Jumping to Conclusions (49 page)

Completely dumbfounded, Jemima could only shake her head. 'But – but – you said ...'

'I lied. This isn't something I want made public knowledge for obvious reasons. I love animals. I detest cruelty. My grandfather was killed in a hunting accident – and I could never quite shake off the idea that he maybe deserved it.'

Frank and Millie looked slightly askance at this. Jemima sensed that the flippancy hid far deeper emotions.

'So you're not one of the huntin', shootin', fishin' brigade as everyone in the village thinks you are? But I – I thought that everyone involved in racing was involved in blood sports.'

'Not by a long way. You'd be surprised how many antis lurk beneath the surface. Anyway, my idea of sport is to give the contenders equal chances. When someone hands the fox a hunter-chaser, and gives him servants and hounds to boot, it might even things up a bit.' Charlie let his hand drop and grinned. 'I hope my secret's safe with you?'

God – how many more of Milton St John's secrets was she going to be asked to keep?

'Who knows?' She smiled at him, wondering irrationally if she could yank his hand back up to her neck and kiss him. 'You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?'

'So then what happened?' Gillian wedged one of her many carrier bags beneath her chin while shoving the others under her arm, and attempted to light a cigarette. 'After he'd rescued you from the clutches of the Red Brigade?'

Jemima side-stepped the mass of last-minute Christmas shoppers in Upton Poges High Street. 'Nothing much. And although I don't want to sound really preachy, didn't your mother ever tell you it was slutty to smoke in the street?'

'Frequently. But as I'm giving up on New Year's Eve, I'm stockpiling on nicotine, so stop nagging.' Gillian inhaled deeply and came to a halt outside the doorway of Dorothy Perkins, much to the irritation of a scrum of women who were attempting to get in and buy a little black number for the Christmas, festivities. 'Anyway, don't change the subject – what happened with Charlie?'

'Nothing, honestly.'

'Why was he there anyway? I didn't think he hunted locally. Well, not foxes, anyway.'

'He doesn't – well, he wasn't, not then, anyway. He'd just – um – come to have a look at the horses, I think.'

'What on earth for? He must have seen Diana and Gareth's hunters a thousand times.' Gillian paused to admire a slinky silver trouser suit in the window. 'It's more likely that he was there to lust over the women in their breeches. Still, I suppose it was lucky for you that he turned up at all. I warned you about getting involved with the liberationists, didn't I? Do you think silver would suit me?'

'Yes you did, and yes it would.'

Gillian frowned. 'I'm not so sure ... I'll have to think about it Oh, go on anyway. Tell me the rest. What happened when he got you into the Aston Martin?'

Jemima was beginning to wish she'd never mentioned the Fernydown escapade to Gillian at all. She'd been rattling on about it for ages. And there really wasn't an awful lot more to tell. She had no intention of breaking her promise. If Charlie wanted her to keep his animal rights activities secret, then she was more than happy to do so. He had given her the address of the League Against Cruel Sports and she'd already sent off her application.

Reynard and several of his cronies had been arrested, and the MFH had been cautioned for public disorder after he'd kicked one of the woolly-hat crew. Charlie had certainly edged up several hundred per cent in her estimation, but because of her promise to him she could hardly wax lyrical, could she? Still, she'd have to tell Gillian something otherwise they wouldn't ever get past Dotty P's.

'Well, he pointed out the pitfalls of becoming involved with terrorists, and kindly drove me back to where I'd parked Floss, by which time the hunt were returning really miffed because they hadn't seen a single fox all day, and then we went home.'

'And?'

'And nothing. I came back to the Vicarage and he went back, no doubt, to Tina's rather bony embrace.'

Gillian sighed. 'Bloody hell. And he didn't try to seduce you at all? Didn't you ask him in?'

'Hardly. We were in convoy. We flashed lights and waved goodbye at the Peapods corner. Nothing more exciting than that. So – how many more presents have you got to get?'

Gillian stubbed out her cigarette with the toe of her Bally hoot and consulted a list that looked about as long as the Gettysburg Address. Jemima, well wrapped against the frosty air, gazed at her reflection in the shop window. Brown hair, long brown coat, brown gloves, brown boots. Still, the vivid orange knitted scarf wound several times round her throat added a hit of colour. Not enough colour to make Charlie blink twice though, if that was the way Gillian's mind was working. And it obviously was.

She could hardly tell Gillian that her one sexual adventure in Milton St John had been so disastrous that there was no way she was going to risk being humiliated a second time. If Matt had found her so bloody unappealing, then Charlie's reaction – with his track record and pick 'n' mix selection of gorgeous women – would be a million times worse.

Gillian was still checking the list. '... and I've got gloves for my mother-in-law, and slippers for Glen's dad – my parents are easy – anything alcoholic – and the boys were sorted weeks ago – so I'm practically done. What about you?'

'Just got to get something pretty for Maureen. She and Dad are becoming quite an item. God knows what her husband makes of it. I've bought everything else.'

'You would have – you're so infuriatingly organised. I bet yours are all wrapped and labelled, too. I suppose you can just go and raid your shelves and buy your presents and up your profits at the same time. I'm sure that comes under the seven deadly sins.'

'People in glass houses, Gillian, remember? When exactly are you going to confess about your misdemeanours?'

'Which ones?'

'Bella-Donna Stockings and owning Bonne Nuit? Surely you'll have to tell Glen soon.'

'Glen's only just forgiven me for blurting out about Charlie and Lucinda at the wedding reception. I'm not sure that he could take any more revelations – specially not at Christmas. Maybe I should add confessions to my New Year resolutions.'

Jemima laughed. 'Yeah, and I can just see the headlines in the
Upton Poges Echo:
"Fishnets Fund Floozy's Filly".'

'Totally inaccurate.' Gillian smiled sweetly. 'I'm not a floozy and Bonnie Nuts is a boy. Now, tell me, what have you got for Matt?'

The strings of multicoloured lights rocked backwards and forwards across the High Street. 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' blared from the doorway of Computers R Us. Jemima continued to stare at the red and green and black and silver party outfits in Dorothy Perkins' window. Matt? Well, Matt was going home to Devon for Christmas in the hope that all his injuries would have healed in time for the January Grand National preparations. He hadn't mentioned Jemima going with him. He hadn't mentioned Christmas presents.

'A book, actually. And not from my shop, before you ask.'

She'd bought him a first edition collection of James Pollard racing prints, feeling that it would serve on all counts. It would prove that she was no longer totally against what he did for a living, while on the other hand it was impersonal enough to be given by a friend.

Gillian wrinkled her nose. 'Not very original. I thought you'd buy him massage oils or something really sexy.'

Jemima wanted to laugh. Sexy and Matt were still poles apart. He obviously had no interest in her physically. If she'd had a brother they'd probably have the same sort of relationship which she and Matt enjoyed. She hoped that this break in Devon would signify the end of any pretence. They were friends – and nothing more. Thanks to the Hennessey fall they hadn't even been out together for weeks.

'Come on then.' Gillian grabbed her arm. 'Let's go and see what dear Dorothy has to offer in outsize lurid nighties. Something purple and see-through should suit Maureen nicely – not to mention your father.'

Two hours later, surrounded by carrier bags in the warmth of the Vicarage kitchen, Jemima drained her teacup and refused a refill. No, really. I want to finish my present-wrapping. And I'd better call in at the shop and check that Tracy is coping okay. And I've got to take Matt his present before he leaves for Devon tonight, and drop in at Peapods with Poppy Scarlet's stuff – just in case Maddy and Drew spend Christmas at the hospital. And I've still got to go and see Dad. We haven't sorted out who's going where for Christmas Day yet.'

You know you're more than welcome to come to us.' Gillian pulled a loop of tinsel from the depths of the bag and inspected it beneath the overhead fluorescent light. 'Honestly, every year I promise myself that I'll go Conran in Christmas decor. I swear I'll have the Vicarage themed in two colours, or tartan, or minimalism, or whatever is top-of-the-range trendy. And every year I get caught up in the sparkly-tinsel-and-rainbow-bauble syndrome. Still, Leviticus and Ezekiel love it. So? Will you? You and Vincent come to us for Christmas Day?'

Jemima pushed thoughts of past Christmases to the back of her mind. The excitement when Rosemary and Vincent brought down the familiar cardboard boxes from the attic, the unwrapping of the glass balls, the snowmen, the tiny Santa Claus – and the Christmas-tree fairy which had belonged to her mother when she was a child. All familiar, all part of the magic. All long, long ago....

'It's really kind of you to invite us, but I think Dad and I would be better alone together. It's such a long time since we had Christmas in the same place. I'm looking forward to it.'

Gillian nodded with understanding. 'Well, we'll be here – in between services, of course – if you fancy a change. Naturally, Christmas is Glen's busy time – almost as bad as Easter. He gets absolutely frazzled, physically and spiritually, poor lamb. It's not just the celebration of The Birth and everything – he often has to mediate in dozens of domestic disputes over the holiday period. People in Milton St John don't seem to be able to spend more than forty-eight hours together without brawling.'

Jemima could quite believe it. She had a feeling, as she climbed the stairs to her flat, that the festive season in Milton St John would be unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

The whole village was already buzzing about the King George at Kempton Park on Boxing Day – when Dragon Slayer and Bonne Nuit would again be pitted against each other – and Kath Seaward had been spouting in the pub about giving the ride to a monkey after the way both Charlie and Matt had each handled her horse.

Then, Maddy's baby was due at any minute, and Bathsheba, Petunia and Bronwyn had temporarily halted their tirade against Fishnets and were currently up in arms about the proposed rave _ now known officially as the New Year Nuke – which was going ahea in the James-Jordans' marquee.

Lucinda, who was spending Christmas in Klosters with the Maxwell-Dunmore family, had sworn to be home for the New Year. She'd phoned Jemima and said she wouldn't miss Milton St John's first ever rave not even for the promise of a long lie-in with Ronan Keating. Tina, it was rumoured, was holidaying in the Virgin Islands – which everyone thought highly inappropriate – but at least it would leave Charlie with fewer options. And Matt, of course, would be in Devon – which would leave Jemima with no options at all.

With light spilling out of its leaded paned windows, the bookshop looked very Dickensian in the afternoon darkness. It was humming nicely. There was still a stream of customers seeking stocking fillers, and the holly and ivy decorations made it appear even more cosy and comfortable. The sofa and beanbags were occupied and 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' tinkled through the sound system. Tracy, who had co-opted her two eldest children as wrappers and shelf-fillers, insisted that she could manage perfectly well for the rest of the afternoon as she knew Jemima had loads of other things to do.

Jemima sighed heavily. Saying goodbye to Matt was probably going to be exactly that – and asking her father about Christmas Day was going to be opening another can of worms – she was sure of it. The problem wasn't only Vincent's continued friendship with Maureen in Brian's absence – although, God knows, that was bad enough – but she was still convinced that there was something bothering him.

He had been shifty for weeks. And he had far too much money. Jemima was pretty sure that he was gambling again – but if he was, he must be using a completely different system. This one seemed to have a no-lose factor built in.

Waving gratefully to Tracy, she hesitated outside the shop. Which way to go first? Matt or Vincent? She opted for Matt and headed towards the High Street. Then at least if she got over-emotional at the parting – which she doubted, but you never knew what Christmas could do to you – she could go and cry on her father's shoulder. And, of course, she had to go to Peapods anyway with Poppy's present, so it wouldn't look as though she was checking up on Vincent, would it?

It took her five minutes to reach Matt's house. Since being incapacitated by the fall at Newbury, he had given her a front-door key. She'd been meaning to give it back now that he was fully mobile. She would leave it on the hall table this afternoon. She was pretty sure she wouldn't need it again.

Unlocking the door, she walked through the undecorated hall into the equally undecorated living room. Matt, going back to Devon for Christmas, must have decided to pass on the festive glitz. He hadn't even put up his Christmas cards.

To her surprise, Matt wasn't alone.

'Jem, love!' Vincent stood up as Matt, his shoulder unstrapped for the first time, tried to stagger to his feet from the sofa. 'I – we – weren't expecting to see you.'

That much was obvious. What the hell was Vincent doing here? He didn't like Matt much, did he?

'I was going to come and see you later, anyway, so it's quite handy.' She kissed her father's cheek before bending to kiss Matt in their usual fraternal fashion. 'So, what brings you round here? Getting some racing tips from the horse's mouth, so to speak?'