‘Absolutely.’
It was quite clear. Georgia was fizzing with barely held-in excitement. Tal laughed and gave her a hug.
‘I can see you’re going to be good for our Harry.’
NINETEEN
Aboard the private jet, seated in white leather facing seats, comfortable as armchairs, we were all buckled up, prepared for arrival in Switzerland.
‘Of course,’ Lady Branshawe said, leaning towards us, ‘it all begins with a party this evening.’
Even as she spoke, the aircraft began its descent through an unbelievably blue sky to Samedan, the airport in Engadin. We had covered the distance between England and Switzerland in a staggering one hour and fifty minutes – a swift and creamy-smooth flight.
‘I told Harry it’s a fairy tale that keeps getting better,’ said Georgia, ‘and I wasn’t wrong.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘flying in by private jet certainly qualifies. I’m not saying it hasn’t been a fabulous way of flying, but a commercial airline could have delivered us safely, and much less costly, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, Harry,’ Lady Branshawe said, laughing, ‘it’s only money. And the beauty of money is that it’s meant to be enjoyed. Just tell me you’ve all enjoyed your flight.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ Tally said.
‘We have – it’s been sheer luxury,’ Georgia agreed.
‘I think,’ I said, ‘we’ll all remember this trip years into the future.’
‘Well, there you are, then, Harry – totally worthwhile. Sometimes happiness can be bought.’
‘And we’ll be even happier if we have a winner.’
Lady Branshawe had entered two horses. Tally had earlier supervised their journey by horse transporter through the Channel Tunnel – a distance of just under eight hundred miles – with two stable lads in attendance. They’d be safely rugged up and ensconced in the racecourse stables now. I hoped they wouldn’t be too unsettled by the thinner air and, of course, the drop in temperature. Even though England was currently experiencing sub-zero readings and snow, over here in St Moritz it would be very much colder. Maybe going down to as low as minus twenty degrees overnight and into the early hours of the morning.
Some horses didn’t acclimatize – it was certainly a factor that couldn’t be foreseen – but most horses adjusted very well and turned in fine racing performances on the frozen lake.
The temperature had to be low to allow the requisite sixty-centimetre depth of ice to form on the lake before it would be decreed safe for the enormous weight of all the marquees, equipment, people and, of course, the horses themselves, thundering along at thirty plus miles an hour.
I drew my attention back to the present. We were coming in to land. Samedan Airport was about five kilometres from St Moritz. However, Lady Branshawe had, once again, put her generous hand in her pocket and informed us, as we flew in over the glistening white Alps, that a helicopter awaited us to complete our journey.
At that moment, I’d glanced quickly at Georgia’s face. I’d had to smother a laugh because it was clear from the way her chin began to drop that she’d struggled, successfully this time, to prevent her lips forming that ‘O’ of delighted surprise. But her hand had found mine and given a little squeeze of excitement. I squeezed back. She’d turned her head and smiled into my face before silently mouthing ‘Thank you’. What she didn’t realize was that it was a pleasure to watch her almost childlike delight at everything that was unfolding.
It increased my own enjoyment and my thoughts flicked quickly to Annabel. Without her prompting, I doubted whether I would have agreed to come on this trip. How tonight would pan out, I didn’t want to consider right now. Georgia’s acceptance of my invitation to St Moritz in no way compromised her regarding our sleeping arrangements.
A picture of the pub manager’s face at the Dirty Duck halted any further thoughts in that direction. There had definitely been an attachment – albeit, maybe only on his side – when I’d taken Georgia out for a meal there. Her attitude to him had been totally relaxed – friendly, but nothing more.
One thing was for sure: no way was I going to put pressure on her. We both needed to find our way through our own particular emotional minefield. But for now, looking at the happy expectancy on her face, I was content to let things happen in the right way – unforced, naturally.
The helicopter was a superb model, decked out inside in cream with navy seats. With everybody wearing the regulation ear-protectors, it lifted off for the ten-minute flight, swooping over a winter landscape that was totally wonderful. The Alps, imposing when seen from the jet, were suddenly soaring above us, a different perspective, a stupendous backdrop to St Moritz, with the effect of effortlessly raising blood pressure with their regal magnificence.
‘Pinch me, Harry,’ Georgia whispered. ‘I must be dreaming.’
I obligingly gave her hand a squeeze.
Lady Branshawe had caught the whisper, however, and leaned forward, smiling. ‘I think you’ll find it’s very real.’
‘Too true,’ Tally agreed.
She had been here before, so the stunning impact that was working its magic on Georgia was, for her, somewhat diluted. But it was still high-proof for all of us.
The helicopter circled around the lake, giving a marvellous overview, blades whipping around in a sudden flurry of snowflakes, before very gently descending and landing without a bump.
We all breathed out deeply, none of us aware that we’d been holding our breath with the wonder of the flight so skilfully executed by our pilot.
Lady Branshawe had informed me during the flight that we were all staying at Koselig Hotel, one of the acknowledged premier hotels in St Moritz. I’d gulped when she’d said it. Heaven knows how she’d managed to arrange for us to be accommodated at such short notice. I didn’t dig. It was enough that we were so superbly catered for.
But my opinion of Lady Branshawe rose sharply. If she carried clout like that, I definitely needed to increase my respect. Of course, the simplest reason could be that she was fabulously rich, but I suspected it had more to do with her personal standing as a member of the aristocracy.
The taxi deposited us at the entrance of the huge hotel and we were ushered in by a concierge smartly dressed in maroon and white, our luggage discreetly whisked away to be put in our rooms, and we were ushered across and signed in at reception.
‘Welcome to Koselig Hotel, Lady Branshawe,’ said a smiling young woman in perfect English, although she was undoubtedly Swiss. She handed over our keys. ‘Do enjoy your stay.’
Although Tally and Lady Branshawe had adjacent rooms on the first floor on the south side of the hotel overlooking the lake, my own double room was on the second floor, facing north, as was Georgia’s. I wasn’t about to grumble in any way. Our view was one of Piz Nair. When I thought about how I so nearly hadn’t taken up Tally’s offer, my stomach lurched. I’d been a complete idiot to even contemplate not coming. I took my key and we agreed to split up for now and meet in the restaurant for refreshments in an hour.
Tally and Lady Branshawe stepped out of the lift on the first floor, leaving it to travel on upwards to the second floor where our rooms were. Georgia followed me along the thickly carpeted corridor to Rooms 203 and 204. I opened the door to my own room, 203, and ushered her in first. She caught her breath. The room was decorated in muted shades of gold and cream. Only one word could describe it: palatial. And if our rooms were as grand as this, what on earth was Lady Branshawe’s like? And, in addition, she had access to a balcony overlooking the racecourse. I slipped off my jacket and turned to Georgia.
‘Well?’
She shrugged her shoulders, spread her arms wide. ‘I’m definitely dreaming.’
‘I think your room is a single. Are you OK with that?’
‘Harry, we could have been spending the night down in the stables on straw. Lady Branshawe’s worked miracles to get us these lovely rooms.’
‘Even so—’
She took a c
ouple of steps forward and gripped my upper arms, giving me a tiny shake. ‘Shush …’ Then kissed me lightly on the lips. ‘One step at a time, I think. OK?’
With my eyes locked on to hers, I nodded. ‘Tiptoe, if you need to.’
She grinned. ‘What I need … is a cup of coffee, with some lovely Swiss cream poured in.’
‘Ha, yes, world-renowned, isn’t it, the cream? And don’t leave out the cheese – one of the things the Swiss do best.’
‘Hmm’ – she opened her eyes very wide – ‘but don’t forget the cuckoo clocks.’
We both collapsed with laughter on to the double bed. I risked a kiss, lifting her long hair with both my hands. Her response was immediate … before she drew back swiftly. ‘Coffee, Harry.’
I stood up. ‘I’ll join you.’
Coffee downed, clothes unpacked and hung up, we returned downstairs to the lounge. Lady Branshawe and Tally had just seen off some refreshments and were suitably revived and energized. We all agreed that before the evening celebrations began, we should take advantage of the chance to see the centre of St Moritz itself, up close and personal.
Accordingly, we spent an enjoyable couple of hours walking around, exploring the many sights of St Moritz. There were delightful cafés selling tempting arrays of exquisitely made cakes and delicacies. With difficulty, we resisted the lure of calories.
Instead, we turned our attention to the shops: upmarket ones that boasted names such as Fabergé and Cartier, and many shops selling assorted tourists’ souvenirs – cowbells, china jugs emblazoned with the flag of Switzerland – and, of course, a preponderance of clocks, most of them sporting white enamel cases and faces. One shop that particularly intrigued Georgia sold only cuckoo clocks, all sizes, all prices – mostly very expensive prices.
We wandered around like mesmerized kids looking in the windows. And in a totally white world, it was amazing to see the roads and pavements completely free of snow and actually glistening. The Swiss had perfected living with freedom of mobility in an environment that could have seemed hostile. If England experienced this degree of snowfall, it would have completely seized up travel. One key factor for achieving this smooth efficiency of movement of transport and pedestrians was down to the snowploughs and the mini-snowploughs used on the pavements. Instead of being poleaxed by nature’s generous dumping of snow, the Swiss had turned it to their own advantage, and tourism and winter sports were big business.
What struck me most was the purity of the air. There was a crispness and exhilaration in breathing in such crystal oxygen. And it wasn’t just the experience of such a rarefied atmosphere: there was a sense of order and cleanliness everywhere.
Everything was done in an efficient fashion; the streets were free from any litter whatsoever and no graffiti shamed any of the walls or buildings. The whole town was pin-sharp and pristine – and bathed in sunshine.
‘It’s amazing,’ Georgia said, putting into words what I was thinking.
‘Everywhere is so clean, so beautifully laid out. It really is breathtaking, isn’t it?’
Lady Branshawe agreed.
‘But you must agree,’ Tally said, ‘that back home when we have a substantial snowfall, everything suddenly becomes beautiful, all the dirty imperfections are painted out.’
She was right. But here in Switzerland it was all somehow so much more glamorous.
We had completed our walk along the main street, past the variety of shops, and were almost back at the lake now.
I would have liked to go and look round the stables, but if it was subject to the same rules we had operating in England, that wasn’t going to be possible without a pass.
‘Has Sam contacted you yet, Tally?’
Sam Smith was Tally’s travelling head lad. Keeping him company on the journey over was Brian Dorset, one of Mousey’s stable lads. They would be billeted in the lads’ quarters.
‘Hmm … yes. I spoke to him earlier while Lady Branshawe and I were having coffee. Both horses are fine, settled into their stables and eating their heads off.’
‘Sounds about right.’ I grinned. ‘Any chance of getting clearance to have a look round?’
‘I did intend to go round later, probably before the party. See what I can do.’
‘Thanks, Tally.’
Our wandering footsteps had brought us to the frozen lake. All the marquees were spread out, offering a wide variety of food and drinks for the delectation of the racegoers. Bathed in sunshine, the shimmering bright colours of the little village, enclosed by the edge of the lake, were an amazing sight. All manner of tantalizing smells drifted on the keen air as we meandered between the different tents.
‘Mmm …’ Georgia lifted her face and sniffed like a hound on the trail. ‘Something smells very tempting.’
‘And what would that be?’ Lady Branshawe asked.
‘Hot chocolate, Swiss style, at a guess.’
All three women reacted like Pavlov’s dogs.
‘Oh, yes,’ Tally agreed, ‘I’m definitely up for one of those.’
‘And me,’ Lady Branshawe and Georgia chorused in unison.
Laughing, they dragged me into a sumptuously equipped marquee that had a carpeted floor – amazing to think that underneath was sheer ice – chairs and tables and a fabulous display of beverages.
‘My treat,’ Georgia said. At the head of our group, she went up to the assistant. ‘Harry? Shall I order four?’
‘Oh, no.’ I held up a hand firmly. ‘One of those will set my weight-watching back for a month. No, thanks. I’ll settle for a black coffee.’
We watched as the girl filled three elegant mugs with hot chocolate topped with sweetened whipped cream and a million calories, and poured one black coffee.
‘No cream?’ Lady Branshawe said incredulously. ‘We’re in the land of cream.’
‘No cream,’ I said.
‘You don’t know what you’re turning down,’ Tally taunted, reaching for the tray to assist Georgia.
It certainly looked good, but a strong coffee would do me fine. It had been a chilly trip into the town.
The women added sugar to their drinks and took a first sip.
‘Oh, my word’ – Lady Branshawe closed her eyes briefly – ‘that is the very best hot chocolate I have ever tasted.’
I looked enquiringly at the other two. They appeared to have gone to a heavenly place themselves.
‘Definitely worth flying over for.’ Tally dabbed the corner of her mouth. ‘You can’t get hot chocolate like this anywhere else in the world. Not to be missed.’
‘And you, Georgia?’
She had just taken a further sip and was savouring the drink, also with eyes closed. ‘Oh, yes, just perfect. I can feel it going right down to my toes and warming them up.’
I shook my head at them, laughing. ‘You’re all easily satisfied.’
My own coffee was excellent.
We relaxed in the warmth and comfort, enjoying ourselves, looking forward to the evening party and the next day’s racing.
Until a voice behind me instantly dispelled the ‘feel-good’ mood.
‘They do say, chocolate is a lady’s substitute for … something else pleasurable.’
I recognized the voice, hoped to goodness I was wrong, but knew I wasn’t. In every garden of Eden, it seemed, there was a serpent.
I turned and met the mocking eyes of Rawlson.
TWENTY
Lady Branshawe’s lips had drawn tightly together.
I threw Rawlson a ‘back off’ look that he ignored. His whole attitude was one of self-importance as he stood there, smirking.
Tally intervened, Lady Branshawe’s disapproval not having gone unnoticed; she called him to order. ‘Yes, Duncan, as you say, we are ladies. I suggest you save that sort of comment for the weighing room or the stables, OK?’
‘Certainly,’ Rawlson smirked. ‘You’re the boss.’
There was an uncomfortable silence that stretched. The ease and enjoyment of only a few mo
ments ago had totally disappeared. I felt my anger start to rise. Lady Branshawe had paid out a hefty sum to get us over here and, on top of that, footed the accommodation costs. She didn’t deserve to be irritated by Duncan Rawlson and his big mouth. But no one else seemed about to speak, so I needed to kickstart the conversation. In the flurry of attending to necessary arrangements before coming to Switzerland, I’d been very remiss and not checked up on the racing details.
‘You’re here to ride, I take it?’
‘Got it in one.’ His smirk was pure Cheshire cat. ‘And, I take it, you’re not.’
‘Harry is here as my guest,’ Lady Branshawe said imperiously, ‘not as my employee.’
The smirk abruptly left Rawlson’s face and he glared daggers at me.
Georgia, trying to defuse the tension, said generously, ‘I hope you win tomorrow.’
He swung round and stared at her, no longer glaring, but appraising.
‘You’re Radcliffe’s girlfriend, yes?’
Georgia, seeing his interest rising almost to a leer, reddened and nodded.
‘Very nice.’ He peeled his gaze away. Then sneered at me. ‘You’ve got taste, I’ll give you that. Still, when you get back with your wife – and you can’t deny you want to – I’ll be here to step in.’
At his words, the colour drained from Georgia’s face, leaving her white and strained.
‘I think you’d better leave, Duncan.’ Tally had stood up, emphasizing her authority. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, before you race.’
He inclined his head. ‘Whatever.’
There was a distinct lightening of the atmosphere as we watched him walk away through the marquee entrance.
‘Sorry about that, Georgia.’ I reached for her hand. ‘Take no notice. He’s just being vindictive. It’s nothing personal against you. It’s me he’s gunning for.’
She smiled wryly. ‘Let’s hope he rides a winner. That will massage his ego.’
‘We’re all hoping for a winner,’ Lady Branshawe said. She leaned forward towards Georgia and added, ‘What I said in the plane on the way here is what really matters. The most important thing is to enjoy the experience.’
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