Jumping to Conclusions (31 page)

'Mad, I love you.'

She kicked the door shut. 'I know. I love you, too. Is that what you came to tell me?'

'Yes.' He reached out and touched her cheek. 'Well, no. I thought you'd left me.'

Maddy giggled. 'Which means Fran, silly cow, forgot the phone call? Don't be daft, Drew. If I was going to leave you I'd take the animals and the Glenfiddich.'

Drew swallowed. He hurt from loving her. 'Naturally – how stupid of me ... So, what's going on here? Is Suzy in bed?'

'Suzy has buggered off to somewhere called Fernydown. I haven't got a clue where it is – anyway, she's apparently gone to plight her troth to some woman called Naomi Briskett-hyphen – Something, who has promised to turn her into the next Pat Eddery.'

Drew laughed. Funny – he'd thought he'd never laugh again. 'Naomi Birkett-Spence. Yeah – she's even more scary than Kath Seaward. So, Suze is going to jack in John Hastings, Luke, Milton St John – and tilt at the Fernydown windmill next season, is she?'

It didn't surprise him. The Fernydown horses were all selected for their Classic capabilities. The Birkett-Spence team specialised in turning out prospective champion jockeys. Failure wasn't even a contemplation. Great for Suzy – bloody tough on Luke.

'And Luke?'

'Is staying the night at Emilio's. He's absolutely broken-up, poor love. I was just going to hang on a bit to see if he came back. I thought he'd need a shoulder –'

He pulled her to him. She didn't wriggle away. He kissed her. 'So, while we've got the place to ourselves, can we talk?'

'Like we used to?' Maddy ducked under his arm and walked into the kitchen. 'Over Glenfiddich and Mars bars and Gershwin?' She rattled water into the kettle. 'Not a hope. This place is now filled with Evian water, crispbread and Nirvana. How about coffee?'

'Great.' Drew sat at the table. The kitchen was a tip. It didn't matter. He still loved it here. 'Mad – do you want to get married?'

She didn't answer. He splayed his fingers on the table and stared at them. He couldn't look at her. 'Okay. Different question. Do you want to marry me?'

She stopped spooning Nescafe into the mugs. 'Not now.'

He closed his eyes. His heart was thumping. 'Does that mean you might at some time?'

He could hear her sloshing water on to the granules, adding milk. She handed him a mug and sat down opposite him.

'When you married Caroline – what was it like? No – I'm serious. Tell me. Was it the cream of Jersey society, and all top hats, and Caroline in a designer gown?'

'Sort of. But it isn't –'

'And did you think she looked stunning? Ravishing? The most beautiful woman in the world?'

'No – yes – oh, fuck it, Mad – I don't know!'

'You're a bad liar.' She snaked her arms round his neck for a second, then pulled them away and stood up. 'Drew, look at me. What do you see? Not tall, willowy, fabulous Caroline – but short, fat me. Right?'

He wanted to laugh. 'Mad, you're truly gorgeous. I wanted you the minute I saw you. I fell in love with you straight away. I can't bloody live without you. I want you to be my wife – my partner, my friend, my lover – not some bloody trophy! I want you!'

She bit her lip. She had tears in her eyes. 'And I want to marry you more than anything else in the world. I always have. It's been my dream for two-and-a-half years. I want to walk down the aisle, or the register office corridor – in something elegant. I want to look beautiful for you. I want to make you so proud. I don't want to be second-best –'

For God's sake! He reached for her but she side-stepped his hands. 'No, Drew. Listen. I knew when the divorce would be through. I'd planned to diet, to exercise – to be perfect for September. And it's all gone wrong.'

'Mad, darling. I don't care if you wear what you've got on now. I love you in leggings and a T-shirt. I love you in bloody anything. I just want you to marry me. How bloody shallow do you think I am?'

'Look!' Angrily, she peeled the baggy T-shirt over her head and tugged off the leggings. Standing in the middle of the kitchen floor in her bra and knickers she turned in a small circle. 'Now do you understand why I can't bloody marry you in September? Look at me!'

Confused, he shook his head. She was voluptuous, cuddly, exquisite. He wanted her fiercely. She was totally gorgeous. 'You look wonderful.'

'Drew!' Her sigh could have rattled the windows. She cradled the mound of her stomach. 'Look! I'm five months pregnant.'

Sodding hell! He leapt to his feet, knocking over the chair in his delight as he grabbed her. 'Oh, my God. Mad, that's incredible. When? How? I mean, why the fuck didn't you tell me?'

'Don't swear,' she muttered against his chest. 'Because the timing was all wrong. When I found out, it was just when we thought Peapods was going under – and then the divorce was going through, and I knew we could get married in September — and it was all bloody wrong!'

How could this be wrong? How could anything so utterly joyous be wrong? His eyes were misted with tears again. He kissed her. 'You should have told me. I can't understand –'

'Because I wanted our wedding to be perfect. You've given me everything. I wanted this to be right for you. I didn't want to waddle down the aisle in something massive, or eat my wedding cake on a maternity ward, or –'

'Idiot.' He smiled into her hair. 'When's he due?'

Maddy moved away from him, and wrinkled her nose. 'Spooky. I'm sure it's a boy, too. Oh – and that's another piece of perfect timing, actually. It's – um – Christmas Eve.'

'Bugger,' he pulled a face. 'I hope you'll have time to stuff the turkey before you go.'

'The chestnuts are already in the freezer, actually. I've even peeled the sprouts.'

He hugged her again, almost speechless with happiness. 'So we can get married at any time before that – and don't –' he grinned at her '– start talking crap about wearing skin-tight dresses and looking like a stick, okay? I shall be the proudest, luckiest man in the whole damn world.'

She smiled – the old Maddy again – with happiness. 'You really don't mind?'

'Mind! Mind?' He picked her up and swung her round. 'Maddy Beckett – just give me an opportunity to show you how much I mind!'

Grinning hugely, he kicked open the kitchen door and carried her across the hall towards the bedroom.

Opening the shop on Tuesday, Jemima had a strange sense of unease. It had dogged her since the previous evening. Silly really, she thought, as she propped the door wide, allowing the gloriously warm sun to break on either side of Brian's articulated lorry in the lay by, and stream across the sisal floor. Everything was going so well. There was no logical reason to feel like this.

Several strings of horses were making their way up the bridlepaths on to the Downs. The morning was fresh, and had that tantalising smell of clean air and warm earth after rain. The hills were diamond dewy from yesterday's downpour and, shrouded in an expectant heat haze, heralded a scorching day. Jemima reckoned that Pluvius must have a real grudge against bank holidays. The small shiver which suddenly edged along her backbone had nothing at all to do with the vagaries of the weather. Whatever it was had bothered her all night, making her restless; and when she had slept, her dreams had been violent and troubled.

It may well have been accelerated by her day out with the Hutchinsons, of course. She'd spent more time getting soaked to the skin on Bradley-Percival's white-knuckle rides with the twins the previous day than in the whole of the rest of her life. And she'd lost count of the number of toffee apples and candy-flosses she'd eaten. And Gillian and Glen, delighted at how well their day had gone, had insisted she stayed downstairs to join in the Vicarage supper which had been very grown-up and included port, some excellent Cheddar, and a helping of WI pickled onions.

But it hadn't been a physical churning that had disturbed her sleep – rather a faint niggle of foreboding. She had expected Matt to ring during the evening to check that she was back. When he hadn't, she'd telephoned him twice, and both times got the answerphone. And Matt had been behaving differently for the last couple of weeks, but she put that down to the fact that the jumping season was about to begin, which would obviously test the strength of their relationship. Not that she worried unduly about her future with Matt. She wasn't really sure she'd got one.

She had managed to talk to her father before she went to bed. Vincent had been surprisingly grouchy, and, for him, rather unforthcoming about his bank holiday. He'd sworn that he hadn't been near a racecourse or a bookmaker, and she was almost sure that she believed him. He had muttered something about not trusting people, and some villagers not being what they seemed. It had all sounded a bit Ides of March, but when she'd questioned him, he'd become vague and suggested that she kept out of Bathsheba's way for a bit.

Maybe, she thought as she straightened shelves and put the float in the till and topped up the pile of green-and-gold bags, all these things combined were enough to give anyone nightmares.

Five past nine. Lucinda was late. She was usually there before Jemima these days, jigging from foot to foot, spilling over with stories. Jemima had been looking forward to hearing the next exciting Charlie Somerset episode as they shared their first cup of coffee. She was really, really going to miss Lucinda when she went off to university.

'Morning, duck.' Maureen poked her head round the door. The blonde beehive had been dismanded and now looked like a rather precarious bleached sweep's brush. 'A word to the wise. Can't stop. Our Brian came home unannounced. I'm all behind meself. Just watch Bathsheba. She was in the pub last night having a bit of a rant about them Fishnets. Forewarned is forearmed, if you get my drift.'

Jemima did. Vincent must have been in the Cat and Fiddle last night too, then. Fascinating. She was still saying thank-you as the rather tousled Maureen disappeared. It was a bit of a bugger. Still, she'd had a pretty long stay of execution. Was that what the premonition had been about? Bathsheba and the Parish Biddies being up in arms about a small percentage of her stock? No, course not. Bound to be a storm in a teacup. Let them have their say – after all, there was nothing they could do about it, was there?

Business was slow. Ten o'clock and she'd only had two customers, neither of whom had bought anything. She wasn't surprised. She knew from the Bookworms years that the day after a bank holiday was never a good time to find people willing to part with money.

Slotting
The Wind in the Willows
into the audio system, Jemima rested her elbows on the counter and listened. The story never failed to charm her. It was one of the first ones she remembered Rosemary reading to her. She had always thought Vincent was very much like Mr Toad. Maybe one day she'd read it to her own children. She would have to get a move on. She closed her eyes as the story unfolded.

These mythical children, who had become rather blurred in her imagination and were probably about fifty years out of date as they rather resembled the Ovaltineys, were sitting with glowing faces and rapt attention at her feet as she read to them. The vision dissolved. They weren't real. She wasn't even sure she liked them.

Levi and Zeke were amusing; Poppy Scarlet was gorgeous; and Fran's three children were street-wise, noisy and a bit scary. She didn't really know any other children, and certainly had no maternal feelings towards those she did. No children then. Maybe no permanent man ... Maybe she'd become a sort of elderly bohemian slapper, still entertaining gentlemen callers and wearing copious strands of jet beads when she was into her eighties. By which time, of course, the Jemima Carlisle chain would be established world-wide....

'Jemima!'

'Uh?' She opened her eyes and blinked. The sun glancing from the windows cast prisms on her glasses. Someone was outlined in the doorway.

'Jemima! Guess what?' Gillian floated into the shop. 'I just had to tell you – Oh, no Lucinda this morning? Did she have a heavy bank holiday?'

'I've no idea. If she's not here in half an hour I'll have to ring her. What?'

'It's so exciting!' Gillian sank on to the sofa in a cloud of swirling lilac cotton. 'Drew's been to see Glen. He's still there. We're going to have a wedding.'

'Maddy and Drew?'

'Of course Maddy and Drew.' Gillian frowned. 'For goodness' sake try and keep up. Oh, and Bonnie Nuts ran ever so well yesterday. Charlie was brilliant on him. Drew says I've even got a bit of prize money for coming third. Anyway, what I came to tell you was apparently Mad's pregnant again – and Drew was telling Glen that a fortune-teller told her ages ago that she'd have three children and they want to get the wedding over before this one arrives and –'

Jemima smiled with happy self-indulgence. She was so glad that Maddy and Drew had sorted out their differences. She still wasn't sure why Maddy hadn't wanted to get married, but at least one Milton St John relationship seemed to be back on an even keel. 'Are you sure you should be telling me this? Isn't it a bit indiscreet?'

'Good Lord! I haven't even got to the best bit.' Gillian looked affronted. 'Drew is asking Glen to approach the Bishop for dispensation to get married in St Saviour's. Wouldn't that be lovely? It might be a bit tricky – with him being divorced and everything – but it's worth a try. Glen's all for second marriages taking place in church. He says God's greatest gift is forgiveness. Luckily ...'

Jemima laughed. She knew that Gillian hadn't confessed about Bonne Nuit yet.

Still chattering about everyone having to get something new to wear and speculating on the venue for the reception, Gillian drifted out of the shop again to impart the happy news to Maureen and the Munchy Bar's clientèle. The grapevine was flourishing nicely this morning, Jemima thought, as she explained the library system to a clutch of elderly ladies. It certainly wouldn't give Maddy and Drew any chance to make their own announcement. Everyone in Berkshire would know by lunchtime.

Half past ten. Lucinda was never unreliable. She'd have to ring her. It occurred to her as she punched out the number that when Lucinda went to Southampton she'd have to find a replacement. She had come to rely on her so much, and certainly couldn't run the shop single-handed. Still, she thought, as the Coxes' telephone continued to ring, that was a happy problem really. She'd never expected to be so successful.