Jumping to Conclusions (54 page)

While Maureen had been in the kitchen and tantalising smells of roasting turkey had wafted through the serving hatch, making Jemima momentarily regret – as she did every Christmas – that she was a vegetarian, she'd tackled Vincent gently about what Charlie had said.

He'd blustered for a split-second, then grinned sheepishly. 'It was nothing, Jem, love. Nothing at all. You know what the gossips are like in this village.'

She did. But she also knew Vincent. 'Why were you at Matt's place, though? You don't really like him.'

Vincent had walked over to the fire and leaned on the mantelpiece. 'Well, let's just say that something had come up – a bit of scandal that I'd heard –'

'About Matt?'

'Sort of.' Vincent had looked mighty uncomfortable. 'I was just – well, making sure that it wasn't true. For your sake.'

She'd shaken her head. 'Come off it, Dad. I'm a big girl now. I don't scare that easily. What was it?'

Vincent had nearly lost the thread then. 'Er – well ... that he was – um – seeing someone else.'

She'd laughed. 'Jesus! This isn't the Victorian era! Even if it were true – which I'm sure it isn't – I certainly don't need you to go storming in, flicking your coat-tads and twirling your moustaches on my account! Sorry, not believable. Try again.'

'That's all, Jem, honest. I didn't want you to get hurt.'

She'd sighed. She wasn't going to get any more from him. Matt and I aren't in any position to hurt each other. Just tell me it wasn't about gambling.'

Vincent had hesitated a fraction too long. 'No – definitely no' about gambling.'

Then Maureen had come through and said dinner would be ready in twenty minutes and that Vincent should shift himself and get his carving arm limbered up, and they hadn't mentioned it again.

Naturally, she'd joined the other villagers in the non-stop stream to Peapods on Christmas afternoon, just to have a peek, and say congratulations. The baby was adorable. Maddy looked radiant, and Poppy Scarlet had soon got over her disgust that Daragh was a normal little boy – and would never grow into a purple monster with a scaly tail – although Charlie, who appeared to be a permanent fixture and a dab hand at nappy-changing, had told her that if she was really good he'd take her into Newbury and buy her a fluffy Godzilla – which would be much less hassle than a real one.

She'd watched him with Poppy, turning into a child himself as he played with her mountain of Christmas presents. He was totally unself-conscious, and she'd thought what a brilliant father he'd make. It was such a shame that he didn't seem to want to settle down. Not, of course, that she was putting herself forward for the job of Somerset-taming – perish the thought – but one day, maybe, he'd find a woman who would turn his life around and stop the playboy bit dead in its tracks. Somehow, she didn't want to be around when it happened.

Charlie's mind must have been working along the same parental lines, because he'd carefully placed the sleeping Daragh in her arms and said she'd make the perfect mother. Looking down at the tiny face and the amazing miniature fingers clasped in sleep, she'd felt a rush of love, but no strong maternal tug. Motherhood simply wasn't for her – but it hardly seemed the right moment to mention it.

She'd managed to have a few minutes alone with Charlie in the Mayhem, while Maddy's parents and the still-Lukeless Suzy were attempting to organise the chaos of half the village being in the house at the same time on Christmas Day.

You know you mentioned about Dad and Matt? Well, you needn't have worried. It wasn't anything sinister. I asked him.'

Charlie had stopped twirling a snowstorm paperweight. 'Oh? And?'

'He said the only thing they'd ever discussed was Matt's bit on the side.'

Charlie had dropped the paperweight with a clatter. Neither of them bothered to pick it up. He'd looked quizzical. 'God – very brazen of them, considering. And you seem to be taking it well. Um – who is she?'

'No one,' Jemima had laughed. 'I know when Dad's lying. And Matt simply isn't in your league as a cheater, is he? No, whatever they say, I'm sure that it has something to do with horses.'

She wasn't sure why, but Charlie suddenly seemed different. Cagey? No, it had to be her. She was becoming paranoid. She'd looked at him again and knew she had imagined it.

He'd bent down to retrieve the paperweight at last. 'But Vincent doesn't gamble, does he? I've never seen him in the bookies.'

'No, you wouldn't. He used to have a – er – a bit of a problem. He's beaten it – but I'm sure it's like any addiction – the temptation is always there. He still likes to feel he's got some connection with racing.'

'I can understand that.' Charlie had grinned suddenly. 'I love temptation myself.'

She'd looked away, concentrating heavily on Bronwyn Pugh nursing Daragh. She felt very hot. God, he was lethal. What was the cliché Gillian had used when she'd first mentioned him? Oh, yes – Charlie Somerset was sex on legs.

'Well, I thought I'd just tell you that I don't think we've got anything to worry about.'

Charlie had shaken the paperweight again and concentrated on the blizzard. Eventually, as the snow settled on the tiny houses and disproportionate fir trees, he'd looked up. 'So, which would bother you more? Matt cheating on you, or Vincent being involved in some insider dealing?'

'The latter, definitely. Matt and I aren't going anywhere. I hope he does find someone else, honestly. No, I'd far prefer it was that, rather than Dad getting hooked on betting again. Anyway, I'd better be going because Maureen's prepared tea for four o'clock, although I'm sure I won't be able to eat anything else for weeks. And, oh, good luck for the King George tomorrow.'

'Ta.' He'd grinned again, looking, she'd thought, far more cheerful. 'Will you be watching?'

'I shouldn't think so. Hopefully I'll be disgustingly drunk and curled up in bed.'

'Sounds great to me. If there's room for two, I could always cancel Kempton.'

They'd been lucky to run the King George at all, everyone had said, the weather being what it was. There'd been no racing anywhere in the country since.

Jemima had watched the meeting on television with Vincent and Maureen. They'd happily accepted her invitation to the flat and she'd cooked Boxing Day dinner in return for Maureen's Christmas hospitality. If her father and Maureen were less than ecstatic with refried beans and vegetable tacos, they certainly hadn't shown it.

And, as the tension built for the King George, she'd found herself clutching a cushion and trying to suppress the butterflies. Charlie, in Gillian's Fishnet colours, had looked totally devastating. They'd interviewed him outside the weighing room and, with his hacking jacket slung round his shoulders and his hair flopping into his eyes, her stomach had lurched. Too many refried beans, she'd told herself severely, a dose of Alka-Seltzer would soon sort her out.

Liam Jenkins, gangly and freckled, had then been asked about Dragon Slayer's chances in Matt's absence. She could have sworn that Vincent groaned – but, again, it may well have been the beans. They'd flashed a replay of the Hennessey fall on to the screen and she'd watched impassively. It was, of course, because she knew Matt was okay, she told herself; it wasn't lack of interest.

The final furlong of the King George had been spectacularly nail-biting. Jemima's cushion had been squeezed within an inch of its life. She'd willed and willed Charlie to win, but it hadn't been enough. Dragon Slayer's black nose streaked past the post merely inches ahead of Bonne Nuit.

'Oh, bugger.' She'd sighed and thrown the cushion to the floor.

Maureen and Vincent had exchanged raised eyebrows. Jemima had shrugged. 'Close, wasn't it?'

'Very, duck.' Maureen had patted Vincent's hand, interrupting something he was about to say. 'I didn't know you were so keen on racing. Oh, I know you've got over your real dislike, but I reckoned you'd settled for indifference.'

'I have,' Jemima had said quickly and stood up to refill the glasses. 'That was just a show of Milton St John solidarity.'

'But Liam Jenkins is from Milton St John,' Maureen had persisted. 'I didn't notice you being jubilant when he won. Something you haven't told us about young Charlie, is there?'

Jemima had paused, Chablis bottle poised. 'Absolutely nothing. Now, is anyone still hungry?'

She stared out across the Vicarage garden again. Everything was sugar-coated in ice, and cobwebs were suspended like gently moving doilies between the bare branches. It was so very beautiful. And lonely. The end of her first year in Milton St John and she was alone. Last New Year's Eve she'd been at a wild Oxford party with David or had it been Mark? Or maybe it was Hugh? They'd all merged into one. Still, this year, she definitely wouldn't be with Matt.

She wondered what this New Year's Eve would bring. Because of the Nuke there were very few parties arranged – most people who weren't going to be gracing the James-Jordans' marquee had decided to stay at home or, like Vincent and Maureen, join in the karaoke night at the pub. The convoy of cars and rave-goers on foot had been arriving in the village since the early hours. The Cat and Fiddle and the Munchy Bar must have done a roaring trade. Jemima, who wasn't reopening the bookshop until the second of January, felt she might have missed out on all the fun she was going to get that day.

'Jemima!' The door opened, and the twins, muffled in new combat gear, peered excitedly into the flat. 'Can we come in? Oh are you going to bed?' 'No, I've just had a bath and I'm trying to find something to wear for tonight. There's Coke and crisps in the kitchen.'

'Mega.'

There was an identical carrot-headed rush through the living room, followed by a lot of door-opening and rustling. Once equipped with vital supplies, Levi and Zeke collapsed on to the sofa. She knew that they'd taken their Christmas-present mountain bikes up to the outskirts of the rave field, and laughed at their chill-flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

'Good, was it?'

'Cool, or what? You wouldn't believe it!' Levi slurped through his Coke. 'There were ladies wearing furry bikinis – in this weather!'

Zeke nodded furiously. 'An' men in make-up! And a million policemen!'

What a pity, Jemima thought, that she would be listening to the chimes of Big Ben in the sober and eminently respectable surroundings of the Vicarage drawing room.

'It's going to be bloody boring for us, isn't it?' Levi sighed. 'We're not even allowed to stay up until midnight. Mum says maybe next year.'

'It's not that magical,' Jemima said, sympathising. 'Nothing changes. Nothing happens.'

Zeke quickly swallowed a mouthful of cheese and onion. 'It does, Jem. An' not just the Nuke. I mean, there's an old man with a hooky thing who goes out when the bells chime, and a little fat baby comes in. Mum said so.'

'I stand corrected.' Jemima grinned. 'If I see either of them tonight I'll give you a shout.'

It was an extremely decorous New Year's Eve. Gillian and Glen and an assortment of the village elders and Parish Biddies, milling around the Vicarage sitting room with nibbles and sherry. Noel Coward would have adored it.

Eventually Jemima had settled on wearing the long, clinging wool dress she'd worn to Maddy and Drew's wedding. Smart grunge, she considered, was probably exactly right for the occasion.

Sitting as far away from Bathsheba Cox and her husband as possible – Gillian had invited them as an apology for her
faux pas
over Lucinda and Charlie at the wedding, and hadn't expected them to accept – she toyed with a plate of canapés and was bored.

This was no way for someone who wasn't yet thirty to be spending one of the big party nights of the year. God, only just gone ten o'clock. Two more hours before she could affect a yawn and escape to her flat. She thought of the mayhem at the Nuke and wished she was Lucinda and Suzy's age and could go without being stared at.

However, if she was far too young for the jam and Jerusalem brigade, there was no doubt that she was far too old for raves. But then, Charlie was older than she was, and he'd had no inhibitions about being there. She sighed, watching Bronwyn and Bernie Pugh nodding in time to Mantovani. Charlie had no inhibitions about anything.

She tried to strike up a conversation with Petunia Hobday. It was very difficult on two counts. Firstly, because Petunia was scared of Bathsheba, and her fatwa against Fishnets in general and Jemima in particular was still in place; and secondly because she'd got the remnants of a cheese straw clinging to her whiskers.

Jemima stared at the offending flakes, trying not to giggle. God, this was really no place for her. She'd have been better off joining in with the crowd at the Cat and Fiddle. She trawled round the sitting room. No one seemed to be under sixty, and while Glen appeared to be happy, flirting with his ageing fan club, Gillian looked manic.

She was gliding between the guests in the silver-grey trouser suit from Dorothy Perkins looking as gorgeous as ever, but with a feverish light in her eyes. Poor Gillian! Having tried to lose all her Fishnets money by buying Bonnie, the horse was now increasing her bank balance with nearly every race. That night at Windsor when she'd first mentioned the horse seemed to belong to another lifetime. So much had happened. So much had changed. For all of them.

Suddenly Gillian clapped her hands. Oh, shit, Jemima thought, we're going to play charades – or even, worse – consequences. Bathsheba, Bronwyn and Petunia exchanged glances. Petunia, still flaky, leaned across and confided in a conspiratorial whisper, 'I think we may be going to have a Beetle Drive. Dear Glen's awfully good with them at the Tuesday Club.'

A what? Jemima blinked. A hush fell. All eyes turned expectantly. Gillian was obviously about to enlighten her.

'As this is a very special night – and the end of a very special year for me in particular – I'd like to make a little speech.'

Petunia sighed heavily. 'Buggeration. I really wanted it to be a Beetle Drive.'

Jemima shook her head. Please, no....

'If it's to do with that tribal affair in the James-Jordans' field,' Bathsheba brayed, 'there's no need to canvas the converted. Ted and I have already written a letter to
The Times
'