— Tell me about it, I grimace, looking over at oddly nervous Lara, who’s networking like her life depended on it.
Becky and I swap numbers on our mobiles: hers is a new one. Jason is watching them depart. — Stop checking out their arses, I chide, — you’ve got a girlfriend now. At the very least I expect you to be subtle in your leering.
Jason looks sorrowfully at me. — Sorry, doll, force ay habit.
— Well, cut it out. You don’t catch me staring at boys’ packets, I tell him, ‘you don’t catch me’ being the operative part of the comment.
Poor Jason just says, — Right enough.
He’s such an innocent, deep down.
We come across a big, beautiful-looking bull at one of the shows. Its intelligent stare seems to unnerve Jason. — What’s up?
He shakes his head. — Yon bull’s giein ays some fuckin look awright; sly, evaluatin, wise. Last time ah saw yon expression wis the face oan muh ma’s fancy man in yon snobby wee hotel, ya hoor, he nods at the bull. — Ah ken you awright, Wee Arnie, ya cunt, he says. Then he turns to me and adds in conspiracy: — Yon look thit sais ‘it might be a good idea tae discourage Jason fae comin roond sae much’. Aye, aye, ah ken.
— Don’t be so paranoid, Jay, I laugh, grabbing his bony arse. — When you win at Bathgate tonight, I’ll fuck you senseless.
His eyes bulge out so severely it’s like a movie computer-generated special effect. — But what if ah git beat?
— Then you can fuck me senseless.
His jaw drops to compound the effect of the eyes.
The buzz goes around that there’s free champagne in the sponsors’ tent, so Jason and I are right across. We’re enjoying the bounty with restraint as I have to run Jay to Bathgate for the tournament, but Lara’s appeared and she’s still a suffering bag of nerves. I hear her going on to some toff about Princess Di. — The latest theory is that she was murdered because of her views on Palestine.
Jason’s picked this up and looks aghast. — What fuckin views oan Palestine? Git tae fuck! he snaps in irritation like a little terrier. Suddenly it’s all very testy between the two of them. The toff takes his leave, and not very discreetly either, swanning off in disdain.
— Thank you, Jason! Lara spits. — Do you have any idea who that was?
— Some hoor, says Jason, mimicking the toff’s arrogance and heading off himself, circulating like he’s to the manor born.
That’s my boy!
It becomes more than apparent that Ms Grant is not pleased with my choice of partner. — I’m trying to get in with the sponsors and you bring him along! She squeals as Jason shamelessly steals over to her uncomfortable-looking father and mother, engaging them in conversation. Dr Grant is looking away, while Mrs Grant is struggling with a pained face. What’s even more delicious is that I know Jason knows just how much he’s winding them up, and is thoroughly enjoying it! So am I.
— But he’s fun! I protest, enjoying her discomfort. The bruise has faded a bit, but you can still see it. Of course, I’d previously told her that it was completely invisible.
— You haven’t been, you know…? she asks.
I shrug nonchalantly. — I’m saying nothing, Ms Grant.
— You have! With a stable boy! With a failed jockey! A stalker midget, a drug addict… how horrible… Then she sees I’m not amused. — But Jen, you could do better. You’re so pretty.
— Don’t worry about me, I tell her. — I’m fine. I’m getting shagged. That was my big problem, remember? Well, problem solved.
— But Jason… he’s stalked us both all over the fucking country! Lara gasps.
I stare into her bruised eye. — Yes, I know that I don’t have your immaculate taste in the opposite sex.
— Gosh! Her hand instinctively goes to her eye. — It really doesn’t show, does it?
Then a voice booms through the tannoy, telling Lara to go to the paddock and ready Scarlet Jester.
— Maybe a little, I concede, — but it’s really nothing to worry about.
She looks wanly at me, touching her face, and heads off in trepidation.
— Good luck, Ms Grant, I shout.
I have to hand it to Lara; she is a good horsewoman, and a gutsy competitor. In spite of everything, she pushes Gillian Scott all the way for the cup. But Gillian is gangly, spotty and an awkward mess out of the saddle. Her teeth are more prominent than those on any horse in the tournament. The television people go through the motions with her, but what they really want to do is talk to the sexy, feisty loser, Lara Grant. No, you can’t worry about our Ms Grant. She’s a Nazi monolith and some day she’ll rule the world. But I have to admit to being concerned when she comes storming up to us, in a real state of agitation. — It’s a disaster! she shrieks, tears in her eyes.
— Second to Gillian Scott isn’t a disaster, Lara. She’s won—
— No! The interviewer made a joke about my black eye! On camera!
— Thi’ll edit that oot, surely, Jason says, strutting over, champagne glass in hand. Lara’s bottom lip trembles and she breathes heavily through her nostrils like a snorting dragon. I doubt she’s ever hated anybody in her life as much as she detests Jay right now, although the TV presenter must come a close second. — Never mind though, second isnae bad, Jason says at that moment, and I have to stifle a chuckle. — Better tae huv fought n loast, that’s ma stance. He turns to me with a thoughtful nod, his bottom lip curling out. — Onywey, we’d better be shootin oaf, if yi’ll pardon the expression!
— You going to come along to Bathgate with us? I ask Lara.
She bubbles back at me: — I can’t go to Bathgate… to some table-football game! Don’t you see! Everything’s ruined! And she runs across to Dr and Mrs Grant, collapsing sobbing into her father’s thin chest. Her mother strokes her hair, looking accusingly over at us.
— My God, she’s such an emotional retard! How old is she! I find myself squealing with sheer, unbridled delight, and utter shock. — What an outburst! I never, ever knew that she was such a daddy’s girl!
We go to take our leave and Jason waves and shouts over at them, — See yis, well! As we head to the car he says to me, — Never liked thon Doaktir Grant. Eh wis ey a right tight hoor wi they lines whin ah worked in the warehoose.
Climbing into the car, we set off for Bathgate. The second glass of champagne was a mistake and I drive slowly and with great deliberation. I keep thinking about something that’s been concerning me and I decide to raise it with Jay. — She was only fourteen when you went out with her. Wasn’t that a bit dodgy?
Jason does that crazy thing with his eyes, then hunches his shoulders back. — Whin ye pit it like that, mibbe it wis, but ah nivir saw it that wey at the time. Ah mean, thir wis nae hanky-panky, it wis jist a friendship brought aboot fae a mutual love ay the hoarse. Besides, she wis probably mair experienced thin me at the time!
That’s the amazing thing about Jason, he actually boasts about his celibacy. This marks him out from any other boy I’ve ever met. — I wouldn’t doubt that. I don’t mean it as a slur on you, Jay, but Lar’s always been a busy slut.
— Aye, but thir wis nowt like that wi us. The odd wee snog, but maistly, as ah sais, it wis the mutual love ay the hoarse thit brought us thegither. The rest wis aw platonic.
I look steadily at him. — She’d have fucked you back then if she thought you were up for it. I turn back to the road, then accelerate past a camper van. — She told me that.
I watch his eyes bulge out a little further as he sits in silence.
We get into Bathgate and on the Whitburn Road stands the rather imposing Victorian building, the Dreadnought Hotel, with its five spires and five bay windows. We go inside and a receptionist ushers us through to the nightclub, which is the venue for the semi-finals.