Catch a Falling Star (The Silver Bridle Book 3)

by Caroline Akrill

  “Nothing is going to happen, Grace. I’m pretty sure he’ll behave under saddle, and for the mounting shots I’m taking extra precautions.”

  “What extra precautions?” Who would have believed that instead of being concerned about the discomfort caused to the grey horse, I was now concerned about the safety of the crew?

  “I’ll have a line attached to the bit. It’s nylon and strong enough to land a shark but invisible to the camera. So The Blizzard will appear to be loose but I shall actually be holding him from just out of the frame, behind the bales. You don’t have to worry because if he does turn, I’ll be just a few feet away on the end of the line.”

  It was a relief to know, and I was glad he had thought to warn me. I said so.

  “I wanted to tell you.”

  The Valentino eyes looked down into mine. I looked away. Last night I had thrown myself into his arms outside the stable and he had been gentle. I had needed comfort and he had given it and delivered me safely to my bed with no attempt to take advantage of the situation. Now I was embarrassed by the memory, seeing in his impeccable behaviour only further proof that he preferred horses to people, and to actresses in particular.

  “Grace, how are things between you and the boyfriend?”

  The question was casually phrased but unexpected. I looked up in surprise. “You mean Richard?”

  “I mean the fair-haired, wealthy young man with the Porsche. If his name is Richard, then he’s the one I mean.”

  “Richard is engaged to somebody else.”

  “Ah.” The Valentino eyes were speculative. “I had noticed he wasn’t around. Do you mind?”

  Did I mind? I had certainly minded to start with. I might not have seen much of Richard but I had always known he was there, waiting in the background. But had I really loved him? Not enough, certainly, not more than my career. My ambition had always been a bone of contention between us; would always have been. “I don’t think I mind terribly,” I said. “It could never have worked. He could never understand why I wanted to be an actress.”

  “Well, whatever happened, I hope it was nothing to do with me.”

  “Why should it be?” I looked at him sharply. I did not know where this conversation was leading and I was beginning to feel flustered. Did he know about my infatuation? Had he guessed? Had I been obvious in some way, despite determined attempts to stifle my feelings? He did not want my love, I knew that. One day in the stables at Moat Farm he had made it very clear. In a fit of temper I had told him I hated him and he had taken my chin in his hand, turning my face up to his, the Valentino eyes looking deep into mine. “Keep hating me, Grace Darling,” he had said. “Somehow I think it would be better for everyone.”

  “Why should it have anything to do with you?” I backed away, bumping into the stable wall.

  Anthony moved closer. The Valentino eyes were moodily reflective. Idly he lifted a finger and ran it along the line of my cheek. “So you’ve forgotten already?”

  “Forgotten what?” I managed to say. Of course, I had not forgotten anything. After I had helped to deliver a foal, because it was an emotional moment perhaps, because he had been grateful for my help, Anthony had kissed me, gently at first, then fiercely, crushing me to him, scraping my face with stubble. I would never forget, but I did not want to be reminded of it now. Nor of the way I had opened my eyes to see Richard, standing framed in the stable doorway, with eyes like granite. And yes, that had been a contributing factor to the ending of our relationship, but I was not going to admit it, not to someone of whom another actor had said “He will play with you in the way a cat plays with a mouse, he is capable of that; but you must appreciate that he cares for nobody, for nothing, other than for his horses.”

  “Then perhaps I should remind you.” Without warning the dark head dropped towards me, his body closed on to mine. The stable wall was cold against my back. My heart stopped beating. My breathing stopped. I did not want it to happen and at the same time I had never wanted anything more in my life. Nor did it happen. Last time it had been Richard who had interrupted. This time it was Camilla.

  She ran round the side of the stable in a fine temper, having been despatched by the Director to tell us we were on standby. When she saw us she practically exploded with outrage.

  “You do realize you’re keeping the entire film crew waiting, Mister Sylvester,” she stormed. “Whilst you are behind the stables trying to make out with the female lead, some of us on the other side are trying to make a television serial!”

  Anthony raised his head in an unhurried manner. “Ah,” he said in a smooth tone, “the charming Miss Cook.”

  “And as for you, Grace,” Camilla went on furiously, “you ought to know better than to indulge in unprofessional conduct on the set! I knew there was something going on!”

  Anthony sighed. He let go of me, left me leaning against the table wall like a sack of flour, took hold of Camilla’s wrist in a deceptively courteous manner and twisted it swiftly behind her back.

  Camilla squealed. Her face went scarlet. “Ouch!” she yelped. “Let go, you filthy brute!” She twisted and struggled and kicked but all to no avail. “Rape!” she shrieked. “Rape!”

  “Wishful thinking, Miss Cook,” Anthony said in a regretful voice as he propelled her unmercifully round the stable block. “Just wishful thinking.”

  >>> “What are you doing?”

  Melissa paused in the act of lifting her foot to the stirrup.

  “Well, I can hardly put you on first without trying him, can I? He might buck or bolt or anything.”

  “He might but I think he won’t. I don’t want you to ride him first. He won’t like it.”

  Melissa lowered her foot with a sigh. “What do you mean he won’t like it? How can you possibly know? If he objects to having me on his back, it’s going to be exactly the same when you ride him.”

  “It isn’t. I’m different.”

  “You can say that again.” Resignedly she led the white horse into position in front of the hay bales. “And how am I expected to hold him steady and help you at the same time?” she said in exasperation. “How many pairs of hands am I expected to have? What we need is another person… Why don’t I go and see if Alan’s in the yard?”

  “No! Not Alan! I don’t want him here.”

  “I don’t see why. He seems to pay you quite a lot of attention. I think he rather fancies you, if you want my opinion.”

  “I don’t want your opinion, and I don’t want Alan involved. Just leave him there. He doesn’t need to be held. Stand, Moonlight.”

  Moonlight stood. He was still standing in exactly the same position when we had finally achieved the agonizingly slow haul out of the wheelchair and up on to the bales. Nor did he move as Melissa heaved and shoved me into the saddle, clambering down from the bales to help my feet into the stirrups, fussing over the length of the leathers, the reins, the safety harness on my helmet. Then Melissa took the white horse by the bridle and led him away across the field.

  Twice she led me round before she could be persuaded to let go of the rein, before she could be convinced that I was safe to ride alone. She walked beside me, protesting as I asked the white horse to trot, running, panting, and as I pushed on into canter, falling hopelessly behind, watching, holding her aching sides, the dismay and fear on her face gradually changing to delighted incredulity as she realized that horse and rider were in perfect accord. And finally, when it was over and I came to dismount, so great was her excitement that she failed to catch me properly and we fell together, rolling and laughing on the grass as above us the white horse raised his beautiful head and showed his teeth in what could only be construed as equine approval.<<<

  Seven times I had ridden up to the gull’s feather acting as a camera mark, to be dragged out of the saddle, to fall, to roll laughing in the grass with Camilla, and it had soon become no laughing matter. But on the eighth attempt it was proclaimed a wrap and we sat up in relief, dusting the grass off our clothes,
and it was then the white horse struck.

  He came at us on his hind legs, striking out with his front hooves, sending the boom flying, his eyes rolling in their sockets, his ears pressed on to his neck, his yellow teeth bared in vicious hatred. Camilla, with flailing hooves inches from her face, screamed out in terror and fell back against a tripod which collapsed, precipitating the camera towards the horse who wheeled away, scattering lights, smashing reflectors, setting the crew to flight, abandoning their equipment, jumping over cables, colliding with one another in their anxiety to escape.

  By this time Anthony was level with the horse, hanging on to the line, grabbing at the reins, oblivious of the maddened hooves, the snaking head, the wild flying mane. Then suddenly, by a miracle, somehow he was in the saddle, wrenching round the horse’s head, sending him hurtling towards the hay bales, clearing them and Kevin who had taken cover behind, and the next minute they were swooping and plunging across the field, had leapt the post and rail fence and were gone.

  The Director, who had raced across from the scanner, hidden in a clump of trees behind the stables, stood in the middle of the devastated set and looked around in disbelief. One felt he was full of words but was quite unable to organize them into any sort of coherency.

  “Well, I guess that’s it for today, fellas,” was all he said.

  I waited at the stable for them to come back as I knew they must, and they came at last, the white horse streaked grey with sweat, his head lowered, his mane lank, his hocks stained, with Anthony silent and tight-lipped in the saddle.

  Together we washed The Blizzard down with buckets of warm water from the vicarage kitchen, we scraped off the surplus, rubbed him down, and stuffed clean straw under his rugs for insulation. I combed his wavy, Renaissance mane and brushed out his tail and he stood in the stable, not moving, uncaring, with dropped head and the black eyes empty and it bent your heart to see him.

  I didn’t want to ask the question outright and so I skated round it.

  “He’s never going to make another film, is he?”

  Anthony scooped bran into a bucket with his hands, wiping the floury deposit on the back of his denims.

  “No,” he said shortly. “He isn’t.”

  “And he is mad, isn’t he? I mean there is something loose in his head? He could have killed someone else today if you hadn’t been there, and one day he probably will.”

  He poured boiling water from a kettle over the bran, and stirred it with a stick. A hot mealy smell rose with the steam. He sprinkled in oats.

  “Yes.”

  “And so if he can’t work any more, if he’s mad…”

  Anthony threw a sack over the bucket and looked at me. The Valentino eyes were no longer amused or mocking, they were full of pain.

  “Grace, I know where this is leading. You’re working up to a question that I won’t want to answer. Please don’t ask it.”

  >>> “…and so I’ve decided to get together a team for the Riding Club Show, Eileen, and I’d like you to ride reserve.”

  I turned in astonishment, too quickly, having to lean against the rail, not yet having achieved perfect balance on my crutches, hardly able to believe my ears.

  “Eileen, you may still be on crutches on the ground, but up there, on Moonlight, you’re just as good as anybody, probably better, you must know that, and it really is time you stopped mooching round the stables, riding round the countryside on your own, and joined in some sort of social activity…”

  “But I don’t want…”

  “I’m tired of hearing you say you don’t want! I can’t persuade you to come out in the evenings, you refuse to join in anything, and the very least you can do is agree to do this. It would be good for you. And anyway,” he grinned, “I need you. There isn’t anyone else I can ask.”

  He was disarming as well as good looking and I felt myself weaken. “But Alan, I’m… we’re not good enough to jump in a team. We’ve never done it seriously, we’ve never practised!”

  “Then just think what a good opportunity it will be. You probably won’t even be called on to compete, but the training will be fun, and Moonlight will enjoy it, won’t you old fellow?”

  The white horse moved his head as if in agreement, the black eyes watchful beneath the luxuriant mane.

  “There you are then, that’s settled it.”

  “But what will I have to do? How will I get to the practices?”

  “We’ll go together in my horsebox. And all you have to do, my pretty, is to rejoin life. Be part of a team. Pull your weight. Make a contribution.”

  “Now you’re beginning to sound like a schoolmaster.”

  “But if I was, I think this might be against the rules.” He took away my crutches, put his arms around me and began to kiss me.

  The team practises were a wonderful success for me, and for Moonlight. There was never any sign of unsoundness, never the slightest hint of it, even though we trained hard, and the grey horse’s stride never faltered, never once did he refuse, never once did he fail me. We were only the reserves but we were as good as any of the team, and secretly, we watched and waited.

  It happened at the last practice. The bay horse took off too soon at the first part of the double, struggled gamely to reach the second part, hit the top of it with his knees and taking most of the obstacle with him, fell sideways, throwing his rider heavily to the ground, where she lay, completely still, whilst from everywhere, people ran.

  At the hospital we waited, fortified by endless cups of horribly strong tea and stale doughnuts. Eventually Alan managed to get some information.

  “She’s OK. She’s conscious and they say it’s probably just a mild concussion. That’s the good news. The bad news is that her leg’s broken and that means she’s out of the team and you and Moonlight are in.”<<<

  The lights went up in the viewing theatre where we had been watching the rushes. At once there was a burst of applause, stampings, catcalls and a lot of excited chatter. We had sat through most of the film and there was only a week of shooting left, and even I could see the rushes were wonderful. They were definitely a cause for celebration.

  As soon as I was out of my seat, Ziggy swooped down on me. Respectability, a proper office and a receptionist with two telephones, a typewriter and a goose-foot plant had not changed him. He still carried the leather blouson with the appliqued silver star slung over one shoulder, he still wore the thick silver identity bracelet, his bleached hair was still dark at the roots.

  He picked me up briefly. “Hey Kiddo, you got to be a star after all! How does it feel? I tell you, when the film hits the box in six months, you won’t walk down the street without being recognized! You got it made, Grace Darling!” He gave me a congratulatory kiss. “As soon as this is in the can I got something else lined up, if you’re interested. Only problem is, you got to ride a motorbike.”

  I frowned.

  He grinned. “Did I say it was a problem? It’s no problem, Kiddo. Riding a motorbike’s a piece of cake. You just got to think of it as a kind of motorized equine.”

  Tom Silver appeared. Dark, untidy, shy, moody but clearly pleased with what he had seen. “I knew you could do it the minute I saw you at that bloody awful audition. Thanks, Grace Darling.” He hugged me. “You didn’t just play a part, you lived it. You were Eileen!”

  The Director breezed up. “Well, a lot of what you saw’s gonna end up on the cutting room floor, fellas, but we got no problems with the footage. We got a great film.”

  “We have. There’s no doubt.”

  “We got a couple of winners with the girls, we got a theme song at number five in the charts, we got Jonathan Sly; boy, did he look something on that Arab mare.”

  “We can’t lose, Melvyn.”

  “But the real star of the show’s the white horse, Tony,” he turned to where Anthony was standing, “I really want you to know that, and I just want to say, hell, what’s a few broken lights for the sake of an ace performance? It’s all on the insurance
, anyhow.” He drew Anthony into the circle, clapping him on the back.

  Suddenly I did not want to hear any more. Making a mumbled excuse I ran up the steps, through the swing doors and found myself in a crush bar, closed, the grille pulled down over the bottles, the glasses, the ice buckets.

  Why had I run away? To be a star was all I had ever wanted, all I had worked for, and now, unbelievably, it was within my grasp, it was happening. But where was the triumph, the euphoria? Did it come later? Did it arrive with autograph hunters? When my photograph appeared in the TV Times?

  Why did I find the congratulations, the kissing, the back-slapping so hard to take? Was it because it was not me, but Eileen they were celebrating? Was it because now, at this very moment, it was my mother I wanted, it was Richard Egan, it was the people who loved me for myself, for being Grace Vincent from Wallingford, not Grace Darling, soon to be a television star? Was it because I had finally realized what I had lost in alienating friends and family to succeed in my career, only to discover that success needs someone else to share it with?

  The swing doors opened, and Anthony came in. Even then I only saw the white horse with his sides streaked with sweat, his head lowered and his black eyes empty, and heard the Director saying, “But the real star of the show’s the white horse, Tony, I really want you to know that.”

  “There must be some way we can save him,” I said desperately.

  He shook his head. “Grace, I’m not going to lie to you. There isn’t a way. I’ve even talked to the Equine Research Station and they won’t take him. They don’t have the facilities, nobody has.”

  I turned away, unable to bear it. “So… when?”

  “It won’t help to know. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Oh, don’t you!”

  He pulled me round to him, angrily, roughly. “Do you really think I don’t care, as much, more than you do!”