Nothing to Lose by Christina Jones

one of Sebastian’s girlies? Are they announcing their engagement?’
    ‘Seb and Brittany? God, no! Actually, she’s here strictly on business. We – as in we the Gillespie Stadium – are tendering for the Frobisher Platinum Trophy. It’s going to be the biggest dog race ever next year. Biggest prize money, massive telly coverage, huge advertising sponsorship all putting greyhound racing firmly on the must-do map for the entire family – and Oliver wants it more than he wants another million quid.’
    ‘Told you, did he? In one of your chummy little chats?’
    Jix shook his head. ‘I read it off his confidential e-mails. And the beautiful Brittany just confirmed it.’ He paused, managing to look slightly ashamed. ‘I – um – sort of hinted that as Oliver’s ace PA, I had his ear. She says she’ll be delighted to tell me more tonight over a drink . . .’
    ‘She’ll chew you up and spit out the pieces.’
    ‘In my dreams.’ Jix sighed blissfully.
    April wrinkled her nose. ‘Your mum’ll go mad. You hip-grinding with the Tara Palmer-Tomkinson of the yeast and hops dynasty. It’s not what she voted New Labour for.’
    ‘Democracy and the devolution of the class system have always been my mum’s strongest suits, actually. She voted for Tony Blair on those issues alone.’ Jix came to a halt outside a block of high-rise cement flats. ‘So I’ll merely be living out her expectations. Now, are you ready for Mr Reynolds?’
    ‘Nope.’ April looked at the tower block and shuddered. ‘And that was John Major.’
    ‘John Major owes Oliver money?’
    ‘No, dope – John Major was always banging on about the classless society.’
    ‘Was he?’ Jix flicked through his clipboard. ‘Don’t remember that far back. And don’t change the subject. There are seven customers in the flats. Six should be easy-peasy. The seventh is Mr Reynolds. Now, Mr Reynolds still owes thirteen hundred. He’s three payments behind. We need at least fifty. So, by my reckoning, that’s ten kisses . . .’
    April punched him again. ‘Pack it in. I won’t stoop to your level. Anyway, why are Frobishers here now if this prestigious race isn’t until next year? I think you’ve got it wrong. I reckon she’s one of Sebastian’s women ready to bang in a paternity suit.’
    ‘Don’t you know nothing?’ Jix poked out his tongue. ‘These things take for ever to organise, like the Olympics or Glastonbury. Every dog track in the country’s going to be tendering for the Platinum Trophy – and it’s in February, only eight months away. Brittany’s probably going to have to visit each stadium before Frobishers make their choice.’
    ‘Nobody will outbid Oliver though, surely? Not even Wimbledon or Walthamstow? We all know what Oliver’s like when he sets his greedy little heart on something.’ April tipped her head back and gazed up at the thirty-two floors of Hugh Gaitskell House. ‘And do I really have to do this one?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Jix blew her a kiss. ‘Unless you’d rather do Freda Cope? She only owes twenty-five quid – but collecting it would involve putting on a bri-nylon wig and miming to Cliff Richard’s Greatest Hits – not to mention the baby oil and strawberry yoghurt . . .’
    ‘Mr Reynolds, here I come,’ April-scowled, easing her feet inside Daff’s sandals. ‘And as the lift is always vandalised, I’ll meet you back here in about an hour, then?’
    ‘Make it an hour and half,’ Jix grinned. ‘Freda’s got a pretty horny daughter . . .’
    Jix had been right, April thought as she thundered on Mr Reynolds’ peeling and graffiti’d door. The first half-dozen of this afternoon’s customers had grumbled about the heat, grumbled about having to cough up, grumbled about life in Hugh Gaitskell house, and eventually parted with their money. She’d written the receipts, stuffed the cash into the triple-lock satchel, and thanked them with a grateful smile.
    The heat was all-enveloping, rising from the