by Fiona Walker
Indeed, the medal ceremony for the individual three day event was most famously marked by a magnificent, naked female body leaping from the stands and racing across the arena. Deborah Gillespie-Grant, a rampant self-publicist, had literally struck gold in her campaign to become a household name, using Daddy’s front row seats, a quick-release bra top and sprinting skills honed on the Millfield lacrosse team to out-manoeuvre officials and maximise her exposure. Thought to be the first equestrian streaker at a Games, and destined to become as famous as Erica Roe thanks to her hourglass figure and sumptuously round breasts, the tabloid-dubbed ‘Debbie Double-G’ raced up to Hugo to plant a kiss on his mouth before dancing around the podium, avoiding security staff until she was finally apprehended by a red-faced official who covered what he could with the aid of a panama hat and a clipboard.
Hu-gold Prefers Debbie Double-G to his Gee Gees! one headline shouted; What a Lovely Pair! and Horsing Around! others predictably cried, all displaying a very unflattering shot of Hugo with two gold medals and a nipple-flashing blonde around his neck. He was even reported to have quipped to the dignitary presenting the medal, ‘I’m mounting that later.’
The moment, captured by the hundreds of ranked photographers for perpetuity, guaranteed maximum publicity for Debbie and propelled the sport into mainstream consciousness, regardless of Hugo’s complaints that it belittled his team’s efforts and smirched his character.
However, there was no denying one tabloid’s ‘exclusive’ photos of him sharing champagne in a hotel foyer with Debbie Double-G straight after the formal press conference that same night, salacious close-ups that conveniently disregarded the fact that the entire Great Britain three day event team was there at the time, just out of shot. They had been ordered to assemble in order to allow Debbie to ‘apologise’. As one of the wealthiest sponsors in equestrian sports, Colin Gillespie-Grant had three day event chef d’equipe Brian Sedgewick totally under his control. With sports council funding set to tighten now that the Olympic campaign was at an end, poor Brian would have happily streaked alongside Debbie at every remaining medal ceremony if it meant keeping her father’s money in the sport. The hotel drinks fiasco, which he hastily orchestrated, was a misjudgement. Hugo was the only one whose reputation suffered when the following morning’s tabloid scoop made it look like a very intimate gathering.
That report hinted that this was more than just a random piece of crowd participation. Their names were linked through various encounters, most recently a charity polo match at which Hugo had played on Colin G-G’s team. It was insinuated that young, rich and pretty Debbie had performed her streak not just to get fame and adulation but also to redirect her married lover’s attention back from sporting glory and fatherhood to her precocious charms.
Debbie and her new publicity agent, legendary PR guru Clive Maxwell, couldn’t have hoped for a better result, having tipped off the paper about the hotel drinks. The same paper was soon pitching big money for an exclusive with Debbie, talking about her relationship with Hugo.
By the time Hugo straightened his official tie for the formal celebration lunch the day after his gold-medal triumph, Clive had negotiated the interview for Debbie. As he fixed in his cufflinks, Clive was fixing up Debbie’s photoshoot. As Hugo tied the laces of his brogues, Clive explained to Debbie how to intimate intimacy even though there had been nothing more than a family friendship and a wild moment of sporting enthusiasm. She could be a big name if she played it right, he told her. The rope to every VIP area would be unhooked for her, guaranteeing many more months fame via personal appearances, chatshows and the reality treadmill. She just had to use her association with handsome, golden hero Hugo as a leg-up to celebrity. Clive thought it was no great sacrifice if Beauchamp lost some of his glory in the process. The man was an arrogant toff in an elitist sport; Debbie was the real star.
Unaware that his neck was still so firmly on the opportunism block, Hugo phoned his wife from the room in the Olympic village that he was sharing with two members of the show-jumping team.
‘Any sign?’ He asked the same question he’d opened with on the previous five occasions he’d rung her that day.
‘Just twinges – Braxton Hicks again,’ she assured him. ‘He’s bound to be as overdue as Cora.’
‘Have you seen this bloody story yet?’
‘Yes, Beccy showed it to me online; it’s such rubbish. You won gold. Why do they want to tarnish that?’
‘The team’s mortified. Thank God it’s almost over. We’ve got the formal lunch now, then Lough Strachan’s agreed to meet me for a drink.’
‘Any chance you’ll persuade him to be based here, d’you think?’
‘Not sure – he’s hardly easy company, but I’ve heard a couple of rumours this week that might mean he’s keen to get away from New Zealand for a bit if they’re true.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you tomorrow.’
‘You’re coming home?’ She gasped happily. ‘I’d better let everyone in the village know. They want to give you and Fox a hero’s welcome.’
‘You were a big part of it.’ Hugo was immensely grateful that she understood what this was really about, and was far too sensible to believe the bad press.
‘I just wish I could have been there yesterday to elbow GG out of the way and take a running jump into your arms.’
‘Could have been tricky with the bump in the way.’
‘Might help induce labour.’ She sighed wistfully, now utterly fed up with being pregnant.
‘Let’s try it when I get home. Hang on till then.’ He laughed, ending the call and dropping the phone on the narrow dormitory bed that reminded him of boarding school.
His roommates staggered in while he was in the bathroom, cleaning his teeth. The younger of the two lay down on the first available bed while the other sprawled on the floor.
‘You are not going to believe the bar we went to last night!’ The younger man, clearly quite drunk, told him when he emerged. ‘It’s enough to turn your head, mate. There was a glass ceiling with naked birds rolling around on it.’ With his strong, down-to-earth Lancashire accent he could have been talking about racing pigeons, but Hugo doubted it.
‘We were celebrating your win, mate.’ The other groaned from the floor.
Hugo had noticed they were both missing the previous night, but that wasn’t unusual. The show-jumping competitions were still over a week away, so these riders had more free time at the start of the Games than the eventers, who were more or less first off.
‘Bloody fantastic place,’ the younger man was eulogising again. ‘You should go, Ooogo mate.’
‘I’d get a crick in my neck,’ he laughed.
‘Here.’ The man on the floor reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a battered card. ‘Don’t tell them we sent you, though – our lad there paid them with a bunch of fake notes he got given for a horse he sold last week. Isn’t that right, laddo?’
But the one on Hugo’s bed was already asleep.
Hugo studied the card. The place wasn’t his style at all, but he guessed Lough Strachan might appreciate it. He was an urban badboy who’d punched his way into the moneyed world of event riding through a combination of guile and brawn, but had never lost his streetwise edge. He had tattoos and piercings, and his groom had a Mohican. He was bound to feel at home in a bar with naked women rolling around overhead. It was a scene Hugo couldn’t help wanting to take it in too. One should always sightsee when one was in a world-famous city, after all …
Pocketing the card, he headed for the door.
‘Congratulations, by the way.’ The show-jumper propped himself on one elbow. ‘That was bloody impressive riding last night. I thought that Kiwi had you beat for the individual – he rides like a machine; never seen the like. But you pulled it out. We’re proud of you.’
‘Thanks,’ Hugo smiled, knowing the Kiwi was definitely worth having on side.
Later the younger man opene
d one droopy eye when a mobile phone started ringing and vibrating directly beneath his buttocks. He dragged it out from under him and answered it sleepily. ‘No, love, he’s not here. You are? That’s grand, that is. Yeah, I’ll make sure he knows.’ Yawning, he rang off and turned to watch his teammate clamber stiffly on to his own narrow bed.
‘Anything important?’ he asked groggily.
‘Just Hugo’s wife saying the baby’s coming.’
Chapter 7
The tabloid journalist was still writing up her interview with Debbie Double-G and the photographer retouching his shots on his laptop when Tash’s waters broke. Copy had been filed by the time Beccy took her stepsister to hospital, panicking that she might give birth at any moment, but they were sent back home and told to await regular contractions. Meanwhile, the story was typeset and a laser soon danced across an aluminium plate to recreate photos of Debbie posing on hay bales in lacy underwear and long riding boots, waving a riding crop about.
Oblivious to the tabloid sensation Tash tried Hugo’s mobile again, but it went through to voicemail every time. In desperation, she called Brian Sedgewick, who was partying loudly with team sponsors and too drunk to be tactful. ‘He buggered off with Lough Strachan straight after the team meal, Tash, love. I think they’re having a night in a strip club. Boys will be boys, eh?’
Tash ran a bath loaded with lavender oil and sat in it, trying not to panic.
Hugo regarded Lough levelly, far more interested in the story unfolding in front of him than the legs uncrossing above him. ‘So you’re telling me those doping rumours are true?’
Lough shrugged, glaring across the table, dark eyes as intent as jet arrow tips beneath their sharply angled brows. ‘They can’t prove anything.’
‘From what I hear, there’s a lot of dirt circulating back home,’ Hugo said carefully. ‘You could soon be in very hot water indeed.’
‘I’m part Maori. We love hot mud springs,’ he said edgily.
‘It’ll end your competitive career, Lough.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘It’s a fact.’
A topless waitress arrived with two garish red cocktails.
‘Complements of the management,’ she lisped, lowering glasses and nipple tassels between the two men.
‘Thank you,’ Hugo flashed a quick, dismissive smile. ‘Now clear off, darling, we’re talking.’
She lingered. ‘You boys are athletes from the Games, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah – rowers.’ Lough eyed her body much as he assessed a top horse he knew he could never afford. The girls in this bar were quite sensational, a world apart from the pole dancers and strippers he’d encountered on raucous stag nights. The women here were straight from the pages of Penthouse, had classy accents and quick minds to match their flawless looks. This waitress resembled a computer-generated fusion of Angelina Jolie and Alessandra Ambrosio.
‘That’s an unusual accent,’ she was purring to Lough, her plump lips parted to reveal a seductive white smile biting down on a tongue so perfect and pink it could have been a new lozenge of Hubba Bubba.
‘South African,’ Lough said quickly. He could see the way she was clocking their table’s value with the same critical interest that he was admiring her body, her painted eyes cataloguing Hugo’s Rolex and signet ring with its family crest, eyeing up the Savile Row suit and Thomas Pink shirt, British team tie and private club cufflinks while quickly dismissing Lough as worthless, being neither in possession of a Black Amex nor a wedding ring. She was on a scouting mission, yet Hugo was oblivious, far more concerned with his companion’s lies past and present.
‘As I said, we’re talking.’ He waved her away to the bar.
‘The girl was just offering the hand of friendship.’ Lough watched her retreating backside with a sigh.
‘The hand-job of friendship more like.’ Hugo fixed him with an intent look again. ‘Why lie to her about who we are?’
‘Why d’you think?’
‘You’re the one with something to hide.’
In the absence of horns, their eyes locked across the sward of polished oak, two stags reluctant to give ground.
Lough looked away first. Hugo was an arrogant bastard, but at least he got to the point and demanded the truth. He envied that directness, having always been a great deal more circumspect. ‘You come here often?’ he asked now, watching another hostess waft past in a cloud of sweet scent.
‘Are you propositioning me?’
‘They don’t know you here, right?’
‘Never been here before.’ Taking a swig of his cocktail, Hugo glanced around at the damask-lined walls, the dim lighting and discreet cushioned booths with curtains for privacy. Despite an entrance so inconspicuous it could have been mistaken for one of the many exclusive restaurants and clubs in the area, there was no mistaking the bar’s function once one stepped inside. It was decked out like a cross between a femme fatale’s boudoir, a First Class airport lounge and a jazz club. As well as the notorious glass ceiling, there was a stage with glass poles to either end, beyond which was a door marked ‘Private’, through which pretty girls led the male clientele at regular intervals. The drinks cost a fortune, the hostesses were clearly happy to earn their tips after hours, and the management no doubt watched everything that was going on via CCTV and two-way mirrors. Hugo was surprised by the showjumpers’ idea of fun. He’d thought the bar would be seedy, gaudy and laughable, somewhere to loosen up Lough before moving on to a late-night espresso bar to talk business in more detail. Instead it was a high-end knocking shop, and clearly made the tight-lipped Lough even more ill at ease.
‘This place stinks,’ the Kiwi said, pushing his free cocktail aside. ‘They want to fleece us, and I wouldn’t touch that,’ he nodded his head towards the glass that Hugo was lifting to his lips again.
He laughed, draining half its contents. ‘Surely you don’t think they’ve used a bad vintage in these?’ He pulled a face. ‘You do have a point, though. Definitely not Krug.’
‘On your head be it.’ Lough leaned across the table, dropping his voice. ‘I lied about who we are because they want to know how much they can take us for. You might have brought me here to tell me you’re going to shop me, Hugo, but believe me, these guys will strip your wallet bare of credit before you can get to the till. They know you’re a one-off, and your wedding ring is hard currency here.’
‘The bar came highly recommended.’ Hugo looked momentarily affronted before laughing uproariously. ‘You’re right. It’s bloody awful. I must apologise. But I assure you that I’m not going to shop you. I loathe shopping – just ask my wife.’
Lough’s eyes flashed. ‘Does your wife know you come to bars like this?’
‘She’s the reason we’re here.’
‘Tash recommended this place?’
‘She wants me to bring you back to Haydown.’ Hugo raised his glass. His eyes crossed for a moment.
‘Isn’t she about to have a baby?’
‘That’s not why she wants you in Berkshire. We have a midwife for that,’ he ran a hand through his hair as he often habitually did. ‘Nor do we need you to dope any horses.’ He tried to fix Lough with a serious look, but his eyes crossed again and he blinked hard.
Lough said nothing, watching Hugo sit back in his chair, blue gaze increasingly unfocused as he squinted at the burlesque dancer who had got up on the stage and was doing extraordinary things with a top hat and opera cane. Then his eyes lifted to the ceiling and his jaw fell open. ‘Call me sexist, but in this particular case I seriously hope those women don’t break through the glass ceiling.’
Lough didn’t laugh. ‘Your wife must be a very forgiving woman.’
‘She’d see the funny side.’ Hugo looked down, pressing his hands on the table edge to steady himself as blood rushed to his brain. ‘She’s very level-headed, Tash – unlike me – phew.’ He shook his head. ‘This cocktail is bloody strong.’ He laughed, glancing at Lough again. ‘She wants you at Hay
down because you’re a sensational rider and we could all benefit. God knows when she’ll be back in the saddle. Babies do strange things to women.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Lough said carefully.
‘Don’t you be in any hurry to find that out.’ Hugo’s voice was slurring as he fought to make sense. ‘The British event scene is fantastic for high-end totty, with the only strings attached being the horses.’
‘That a fact?’ Lough gave nothing away.
‘You’ll have a different girl in your box every weekend.’
‘I’m not like that, Hugo.’
‘All event riders are like that.’ Hugo insisted.
‘I guess you should know.’
‘Face it, Lough, my wife’s right: you would be much better off based in Europe.’ Hugo was struggling to follow the thread of the conversation now, and feeling more and more light-headed, as though he was floating out of his body and up towards the naked bodies spreadeagled above his head.
‘I like New Zealand,’ Lough muttered.
‘Ah, but will the motherland forgive you when she finds out what her sporting hero’s been up to behind her back?’ Hugo closed one eye at the tongue-twisting effort of saying this.
Lough glared at him. ‘Rather like a wife forgiving a husband when he drinks in bars like this. I guess it’s worthwhile if she gets what she wants out of it, too.’
‘Got to give the wife what she wants,’ he rambled. ‘Keep her sweet.’
‘And she wants me?’ Lough asked idly, testing how wired Hugo was. ‘More fool her.’
Hugo didn’t appear to be listening, talking in staccato bursts as he fought to hold together unravelling thoughts. ‘Tash is sweet. Puts up with my shit, for a start. Not sure she’ll ever ride the way she did, though. More into kids now. Dreadful shame.’