Free Nothing to Lose by Christina Jones Page A

Really?’ Clara was practically jigging up and down. ‘With designer outlets and stuff like that?’
    ‘Precisely stuff like that.’ Peg’s glare was withering. ‘You stupid child.’
    Jasmine frowned. ‘Hey, come on, Peg. There’s no need to be snotty to Clara. Ampney Crucis could do with a bit of a spruce up and – ’
    ‘And we’re on the north-east corner!’ Peg roared. ‘This stadium is slap-bang in the middle of it! And your beach hut’s on the periphery, pet, so I wouldn’t look too damned smug!’
    Jasmine felt the euphoria drain away from her like the air from a punctured balloon: slowly, and with a plaintive hiss. Her father couldn’t do it! Could he? Her head reeled. Of course he could. And probably would – especially with her mother’s strident voice nagging him. How better to get their revenge on Benny’s humiliating words in the Crumpled Horn on the day of the funeral? How better to make sure their only daughter toed the party line and returned to the family home, the dutiful fiancé, and the proper job? How better to wipe away the last ignominious traces of Philip and Yvonne Clayton, pillars of Ampney Crucis society, having once been related to Benny Clegg the Punters’ Friend?
    ‘Bastard!’
    ‘Couldn’t have phrased it better myself.’ Peg gave a grim smile. ‘We’ll have to put our heads together on this one. I’ll speak to Roger and Allan and–’
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Gilbert rasped rudely into the conversation. ‘The runners for the second race are just starting their parade. This race, a 480 metre sprint, is sponsored by Eddie Deebley’s Fish Bar, with a trophy for the winning owner and trainer – and a piece of cod and six penn’orth for the losers!’ Gilbert’s voice disappeared into paroxysms of laughter.
    ‘Silly sod!’ Peg glared at the speaker trumpeting above their heads. ‘Thinks he’s bloody Tommy Cooper!’ She patted Jasmine’s arm. ‘I’ll leave it with you, pet. You best have a word with your damned father as soon as possible.’

Chapter Six
    ‘So that makes two thousand, three hundred, and forty-two pounds!’ Clara, her voice rising an entire octave in amazement, called towards the open door. Sitting on the edge of Jasmine’s bed, balancing a beaker of Old Ampney shandy on her knees, and with the night’s takings arranged in heaps across the duvet, she gave a further whoop of delight. ‘Good God, Jas – two and a half grand in one night – three nights a week – that’ll mean your annual salary is – bloody hell!’
    Jasmine, perched on the top step of the beach hut’s veranda in the darkness, was only half listening. It should have been wonderful, her first night. She’d made a profit and she’d done Benny proud. But even without being there, her parents and Andrew – she lumped Andrew in with them purely out of pique – had completely ruined it.
    Taking another mouthful of celebratory beer, she pushed her fringe away from her eyes and sighed heavily. She was pretty sure that her father’s council planning committee had no intention at all of demolishing the stadium – after all, it had been tried before and come to nothing – but just the mention of it was enough to stir the local anti-greyhound contingent into protests and boycotts and similar aggravation. Whether it was genuine or not, it had taken the shine off the night somehow; sown seeds of doubt over her bookmaking future. Probably just as they’d planned it would.
    ‘Jasmine! Are you listening to me? I said – ’
    Jasmine bit her lip. ‘Sorry. I know . . . yes, it’s great. But don’t forget, the good nights at the track are usually only in the summer months. Grandpa always had to balance out his holidaymaking profits against weeks and weeks in the winter when you were hard-pressed to get more than twenty people into a meeting, and every night meant a loss.’
    ‘I’m sure we can come up with some business plan to tide you over the closed season.’ Clara,