June 2015
One sparkling June day, I took Emma and the kids to the races at Goodwood for one of those family-friendly events. Manifold paid our annual bonuses every June, so I wanted to treat them to a meal in the restaurant, but Emma persuaded me a picnic would suit Mollie better. As she spread out a rug on the ground and started setting out lunch, Owen wandered off to kick a football around with kids from the family next to us and I took out my Nikon and snapped a few photos.
Emma was wearing a cotton dress patterned with tropical birds. The wind picked up and flattened the dress against her body, lifting the hem above her knees to show off her pale, shapely legs. When she noticed my camera, she smiled and smoothed down her skirt.
“I need a new family photo for my desk,” I said. “Mollie’s still a baby in my current one.”
“Sure.” Emma gathered Mollie onto her lap and they both smiled up at me.
I felt a lump forming in my throat.
“Come on, Owen. I want you in the photo, too.” He’d drifted back when he spotted food and was cramming a KitKat into his mouth, two fingers at a time.
“Nah,” he spluttered, through a mouthful of chocolate.
“Please, Owen,” said Emma, extending her hand.
He shook his head. “Give me the camera. I’ll take one of you.”
“Fair enough.” I handed it to him and showed him how to focus, then I knelt down on the rug with my arms around Emma and Mollie.
Owen took a few shots and started checking them, flicking back through my camera roll.
“This one’s crap. Mollie’s shut her eyes again. . .”
Cold sweat dripped down my back. How far back through my gallery had he gone? I scrambled to my feet. “Give me the camera, Owen.”
He shook his head. “Nah. Still looking.”
“Listen,” I said through tight lips. “Here’s the race programme—you can choose some horses to back. I’ll swap you for the camera.”
“Cool. When’s the first race? I’ve brought my own money.” He opened his fist and showed me a crumpled tenner.
I smiled. “Put that away. Today’s my treat. I’ll place a few bets for all of us.”
“Any horses you fancy?” I asked Emma, passing her the race card.
“How about Dream Team? And Puppy Love for Mollie.”
“Okay but pick a few more. The racing goes on all afternoon.”
She screwed up her eyes against the sun and shot me a warning look that I decoded as ‘Don’t spend too much money.’ Instead she said, “You choose for me.”
I nodded and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. Just a few quid. Today’s not all about the racing—it’s a family day. There’ll be farrier demonstrations, a racecourse walk and storytelling, but it’ll be more exciting for the kids to have a horse to back while they watch the races.”
“Can I come with you?” pleaded Owen, leaping to his feet.
“Sure.”
Emma protested. “I think it’s best he stays with me. Those crowds. . .”
Owen aimed a surly kick at the cool box and I put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fret, Emma. He’ll be fine. We’ll be half an hour—tops.”
We headed off before she could protest further.
“When I was your age, I never went on outings like this with my parents,” I told Owen.
“Me neither. Not with both my mum and dad.”
As we waited in line to place our bets, he showed me the back of his hand where he’d scribbled the names of the horses he’d chosen. It was rather a long list but, lately, Owen and I hadn’t been getting along so well. Today was a chance to win him back to my team.
“That’s fine,” I assured him. Ahead of me in the queue I spotted a burly man in a blue jacket. From the back it looked like Jimmy Jonas, a client of my previous company. Not someone I’d have expected to see at a family day and definitely not someone I wanted to bump into just now.
I turned sideways, lowered my head and studied the race card. It would be good to make some dosh from our family day out. Could I risk an accumulator? But if just one of my horses lost, all bets would be off. I settled for a Yankee; at least that would give me eleven different potential winning combinations.
A raucous laugh, a hefty back slap that almost winded me and a voice boomed, “Paul! Long time no see!”
I turned around and found myself staring into Jimmy Jonas’s sweaty face. He’d put on weight since I last saw him and his jowls spilled down from beneath his chin to join his thick neck. He slung a matey arm around me and tweaked me out of my place in the queue to introduce me to a man whose name I didn’t quite catch: Tel—or Tez?
“Now, here’s a chap you must meet,” he said to his mate, waggling a pencil stub close to my face. “What this man doesn’t know about the gee-gees isn’t worth knowing.”
“And who’s this young man?” Jimmy asked, grinning down at Owen.
I stuck out one leg to try to hold onto our place in the queue, but it had already formed a meander around me and Owen, as if we were obstructing the flow of a river.
“Owen. My stepson.”
Jimmy took Owen’s hand and shook it in the mock avuncular way of men who’ve never spent time around children. He slid his other hand into his pocket, as if he was about to produce a bank note and gift it to Owen, but he drew out a handkerchief instead.
“Me and old Paul here,” Jimmy continued, dabbing his sweaty brow. “We had some great times together. Remember Cheltenham that year? And Royal Ascot?” He winked at me as if we were conspirators, then roared with laughter.
My memory of those occasions is of Jimmy freeloading on my corporate hospitality and never putting any new business my way. I nodded, but my face felt tight with the effort of smiling.
“You still in that racehorse owners’ syndicate?” Jim asked.
My heart started hammering.
“Oh—you know,” I muttered, praying Owen wouldn’t pick up on it.
My armpits felt damp and clammy. I’d been trying to get rid of my stake in the syndicate for months but no one wanted to take it on. Experience had taught me there was no upside in being part-owner of a racehorse in training. I couldn’t really afford it when I was single but, since having a family, my debts had been spiralling and I’d been borrowing more against the house in Wimbledon.
Emma didn’t know about the racehorse syndicate or the extra borrowing and, if she found out, I worried she’d lose respect for me, so I hid it from her.
I’d owned the house before our marriage, so the mortgage was in my sole name. Emma didn’t need to see the statements. The monthly payments weighed me down and, after our family holiday, I planned to start the hunt for a new job—one that paid higher bonuses.
Jimmy planted his bulky frame so close I could smell sour beer on his breath.
“Where are you working now?” Tel/Tez asked, politely moving the conversation on.
I cleared my throat. “I’m at Manifold Developments. Operations Director.”
“Good for you.” Jimmy poked me in the ribs. “Onwards and upwards, eh? Have a good one.” And turning to Owen: “You too, young man.” They drifted away, leaving us to re-join the tail of the queue.
“Who was that man?” asked Owen. “Your friend?” His tone was accusatory and I bristled as I felt my judgement being called into question.
“Just an old business contact. Someone I knew in my last job before I moved to Manifold Developments. No need to mention him to your mum.”