Free A Summer Fling by Milly Johnson Page B

said Grace. ‘My boy and I always have a bet on the Grand National.’
    ‘Of course! It’s the Grand National on Saturday, isn’t it?’ said Christie. ‘Shall we all have a go?’
    ‘What, together or separate?’ asked Dawn.
    ‘Together,’ said Christie. ‘One up, all up.’
    ‘Anyone got a paper?’ asked Anna. ‘Let’s have a look at some names.’ Maybe there would be an appropriate Tosser of a Fiancé, or a Big Fat-Titted Scrubber that drew her eye.
    ‘I have,’ said Dawn and got out her Sun newspaper. She turned to the back pages and looked at the preview of the race.
    ‘Any good names?’ asked Raychel.
    ‘Augustus, Elvis Smith, Chocolate Soldier, Mayfly, Hell for Leather, Royal Jelly, Leapfrog, Silver Lady, Milky Bar, The Sun Rose. Wow, I’m reading the Sun !’ said Dawn with a little gasp. ‘That has to be a sign.’
    ‘Have you been sniffing strong glue?’ said Anna.
    ‘Well, it’s not much of a sign, I grant you,’ said Dawn. ‘But it sounds like a winner to me.’
    Anna half-tutted, half-smiled. ‘No, it’s not that. I would have thought with your name being Dawn that it would strike more of a chord. Dawn . . . sun rising?’
    Dawn gasped, open mouthed. ‘Crikey, I never thought of that!’
    No, Dawn wasn’t the brightest button on the planet commonsense-wise, it crossed one or two minds then. But there was something quite ethereal and unworldly about her – as if she were a simpler, more uncomplicated being, and someone who was meant to have a bit of air between her ears. Her work, however, was immaculate.
    ‘What are the odds on it?’ asked Christie.
    ‘Fifty to one,’ said Grace. ‘That’s the horse my son and I have picked.’
    ‘He’s a grey. Can’t remember the last time a grey won the National. Hmmm . . .’ Christie read on. The horse didn’t have a lot of form so he was either going to be a total loser or a surprise in the unveiling.
    ‘I love grey horses,’ said Dawn. She slid into her own memories then. Her mum and dad always wanted a ranch and horses. They were born in the wrong era and the wrong country, they used to joke to each other. They belonged to the Wild West with all its heroes and cattle and prairies. Her dad had taught her to ride when she was small. They used to borrow a horse from the riding stables up the road for her, a gentle grey called Smoke.
    ‘I’m happy if everyone else is,’ said Anna, who knew nothing about horses and wasn’t really bothered who won, if the truth be told. Still, she could leave the winnings to charity if she died before Saturday.
    ‘Me too,’ said Raychel. ‘Fiver each?’
    ‘Count me in,’ said Dawn. ‘Let’s go mad and make it a tenner.’ She was throwing so much money away these days, what harm would another few quid do?
    Malcolm watched them from the next section. It was quite obvious they were picking horses out for the National. He spotted McAskill rounding the corner. This should be interesting, he thought and waited. McAskill’s whole pet department was either reading the horse-racing bit of the newspaper or faffing about with their purses. He wouldn’t like that, however much of a flavour-of-the-month Miss Swaggering-Bottom was. As Malcolm watched James McAskill lift up the paper to read from it – the Sun as well – the smile slid off his face. The big boss and Christie were arguing about something, but laughing too. Open-mouthed, Malcolm saw Mr McAskill open up his wallet and hand some paper money over to Christie. The bloody woman was fire-proof.
    Grace got home that night to find that Gordon was in the kitchen looking through a seed catalogue. He had a pad open at his side and showed her the list of fruit trees he was going to order. He was the only man she knew who could get excited over Bramley saplings. Poring over the pages of the brochure had put him in an exceedingly good mood; he even offered to make her a cup of tea. He hummed while he waited for the kettle to boil, but it was a smug