Jumping to Conclusions (7 page)

'Aintree!' Kath bristled. 'Don't know how you've got the gall to mention bloody Aintree after what Somerset did!'

Drew grinned. 'Sorry. Very insensitive of me.'

'Bloody stupid of you. And why should I put any good things your way after what Somerset did, eh? Haven't even been able to talk to the useless sod since the National,' Kath growled. 'He seems to vanish like the bloody mist every time I enter the paddock, he turns tail out of the pub every time I walk in, and his damn answerphone is always on. I nearly caught up with the bastard at the Sedgefield meeting, but –'

'He's only obeying orders. I told him to lie low as I need him fully fit for the rest of the season. I thought you might try emasculating him.'

Kath looked as though she was going to explode. 'Castration would be too good for him! I'd like to break his neck. I'd sooner pull out of races than put that cocky sod up again.'

'Still, you won't have to, will you? I know that Matt Garside is almost fully fit, and the grapevine says you've engaged Liam Jenkins for the Fontwell meeting.'

'That's as maybe.' Kath's eyes flashed. 'But Dragon Slayer should have won the National. It's all that fucking hard work wasted that breaks my heart. And letting the horse down. He was up for it, Drew. You know it. The whole bloody racing world knew it. And Somerset fucking blew it.'

Drew, not wanting to be sucked into the long-running argument, merely nodded. He peeled himself from the red-hot wall and walked across the yard. Dragon Slayer, his nearly-black head poking inquisitively over the door of his box, rolled his eyes in anticipation. 'Spoiled brat.' Drew stroked his bony nose, admiring the race-winning physique. 'I fed all my titbits to Solomon before I left.'

'He's looking for carrots.' Kath had joined him. 'And he's not having any until tea-time.' Her eyes were soft, as she fondled the horse. She produced a packet of Polos from her pocket, smiling as Dragon Slayer snuffled and crunched. 'It's not fair on him, poor baby. He loves the sport. He'd done so well at Cheltenham – and don't,' the eyes flashed again, 'tell me that there's always next year. It's a bloody lifetime away!'

'I know how you feel. I'd really like to have a shot at it myself next year, but nothing I've got in the yard at the moment will be up to scratch, that's for sure. I've got some good jumpers and a couple of out-and-out stayers – but not the magical combination of the two like this boy.' He cast covetous eyes over Dragon Slayer's seventeen hands of pure power and sighed. 'If you do hear of anyone, I'd be really grateful if you'd let me know. Failing that, I'll just have to hope some gambling-mad lottery winner decides to push their latest acquisition my way, and it turns out to be a cross between Red Rum and Arkle.'

Kath laughed. 'Dream on! No one gets those sort of horses in the real world! And – if you did – I trust you wouldn't leave it to the mercies of Somerset.'

'Charlie's a great horseman,' Drew protested. 'The best. Look, I know you're disappointed, but it was an accident. Accidents happen.'

'Yes, of course they do. Except that wasn't an accident. That was sheer bloody incompetence – and I'll prove it.' She stood with her hands on her hips and jutted her chin forward. 'Tell you what, I'll throw down a challenge now. I'll try and find an owner for you and next year we'll go for it. Aintree. The Grand National. Dragon Slayer and Matt Garside against whatever nag you can train-on and bloody Charlie Somerset. Call it your swan-song if you like. Your last tilt at the windmill before you join the prissy-flat Newmarket brigade. I'll beat you bloody hollow, Fitzgerald. A grand on it?'

Drew winced. Maddy would probably kill him. He shook Kath's thin, calloused hand. 'Okay. You're on.'

Walking back along the dusty curve of Milton St John's main road, Drew inhaled the silence. Sunday morning was still Sunday morning here. Maureen's Munchy Bar was closed. Bronwyn Pugh hadn't bowed to the gods of capitalism and gone in for a seven-day opening of the Village Stores yet; the Cat and Fiddle still only opened for the pre-Sunday-lunch drinkers then shut its doors for the post-Sunday-lunch snoozers; cars were washed and lawns mowed.

A string of glossy thoroughbreds clip-clopped their way along the street, hindquarters swaying, heads up, knowing they were gorgeous, like contestants in a beauty pageant. John Hastings' last lot coming back from their Sunday-morning work-out on the gallops, Drew knew, recognising the individual horses even without the distinctive monogrammed rugs. The stable lads in the saddle grinned at him and touched their crash hats. He acknowledged them with a smile.

John Hastings was one of Milton St John's premier flat trainers. His yard would be one of Peapods' main rivals if it gave up jumping. But right now Drew's thoughts weren't on the stars of the Derby at Epsom or the King George at Ascot. He was still thinking about Kath's challenge. The National. Next year. Was it even remotely possible? Probably not. No one could expect him to compete with the likes of Jenny Pitman or Martin Pipe, could they? It wouldn't be considered decent for a yearling to come stomping up on the rails and snatch the Blue Riband, would it?

And, of course, all the yards in neighbouring Lambourn would already have their chosen prospects being coached and cosseted; and Kath had Dragon Slayer. The only other National Hunt yard in Milton St John was run by Ferdy Thornton, and he played everything so damned close to his chest that, even if he had something akin to Aldaniti or Dawn Run contentedly munching hay in his stables, no one would ever know.

Should he take Kath's advice? Peapods was doing so-so on the flat, but pretty abysmally over jumps. It made good economic sense to run with the winners, but he really didn't want to pull out of National Hunt-racing yet – not while there was still the remotest chance of winning at Aintree. And certainly not now he'd gambled away a grand which he could ill afford.

'I'm just off.' Holly, Drew's secretary, looked up from the computer keyboard in the Peapods office. 'I've sorted it. Major disaster averted – again. One or two of the disks had been wiped but nothing important. I've checked all the files and I've made copies. You should always do a back-up, you know.'

Drew knew. He very rarely remembered. He was just delighted to have got the bloody computer to do anything at all. He always left the technical stuff to Holly. 'Thanks a million. I'll pay you overtime.'

'Too right you will,' Holly said cheerfully, reaching for her handbag. 'And if it doesn't sound too much like grandmother and eggs, do you think you could leave inputting the data to me in future, please, Drew? It would solve an awful lot of problems. Oh, there was one bit of info that I managed to retrieve -1 thought you might have missed it.'

Drew raised his eyebrows. He probably had. The damn screen had started blinking and flashing and then gone blank almost straight away.

Holly slung her bag on to her shoulder. 'God, Drew, you didn't even check your e-mail, did you?'

He shook his head. He wasn't sure he trusted e-mail. Letters you could open and read and answer and then file neatly away were okay. Messages that flashed instantaneously on to the screen from out of the ether were something else entirely. Anyone who was foolish enough to e-mail him over the weekend had to wait for Holly's ministrations on Monday morning.

Holly leaned back over the keyboard and started tapping. Drew looked on in admiration. Give him a dozen yearlings to break in any day.

'There – look.' Holly smiled. 'I'll stay while you read it if you like, then I'll log off again.'

Drew read the e-mail message over her shoulder, then spun round and hugged her. 'Hallelujah! Holly, I love you! I love everyone in the whole damn world!'

'I thought you'd be pleased –'

'That's the biggest understatement in the world!' Drew headed for the door. 'Where's Maddy?'

'In the garden with Poppy Scarlet and the dogs. I'll just log off now then, shall I? Right – I'll take that as a yes.' Holly was still smiling as he belted out of the office and the door crashed shut behind him.

The four dogs – all acquired when he and Maddy had visited the animal sanctuary to adopt a kitten and had returned home with them plus six maladjusted cats – greeted Drew in the dim coolness of the hall with massed thumped tails and damp noses. He patted wriggling bodies indiscriminately, pushing his way through them and out into the garden.

Whatever other delights Maddy Beckett had brought into Drew's life during the eighteen months they had lived together, and there had been many, she had transformed the Peapods garden beyond recognition. Gone were the manicured lawns, the regimented borders, the angular concrete paths of his wife Caroline's régime. The garden now tumbled with flowers, and shrubs clambered haphazardly over arches and pergolas. Wild flowers flourished beneath the chestnut trees, a canopied swing stood among rustic benches, and a fountain played down stepping-stones into the shallowest of pools, carefully covered with netting to prevent Poppy rolling in.

It was cool and green and vibrant all at the same time. It was also very hard work, and extremely time-consuming, and as Maddy had gone back to running Shadows, her cleaning agency in the village, they'd decided to advertise the post of gardener/handyman in the local paper. Drew wasn't completely sure that they could afford one.

He stood for a second at the top of the steps and watched Maddy sitting cross-legged beneath the willow tree, tickling Poppy Scarlet's tummy, giggling with their daughter. He loved them both with painful intensity. The financial problems apart, he had never been so happy. And now, he grinned, every word of the e-mail imprinted in his memory, his personal happiness would be complete.

Two years previously, miserably married, Drew had moved from his small stable in Jersey to try his hand at breaking into British racing big time. Caroline, his elegant ice-cold wife, had remained in the Channel Islands to run her own business, only visiting Milton St John when her schedule allowed. Drew, lonely and confused about everything except his ambition to become a top-notch trainer, had been drawn to Maddy's chaotic and unself-conscious warmth. She'd lived in the cottage opposite Peapods, and Caroline had employed her as a cleaner. He and Maddy had seemed destined to bump into each other at every village function.

Friendship had developed into love, and love had led – eventually and after much moral anguish – to an affair that had shocked them both with its intensity. Neither of them had been prepared for the outcome.

He beamed happily at the memories as he leapt down the steps.

Maddy still wasn't aware of him. Her unruly auburn curls fell forward, curtaining her face. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt over her leggings again, still agonising, Drew knew, about the post-pregnancy weight that simply refused to go away. Drew told her every morning that she had never looked more beautiful, and every morning she wrinkled her nose in reply and said, 'Oh, yeah? I always thought I was fat before – but now I'm obese! And don't you dare go on about Rubens – I look like the Michelin Man with a bad hair-do! You're mad, Drew Fitzgerald, or short-sighted, or both!' And then they laughed and cuddled and tumbled back on to the bed. They did a lot of that.

Drew crossed the lawn accompanied by the dogs.

'Oh, brilliant! You're back earlier than I thought you'd be. Have you got time for a drink before lunch? It's nearly ready. Have you seen Holly? She's sorted everything out so it's safe for you to go back into the office.' Maddy scrambled to her feet, expertly tucking ten-month-old Poppy under her arm, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him thoroughly. 'What did Kath say?'

'The expurgated version?' Drew grinned, kissing her back.

'Of course. I don't want Poppy picking up any of Kath's more colourful phrases just yet.'

'Roughly translated, that she'll keep an eye open for useful horses. Oh, and that if Charlie comes within a mile of Lancing Grange she'll kill him.'

'Fairly mild then.' Maddy took Drew's hand and led him back to the shade of the chestnuts. 'Anyway you're looking pretty smug. Can you see yourself leading in a National winner already and putting a smile back on the bank manager's face? Or is it simply because Holly's rescued you from another black hole?'

'A bit of both.' Drew lifted Poppy from Maddy's arms and kissed his daughter's chubby face. She gurgled delightedly, grabbing a handful of his hair, already struggling to be put down. 'But mainly something else.'

'She walked again,' Maddy said, curling her feet beneath her beside Drew. 'Two steps before falling flat on her face. Mum said I didn't walk until I was nearly eighteen months so she must get it from your side of the family.'

'Child prodigies to a man,' Drew nodded. 'She'll be writing Shakespeare and playing Chopin before her first birthday. Hey, look at her ...'

Using Drew's jeans as a lever, Poppy Scarlet hauled herself upright, wobbled unsteadily on her plump legs, took two paces forward, then sat down with a thump on her well-Pampered bottom. Drew and Maddy exchanged proud smiles, as they had done every day since her birth. Poppy, basking in her captive audience, promptly repeated the performance.

'So, why the Cheshire Cat grin?' Maddy asked. 'Has Kath made you an offer you can't refuse, or is it the something else?'

'Kath threw down a wager – but that isn't important at the moment. Not,' he pulled Maddy against him, 'as important as this other piece of news.'

Poppy crawled furiously towards her parents and clambered between them. Maddy kissed the dark, downy head. 'Go on then. What news?'

'I've had an e-mail from Caroline. From Jersey. The lawyers have sorted everything out to her satisfaction and given her the dates.' Drew beamed, unable to contain his excitement. 'The decree nisi will be through in June. The absolute twelve weeks later. I'll be divorced by September. We can get married straight away, Mad. Married at last! Won't that be incredible?'

Two pairs of gooseberry-coloured eyes stared out from beneath straight red fringes. Jemima, in the middle of folding her T-shirts into drawers and putting her long skirts on hangers, stopped and glanced towards the doorway. The stares didn't waver.