by Fiona Walker
‘I never did get to do that running jump into your arms,’ she looked from Amery to Hugo, tearful with hormones and happiness. ‘And the village will miss welcoming home the Maccombe heroes.’
‘This is all the welcome I need.’ Hugo sat on the bed at her hip and kissed her, then dropped kisses on Cora’s tortoiseshell curls and Amery’s tiny bald pate. As he kept his head lowered, breathing in the perfection of his beautiful family, Tash lifted a hand still spiked with a cannula, its wrist encircled with a pale blue hospital ID tag, and ran her fingers through his hair.
Beccy had to look away, jealousy and loneliness burning holes in her chest.
Hugo left Tash with Beccy and went home to shower and change, finding it odd the return to Haydown after so many monumental events in short succession, and for the yard to be so utterly unaffected. His mother was barracking the temporary yard staff; Jenny was supervising and settling Fox back into his familiar surroundings and the dogs crowded around him as he climbed from his car. In the circumstances, there had been no grand welcome home, and Hugo was grateful.
He was equally grateful that it seemed the gutter press was already losing interest him. The phone messages waiting for him were from local papers and the equestrian press interested in his win, or just friends, owners and sponsors calling to congratulate him.
‘You beat that bloody Kiwi!’ his oldest friend Ben Meredith chortled patriotically on an answering-machine message.
Hugo wasn’t so sure as he wandered around his empty house, gathering together things to take to Tash, not noticing the mess or the tea mugs on every surface; just noticing Tash’s absence and hating it. The house felt incomplete, indelibly altered; as though life had changed. It echoed his memory of the previous night.
The contents of those lost hours were shared by just Hugo, Lough Strachan and the shadowy, exotic figures that inhabited a late-night bar in a gloomy little back street far beyond the safe environs of the Olympic village, a place they could never hope to find again even if they wanted to, where their medals meant far less than their hard cash. It was a night of which he remembered little, but what little he remembered thoroughly ashamed him, a blight on his character that was not only deeply dishonourable and aberrant but could also wreck his marriage if it ever got out. Hugo was immensely grateful that their identities had remained secret. In a tight-knit, rumour-mongering sport like eventing, where a whiff of gossip usually spread like kennel cough through a hound pack, this story could ruin him.
When he went back into the hospital for the last visiting hour of the evening Tash was much more together. She even remembered to ask whether Hugo had persuaded Lough Strachan to come to Haydown. He didn’t like to confess that he was striving to remember exactly how he had left the situation, just as he was struggling to piece together the events of the previous night.
‘I have no idea,’ he said honestly, and then added with more ferocity than he intended, ‘but I bloody well hope not.’
Chapter 8
On the same day in August that Amery Beauchamp fought his way into the world in West Berkshire, Faith Brakespear was in the Cotswolds, celebrating the anniversary of her own arrival eighteen years earlier.
With perfect timing, she had received her pre-operative appointment with her chosen cosmetic surgeon through the post that morning; two weeks hence, and by then she would conveniently be based in Essex commuterland. That long-awaited day she would show Farouk Ali Khan her boob and nose scrapbook – over thirty pages of carefully selected faces and breasts ripped from everything from Elle, Cheers! and the Observer magazine to old copies of Playboy and Loaded she had discovered under her brother’s bed.
In a similar fashion, her mother had discovered the boob scrapbook under Faith’s bed and suddenly appeared to be labouring under the misconception that her daughter was secretly gay and poised to come out of the closet that night as she celebrated coming of age.
Being very open-minded about sexuality – she had, after all, been married to a gay man for many years – Anke was infuriatingly eager to embrace this development, however hard Faith tried to refute it.
‘I am not a lesbian! I am in love with Rory and I am going to marry him.’
‘Yes, kæreste, but that is just a daydream, isn’t it? This is real life … and if you have been having these feelings, perhaps—’
‘I haven’t been having “feelings”!’ she howled. ‘I know for a fact that I love Rory and that he is the only man, woman or animal for me, okay?’
‘If you say so,’ Anke nodded, unconvinced.
But Faith had far more pressing concerns, such as the need to fulfil her boast to Carly about the number of single studmuffins on the guest list. So far, her RSVPs were almost exclusively female, the only confirmed male guests being attached, gay or under fifteen.
In desperation, with her friend already on her way, Faith put out a call on her much-neglected Bebo page, forgetting to log off afterwards so that her ten-year-old brother Chad read her pathetic plea when he took over the family PC to go on the Cartoon Network site. Clicking his fingers over the keyboard he set to work. As the most computer-savvy member of the Brakespear household, it took him just moments to spread the word through chat rooms and social forums with the opener ‘My fit older sister is having a party and has no friends …’ The response was gratifying and Chad felt proud. It was the ultimate gift from brother to sister, far better than Magnus bringing along some cheesy old pop star.
At lunchtime Carly made a very stylish arrival through the Wyck Farm gates at the wheel of her pink Mini Cooper – a gift from her indulgent parents for her own eighteenth birthday – in a flurry of spitting gravel, exhausted and overexcited from her longest drive since passing her test the previous month.
‘Motorways are, like, such fun!’ she exclaimed, leaping out to air-kiss Faith and in no way giving away the fact that she had spent most of her time on the M25 in tears, cursing boy racers and white van men, constantly finding herself on the slip roads about to be funnelled on to other motorways or racketing along in a stream of traffic at a speed far faster than she felt comfortable with.
Faith helped her hawk out the three huge suitcases that she had brought with her, one of which was taking up the whole of the back seat.
‘What have you brought? Your entire wardrobe?’
‘More or less.’ Carly dragged an ultra-trendy pink Hideo case up the stairs to her friend’s room while Faith lugged the other two. ‘I couldn’t decide what to wear, and I need to lend you something too because your clothes are so dire. I brought a bottle of vod and a load of Red Bull because I know your ’rents can be a bit sanctimonious about anything more alcoholic than a white wine spritzer, even though you are eighteen. Which reminds me …’ She heaved her case on to the bed, sprang it open and pulled out a very squashed package wrapped in glittery paper. ‘Happy birthday!’
Inside was a set of racy red Agent Provocateur underwear, complete with the latest line in silicone chicken fillets.
‘Just while you’re waiting for your boob op,’ Carly explained. ‘To make you feel sensational tonight and remind you what you have in store. There’s a tube of Lip Plump there, too, and bum-firming cream. I can’t do anything about the nose on a temporary basis, but I’m very good with shading foundation. And there’s even a fix for your chronically low self-esteem.’
Beneath the strange, rubbery boob enhancers was a small, colourful box marked ‘Brain Candy’.
‘Legal highs,’ Carly explained, ‘from New Zealand. Like Ecstasy only totally, like, safe and legal. I tried one last week. Amazing!’
‘Really?’ Faith was fascinated, although she had never really been tempted by drugs, or indeed even alcohol, having seen the ravages it wrought on darling Rory. Once or twice she had tried to drink alongside him to ‘bond’, but had inevitably ended up throwing up before he had even warmed up.
‘So what do you think?’ Carly held up a padded, scented coat hanger in each hand, putting one dress in front of he
r and then another. ‘The pink Moschino Cheap and Chic or the yellow Kate Moss at Topshop?’
‘Not sure,’ Faith screwed up her face in thought. ‘Do you have anything with a bit more …’ she searched for the word.
‘Bling? Urban chic? LA cool? Folklore funk? Heritage vintage? What?’
‘Er … more fabric?’
Faith’s guest list now contained a great many single men, several tens of thousands in fact. In just a few hours Chad’s message had spread through almost every social networking site on the ether to all thirty-four counties in England, to Scotland and Wales, to twenty-seven European countries, to all fifty-two states and to five continents. Faith’s eighteenth birthday party was global. The invitation had been forwarded around the world more swiftly than a chain letter offering fame and fortune when copied to seven friends.
From early evening, dubious-looking festival types began to descend on Wyck Farm from as far as Bath, Worcester, Coventry and even London. Some had heard that that the band Faithless was having a party in this famously rockstar-heavy corner of the Cotswolds. Others believed Faith No More had regrouped for a one-off private gig. A few were labouring under the misconception that Faith was the name of a underground rave club which took place in broad-span barns and disused aircraft hangers in obscure corners of rural England. And then there were the born-again Christians in search of a prayer rally …
Unaware that the fast-flowing influx of guests did not in fact know Faith at all, the Brakespears were stunned to find their daughter so popular.
‘Most of these people seem to think they can pitch tents here for the night,’ Anke announced in alarm to Graham, who had briefly dashed inside while frantically trying to orchestrate the car parking.
‘They’ll have to use the paddock,’ he said, his normally creamy Yorkshire accent blunt. ‘We’ll bring the horses in.’
Anke watched worriedly as he shouldered a huge Maglite torch. ‘What on earth do you need that for? It’s broad daylight.’
‘I figure I could use some clout,’ Graham said darkly. ‘There’s all sorts turning up out there. I had no idea Faith knew so many people. Where is she, by the way? This is her party.’
‘Still getting dressed with Carly,’ Anke glanced up the stairs and wondered why Faith had invited so many people when she was normally so conservative. It seemed she really was coming out of her shell at long last.
Faith might not usually need drugs or alcohol to enhance her social life but, as she reminded herself when rearranging her chicken fillet fillers for the twentieth time in the privacy of her en suite, that was because she had no social life to enhance. Certainly not one that involved wearing rubber breasts, Magic Knickers, a hairpiece and a foundation so amazingly uniform it was purported to cover everything from birthmarks to stubble. She felt alarmingly like a male transvestite after Carly’s ministrations.
Styled by Carly, Faith looked undeniably grown-up and sophisticated, but perhaps not dressed to her best advantage. Lots of big hair, frills and bling no doubt suited petite, curvy Carly, but with Faith’s extra height, more square frame, broad back and wide hips it was an unforgiving look. Her long, athletic legs were usually her strongest feature, but encased in lime green fishnets and poking out from the crotch-height hem of a coral pink dress that was part baby doll nighty, part seventies lampshade, they looked like snot dangling from a nose.
‘Give me that vodka,’ she demanded weakly, grateful for the first time that Rory wouldn’t be around to see her.
‘Here.’ Carly, a vision of playful sex kitten in her unravelled yellow string arrangement, handed her a can of Red Bull that was half filled with Smirnoff, plus a Brain Candy pill.
‘I’m not sure …’ Faith wavered with the pill on the end of her tongue and the can poised.
‘Oh, live a little.’ Carly elbowed her sharply in the back so that she gulped the little tablet back like a reluctant cat being wormed.
‘Aren’t you taking the other one?’ Faith coughed and spluttered as Carly wiggled out to the bedroom to fetch her body shimmer puff and apply another layer to her chest and shoulders.
‘No, I’m your co-pilot tonight.’ She looked back over her shoulder, puff dabbing about madly, so that from where Faith was standing it looked as though her throat was being savaged by a chin-chilla kitten.
Faith followed her into the bedroom. ‘Co-pilot?’
‘It’s a drug buddy thing. I stay clear-headed while you get wired – just in case something goes wrong and you lose it big time.’
‘But you’ve had three vodka Red Bulls already,’ Faith pointed out worriedly. ‘And anyway, you said these are harmless, legal mood enhancers.’
‘They so are.’ Carly turned back and started buffing her friend’s wide, pearly white shoulders. ‘They really are. Like I said, live a little. Now make sure you drink plenty of fluid and chew gum.’
‘Why?’ Faith loathed gum.
‘To stop yourself swallowing your tongue, I think,’ Carly said vaguely, pulling Faith’s dress forward and buffing her chest, which made her chicken fillets plop out of her bra and bounce off the toes of her patent leather ballet pumps. ‘We need tit tape to keep those babies in place.’ She turned to search in one of her suitcases.
Picking up the errant pieces of silicone, Faith swigged vodka from the bottle then headed back into her bathroom to reinsert them.
Studying her reflection she changed her mind, suddenly wishing that Rory was here. He’d make her see the funny side, tease her about her stupid outfit, seeing past the lampshade dress and snot tights to the Faith he knew so well. She missed him, missed him, missed him.
Her unfamiliar eye make-up was running already. The big, pouty lips were starting to smear. She looked like a clown. She didn’t want to go to her own party at all. Her social skills needed enhancing even more than her cleavage.
Slamming the Smirnoff bottle down by the basin she picked up the box of Brain Candy and popped out a second pill, knocking it back without a by your leave.
In the bedroom, Carly was too busy hanging out of the window to notice.
‘There are so many people arriving!’
‘Great.’ Faith felt terrified.
Then Carly let out a shriek.
‘He’s here!’ she gasped over her shoulder. ‘Dillon Rafferty. He’s bloody well here!’
‘Told you.’ Faith nodded at her own reflection, raising the vodka bottle. ‘Would I lie?’
She turned on the radio that was propped up on the shelf beside her. Classic FM. Rory listened to it on the yard, claiming it soothed the horses (although he had recently staged a brief defection to a digital jazz channel when Classic FM ran an advert for wart removal cream at fifteen-minute intervals, which he said upset Rio).
Tonight they were playing Satie’s Gymnopédies. Faith listened, her head cocked. So soothing.
Smiling, she pushed the bathroom door quietly closed and leant against it, sliding the lock and pressing her cheek against the soft, fluffy towelling of the robe hanging on the hook above her.
‘Locked herself in the bathroom!’ Carly reported to Anke excitedly two minutes later, eyes darting left and right in search of Dillon Rafferty. ‘I can’t get her to come out.’
‘Oh this is ridiculous – I must know how many of these people are her friends. If indeed any of them are.’ Anke swept up the stairs, leaving Carly alone in the hallway as unwitting welcoming party, just as Dillon Rafferty stepped in through the front door.
It was her cue, and she didn’t miss a beat.
‘Hi, I’m Carly!’ she greeted brightly, flashing her five-grand veneers.
‘Hi,’ he flashed his ten-grand ones in return.
Carly almost passed out on the spot. Dillon Rafferty, in the flesh, was a pure, giddy fix of testosterone-packed, rock ’n’ roll sex appeal. If, instead of ‘hi’, he’d said ‘you – me – downstairs loo – now’ she’d have led the way.
Instead he nodded politely and walked on past, leaving Magnus grinning in his
wake, lofty, dishevelled and gorgeous, clutching a pretty blue-eyed toddler in a pink tutu and Gap New York T-shirt. Alongside him was an arrogant-looking, leggy brunette whom Carly recognised from the gossip mags, clutching a Chihuahua and holding the hand of Magnus’s bubbly blonde girlfriend Dilly.
Carly hid a snarl. How horribly fake and boho. No best friends ever held hands any more, not even Victoria Beckham and Gwen Stefani. It was so last year.
‘Hi Mags, hi Dilly … and you must be Nell,’ she greeted with proprietorial ease as she took it upon herself to assume Anke’s hostessing role. ‘Drinks to the left, food to the right, recreational drugs in the marquee, birthday girl locked in the bathroom. Enjoy.’
Upstairs, Faith would not budge. The Brain Candy was starting to kick in, making her heart race and her mood lift. She was loving her birthday. The music was fantastic, the vibe was perfect and the warm, scented setting was unexpected but both comforting and invigorating. She wasn’t coming out for anybody. She refused to open the door for her mother, her beloved gayfather and even her elder brother when he joined them.
‘What’s the problem?’ Magnus asked Kurt worriedly.
Kurt – an athletic slice of late-forties sex appeal with artful blond highlights and unfeasibly long eyelashes, who had never quite surrendered the New Romantic look – shrugged. ‘From what I gather, the guest of honour isn’t here.’
‘Who?’ Magnus mouthed at his mother, who immediately mouthed ‘Rory’ in reply.
Rolling his eyes, he rapped on the door. ‘Faith, come out.’
‘Bugger off!’
Behind her came the distinctive strains of Tchaikovsky. There was also a strange clumping, thumping noise.
‘What is she doing in there?’ Magnus turned to his mother.
‘Ballet dancing, I think,’ Anke said fretfully. ‘Oh God, this is my fault. She’s at a pressure point in her life, a great shift from child to adult, from carefree dependant to free spirited self-seeker. She needs to get to grips with who she is and what she is, with her roots, her homosexuality.’