“I’ll have to check my schedule.”
“Your scheduling queen is sitting right beside you. Ah, the lovely Salma—surely, a smart girl like you can manage to shuffle things about a bit?”
Salma was strong. She didn’t bend under pressure. “I’m just not sure that’ll be possible, Dennis.”
“Come on, we need to support the family.”
How much had Dennis drunk this evening? The waitstaff kept on topping up the glasses, so it was difficult to judge. He sometimes got pushy when he was intoxicated. Eis and Janie had done their best with the table plan and made sure I wasn’t seated near any sleazes, or worse, the delightful Robert, but I still couldn’t wait for the night to be over.
And I couldn’t stop worrying about Jazzi.
I’d stepped in to cover a shift after Alice had to go home sick—something that sent Mama into a tailspin because hair! Make-up!—and Jazzi’s was the last call I’d taken. I’d probably have been late for the ceremony if she hadn’t ended our conversation in a hurry. Just squeaked, “I gotta go,” and went, but before she hung up, I swore I’d heard her cry out.
Calling her back wasn’t an option. We had a rule about that. Service users were firmly in control, and if we made contact with an abuser present, our “help” could have dire consequences. And I didn’t know where she was, so a welfare check was out of the question.
The staff would message me if she called in again. Usually, I compartmentalised pretty well, but Jazzi’s case had really gotten to me. No, no, no, it had got to me. One of our nannies used to be an English teacher, and if she knew I’d taken to Americanising… Anyhow, Jazzi had sounded so young, and so scared. This was her third call to Vocare, and contact notes from the previous two instances mentioned bruises. The worst part? She’d confessed that she thought she might be pregnant.
“I’ll certainly buy one of Angus’s paintings,” I told Uncle Dennis.
They weren’t to my taste—dark and macabre, while I preferred bright and abstract—but I could donate it to an auction or hang it in a closet somewhere.
“You should get out more, love. Nobody likes to see you rattling around in that big old house of yours.”
His wife leaned forward. “I heard that extroverts live longer than introverts. One of those scientific studies.”
Give me strength. Introverts probably crawled into a hole to die because extroverts wouldn’t stop talking to them. I’d once thrown a glass of wine over myself just to have an excuse to hide in the bathroom.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have a social life. My work with Vocare was satisfying, and I loved my team. Plus I hosted a book club on the second Thursday of every month, and whenever I could manage it, I attended Robyn’s weekly crafting group on Tuesdays. Sometimes, crocheting scarves stopped me from tearing out my hair. Then there was the community centre the Renner Foundation funded—I often helped out with events there.
I just didn’t have the social life other people thought I should have.
And, as a consequence, I had no peace.
But maybe…maybe today I’d have a brief moment of respite.
Because Heath Carlisle entered the conversation.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I hear you’re the man to talk to about horses.”
In the blink of an eye, my social life—or rather, the lack of it—was forgotten.
“Racehorses?” Dennis beamed at him. “Yes. Yes, I am. Got half a dozen of the blighters. Lady Jade won at Kempton last week, but for the most part, they’re busy draining my bank account.”
“Not a great investment, then?”
“Well, son, that depends on what you’re investing for.”
“Some of the folks at work are planning to buy shares in a racehorse, and they asked if I’d be interested.”
“I don’t suppose you’d see much of a financial return, but if you enjoy the social side, it could be worthwhile. Racecourse hospitality, behind-the-scenes yard visits, camaraderie with your fellow owners…”
“I’ve been to the races a few times.”
“Well, in terms of shared ownership, you’ve got racing clubs and you’ve got syndicates. Pull up a chair, and we can run through the pros and cons of each.”
Did Heath realise what he’d done? Once Uncle Dennis started talking about his racehorses, you had more chance of holding back the tide than you did of getting him to stop. Heath hadn’t even struck me as a “corporate hospitality” type of guy. Granted, we’d only had one brief conversation, but?—
Wait, why did he just wink at me?