the . . .’ She mouthed the word silently. ‘Sorry, you don’t want to know about that.’ She looked at her audience. Mark seemed bemused that she was telling the story at all while Tom was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost. That would teach him to leave fake contact details with the agency. He’d obviously understood exactly what she was saying. ‘She never saw him again, so she had no way of telling him because he’d given her a wrong number. So it was good riddance, really, but bad luck for the next woman in his life.’ The tinkling laughter rippled down the table again. ‘What a bastard.’ She squeezed his arm. Hard. ‘Funny, Tom. You could almost be his twin.’
‘That’s bad.’ Mark looked decidedly relieved that the story was over without any more intimate detail. Tom gave a weak shrug as he struggled to maintain his composure. He slipped a finger between his throat and the collar of his thinly pin-striped primrose yellow shirt, moving it back and forth as if giving himself more room to breathe.
‘Isn’t it? But it’s true.’ Bea smiled, triumphant. ‘So you can see why I’m relieved Tom isn’t him, after all. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself saying something to him and embarrassing everyone else. So, we must put our bets on the next race.’ She dropped her arm from his and stood aside so he could get to the door. ‘After you.’
They followed Tom out but turned the opposite way so they could take the stairs to the outside. Bea’s heart was singing.
‘What on earth was that about?’ Mark asked.
‘What?’ All innocence. So what if Mark thought she’d behaved oddly? The important thing was that Tom had got the message. And she was sure he had.
‘That story. Tom looked rather uncomfortable.’
‘Did he? I’m sorry. It’s just that the whole business with my friend makes me so cross, I didn’t think. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.’
‘Not at all.’ He laughed. ‘It would take more than that. Here, hold my hand so we don’t get separated in the scrum.’
They stood at the paddock, watching the owners and trainers chatting by their horses, waiting for the jockeys to be legged up into their saddles. Led round by the stable-lads, the horses jinked as the wind caught them under their tails, ears flicking back and forth, heads tossing, nostrils flaring, sweat flecking their necks. A handsome chestnut that looked in peak condition, its conker-coloured coat shining, its stride full of purpose, immediately caught Bea’s eye. She ran her eye down the race card. Blade Runner, trained by Ali Newsome with Jo Michaels up and sporting the owner’s emerald and blue silks. ‘That’s the one for me. Number twelve.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
