Jumping to Conclusions (20 page)

'But she hates jockeys!' Gillian said. 'She hates racing and gambling and – oh, well, everything.'

'Good,' Drew said, staring into the distance. 'That's lovely.'

The Park Paddocks sales complex reminded him of a very upmarket holiday village on the Costa del Sol or somewhere – not that he'd ever been – but the vast spread of long low whitewashed stables, and the black-and-white half-timbered buildings, and the blue-and-white striped awnings, all had a sort of seaside atmosphere. The sun dazzled from the whiteness, adding to the Mediterranean feel. He almost expected to see waiters with umbrella-laden cocktails and pretty girls in bikinis.

He wished Charlie would hurry up. The place was filling quickly, and they should examine the three horses before the start of the sale. The big fishes were out in force. He recognised several very influential trainers and their well-heeled owners, all milling around, wearing their tweed caps and cavalry twills and hacking jackets like the badge of some exclusive club. Drew, who trained in jeans and a battered leather flying jacket in the winter, and jeans and T-shirt in the summer, knew that in his black cords and denim shirt he looked like an outsider.

Maybe he was. Maybe he should never have left his little pond in Jersey. Horses were being trotted now, showing off for their prospective buyers. If he'd stayed in Jersey, training his few horses for their appearances at Les Landes, shoring up the stables' existence by hiring out hacks to holidaymakers, then he wouldn't be in these dire financial straits. But then, if he'd stayed in Jersey, he would never have met Maddy....

Money! Was that it? It was as if an electrical current had shot from the soles of his feet. Was that why Maddy didn't want to marry him? Because Peapods was only just breaking even? Was she disappointed because he couldn't even afford to give her a clothes allowance each month? Caroline, his almost-ex, had insisted on a clothes allowance even though she'd had her own business. Well, Maddy had her own business, too, and Shadows paid for Vincent and Holly, and dog and cat food, and Poppy's Pampers -

'Crap.'

'I beg your pardon?' Gillian looked up from her catalogue. 'Was that a general observation, or have you spotted a specific?'

Drew, who hadn't realised he had spoken aloud, stared at her in irritation. 'What?'

'You said crap.'

Had he? Bloody hell. 'Sorry. Thinking out loud – Gillian, do you think Maddy wants a dress allowance?'

'I should think Maddy would rather have her navel pierced. Good Lord, Drew. You know Maddy. She's the most unmaterialistic person in the world. She hasn't the slightest interest in money. She still shops in Oxfam because she enjoys getting a bargain. She tells me I'm a real spendthrift every time the Next Directory arrives. What on earth gave you that idea?'

He really didn't know. It was just preferable to any alternative.

'Forget 37 and 102 –' Charlie panted to a halt beside them. 'It's got to be 96. Number 37 is far too green – he'll maybe come useful in a couple of seasons but no good for what we want – and 102 has bitten his lad three times while I was there. So 96 it is. Bonnie Nuts – awful name, of course, but lovely compact quarters. Sound jumper, I'd stake my life on it. I reckon that's the one. Okay?'

'Bonnie Nuts ... Lovely ...' Gillian smiled serenely. 'It sounds like Christmas.'

God Almighty, Drew thought. What the fuck was he doing here?

Several rather expensive-looking women were gazing at Charlie with undisguised lust. One or two of them flickered their Elizabeth Arden eyelashes in Drew's direction. He ignored them. Charlie, of course, didn't.

'Pack it in. You've got enough problems with Tina and Lucinda.'

'And we should be having a look at Bonnie Nuts.' Gillian had got hold of Charlie in an almost proprietary manner and was steering him away from the Jaeger brigade. 'The sale's about to start. Drew, I said – Drew!'

Again, he had to drag himself back. Somewhere, from one of the offices, Gershwin was flooding across the emerald lawns. Maddy loved Gershwin. Maddy was always singing snatches of Gershwin songs – always off-key and usually with the wrong words. At least, she always had been – How long was it since he'd heard Maddy singing? How long since he'd bothered to ask her why she'd stopped? When had he become so wrapped up in the yard that he'd assumed she was as concerned as him, without bothering to ask? In fact, just how long was it since he'd actually asked Maddy anything personal about herself?

That was it! She'd found someone else because he'd become complacent! Selfish bastard that he was! He'd ring her. Tell her to get a baby-sitter in. They'd go out to eat tonight, and hang the expense. It would probably be the Cat and Fiddle so that they could both get drunk and walk home, like they'd used to: arms round each other, stumbling and giggling as a result of copious alcohol and the dubious contents of the Cat and Fiddle's entrées. God, he couldn't wait to ring her! It was going to be all right!

'You go on to the upper sales paddock. Get a look at the horse from close quarters. I'm just going to make a phone call.'

As Gillian dragged Charlie away from the predatory female danger, Drew punched Peapods' number. The answerphone was on. Shit! Where was everyone? He tried the office line. Engaged. Bugger! He dialled the house again and left a message.

Having told Maddy how much he loved her, and to get Holly to baby-sit, and to get herself ready for one of the Chef's Specials at the Cat and Fiddle, and he'd be home as soon as possible, and adding how much he loved her again for good measure, he felt almost euphoric. Stupid sod! How easily he could have blown it!

Bonnie Nuts was no Desert Orchid. However, Drew knew from experience that it was a good rule of thumb to assume that the less visually pleasing a horse, the better its physical ability. Not always, of course. Maybe not this time ... Good God – what was the matter with him? This horse, this undistinguished chestnut gelding, could be bringing home the bacon at the next Grand National.

He looked more closely. Bonnie Nuts had an intelligent, handsome head, and a muscular neck. He was moving well. Drew homed in on the hind-legs – the most vital part of any jumper. They were powerful, promising supersonic propulsion. The hocks were straight, wide and well balanced, a good indication of nimble and athletic movement.

Beside him Charlie was muttering enthusiastically about the excellent slope from shoulder to elbow, the high withers, the short back. Gillian was cooing over pretty eyes and a sweet little face. Drew really felt he should be at least grabbing the middle ground. There were several other prospective bidders watching Bonnie Nuts as he progressed round the ring.

He nudged Charlie. 'He's well-ribbed.'

'Yeah, and plenty of bone below the knee.'

'Very sound. Fetlocks and pasterns all look A-okay from here. Let's go for it, then?'

'Oh, yes.' Gillian clasped her hands. 'He's such a lovely colour.'

The auction ring was as spectacular as any theatre. With its sloping tiers of tip-up seats, its discreet spotlighting in the gleaming rafters, and its multicoloured banks of tumbling flowers, it looked very like the new Globe. The wood panelling was rich and golden, the roped-off parade ring sanitised with sawdust, and the air was filled with hardly-suppressed excitement. With a third of the sales for the day already completed, Drew followed Charlie and Gillian into their seats.

'You feel like you should have popcorn and a choc-ice, don't you?' Gillian said, squeezing herself very close to Charlie. 'Ooh look!'

Drew looked. A man with rainbow dreadlocks and a Versace suit, accompanied by what looked like the Blues Brothers, had just wandered in. He'd noticed them in the upper sales paddock. 'I think he's interested in Bonnie Nuts.'

'Don't you know who he is?'

Drew didn't. He shrugged at Gillian. 'Why? Do you?'

'Fizz Flanagan. He's a rapper. The twins adore him. They've got all his CDs.'

'He's into horses,' Charlie said. 'Big time. Jenny Pitman's got most of them.'

There was no time for any more speculation. Bonnie Nuts was led into the ring. Led round, he was unfazed by the lights or the hum of expectancy.

'Number 96, a chestnut gelding by Bonnie Prince out of Goodnight Sweetheart. Excellent record. Sire and dam both winners. Who'll start me at twelve thousand guineas?'

Drew, floundering, knew you didn't go in on the first bid. The auctioneer rapidly reduced his opening gambit to eight thousand. Gillian nodded. Fizz Flanagan's minders nodded again. Drew went in immediately, raising his hand. So did they. The majority of the crowd held their breath.

'At fifteen thousand to you,' the auctioneer nodded at Drew. 'And sixteen. Seventeen – oh, and twenty –'

'Don't let him have it,' Gillian hissed wildly through the wisps of her hair. 'Go straight up to twenty-five.'

Drew did. Charlie coughed. Fizz Flanagan's minders got it up to thirty. Drew was sweating.

'Thirty five – and forty. Are we all done at forty-five thousand? The bid is with you.' The auctioneer turned towards the Blues Brothers.

'Fifty!' Gillian yelled, waving her catalogue. 'Fifty thousand for Bonnie Nuts!'

'Can you afford that?' Drew blinked. He was pretty sure the horse wasn't worth it.

'Double it,' Gillian said smugly.

'Fifty thousand!' The auctioneer roared. The Blues Brothers didn't move.

Charlie looked as though he was going to faint as Fizz Flanagan shook his head, leapt over several rows of seats and headed towards them. The crowd fell apart like the Red Sea.

'Hit him first,' Charlie advised, sliding towards Gillian. 'If that fails, I'll pull his hair.'

Fizz Flanagan, who probably topped six foot five, towered over them. His grin was like a sliced melon. He gathered Gillian against the Versace and kissed her. Drew noticed that she put up very little resistance.

'Good luck with him, darling. I like a lady with balls.'

'Sold to Drew Fitzgerald! Lot number 96. And madam,' the auctioneer leaned forward, 'may I put you straight? The horse is not called Bonnie Nuts. A swift history lesson. Bonnie Prince Charlie – as in the sire – left his sanctuary on Jersey to sail to safety in France under cover of darkness. As he left he said "Goodnight" to the island – as in Goodnight Sweetheart, the dam. With me so far?'

Charlie and Gillian nodded. Drew was laughing. He was way ahead of them.

'The horse is called Bonne Nuit, madam. Good night from the Bonnie Prince.'

'Thank you.' Still pressed comfortably against the Versace, Gillian squinted at Drew. 'What's so funny?'

'My house in Jersey –' Drew thought he was going to cry. This horse was going to be his salvation. 'My parents' farm – it's in Bonne Nuit Bay.'

'Spooky!' Fizz Flanagan whistled. 'Shall we all go and have a drink?'

Agreeing to meet them in the bar, Drew whizzed off to make the arrangements for transporting Bonne Nuit back to Peapods, sign all the necessary documents and hand over Gillian's banker's draft. He couldn't wait to tell Maddy. Everything – absolutely everything – was going to be all right now.

Half an hour later, Bonne Nuit sorted out, Drew found Gillian and Charlie sharing tequila slammers with Fizz Flanagan and the Blues Brothers.

'I'm not going to stop. I want to get home. I've registered myself as the owner until we decide what we're doing. We'll sort out all the arrangements tomorrow, okay?'

Okay, they agreed.

'Of course,' Gillian said happily. 'I suppose, under the circs, we couldn't expect Jemima to let us use her name, could we?'

'Why not?' Not that he really cared. He wanted to get home. He needed to be with Maddy. He wanted to share this with her. He wanted to cuddle her and tell her how unbelievable she was.

'Goodness, Drew! It's obvious. This Grand National showdown is going to be Kath Seaward versus you. Lancing Grange versus Peapods. Dragon Slayer versus Bonnie Nuts. Matt versus Charlie. Now Jemima's involved with Matt, it's obvious whose side she's going to be on, isn't it?'

Drew drove home as if the hounds of hell were chasing him. He doubted if Charlie could have topped it. It was going to be fantastic now. Bonne Nuit. Bonne Nuit. The words were his mantra. ...

He screamed the Mercedes over Peapods' cobbles. Practically falling out of the door, he greeted the dogs briefly and belted into the sitting room. Holly looked up from the sofa, shifted the cats from her lap, and flicked off the TV's remote control.

Drew was buzzing. 'Hi. Where's Maddy? Is she getting ready? Did she get my message?'

'Doubtful,' Holly said, uncurling her legs from the cushions and placing the sleeping Poppy in his arms. 'She hasn't been in for ages. She and Fran thought they'd treat themselves to a girls' night out. She said to tell you not to wait up.'

Jemima Carlisle.
Vincent stood on the curve of gravel and looked up at the dark green fascia and the ornate gold lettering.
Jemima Carlisle.
She'd made it.

'Dad! Where have you got to?'

'Just coming. Don't be such a slave-driver!'

Jemima appeared in the doorway. She looked gorgeous, he thought, in a long black skirt and a black vest, with her hair caught up with a clip, and a million watts of happiness shining from her eyes.

'I open tomorrow. I'm hours behind schedule. We've only got this evening and I want everything to be perfect.'

He looked at her. 'Just give me a few more minutes to stand and stare and bathe in reflected glory.'

'Two minutes.' She pulled a face. 'Any more and you're sacked!'

Vincent poked out his tongue and they laughed together. This was all that he'd wanted. Well, nearly all. It was all that he'd wanted for Jemima, then. He watched her skip back into the shop – her shop – and heaved a sigh of contentment.

It was a greyish evening, chilly for mid-July. It didn't matter. The rain had stopped again, and the pink-tinged clouds on the horizon heralded a fine day tomorrow. He'd learned that bit of folklore from Maureen. Not so much the red sky at night part, as the position of the clouds at dusk and the smell of the air from the Downs. If he wasn't careful he'd be emitting sporadic 'ooh-ars' along with the octogenarians in the Cat and Fiddle's Snug Bar.