The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) by Stephen Leather Page B

was a hard edge to her smile as if she weren’t used to losing.
    “It’s a fast car,” he said. “I’ll let you drive it some time.”
    Her smile brightened. “I’d like that,” she said.
    “But first, we’ve got to decide on the prize.”
    “The prize?”
    “For winning the race.” He tapped his fingers on the roof of the Jaguar.
    “I didn’t know we were racing for a prize,” she said.
    “Oh sure,” said Chung. “I won a date with you.”
    “A date with me?” she said, flustered. “What would I have got if I’d won?” Chung grinned. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “A date with you.”
    “Good job I won, huh?” smiled Chung. “How about next Saturday? I’ll pick you up here at eight.”
    Debbie thought about it for a moment or two, then nodded. “Okay. But one condition.”
    “Sure.” He already knew what it was.
    “You bring the Ferrari.”
    “Deal,” he said. “Till next Saturday, then.” He took his hand off the roof of her car and waved once. “Bye,” he said.
    Debbie drove the car up the drive towards the house. She had been sure that Anthony Chung would try to kiss her and was vaguely disappointed that he hadn’t. She’d been annoyed that he had so easily beaten her, but she realised that there was little she could have done against a Ferrari. He hadn’t gloated, either, like so many men would have done. No, a date with him wouldn’t be a trial. In fact, she was already looking forward to it.
    She parked the Jaguar next to her mother’s black convertible Saab and switched off the engine. She stroked the steering wheel and wondered what it would be like to drive Chung’s Ferrari. She jerked herself out of her daydream, locked the car and went into the house through the connecting door at the rear of the garage.
    There were lights on in the lounge and Debbie pushed open the door. Her mother was sitting on the low leather sofa in front of the fireplace, a drink in her hands and a faraway look in her eyes. The fireplace was only lit during the winter months but it made a perfect focal point for the room. On top was a line of printed invitations, some embossed, most with gold around the edges. Anne and William Fielding received a constant stream of invitations to cocktail parties, dinners and junk trips. From where she stood by the door, Debbie could see her mother’s face reflected in the large gilt-framed mirror above the white marble fireplace. She looked sad and lost, like a little girl who’d mislaid her parents.
    “Hi, Mum,” said Debbie.
    Anne Fielding jerked as if wakening from a dream and the clear liquid in her glass slopped over the side and down her hand. “Shit,” she said. She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her beige Chanel dress and wiped her hand, shaking her head as if annoyed at her loss of control. The dress was one of her favourites. It showed off what she thought was her best feature – her long, shapely legs – though it was her green eyes and long lashes that men usually found most appealing. Debbie had always been grateful that she’d inherited her mother’s hair, eyes and legs, though she felt cheated when it came to her figure. At forty-five, Anne Fielding had curves that would do credit to a lingerie model, firm breasts that turned the heads of men half her age and hips that were only an inch or so wider than when she was a teenager and before she’d given birth. She knew how good she looked, too, and enjoyed showing herself off. The reason she liked the Chanel so much was because it emphasised her cleavage, though she’d never have admitted it.
    Debbie’s first thought had been that her mother had been waiting up for her, but she clearly had something on her mind. She walked into the room and sat down on the grey sofa. “Are you okay, Mum?” she asked, concern in her voice. It wasn’t unusual to find her mother sitting alone in the lounge with a drink late at night, but this was different. She looked as if she were about to