Keeping the Peace (36 page)

‘Sweets, I don’t need to ask Jack how he feels. He’s got it written all over his face.’

Pippa felt her stomach disappear and she darted another quick look at Jack still standing at the bar.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, for starters, Finn kissing you like he did went down like a pork chop in a synagogue with him.’

‘Only because of the media around. Rumours run like wildfire around here.’

‘If you say so. Didn’t you notice how pleased he was when you won?’

Pippa fiddled with a thread on her sleeve. She couldn’t look Tash in the eye. She would surely see how much she wanted to believe her.

‘He does train Peace Offering,’ she argued benignly.

Tash leaned forward and tried to get her to meet her gaze.

‘Do you honestly think that’s it?’ she probed.

Pippa sighed.

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think yes, there is something between us. But there’s no point in even thinking about it. Jack would never do anything. Not while I’m his secretary. He’s already made it perfectly clear that the only type of relationship we can ever have is employer-secretary.’

‘How did you find that out? Did you make a move on him?’ Tash snorted.

‘No, of course not,’ Pippa giggled. ‘I tried to give him a gift – a painting, at Christmas and he wouldn’t accept it.’

‘That was two months ago. A lot of water has flown under the bridge since then.’

Pippa sighed, her gaze returning to the figure across the room now talking to the barman.

‘Jack has very strong moral values, relationships in the workplace being one of them. And even if he did let himself slip up, as tempting as it would be, I have to agree with him. I wouldn’t want to be the stereotypical secretary who sleeps with her boss.’

‘It wouldn’t be like that though, Pip. You’ve got to be the least devious person I know.’

‘Yeah, I know it wouldn’t be like that. But that’s not how other people will see it.’

‘You shouldn’t care what other people think,’ Tash remonstrated.

‘I know, but when those other people are the ones you’re working with, then it becomes a bit more delicate.’

‘Do you mean people like Finn?’

‘Amongst others.’

‘Ooh, that reminds me,’ Tash said, unzipping her handbag. She pulled out a dog-eared copy of
Heat
. ‘Check out Page Four.’

Pippa flicked through the magazine. A familiar face jumped out at her. She read the caption beneath.

Skylark Fashion’s new sweetheart, Cara Connolly, was spotted leaving a secluded Bristol restaurant with jump jockey, Finn O’Donaghue. The couple enjoyed a romantic dinner before leaving together. Connolly could be jeopardising her purist image by associating with O’Donague, who has a reputation for living life in the fast lane, but seemed happy enough to take that chance.

With a frown puckering her brow, Pippa examined the photo once more. The pair looked to be sharing a joke, unaware of the paparazzi. He had his hand at the small of her back, assisting her down the restaurant steps.

‘What do you make of that?’ Tash prompted.

Pippa chewed her lip.

‘What do they mean “living life in the fast lane”? I wouldn’t describe Finn like that.’

‘Sweets, if he’s had a speeding ticket for going thirty-five in a thirty zone or has got drunk at a party, then as far as gossip mags are concerned, he’s got a drink problem and is a danger on the public road.’ Tash grimaced, seeing Pippa’s expression. ‘Oh, no, I’ve upset you, haven’t I? I’m sorry, sweets. I shouldn’t have shown it to you. I didn’t think you liked him like
that
.’

Pippa shook her head and gave her a reassuring smile.

‘No, you’re right. Finn’s just a friend.’ She hesitated. ‘But I just got the impression that he’s not being entirely straight with me. Or with her for that matter. Today wasn’t the first time he’s tried to kiss me –’

‘Who’s been trying to kiss you?’ Jack interrupted, placing three drinks down on the table.

‘Oh – um, er –’ Pippa gawped like a goldfish.

‘Finn,’ Tash supplied helpfully.

Pippa bared her teeth at her.

‘What?’ Jack gave her a stern look. ‘I thought you told me you and him weren’t seeing each other.’

‘I wasn’t. I mean, I’m not.’ In a panic to clear her name, she thrust the magazine towards him. ‘Look, I’m not the one Finn’s dating.
She
is.’

Jack frowned at the article and Pippa realised she’d probably done the wrong thing. He looked up, puzzled.

‘Skylark?’ he said.

Pippa nodded reluctantly.

‘I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,’ she said. ‘They’re both Irish and both live in the same part of England now. It’d make sense, I guess. A little taste of home and all that.’

Jack folded the magazine closed with a slow nodding of his head. After a pause, he even managed a grim smile.

‘You’re right. Finn’s smarter than he lets on,’ he said. He picked up his drink and held it aloft. ‘But more importantly, here’s to Peace Offering breaking his duck.’

‘To Peace Offering,’ she and Tash echoed.

Pippa sipped her drink and returned his smile, still warily observing the darkening shades of his eyes.

W
ith the onset of Cheltenham’s four day festival, Pippa had little time to dwell on Peace Offering’s future. Even her tumultuous feelings towards Jack took a backseat as she struggled to keep abreast with the action. Jack, when he wasn’t at the Festival or doing previews and interviews for the racing press, was distant when he did make an appearance. Pippa had persuaded him to set up a television in Reception and by Friday lunchtime, alongside the stable staff, had celebrated Dexter’s success in the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle and Silver Dollar taking the spoils in the Festival Trophy Chase.

She was aware of great tension in the yard come the final day of the big meeting as everyone’s thoughts centred on Virtuoso’s bid to retain his Gold Cup crown. Despite not having known Virtuoso existed before a few months ago, she felt herself caught up in their anxiety and excitement. She’d learnt that being a Gold Cup hero was the highest accolade in National Hunt racing; to win it again deserved reverence of the highest order.

Through the window she watched the staff hurrying around the yard, trying to finish their duties before they could all squash into the office for the afternoon’s racing.

The grimy pairs of boots mounted up by the doorway as they all converged and Pippa, seeing a pallid-faced Emmie walk in with Billy, pulled up a chair for her to sit on. The first race of the day, the Champion Hurdle, was watched in sombre silence, a stark comparison to the yells and cheers which had accompanied the previous days’ events.

Pippa opened her mouth to ask why the long faces, when she recognised the name of the winner. High Scribe. She closed her mouth again, understanding now. The ghost of Black Russian hung over the shoulders of the staff, the thought in her head surely running through theirs as well. Had he not met his death on Boxing Day, he would have been running in the Champion Hurdle and if the winner’s form was anything to go by, then he probably would have retained his title too.

The mood was lightened an hour later when Dust Storm, Aspen Valley’s outside chance ran a close second in the next Grade One novice hurdle. Co-workers gave each other congratulatory pats on the back before their attention was once more drawn back to the screen. There was now nothing between a year’s hard graft and the Gold Cup.

Pippa’s stomach tied itself in knots. The room hummed with nerves. Like attentive school children, the staff shushed themselves when the presenter cornered Jack for a pre-race interview.

He looked relaxed, his expression neither over-confident nor diffident.

‘We’ve enjoyed a good prep leading up to this race so it’s fair to say we’ve got a decent chance,’ he told the camera. ‘Virtuoso is as fit as I can get him and he’s shown us already that he’s capable of winning this race. I’m very happy with how he is today.’

To Pippa though, his eyes betrayed him. Jack was a lot more nervous than he was letting on. The camera switched back to the horses parading before the giant Cheltenham stands and the commentator went through each runner’s credentials.

Out of the corner of her eye, Pippa saw Billy wipe his clammy hands on his jeans. She smiled at his obvious apprehension. As the horses lined up before the starting tape, the office telephone rang and a universal outlet of held breaths flooded the room.

‘For fuck’s sake, who calls during the Gold Cup?’ someone exclaimed. ‘What planet are they on?’

Pippa reached over from where she was sitting to answer it, but another staff member was too quick for her. A stable lad picked up the receiver.

‘Do you mind? We’re watching the Gold Cup here, mate.’ He slammed down the phone, creating a ripple of giggles through the room which suddenly became a cheer, joining the wall of sound coming from the television, as the horses were sent on their way.

‘Go on, Finn!’

‘Come on, mate!’

‘All right now, Vertie!’

‘You can do it, Virtuoso!’

Such was the adoration and support of Aspen Valley’s staff, Pippa felt moved. She’d never known people to be so dedicated to their jobs. Her gaze flickered between the horserace and their rapt expressions. If the Pope had walked into the room right now, no one would have given him a second glance.

A unified intake of breath refocused her. Virtuoso had made a first mistake.

‘Don’t shut him on the rail, Finn, you prick!’ someone yelled.

‘Button it. Finn knows what he’s on about. He’s saving ground, can’t you see?’ came a reply.

The horses rounded the highest point of the course, thundering down to the next, led by the tank-like Skylark. Finn had Virtuoso tucked into a pocket of runners on the inside amongst the tightly bunched field.

‘Skylark steps it up another gear as they pass the stands for the first time,’ the commentator droned. ‘Skylark leads from Sir Robbo, Kupala, Monsieur Le Cure, Virtuoso, Baker Street, Indigo Time, King Lear, Flying Scotsman, Zodiac and bringing up the rear is Killaloe.’

With each jump, the runners began to string out, the taxing undulations and stiff birch fences taking their toll. The field was reduced to ten as the longshot Kupala tipped up at an open ditch.

The camera zoomed in on the horses as they completed their first circuit, its main focus on the defending champion.

‘Finn’s niggling at him!’ someone cried.

‘You’re seeing things. Vertie’s going like a train.’

‘Yeah! Look how easy Finn’s riding!’

Virtuoso closed the gap between him and the leaders, drawing up alongside Monsieur Le Cure and passing him as fresh as when they’d started. Pippa crossed her fingers. Her pulse quickened as the commentator’s voice rose an octave. Skylark had gone for home, his jockey pushing and scrubbing for every effort as they rounded the last turn. Finn lowered himself in the saddle, accepting the challenge in front of him. Sir Robbo’s effort in second faded out and Virtuoso passed him in mid-air over the fourth last. The third last loomed and the noise in Aspen Valley’s office swelled as they cheered on their horse.

He cleared it, not very fluently, but it was obvious to all that he was going better than Skylark. The thunderous roar of the crowd drowned out the commentator’s frantic voice as Virtuoso drew level with his rival.

‘Come on, Finn!’ ‘Come on, Vertie!’ ‘Get in there! Go on!’

The yells of the staff rang in Pippa’s ears. Virtuoso eased ahead as they approached the second last, his head bobbing, the first real signs of fatigue starting to show. Pippa watched Finn glance behind him before asking for a big effort. Virtuoso hesitated and put in a short stride. His momentum carried him through the thick of the birch. A despairing cry cut the air as Finn was pitched onto his horse’s neck. The defending champion rallied to keep his feet on landing, but gravity was too strong for Finn. The Irishman was jolted out of the saddle and tumble-turned into the churned ground.

Aspen Valley groaned, followed by a shocked silence.

The commentator, nearly whimpering with excitement, carried on regardless.

‘Virtuoso has unseated Finn O’Donaghue! The favourite is out of the race! What an upset! He surely had it in the bag! He leaves the door open for Skylark to lead over the second last. O’Donaghue is climbing to his feet, he looks to be okay. Skylark is safely over! Just one fence left and the Cheltenham hill to contend with. King Lear is now promoted to second position. Zodiac, the twenty-to-one outsider, is making up late ground. Here comes the last. Skylark clears it! Zodiac is flying up the outside! He’s passed King Lear. Can Skylark hold on? It’s a weary climb up that hill! Zodiac draws level! He goes clear! Zodiac wins the Cheltenham Gold Cup!’

Pippa looked around at the shell-shocked faces. No one spoke. Some looked close to tears. She imagined that despite his heavy favouritism, a few weeks’ worth of wages had gone on Virtuoso’s number at the bookies.

‘Aw, fuck it,’ someone said.

The door was yanked open and a disheartened stable lad walked out. Like zombies, the rest began to follow. Some forgot to pick up their boots, walking across the yard in their socks. Pippa turned to Emmie still sitting down. The lass looked worringly pale.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

Her heart skipped a beat when Emmie’s face contorted with pain.

‘Not really,’ she said through clenched teeth.

Pippa whisked down beside her.

‘What’s wrong? Are you hurting? Where does it hurt?’

Emmie placed her hand over her stomach.

‘It’s just a twinge. It’s probably nothing.’

Pippa met Billy’s stare of horror. She licked her lips, trying to keep her cool and placed a comforting hand over Emmie’s.

‘I’m sure you’re right. But to make certain, I think we should take a quick trip to the hospital. Okay?’

Emmie darted her a look of panic.

‘Do you think something’s wrong with the baby?’ she said, trembling.

‘No, no. I’m sure the baby’s fine,’ Pippa lied. She hadn’t felt less sure of anything in her life. ‘Blame me for being over-cautious, that’s all.’ She gave Emmie a quick smile then went to fetch her handbag and car keys. Her hands shook. Her head pounded, the already adrenalin-fired blood in her veins taking on a more urgent flow.