Nothing to Lose (41 page)

April bit back her fury. There was no point in rising to his bait. She certainly didn’t want Beatrice-Eugenie’s early memories of Christmas to be associated with rows and raised voices like her own were.

‘You know damn well why I have to go to work. And why did you say you weren’t her father?’

‘Christ, April. I don’t know. She irritated me. She doesn’t like me, and I’m crap with kids. Stop making a fuss – I’m here, aren’t I?’

Oh, yes, April thought, savagely ripping off pieces of Sellotape with her teeth, you’re definitely here . . .

Christmas Day morning was as far removed from April s rose-tinted dream as it was possible to get. Fortunately Noah stayed in bed and slept, as Bee and April and Cair Paravel sat on the floor beside the Christmas tree and opened the presents. It was a huge relief to see that Bee’s faith in the miracle of Santa Claus had been fully restored as she tore off handfuls of wrapping paper and held up each new delight for April to inspect.

Cair Paravel rolled happily amongst the discarded paper, completely ignoring the squeaky rubber bone which April and Jix had given him. However, it seemed to April, that both Beatrice-Eugenie and Cair Paravel seemed to know that their celebrations must be muted. Although April had closed the bedroom and living-room doors, both the little girl and dog kept stopping in their enjoyment, looking towards the hall, and listening.

Still, with carols on the radio, and a sharp frost outside, it was pretty seasonal. April, who had yearned for a family Christmas as long as she could remember, wondered why the reality was never, ever as good as the dream.

Noah emerged at just before midday. The sleep seemed to have restored some of his good temper, and he appeared reasonably happy, squatting on the floor, playing with Bee’s toys. Bee, though, April thought as she watched them together, wasn’t relaxed, and treated Noah with a distant politeness, flinching each time he roared with laughter. Cair Paravel didn’t pretend at all. Carrying his squeaky bone in his mouth he haughtily returned to his blanket in the kitchen, sank on to his stomach and grizzled deep in his throat.

‘Sorry about last night –’ Noah looked up at April as she handed him a mug of coffee. ‘I was a git. I was knackered and a bit disorientated. We’ll make it work, honey, I promise you.’

‘We’ll have to,’ April nodded her head in Bee’s direction, ‘for her sake, won’t we?’

Noah stretched out on the floor. ‘Guess so. And I’m so sorry I didn’t bring any presents for you or Bee. It was all so last-minute.’

‘That’s OK. We didn’t get anything for you either. Well, we didn’t know you’d be here, did we?’

Noah feigned a grin, but looked, April thought, a bit miffed that he didn’t have a secret stash of presents from his doting family hidden away.

‘No ... no ... I suppose not. I’ll have to buy you something after Christmas. Perhaps we’ll go to the sales. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, you know we talked before about moving away? Getting somewhere bigger than this, so that I can work in peace and you can – well, you can do whatever it is you want to do?’

April nodded, feeling a small surge of happiness at last. ‘Oh, yes. I told you about Ampney Crucis, didn’t I? It’s the most perfect village – like out of a storybook – by the sea. Bee and Cairey loved it there, and the light would be right for you to paint and – ’

‘April, April . . .’ Noah held up his hands. ‘I don’t want to live in some decrepit English backwater. I’m talking about going back to France. All of us. It’s the only place for me now. I could never settle here permanently.’

April continued to smile, but inside she felt sick. France? Abroad? Leave everyone she knew and be alone with Noah? She really wanted to laugh. It was the dream she’d been working for ever since he’d left her, and now he was handing it to her gift-wrapped, and she wasn’t at all sure that she wanted it.

She forced a laugh. ‘God, that’ll take a lot of getting used to. But can we talk about it later? It’s gone one – we’ll be late for dinner.’

‘Dinner?’ Noah leaned back against the sofa. ‘I can’t smell turkey roasting or stuffing or sprouts or anything. I presumed we were going to eat tonight.’

‘No,’ April closed her eyes. She should have told him before but she’d been sure he’d object. ‘Dinner’s at half-past one. I’ll just go and feed Cairey, then we’re all going to Antonio and Sofia’s.’

The Pasta Place was silent. Everyone turned and stared as April came in. She knew that Jix would have warned them about Noah, but she’d hoped they’d try to be friendly just for her sake.

Sofia had gone way over the top with the Christmas decorations, and the tables were pulled together and covered with a holly-sprigged cloth. Glasses and cutlery sparkled under the flicker of dozens of dark red and green candles, and there were crackers beside each plate. The mingled scents of roasting turkey, and bacon and prune stuffing, and roast potatoes and chestnuts, all wafting from the kitchen made April drool. Bee immediately broke away from her and scrambled into the seat between Jix and Daff, proudly showing off the most portable of her presents. Joel and Rusty, at the far side of the table, nodded their heads at her, smiled at Bee and ignored Noah. Sofia, who was changing the Christmas CD on the stereo, did the same.

‘April –’ Antonio poked his head out from the kitchen, surrounded by clouds of fragrant steam, ‘can I have a word,
cara
?’

She closed the door behind her. Nine massive dinner plates were arrayed on the counter. Two turkeys sat golden and fragrant on their carving dishes, and there were half a dozen vegetable tureens piled high.

‘This is amazing!’

‘But our uninvited guest isn’t.’ Antonio sharpened the carving knife on a steel with swift, vicious movements.

‘Oh, I know you had to bring him – Jix explained. And if he’s your choice, then so be it. But a word of warning: if he upsets anyone here today I will slit his throat, OK?’

April nodded silently. She didn’t doubt it.

Antonio tested the blade of the knife by running it along his finger. April almost expected to see the flesh fall neatly apart.

‘Noah Matlock was a moody bastard long before you came to join him here.’ Tonio didn’t look at her. ‘He was always arrogant and often unpleasant. You were good for him,
cara,
and he was nicer with you around. But you should have let sleeping dogs lie. You should never have tried to get him back. We all know him very well, don’t forget. His fame has only made him worse. Now, smile, princess – for the
bambino’s
sake – and we’ll have a happy Christmas meal all together, won’t we?’

‘Yeah, of course we will.’ April smiled dutifully. ‘I just wished you’d said all this earlier, though. Like when I first moved in with Noah years ago. It would have saved a lot of trouble.’

‘And would you have listened,
cara?
No bloody way. You’re a woman and you loved him. You wouldn’t have listened to anyone, would you? Now, remember the smile, and grab that nearest dish of veg. It’s Christmas.’

The meal went far better than April could have imagined. By the time she’d returned from the kitchen, everyone was at least talking. Sofia had poured the first of many bottles of wine, they’d pulled crackers, at Bee’s insistence, and everyone round the table, including Noah, was wearing a paper hat.

In true Italian tradition, the feast lasted for ever. The food was amazing, the wine plentiful, and the mood grew more merry and relaxed. April noticed with amusement that whenever Noah started bragging about his paintings, someone always cut in and talked him down.

They exchanged presents across the plates, and Bee had twenty times more than anyone else. Noah, of course, didn’t have any. April gave him a sideways glance but he didn’t seem to mind too much. Jix wound his Doctor Who scarf round his neck, wearing it throughout the meal, flicking it artlessly over his shoulder with a Diana Dors motion every time it looked like trailing in his gravy. It was only at the stage where they were all trying manfully to cram mince pies and cream down on top of everything else, that April realised Jix hadn’t given her a present.

She sighed over the silliness of men – did he really think she cared? – and because Antonio and Joel and Noah were by then all having cigars with their coffee, she lit a cigarette.

Jix and Noah glared at her with twin stares of disgust and she laughed out loud for the first time that day.

It was dark when they all staggered back towards number 51. With Joel and Rusty on either side, Jix wrapped his scarf round Daff’s face for the short outside journey, and they parted in the hallway, peeling off to their respective flats with almost cheery Christmas greetings.

Noah slumped on the sofa. ‘That was much better than I’d anticipated. Wonderful food.’ He patted the cushion beside him. ‘Come and sit here.’

‘In a moment. Bee’s nearly asleep – I’ll put her to bed. Oh, and I’d better let Cairey out for a wee in the yard first. He must be bursting – Oh!’ April stood in the kitchen doorway. He’s not here – and I closed the door so he can’t be in the bedroom.’

Noah looked over his shoulder. ‘What? Oh, I put him out in the yard just before we left. I thought it was best.’

April yanked open the back door, cursing Noah under her breath. ‘Come on, Cairey, poor boy ... You must be so cold . . . I’ve brought you the biggest doggy bag you’ve ever seen – turkey and sausages and bacon and – ’

April stopped. The yard was empty. Cair Paravel had gone.

Jasmine sat beneath the glittering chandeliers and waited to wake up. As everything since before Christmas had passed in a sort of dream, she saw no reason why New Year’s Eve should be any different.

The Frobishers’ house – no, she shook her head. Wrong word. Stately home? No, wrong shape. Small palace? Not that, either. She played with the bread roll sitting in the centre of her side plate. OK, yes, the Frobishers’ castle – that was it – was like something she’d been taken to see on school visits.

It had suits of armour in the hall, and portraits of ancestors, and dead animals on the walls, and sweeping staircases, and about six million oak-panelled rooms with fireplaces big enough to conceal Rutland.

All twelve representatives of the Benny Clegg Stadium had hired a minibus for the journey from Ampney Crucis to Surrey and had booked overnight rooms in a nearby Travel Lodge. Now, sitting between Bunny and Gilbert round a Camelot-sized circular table in the banqueting hall, Jasmine tried not to stare at the splendour. It was very difficult.

There were four main tables – for the four Platinum Trophy short-listed stadiums – with five smaller tables for the greyhound organisations and the press and other interested parties, dotted between them – and the top table on a sort of raised platform. Ampney Crucis had the table immediately to the right of the Frobishers’ podium, while Bixford were to the left. Pullet’s and Bentley’s, the other contenders, were in the far corners. Peg had got quite excited about this, but Jasmine thought it showed no preference in the pecking order – probably just Brittany’s clever way of being able to keep an eye on Sebastian and Ewan at the same time.

The Gillespie contingent hadn’t yet arrived, although, with the exception of the top table, most of the other tables were already full, and a rather wispy-looking man in a shiny David Essex suit and a red neckerchief was mournfully strumming classics on a six-stringed guitar and looking as though he was about to run out of repertoire.

Aware that everyone round the Ampney Crucis table was surreptitiously watching her for the first sign of irrational behaviour which might just indicate a full-blown mental collapse, Jasmine refused to meet their eyes.

After storming out of the Chewton Estate house, with her mother and Andrew in hot pursuit crying that she’d got it all wrong, and the neighbours’ net curtains going up and down like marionette strings, Jasmine had eventually shaken them off and fled back to the graveyard.

Pouring it all out to Benny – with some tasty four-letter epithets – she’d felt marginally better. Then she’d gone to the Crumpled Horn, put ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ on constant replay, and downed five pints of Old Ampney without stopping. Staggering back to the beach hut, she’d drawn wobbly moustaches on her mother’s photos and ripped up Andrew’s and fallen into a rather giddy sleep on the sofa.

Clara had arrived noisily at the hut after lunch, intent on taking Jasmine to do some last-minute Sunday shopping, and had been treated to hung-over chapter and verse. Being Clara, she’d immediately made a lot of black coffee, added a Lenin beard to Yvonne’s photos, set fire to the remains of Andrew’s, and dragged Jasmine off to buy a shock frock for the Frobishers’ do. Retail therapy, Clara had insisted, was exactly what was needed.

Which was why, Jasmine thought, she was sitting in a castle, merely feet away from the only man she’d ever love or at least she would be when he arrived – wearing something floor length and skintight in scarlet satin which pushed her breasts out like the figurehead on a sailing ship and was split to the thigh. Oh, and the fact that it had cost at least the winnings on five races hadn’t added to her happiness much either.

Everyone else had been wonderful when Clara had told them the dire Yvonne-and-Andrew and Philip-and-Verity news. They’d rallied round, and made sure that Jasmine was left alone when she wanted to be, and not when she didn’t. Christmas Day had been and gone in a sort of blur, and Philip and Verity, holding hands, had bravely arrived at the beach hut on Boxing Day to explain the situation. As Jasmine knew more about the situation than they did, it was a rather strange conversation. And her father had got quite agitated about Yvonne and Andrew, but Verity had giggled, and patted his knee in a calming, motherly way.

After their visit, Jasmine had to admit that her father looked happier than she’d seen him look for years, and Verity was nice and comfortable – and at least her father would now never run short of warm hand-knitted woollies.

The banqueting hall was noisy: splinters of far-flung conversations rising and falling, chair legs being scraped back across flagstones, and cutlery being knocked to the floor with a clatter. The wispy guitarist had just started rather recklessly on ‘Una Paloma Blanca’. Jasmine could just see the whole place erupting vociferously into the more popular version and considerably lowering the Frobisher tone.