone was ringing and rushed inside.

‘Valent here.’

‘How lovely. How are you?’

‘Fine,’ lied Valent. ‘Have you lost a furry black cat?’

‘It’s Gwenny, Harold Pocock’s cat actually, but she’s sort of moved in.’

‘If I had sticking-out ribs or one eye, or no collar, would you rescue me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Would you like an Indian?’

‘I’d rather have a Pakistani.’

‘You what?’

‘Sorry, that was silly. I didn’t mean to be ungracious,’ Etta took a deep breath and plunged straight on, ‘but, oh Valent, I truly believe Rafiq would be the best person to ride Wilkie at Rutminster next week. He’s such a beautiful, sensitive rider and he’s having such a rough time. He loves Amber and she’s being a bit of a “b” to him. Amber told me she didn’t sleep with Marius at Stratford. What a lovely hotel that was, thank you, but Rafiq’s convinced she did, so he’s being stroppy with Marius, who’s punishing him by not giving him any rides and about to sack him. But I know Marius would listen to you, he really respects you.’

As he’d lent Marius the money to pay for his new Gold Cup jumps and his all-weather track, and guaranteed his overdraft and bought Furious, Marius should, thought Valent.

‘OK, I’ll have a word. Now, would you like an Indian?’

‘Yes please. How lovely.’

‘Any preferences?’

‘I adore meat and spinach and prawns, nothing too hot,’ and then she burst out laughing. ‘Although you wouldn’t think so after that dreadful chilli I gave you last summer.’

‘I’ll be round in half an hour.’

Etta panicked. She hadn’t walked Priceless yet but as it had started raining, he was refusing to leave the comfort of the sofa.
Washing-up from Poppy and Drummond’s supper was still in the sink; washing to be ironed hung from the radiator, and Gwenny’s and Priceless’s half-eaten bowls were still on the floor. As she used to shut the kitchen door to hide the chaos during dinner parties at Bluebell Hill, now she shoved bowls, washing up and washing into the kitchen cupboard. Even so, she only had time to scrub the earth out of her nails, clean her teeth and slap some base on her flushed face. She had to tip her bottle of 24 Faubourg on its side to press out the last drop.

Oh help, was it too forward to put on scent? Better than smelling of cat food. Anyway she was far too old for anyone to fancy her. She ought to light the fire, and as it was the end of the month there was only half a bottle of cheap white in the fridge.

Wearing just one Ugg boot, Etta hopped outside to pick some pink polyanthus for the table and ran slap into Valent. He had put on a red jersey and looked tired and lined, and, to Etta’s relief, much less powerfully glamorous. Could she detect a faint trace of aftershave over the curry fumes? But then he probably wore an expensive brand that had lasted since this morning.

He dumped a carrier bag full of foil dishes, two bottles of red and Gwenny on the kitchen table, and accepted a glass of Etta’s white. Priceless jumped down, flashed his teeth at Valent, but, deciding he didn’t like curry, retreated to the sofa.

Gwenny, unable to find her bowl, mewed indignantly round the kitchen cupboard, which also contained the vases, so Etta had to put the polyanthus in her tooth mug.

‘God, this is a treat,’ she sighed, as she unpacked prawns, tikka masala, lamb rogan josh, spinach, mixed vegetables, and a paddy field of rice. ‘I’m so used to packed dinners for one,’ she went on. ‘I wonder what they put in them,’ she squeezed her waist, ‘I’ve never had such a spare tyre before.’

Dinners for one, thought Valent, ashamed at the tears pricking his eyes.

‘Here’s something to fatten you up. Put it in the fridge,’ he said, handing her a chocolate tart and a half-pint of cream.

‘How deliciously decadent,’ cried Etta. ‘I won’t tell Bonny. Gosh, sorry, I didn’t mean … Bonny’s lovely, and I so love my Ugg boots. I’m going to wear them all through the summer.’

‘Good, and you’ve made this place right cosy,’ said Valent, looking round.

And big as you are, you don’t dwarf it, thought Etta, as Valent tugged the red armchair for her and the sofa, plus Priceless, for himself up to the kitchen table. Taking a corkscrew, he opened one of the bottles of red.

‘Thank you so much for putting us up in such a fabulous hotel in Stratford,’ gabbled Etta, as she spiked up a large prawn.

To her amazement, as he filled up her glass, Valent asked if she’d enjoyed ‘Miranda’, her room, and her four-poster. Did he keep tabs on everything?

‘It was heavenly, but a bit wasted on me. I mean, I’m sure there were couples more deserving who could have enjoyed it.’

‘Evidently,’ said Valent dryly. ‘I gather everyone ended up having a party in your room.’

‘Er, well, yes. Do have some of this chicken tikka, it’s such heaven and the wine’s gorgeous.’ Etta took a gulp, praying he wasn’t going to quiz her. Perhaps the only reason he was there was to cross-question her about Bonny.

‘You moost have all drunk tap water,’ persisted Valent. ‘You didn’t order any room service for your party, or put anything on your bill.’

‘Some people,’ stammered Etta, ‘did get a bit carried away. You provided so much lovely drink at the party that they asked if they could say they had a nightcap in my room.’

‘Who?’ insisted Valent.

‘Oh well, the Major and Alban and people, but I’m so old, their wives wouldn’t be remotely jealous anyway.’

Valent looked at Etta, her big dark blue eyes imploring him not to push her, little white teeth biting her lower lip instead of the prawn and spinach on her fork.

‘Roobbish,’ he said, and reaching across and running a finger down her blushing, anguished face, proudly quoted:

‘No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face.’

‘Oh how kind.’ Etta turned even pinker than the polyanthus.

‘I’ve been stoodying your poetry book, except that Bonny would say I should have rhymed “one” with “sun”, not said “wan”. There’s nothing “wan” about your face. Eat oop.’

‘Everyone pronounces things differently,’ said Etta. ‘Alban says “orf” and “corsts”.’

She was about to tell him Corinna was trying to ape his and Ione’s accent for Lady Bracknell, then decided it was a bit close to Bonny being too common to play Corinna’s daughter.

‘You’ve chosen all my favourites,’ she cried instead, spooning up lentils.

Valent then said he’d enjoyed the extract from
The Canterbury Tales
so much he’d bought the book, and wasn’t Alban exactly
like Chaucer’s perfect gentle knight, even to his wearing understated camouflage clothes.

‘What other poems do you like?’ asked Etta.

‘“I struck the board, and cried, No more,”’ said Valent, and he told her about Goldstein Phillipson and how guilty he felt abandoning middle management and the younger staff.

‘Was that the crisis you had to sort out when you couldn’t make the party after
Antony and Cleopatra?
’ asked Etta. ‘We all missed you so much, particularly Trixie.’

Not meeting Etta’s eyes, or admitting he couldn’t bear everyone drooling over Seth, who was so good-looking and so much younger, Valent lied that it had been about the new lighter-but-tougher football boots. Then, his tongue loosened by wine, he told her how he longed to work with Ryan again.

‘I luv him, Etta, and I used to talk to him every day when Pauline was alive. I miss him, but he doesn’t approve of me and Bonny.’

He was about to say how lucky she was having children living nearby, but having earlier seen Martin bossily pounding the streets with Jude the Obese in the twilight, he decided she wasn’t and moved on to the possibility of buying Searston Rovers.

‘They have a wonderful player called Feral Jackson.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Valent, impressed.

‘He’s a friend of Dora’s. Wish she’d come back, she’s so sweet.’ Etta got the chocolate tart out of the fridge and cut a large slice for him and, ‘bugger Bonny’, tipped cream all over it.

‘Do you miss football?’ she asked. ‘You were brilliant at it.’

‘Playing in goal taught me to watch and concentrate,’ explained Valent. ‘It’s dangerous, you get kicked in the face, and in the hands when you fling yourself at people’s feet, everywhere really. And it’s not spectacular. Everyone remembers the fortyyard goal or the score backwards over the head, but not the great saves.’

‘Unless you’re Gordon Banks,’ said Etta, who’d been shown the photographs in the office by Joey. ‘And that amazing Colombian scorpion save. You’re a hero too. That save against Holland …’

Valent was impressed and smiled: sunlight on the Yorkshire crags again.

‘I wish Bonny thought so.’

‘How is she?’ Etta decided to take the bully by the horns.

‘I’ve been away. She’s rehearsing, which she luvs.’ Then he confided that Bonny always made him conscious of his age. ‘I know I’m too old for her.’

‘You’re not, you look really gorgeous and you’re really young at heart. Look how Trixie and Rafiq and Dora and Tommy adore you.’