Free Nothing to Lose by Christina Jones Page B

ever the businesswoman, staggered through the assault course of cramped furniture and nudged in beside Jasmine on the step. ‘And Benny must have pulled off some major coups if his legacies were anything to go by.’
    Jasmine heaved a sigh. She supposed he must. She just wished he’d let her in on one or two of his secrets. Nights like this one definitely weren’t going to be the norm.
    Clara’s eyes were gleaming. ‘You know, much as I hate to say it, it’s been bloody impressive. I thought you’d make a right hash of it – ’
    ‘Like I have everything else? Give me time.’
    ‘Dope!’ Clara hugged her. ‘You’re only just starting, Jas. You’re just a late beginner in the finding-your-feet stakes – and this is something you can make a success of all on your own.’
    ‘Maybe . . .’ Jasmine listened to the invisible sea tugging at the shoreline shingle as the tide receded. ‘As long as Mum and Dad don’t foul it up for me first.’
    Clara drained her half-pint glass. ‘God! You don’t really believe what Peg said, do you? This place thrives on gossip and speculation. Not that a shopping mall wouldn’t be much appreciated – but not, of course, at the expense of the stadium.’
    Despite her gloom, Jasmine laughed. Clara’s addiction to retail therapy was legendary. It had passed into local folklore ever since they were at school – she and Clara and Andrew and Ewan, together since Ampney Crucis Junior Mixed. They’d taken their pocket money into Bournemouth on Saturday mornings, and while Clara had always bought high-fashion girlie things like pretty tiny tinselled purses or patterned tights or palettes of eye make-up, Jasmine had spent hers on sweets and comics. Clara had always seemed grown-up, somehow. Jasmine felt that even now, by comparison, she was still at the twenty something equivalent of gobstobbers and Bunty.
    She drained her glass and closed her eyes in the soft darkness. All those years ago . . . when Clara had wanted to be the next Margaret Thatcher, and Andrew had wanted to be rich, and Ewan, because he and Andrew were rivals even then and had wanted to go one better, had wanted to be rich and famous, and she – she grinned, remembering. She’d wanted to be like Benny . . .
    Clara balanced her beaker on the sandy step and stood up. ‘I ought to be going. I’ve got a breakfast meeting tomorrow, despite it being Sunday, with some saddies who are here for a golf-and-business weekend. But thanks for tonight. It was good fun. I’ve spent my life avoiding the stadium like the plague. I always thought getting mixed up in greyhound racing was a bit sleazy, but it was a real blast.’
    ‘Does that mean you’ll be writing up for me again?’
    ‘Maybe . . .’ Clara twirled her car keys. ‘Especially if Ewan is back on the scene.’
    Jasmine sat for a little longer in the darkness after the red taillights of Clara’s hatchback had disappeared along the cliff road. If only Ewan hadn’t married Katrina, he and Clara would have been perfect for one another, she was sure. They’d enjoyed teenage flirtations – and, of course, had had the celebrated affair a couple of years back – and it was because of Ewan, Jasmine knew, that Clara never stayed long in any of her relationships.
    She sighed, leaning back against the open door. They’d both made a mess of the lurve thing, really, hadn’t they? She because she’d got Andrew, and Clara because she hadn’t got Ewan. Maybe they should both have moved away from Ampney Crucis years ago – but Clara was busy climbing the Makings Paper corporate ladder, while Jasmine had been blissfully happy simply to be here with Benny.
    Feeling the tears once again rising unbidden behind her eyes, Jasmine swallowed quickly. It must be the Old Ampney ale that was causing all this depressive introspection. What she needed, she decided, trying to work out where the darkness of the sky and the blackness of the sea actually met, was a rollicking, heady,