“Lulu, you’re a total star,” says Suze, subsiding in relief. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Jealousy burns through me. I want to be the one who helps Suze.
“I don’t mind picking him up!” I say. “I’ll go!”
“You don’t know where it is,” Lulu says kindly. “Better if I go.”
“What about the children?” Suze glances nervously toward the room, where the sound of screaming kids is getting louder.
“They’ll just have to wait. If there isn’t an entertainer, there isn’t an entertainer.”
“But—”
“I’ll entertain them!” I say, before I can stop myself.
“You?” They both turn and gape at me.
“Yes, me,” I say confidently.
Ha. I’ll show them who’s the most supportive friend to Suze.
“Bex . . . are you sure about this?” Suze says, looking anxious.
“No problem!” I say.
“But—”
“Suze . . .” I put a hand on her arm. “Please. I think I can amuse a few children for ten minutes.”
Oh my God.
This is utter mayhem.
I can’t hear myself think. I can’t hear anything except the screaming of twenty excited children running round a room, bashing each other.
“Er . . . excuse me . . .” I begin.
The shrieks increase in volume. I’m sure someone’s being murdered in here, only I can’t see who because it’s all a blur.
“Sit down!” I bellow over the noise. “Sit down, everyone!”
They’re not even stopping for a beat. I climb up onto a chair and put my hands round my mouth.
“Anyone who sits down . . .” I roar. “Will get a sweetie!”
Abruptly the screaming stops and there’s a crash as twenty children bump down onto the floor.
“Hello, everybody!” I say brightly. “I’m . . . I’m Wacky Becky!” I waggle my head. “Everybody say . . . ‘Hello, Wacky Becky!’ ”
There’s silence.
“Where’s my sweetie?” pipes up a little girl.
“Er . . .”
I scrabble in my bag, but there’s nothing except some herbal sleeping tablets I bought for getting over jet lag. Orange flavored.
Could I—
No. No.
“Later!” I say. “You have to sit still . . . and then you get a sweetie.”
“This conjurer is rubbish,” says a boy in a Ralph Lauren shirt.
“I’m not rubbish!” I say indignantly. “Watch! Er . . .”
I quickly put my hands over my face, then pull them away. “Boo!”
“We’re not babies,” the boy says scornfully. “We want tricks!”
“Why don’t I sing you a nice song,” I say in soothing tones. “Row, row, row the boat . . . la la la . . . the moat . . .”
“Do a trick!” squeals a little girl.
“We want a trick!” yells a boy.
“Do-a-trick! Do-a-trick!”
Oh God. They’re chanting. And the boys are banging the floor with their fists. Any minute, they’re going to get up and start bashing each other again. A trick. A trick. My mind scurries about frantically. Do I know any tricks?
“OK!” I say in desperation. “I’ll do a trick! Watch this!”
I spread my arms with a flourish, then reach behind my back with swirly, elaborate movements, spinning it all out as long as I can.
Then I unhook my bra through my shirt, trying to remember what color it is.
Oh yes. It’s my bright pink gingham one with the bows. Perfect.
The entire room is agog.
“What are you doing?” says a little girl with wide eyes.
“Wait and see!”
Trying to keep the air of mystery, I loop one bra strap discreetly over my arm, then the other. The children are all staring at me avidly.
Now I’ve got my confidence back, I think I’m doing rather well at this. In fact, I’m a bit of a natural!
“Watch very carefully,” I say in a solemn, magician-like voice, “as I am now going to make something . . . appear!”
A couple of children gasp.
I really could do with a drumroll here.
“One . . . two . . . three . . .” In a flash of pink I pull my bra out from my sleeve and hold it aloft. “Ta-daah!”
The whole room erupts in ecstatic cheers.
“She did magic!” a red-haired boy shouts.
“Again!” squeals a little girl. “Do it again!”
“Do you want to see me do it again?” I say, beaming in delight.
“Yaaaaay!” they all scream.
“I don’t think so!” comes a bright, clipped voice from the door. I turn round—and Lulu is standing there, looking at me with undisguised horror.
Oh no.
Oh God. My bra is still whirling round in my hand.
“They wanted me to do a trick,” I explain, attempting a nonchalant shrug.
“I hardly think those are the sort of ‘tricks’ that children are going to appreciate!” she says, raising her eyebrows. She turns to the room with a bright, mummyish smile. “Who wants to see Mr. Happy?”
“We want Wacky Becky!” yells a boy. “She took off her bra!”
Fuck.
“Wacky Becky’s got to . . . er . . . go now!” I say brightly. “But see you next time, children!”
Without quite meeting Lulu’s eye I squash my bra into a tiny ball, stuff it into my bag, and back out of the room. I head over to the buffet table, where Luke is helping himself to salmon.
“Are you OK?” he says in surprise. “You’re very pink.”
“I’m . . . fine.” I grab his glass and take a deep gulp of champagne. “Everything’s fine.”
But it’s not really fine.
I keep waiting for Lulu to leave, so I can have a good chat with Suze—but she doesn’t. She hangs around, helping to make the children’s tea and clear up. Every time I try to help, she’s there before me with a damp cloth or a beaker or some piece of mummy advice. She and Suze keep up a constant dialogue about the children, and it’s impossible for me to get a word in.
It’s not until about ten o’clock at night that she leaves, and I finally find myself alone in the kitchen with Suze. She’s sitting by the huge Aga stove, feeding one of the twins and yawning hugely every three minutes.
“So, you had a lovely honeymoon?” she says wistfully.
“It was fantastic. Totally perfect. We went to this amazing place in Australia where you could scuba dive, and—”
I break off as Suze yawns again. Maybe I’ll tell her tomorrow.
“How about you? How’s life with three kids?”
“Oh, you know.” She gives a tired smile. “It’s fine. Exhausting. Everything’s different.”
“And . . . you’ve been spending loads of time with Lulu,” I say casually.
“Isn’t she great?” says Suze, her face lighting up.
“Er . . . great.” I pause carefully. “She does seem a teeny bit bossy. . . .”
“Bossy?” Suze looks up in shock. “Bex, how can you say that? She’s been my total savior out here! She’s helped me so much!”
“Oh, right.” I backtrack hastily. “I didn’t mean—”
“She knows exactly what I’m going through.” Suze sighs. “I mean, she’s had four! She really understands.”
“Right.”
And I don’t understand. That’s what she means.
As I stare into my glass of wine, there’s a sudden heaviness about my head. None of my reunions are going quite like I thought they would.
I stand up and wander over to the Aga, where lots of family photos are always pinned up on the cork wall. There’s a picture of me and Suze dressed up for a party in feather boas and glittery makeup. And one of Suze and me in hospital with a tiny Ernie.
Then, with a pang, I notice a brand-new picture of Suze and Lulu, sitting on their horses, in matching riding jackets and hair
nets. They’re beaming at the camera and look just like identical twins.
And as I gaze at it, I feel a sudden determination growing. I’m not losing my best friend to some bossy, horse-faced riding queen. Whatever Lulu can do, I can do.
“Maybe I’ll come riding with you and Lulu tomorrow,” I say casually. “If you’ve got a spare horse.”
I’ll even wear a hairnet, if that’s what it takes.
“You’ll come?” Suze looks up, staggered. “But . . . Bex. You don’t ride.”
“Yes, I do,” I say airily. “Luke and I did some riding on our honeymoon, actually.”
Which is . . . sort of true. Nearly. We were going to go on a camel ride in Dubai, except in the end we went snorkeling instead.
But anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just hold on tight . . . and it’ll be fine!
Six
By ten o’clock the next morning I’m ready. And I don’t want to boast, but as I survey myself in the mirror, I look utterly fab! I went to the riding shop in the next village first thing in the morning, and totally kitted myself out. I’m wearing snowy white jodhpurs, a tailored black riding jacket, shiny boots, and a beautiful new velvet riding hat.
Proudly I reach for my pièce de résistance—a big red rosette with shiny ribbons. There were loads of them for sale, so I bought one in every color! I carefully pin it onto my collar like a corsage, smooth down my jacket, and look at the effect.
God, I look so cool. I look like I’m going to win at Crufts.
No. I don’t mean Crufts, that’s the dog show. I mean the other one. The horse one.
I can start riding every day in Hyde Park, I think in a sudden burst of excitement. I’ll practice hard and get really good! Then I can come down here every weekend and ride with Suze. While I was in the shop I even filled out a form for a riding competition next month, as a little incentive.
“Tallyho!” says Luke, coming into the bedroom. “You look very dashing. Very sexy.” He raises his eyebrows. “Great boots. How long are you going to be?”
“Not that long,” I say knowledgeably. “We’re just going to go for a hack through the woods.”
“Becky . . .” Luke looks at me carefully. “Have you ever been on a horse in your life?”
“Yes! Of course I have!”
Once. When I was ten. And I fell off. But I probably wasn’t concentrating or something.
“Just be careful, won’t you?” he says. “I’m not quite ready to become a widower.”
“I’ll be fine!” I say, glancing at my special new “equestrian” watch with compass built in. “I’d better go!”
The horses are all kept some way from the house in a stable block, and as I approach I can hear the sounds of whinnying and hooves clattering in the stable yard.
“Hi!” says Lulu, appearing round the corner in a pair of ancient jodhpurs and a fleece jacket. “All set—” She breaks off as she sees me. “Oh my God.” She snorts with laughter. “Suze, come and look at Becky!”
“What is it?” Suze hurries round the corner and stops dead.
“Gosh, Bex,” she says. “You’re very . . . smart!”
I take in Suze’s filthy old jodhpurs, her muddy boots, and her battered riding hat. As I look down at my own shiny gear I suddenly feel mortified. How could I have been so stupid?
But I’m not going to act embarrassed in front of Lulu. Chin up.
“I wanted to make an effort!” I say, trying to sound light and matter-of-fact.
“What’s that?” Lulu is looking incredulously at my rosette.
“It’s a corsage. They were selling them in the riding shop,” I add pointedly.
“For the horses,” Suze says gently. “Bex, they go on the horses.”
“Oh.”
For a moment I’m a bit discomfited. But then . . . why shouldn’t people wear them too?
“Here we are!” Albert, who runs the horses at Suze’s parents’ place, interrupts us. He’s leading an enormous brown horse along by the reins. “We’re putting you on Ginger today. He’s pretty good-natured, aren’t you, boy?”
I freeze in horror. This? He’s expecting me to get on this monster? I was envisioning some nice little pony.
Albert hands me the reins and I take them automatically, trying not to panic. The horse takes a step forward with an enormous, heavy hoof, and I give a frightened jump out of the way. What if it steps on my foot?
“Aren’t you going to mount?” asks Lulu, swinging herself up into the saddle of a horse which is, if anything, bigger than mine.
“Of course!” I say with a nonchalant laugh.
How? How am I supposed to get up there?
“Want a leg up?” says Tarquin, who has been talking to Albert a few yards away. He comes up behind me, and before I know it, he’s hefted me right up into the saddle.
Oh my God.
I’m so high. When I look down, I feel dizzy. Suddenly Ginger takes a step sideways, and I try not to gasp in fright.
“Shall we go?” calls Suze, who is on her old black horse, Pepper, and with a clip-clop she’s off through the gate, into the field. Lulu makes a clicking sound with her tongue, swings her horse round, and follows.
Right. My turn. Go.
Go on, horse. Move.
I have no idea what to do next. Do I kick it? Experimentally I pull on one of the reins, but nothing happens.
“Gee-up,” I mutter under my breath. “Gee-up, Ginger!”
Suddenly, as though he’s noticed that his friends have gone, he starts walking forward. And it’s . . . OK. It’s fine. It’s just a bit more . . . bumpy than I’d imagined. I look ahead at Lulu, and she’s totally comfortable. In fact, she’s got her reins gathered up in one hand.
“Close the gate!” she yells to me.
Close the gate? I think in panic. How am I supposed to close the gate?
“I’ll do it,” Tarquin calls. “Have a good time!”
“OK!” I call back gaily.
Right. As long as we just keep ambling along, I’ll be OK. In fact, this could almost be fun. The sun’s shining, the breeze is ruffling the grass, and the horses are all lovely and shiny. Some people are walking along the side of the field on a footpath, and as we pass by I give them a nonchalant “Don’t I look great on my horse?” nod and twirl my riding crop. And they look really impressed!
Maybe I’ve found my natural talent. Maybe Luke and I should buy some horses and a few acres of land. We could do field events and show jumping, like Suze—
Shit. What’s going on? All of a sudden, Ginger has started jolting up and down.
OK. Don’t panic. This must be trotting.
I look at Suze and Lulu, and they’re both rising up and falling in time with their horses. I try to copy them, but all that happens is I crash painfully back onto the saddle. Ouch. God, saddles are hard. Why don’t they make them padded? If I were a horse saddle designer I’d make them really soft and comfy, with furry cushions and drinks holders, maybe, and—
“Shall we canter?” Suze calls over her shoulder. Before I can reply she’s kicked her horse, and it’s zooming away like National Velvet, closely followed by Lulu.
“We don’t have to canter, Ginger,” I say quickly to the horse. “We can just—”
Oh my Goooooood. He’s taken off after the others.
Fuck. Oh fuck. I am going to fall off. I know I am. My whole body is rigid. I’m clenching the saddle so hard it’s hurting my hands.
“Are you OK, Bex?” shouts Suze.
“Fine!” I call back, but I just want this to stop. The wind is streaming past my face. I feel ill with terror.
I’m going to die. My life is over. The only plus I can think of is it’ll sound really cool when they report it in the papers.
A KEEN HORSEWOMAN, REBECCA BRANDON (NÈE BLOOMWOOD) DIED WHILE OUT CANTERING WITH HER FRIENDS.
Oh God. I think he’s slowing down. At last. We’re trotting . . . we’re kind of jogging . . . we’re finally coming to a halt.
S
omehow I manage to unclench my hands.
“Isn’t it lovely?” says Suze, turning round on Pepper. Her blond hair is streaming out from under her hat and her cheeks are flushed pink. “Shall we have a really good gallop?”
Gallop?
You have to be kidding. If Ginger takes one more step, I’ll throw up.
“Can you jump yet, Bex?” she asks. “There’s just a couple of little ones coming up. But you should be able to manage them,” she says encouragingly. “You’re really good!”
For a moment I can’t speak.
“I just need to . . . er . . . adjust my stirrup,” I manage at last. “You two go on.”
I wait until the two of them are out of sight before I slither to the ground. My legs are all shaky and I feel nauseous. I am never leaving solid ground again. Never. Why on earth would people do this for fun?
I sink down onto the grass and take off my new riding hat—which, to be honest, has been hurting my ears since I put it on. Suze and Lulu are probably miles away by now. Galloping along and talking about nappies.
“Come on,” I say to Ginger. “Let’s walk back.” I stand up and cautiously pull the reins—and to my astonishment he obediently follows.
This is more like it.
As I walk across the grass, I start to relax a bit. A horse is actually a pretty cool accessory. Who says you need to get on it? I could still go to Hyde Park every day. I could buy a really pretty horse and just lead it around like a dog. And if any passersby asked, “Why aren’t you riding?” I’d just give them a knowing smile and say, “We’re resting today.”
We wander along for a while and at last come to an empty road. I stand for a moment, looking from left to right. In one direction, the road disappears up a hill and round a corner. In the other, I can see what seems to be quite a sweet little village, all beamed houses, and a patch of grass, and . . .
Ooh. Are those . . . shops?
Half an hour later I feel a lot better.
I’ve bought some gorgeous cheese with walnuts in it, and some gooseberry preserve, and some huge radishes, which Luke will love. And best of all, I found this amazing little shop that sells hats. Right here in this village! Apparently, the milliner is local and is practically the next Philip Treacy. I mean, not that I wear hats that often . . . but I’m bound to be invited to a wedding soon, or Ascot or something. And the prices were fantastic. So I bought a white one decorated with ostrich feathers and a black velvet one all covered in jewels. They’re a bit cumbersome in their hatboxes, but they were so worth it.
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