Jumping to Conclusions (53 page)

He still couldn't believe it. None of it. If he felt any guilt at all it was over missing the Kempton meeting. Christ, Kempton was today. The King George would be run in subzero temperatures with typical Christmas sleet and everyone muffled to the eyebrows, and here he was in the Caribbean where wearing skin was even too much.

No doubt his family in Devon hadn't missed him. His telephoned excuse of being invited to a pal's place in the Virgin Islands for Christmas to let the sun heal his shoulder had been accepted without question. Even Jennifer hadn't seemed too disappointed. Mind you, as they spent their time together in much the same way that he and Jemima did, he wasn't surprised.

Jennifer and Jemima – and most of the other girls he'd met – he knew that they thought he was a bit of a sap with a low sex drive. It was only the women who had pocketed his money who knew the truth.

Until now. Tina's incredible nearly six-foot body lay supine on the balcony. She was stretched out on the marble, ignoring the deeply-cushioned loungers, allowing the floor's heat to penetrate her thin, blue-veined skin. She wore only Ray-Bans, a coating of Piz Buin, and his Christmas present. The gold-linked ankle chain with a tiny whip and set of spurs was their private joke. Tina had adored it. She smiled and rolled over. He knew she wasn't sleeping. He'd watched her sleep. He'd held her while she slept.

Discovering that Tina and he shared the same interests had been a revelation.

That first night when Tina had suggested they spend the remainder of the evening together, had turned everything upside down. Had made sense of the nonsensical. And, while solving one problem, had thrown up a million others.

He'd been planning to see Jemima that night, planning to seduce Jemima, even while knowing that it probably wouldn't work. He knew her too well – and liked her. And, worst of all, he respected her He'd known that any attempt to make love to her would either be a dismal failure – or terrify her. And he hadn't wanted to do either. But he was so frustrated. There had been no outlets for so long.

He thought Jemima might have guessed because of those books! He'd been outraged by the Fishnets that afternoon in the shop. He grinned to himself. Maybe, like that woman in Hamlet, he'd protested too much? He'd wondered if Jemima had sussed it then. She hadn't seemed to.

When he had read the book himself, he'd been stunned by the accuracy, the intimate details, the pleasure. That Bella-Donna Stockings knew a thing or two. He'd toyed with the idea of contacting the publishers and asking them if he could write to her and tell her how much he'd enjoyed her book. Deciding that she'd probably think he was some sad old pervert, he'd contented himself with buying the rest of her books and fantasising. If only he could find a woman like Bella-Donna Stockings in Milton St John.

Spanky Panky
– the tide still sent shivers down his spine. And Tina had come into the shop that afternoon and said she'd read it – and he was intrigued ... excited ... wondering...

And then, when he and Tina had gone back to his house from the Cat and Fiddle, all the weeks of speculation came to an end.

He moved across the balcony and sat beside Tina, drawing his knees to his chin. The sun was healing his shoulder better than any physio could ever hope to. She turned her head slightly, and her pouty lips curled into a smile. She said nothing, but slid her hand between his thighs. It wasn't sexual, more proprietorial. Matt closed his fingers over hers and swallowed the lump of happiness his throat ...

So – that evening – thousands of miles away in Milton St John, when they'd gone back to his house Tina had stalked around, looking out of place in her designer outfit, and criticised everything he d ever done. He was a crap jockey. She expected better. She'd have better. She never settled for second best. Dragon Slayer should have won the National – and would win the next one Understood?

He'd nodded, almost hating her. She was abrasive, angry. He'd watched her as she ranted; listened to her strident voice, demanding that he win on Dragon Slayer; demanding that he did what he was told; demanding that he proved that he was a better jockey than Charlie.

She'd stood in the doorway of the sitting room, staring dismissively at his unimaginative decor, his average furnishings. At him. And he'd stared back. He was a bluffer, too. He recognised the signs. An outward shell protecting vulnerability and fear.

He'd called her bluff.

Grasping her roughly by the shoulder, he'd pulled her round, told her to shut up, fuck off, get out. She'd looked at him, angrily, challengingly. Her breathing had been shallow. Then she'd slapped his face. And he'd slapped hers – and he'd discovered that the fulfilment he'd paid so many hundreds of pounds for over the years was here – and his for free.

And after that, despite his intention not to, they'd been together whenever possible. Sometimes, because the excitement of potential discovery heightened the enjoyment, they'd managed some pretty hairy escapades in very public places. They'd always got away with it, although that night at Maddy and Drew's wedding reception, when Charlie had walked out of the marquee practically on top of them, had been a close call. It had been a hell of a turn-on at the time – and afterwards they'd nearly choked themselves laughing at the irony.

'Do you want a drink?' The sun was climbing higher in the sky now. 'Shall we be boring and use the minibar, or would you rather I telephoned for room service?'

'Room service.' Tina pushed the Ray-Bans on top of her head 'I love it when they try not to stare.'

So did he. He still hadn't quite got used to it. His body, although tightly muscled and athletic by necessity, had never given him any visual pleasure. He certainly didn't pose in front of the mirror each morning, flexing his pecs or admiring his biceps. Tina, however, had given him new confidence. He no longer looked at his reflection and wished he was Charlie. He didn't need to.

And when they did eventually dress and go down to the pool, or stroll along the water's edge, or, as they had done yesterday, eaten their Christmas meal in the dining room, people still stared.

'The supermodel and the jockey,' Tina had hissed, clinging to his arm. 'They recognise us both but don't like to say.'

It was fine for her – she was used to it. He wasn't. Fair enough, people might think his face was familiar because of the television or the racing press, but he wasn't as well known as Charlie. Everyone was used to seeing Tina and Charlie together, anyway. They were often in the gossip columns or splashed across the society pages.

But he was famous enough to have made his trips to London's high-class joints a major hazard. It had been his downfall, really. Not that any of the girls who had been so cruelly kind to him had said anything. They were used to dealing with far more celebrated faces – and bodies – than his. But notoriety cost. He knew he'd have to pay extra for the silence; fork out a fortune for the discretion.

It had just been a shame that he'd been broke at the time, and had borrowed money from Ned in a moment of desperation. He'd thought Ned might demand some stable information along with the repayment. But Ned had been far more clever than that. He should have realised that one of his scum-collectors would have been despatched to follow him and find out how the money was being spent; to find out exactly what sort of blackmailing leverage could be stored away for Filkins' future use. Times and places had been carefully logged and – even more terrifying – photographs had been taken.

His face was well enough known for it to cause a major scandal: to finish his career. Jockeys – like all sportsmen – had to be squeaky-clean. No drugs, no booze, and definitely no taste for bizarre sex. Ned Filkins had him – as he had poor Vincent – over toe proverbial barrel.

He had still worried that he and Tina would be recognised as they left Heathrow. He didn't want Jemima to find out via the tabloids – and he didn't want Charlie to find out at all.

'If anyone asks why we're together, we'll tell them it's a business trip,' Tina had purred when they'd arrived at the hotel 'After all, I do own the horse you ride. What could be more natural?'

He rang room service, and pulled on a T-shirt. Tina laughed at him. 'Very suburban, Matt, darling, and a complete waste of modesty. After all, I'll only take it off again.'

He winced as he sat down. The floor was scalding now. He wanted to swim. He wondered vaguely if Dragon Slayer had won the King George. With the time difference, the race would probably be over by now. He mentioned it as the waiter bustled round with massive jugs of white rum and fruit juice and ice.

'He wasn't winning with you, was he, sweetie? So without you he doesn't stand a dog's chance. And his form has been pretty naff of late.'

Maybe, Matt thought, as the waiter placed the drinks beneath the awning, but did Liam Jenkins know he wasn't supposed to win? Had Ned Filkins managed to get the message across?

Tina sat up, uncurling herself with no regard for the waiter's blood pressure, and flicked ice cubes at Matt. They melted almost immediately and trickled down his thighs. She watched them appreciatively. Oh, God, he thought, please let her wait until the waiter has gone.

She did.

Slightly drunk from the rum, and smarting from Tina's expert attention and the chlorine in the hotel pool, Matt headed back to their room. Pushing the sopping hair from his eyes, he opened the door and looked around for her. He didn't have to search far. In her minuscule bikini she was jigging up and down on a sun lounger on their balcony, waving her mobile phone.

'Matt! He's bloody won!'

'Charlie? Bonne Nuit has won the King George?'

'No.' She pulled him down beside her, her voice quivering with excitement. 'Dragon Slayer. By a short head from bloody Bonnie Nuts! He must have come good again. Isn't that fantastic? Kath will be so pleased.'

And Ned would be fucking furious.

He nodded, rubbing his hair. He was going to tell Tina. He had t0 it was something he'd discussed with Vincent, but they'd both decided against it, agreeing that certainly for Jemima's sake – if for no one else's – they had to keep quiet. And then, when Jemima had turned up in the middle of their chat, he'd not known what to do with himself.

And she'd given him a Christmas present which he'd left behind in his rush to get to Heathrow, and he hadn't bought her anything at all. Not because he was mean or hadn't wanted to, but because he simply hadn't thought about it. His obsession with Tina had wiped out all other considerations.

Still, no doubt Jemima would meet someone else during Milton St John's round of seasonal parties, and when he came back they might even be friends again. He cared enough about her to want her not to hate him. He couldn't bear it if she pitied him for his sexual preferences. It would be even worse if she despised him for being a cheat.

Tina was applying an extra layer of Piz Buin to the ninety-five per cent of her body which was exposed to the sun. He took the bottle from her and massaged her back. Tenderly.

'Tina – can I talk to you?'

'Clean or dirty?'

'Seriously.'

'Bugger. Okay, go on.'

He told her quietly. All of it. How he'd been caught up in Ned Filkins' web; how Dragon Slayer wasn't supposed to win anything until the National; even how he was going to unseat Charlie at Aintree if necessary.

Tina said nothing. He couldn't tell from the set of her shoulders whether she was angry.

Without turning round, she sighed. 'And the Hennessey fall?'

'Was genuine. I'd have won that one and to hell with the consequences.'

Her hand reached for his. 'Good, you cheating bastard. Because nearly died when you fell. It was a bit of a sod, really. I knew then that I didn't want to lose you – and don't look so smug.'

He said nothing. He didn't know what to say. All his life he'd played in the reserve team – never expecting anything. This was as near to a declaration of love as Tina had ever got. It was far more than he deserved.

Tina curled her arms around his neck. 'You will try to win the National, though, won't you, sweetie? Not for Ned fucking Filkins – but for me? For us?'

'Yes,' he said, because he would. 'Even if it means hurting Charlie to do it?'

'Even if it means hurting Charlie – although actually I'd prefer it if you didn't.'

'And will you leave me if I don't win?'

She grinned at him. 'Would you care?'

Matt shrugged as he grinned back. 'What do you think?'

The end of the year. Tomorrow would bring a fresh start, new hopes, new dreams. Jemima perched on the edge of her bed and wondered what to wear. Should she stick with the tried and tested and see the old year out in grunge? Or should she go for an entire change of image, raid the more avant-garde end of Gillian's wardrobe, and welcome in the new one as a stunna? She giggled. Somehow, she couldn't see herself rivalling Lucinda tonight. Not, of course, that she'd be going to the Nuke – but if she was – it might be nice to turn heads.

She wrapped her dressing gown more closely round her and drifted to the window. The icy weather had persisted, throwing biting winds and steel-grey skies across the Downs, and cloaking Milton St John in a perpetual veil of sleet. It hadn't been a white Christmas, but it had been satisfyingly cold, and she'd been delighted to crouch beside Maureen's real coal fire, with a large port and lemon – Maureen's favourite seasonal drink, apparently – beside her, and crack walnuts and watch a spine-chiller on the television.

In fact, it had been one of the loveliest Christmases she could remember.

Her father and Maureen had been very funny, trying not to touch each other, smiling at each other when they thought she wasn't watching. Their happiness had been tangible. She assumed they'd spent Christmas Eve night together – she'd never ask, of course. It was something she'd rather not think about. But if it made Vincent happy, and it obviously did, then who was she to moralise?

And then there had been the additional joy of Maddy and Drew's baby. Acting as emergency midwife had turned Vincent into a sort of folk hero in the village and, after church on Christmas morning, everyone was slapping him on the back and offering to buy him drinks. He'd admitted to her that it was the most terrifying moment of his life – but also one of the most wonderful. She'd hugged him and told him he was a star, and that Daragh Vincent had a lot to live up to.