by Fiona Walker
The footsteps thundered back down, taking the back stairs this time.
‘Did Lough Strachan leave a number?’ Hugo demanded, marching in from the rear lobby.
Beccy shook her head guiltily. ‘He said he’d call with flight dates. Is there a problem?’
Hugo’s blue eyes fixed hers for a thrillingly long time. Beccy felt her face redden more and more. Then suddenly he shook his head.
‘Fuck it, let him come!’ he barked, stalking to the fridge and finding the last of the champagne. To Beccy’s delight he poured glasses for both of them. ‘What is it they say: “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer”?’ He handed her a brimming flute.
She nodded, not understanding exactly what he meant but thrilled that he was telling her.
‘To enemies.’ He raised his glass.
Beccy touched her glass to his. Lough Strachan was getting more and more interesting. She couldn’t wait to hear from him again.
In Buckinghamshire, Sylva Frost was also on the internet that night. Now that she and her mother were keeping track of Dillon’s every move as they prepared to stake a claim, she already knew that he owned horses competed by an event rider named Rory Midwinter.
Sylva was munching on comfortingly stodgy lard crackling biscuits kindly sent over from Slovakia by her sister Hana to assist in her current headlining weight flux. Dropping crumbs on her keyboard, she admired a very dashing photograph of Rory clearing a huge red jump fashioned to resemble a shotgun cartridge. It looked like fun, and Rory was very handsome indeed, looking far taller and more athletic than his pop-star patron.
‘Mama!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Tell Rodney I am going to go riding next week. He and the team can come along too.’
‘And the children?’ Mama asked hopefully from the kitchen door, wringing a Slovak-flag tea towel in her hands, knowing that there hadn’t been enough footage of Sylva as a caring mum during this series.
‘No, just me,’ she called back, already planning her wardrobe. The weight gain wasn’t helpful, but her team knew how to capture her best angle. ‘I’ll go to my new weekend house. Dillon’s horses are very close by, I think.’
‘Yes, maika!’ Mama announced, pressing the tea towel to her brow to mop sweaty beads of relief. ‘The agent has sent the keys to the Petit Château.’ Renting a base close to Dillon Rafferty’s farm had been Mama’s top priority.
A warm breeze carried sweet autumn scents from Sylva’s garden through her open windows, which danced with leaf-stencilled sunlight, smells of mulching and bonfires. Sylva loved her pretty faux Arts and Crafts modern mansion near Amersham with its two-acre garden complete with rose walk and vegetable patch, its army of workers, its Jacuzzi, indoor pool and mini-gym. But she knew that she could not afford to get complacent when her career was at stake.
The Cotswolds were alluringly English and enticingly elitist, with their film-set-perfect villages and unique cocktail of olde worlde charm, celebrity chic and Chelsea penthouse price tag. The rented house, which according to the brochure was a fabulous fake French fantasy of crenellations, turrets and moat, was just a couple of miles from Dillon’s farm in the heart of the horsy Lodes Valley.
‘I will stay there next week,’ Sylva decided. ‘Tell Rodney that too, Mama.’
In unseen silent rapture at the kitchen door, Mama unfolded the tea towel and waved it above her head just as she had a larger Slovak flag when Sylva had triumphed in tough sporting competitions as a child. She knew her daughter would soon shed pounds, get fit, get her man and achieve a crescendo of publicity hitherto only dreamed of. Her masterplan was underway.
Sylva was equally delighted when she checked on Google Earth that her newly rented weekend house – a stone’s throw from Dillon’s farm – was a mere pebble flick from his protégé’s yard. She picked up her little mobile.
‘Is that Rory Midwinter? Hi, this is Sylva Frost. I have just rented a house in your area and I’d like to book a riding lesson please.’
‘Fuck off, Faith, that isn’t funny.’
It wasn’t the first time she’d had this reaction when phoning strangers. ‘Hello? Is this a bad time?’
There was a long, doubtful pause for thought in Upper Springlode. ‘Are you Sylva Frost?’
‘I am Sylva.’
The line went silent for a while again. Then she heard laughter, rapturous and infectious.
‘This really, really is my lucky day,’ Rory told her joyfully. ‘When would you like to come? I’m all yours – in every sense of the word.’
Chapter 14
Rory wasn’t sure coming of age suited Faith. Immediately after her eighteenth birthday party, in her last few days before departing for Essex, she developed some strange habits – like his terrier Twitch illogically ripping up his favourite socks and cocking his leg on his riding boots whenever Rory brought home a new lover.
For one, she removed the ageing posters of Sophia Loren, Lucinda Green and Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore from the yard loo. They were his muses, and he wasn’t at all happy. She did, he noticed, leave up the poster of her mother.
Then she started pouring away his secret hipflask stashes from his office. ‘You’re drinking away your one chance at breaking through to the big time.’
‘I just won the Scottish Championships!’
Rory was left smarting and baffled.
He had never taken the time to try to understand Faith, whose unconditional love for him and his horses he took utterly for granted, much as he did Twitch, an equally loyal and fierce beast with similarly antisocial tendencies. He had no idea that she was now desperately trying to leave her mark, but as always she was trying too hard.
‘Dillon has just bought you The Fox,’ she said repeatedly, as though he was in danger of forgetting the fact. ‘You haven’t given me my birthday present yet,’ she also kept reminding him.
Rory personally felt she didn’t deserve one.
They rode out together on her last day in the Cotswolds, swatting horseflies and midges as they trotted hastily from the broiling sunshine into Gunning Woods to breathe the pine needles and cool shadowed air.
Faith was riding White Lies, who was now back in work and relishing the chance to show he still had plenty of mileage left. He bucked, fly-kicked and napped all the way. Jockeying a recently backed baby who was as flighty as a springbok and saw lions behind every bush, Rory didn’t appreciate Faith’s delight in his old campaigner’s high spirits.
‘Ride him better,’ he grumbled as his filly almost decapitated him with every passing branch trying to keep up with Whitey.
‘Come over here and show me how,’ she urged.
In the distance they heard an ominous rumble of thunder.
‘I can’t get on there with you.’
‘Why not? That filly is used to being led from Whitey; I’ve been trawling her around the lanes for weeks behind this rump. Get over here.’
‘Fuck off, Faith.’
They rode on in silence, Rory swatting flies irritably and Faith trying to swallow back the lump in her throat and chest.
Yet again she had goofed up, too anxious, rushed and defensive to time this right.
Ever since watching The Man From Snowy River with Rory (and then secretly watching clips from it many, many more times at home on YouTube), she had imagined them enacting the Jess and Jim horseback kiss. But it wasn’t going to happen today, and she knew it.
The thunder rumbled closer, making Whitey throw up his head and the filly skitter sideways.
‘We’d better turn back.’ Rory peered around for some sign of the sky but the wood’s canopy was so thick that it was hard to tell how far away the storm was or in what direction.
They soon found out. Turning for home, they rode just a couple of minutes before they seemed to walk into near pitch darkness and the wind whistled through the trunks around them, lifting old leaves from the ground and snapping twigs. Moments later they heard rain pounding down, but it was still held off by the trees.
By the time they had trotted to the derelict sawmill on the edge of the pine plantations it had penetrated the canopy and was hammering down on them.
They jumped off and led the horses under cover.
‘It’ll pass soon.’ Rory peered out at the sheets of rain that were lashing down, accompanied by booming thunder. ‘God knows, the ground could use the drink. It’s as thirsty as I am. Why’d you have to empty my hipflask? I’m gasping.’
‘Because you drink too much,’ she said simply. ‘You’ll never win Burghley that way.’
‘That new horse Dillon’s leased could win Burghley blindfold. It’s mega scopey.’
‘But you can’t win it blind drunk. I’ve been watching its clips online. That horse almost killed Clissy Dixon at Saumur a couple of years ago. Hugo’s got a rare thing going on with him; you’ll need a while to get to know him.’
‘I’ll talk to the owner about that, thanks,’ he said pompously.
‘Nell hasn’t a clue,’ she laughed. ‘At least Dillon admits he knows nothing. She pretends she’s knowledgeable, which is far more dangerous.’
He lapsed into sulky silence for a moment, tempted to tell her that Hugo Beauchamp himself was going to be coaching him on all the horses soon, just as Kurt was going to be coaching her, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud yet. He hadn’t even told his own mother he was leaving, although he doubted she would notice one way or another. He wasn’t sure he’d cope on a big professional yard like Haydown. He had lived alone throughout his twenties with just his horses, Twitch and the occasional girlfriend for company. He’d also heard the rumours about Cœur d’Or. He was driving out to try him in a few days time and already the thought made him sweat with trepidation. He suddenly found himself wishing Faith would be around to come with him.
But she soon irritated him again: ‘I found some old footage of Whitey competing on YouTube. He looked great. I think you should bring him out of retirement.’
‘No way.’
‘He could still teach you a thing or two.’
‘I taught him everything he knows!’
‘You rode better then.’
‘Remind me, when are you leaving?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Not a moment too soon.’
‘You’ll miss me.’
‘No I won’t.’
They both jumped as a clatter of thunder as loud as a bomb detonated overhead. The rain battering the wooden roof sounded like gunfire.
‘It’ll help you grow up, being away from here.’ He raised his voice to be heard.
‘I’m exceptionally mature for my age.’
‘Could have fooled me.’
‘You’re the immature one.’
‘I don’t deny that. I come from a long line of childish men.’
‘What was your Dad like?’
‘Very childish indeed. It drove my mother mad. He had no sense of responsibility.’
‘Neither does your mother.’
He laughed. ‘True. Darling Truffle is quite the most capricious, wayward bird I know. You can’t help but love her for it.’
The youngest and most attractive of the three Constantine sisters who had once been the toast of the debutante scene, curvaceous Truffle Dacre-Hopkison was still a formidably glamorous local figure, racketing around the Oddlode valley in a Mini Moke, Hermès headscarves flying and champagne picnic rattling.
Faith could picture Truffle alongside Honor Blackman and Sophia Loren. ‘They say all men are secretly looking to marry their mothers.’
‘Who says?’
‘Psychologists.’
‘Well, they’re wrong.’
‘So who are you looking to marry?’
‘I have no desire to get married yet, thanks.’
‘I mean, who is your dream date?’
He tapped the metal head of his riding crop against his smiling lips. ‘Right now, I’m pretty excited about meeting Sylva Frost.’
‘Do you mind that her boobs are fake?’
‘What?’ he looked at her askance.
‘They are fake,’ she spelled out clearly. ‘They were done by Farouk Ali Khan and she has them insured for millions.’
‘Well I hope he’s recommended a bloody good sports bra. I don’t want to get sued if she knocks herself out doing sitting trot.’ He pondered this for a moment and then laughed. ‘Actually, maybe it would be worth running the risk.’
Faith sulked, listening to the storm raging, thunderclaps ripping the air. She inevitably hurt herself when she asked Rory these questions; it was like self-flagellation.
Whitey and the mare remained surprisingly unbothered by the weather, having heard it hammering around their own stables in recent days. Happy to take a rest out of the rain they jangled their bits and rubbed their noses on their knees.
‘There’s a lot to be said for playing the field,’ Rory sighed.
‘Not when the rest of your team are in the dressing room sharing a bath and victory champagne. You’ve played the field so much it looks like the Somme.’
‘Hardly. I’m not yet thirty, remember? Besides, it’s better to have loved and lost and all that. You should take a leaf out of my book now you’re practically grown up. Live a little. Break some hearts.’
‘No thanks.’
‘So, tell me …’ Rory was pondering psychology with difficulty. ‘… if all men secretly want to marry their mothers, do all women want to marry their fathers?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Puts you in an awkward position.’
She glared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you could understandably become fixated on gay boys.’
‘Hardly!’
‘Lots of horsy girls do.’
‘Not me.’
‘So you like a macho man, like Graham?’
‘Ugh! Get real!’
‘What’s your real dad like?’
Faith examined her gloves. ‘Dunno. Mum wants me to meet him, but I’m not interested.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he never wanted to know me. Why should he start now?’
‘Might help your love life.’
‘How come?’
‘You’ll know what you’re looking for in a man.’
‘A boozy, crooked Irish horse trader? I think not. Besides, I already know what I’m looking for in a man.’
‘What’s that then?’
The rain had started to abate, the thunder rolling further away.
Faith stared at the gloomy woods ahead of them, the darkest emerald grotto dripping with crystal light from the rain. Locals believed the woods were enchanted, that they turned enemies into lovers and married souls. Some were too frightened to walk there.
She could say it now. She could admit her feelings. On the eve of her departure, perfect timing to leave him in the shocked realisation that his little sidekick loved him and not his horses all along.
But she knew she didn’t have the nerve to admit the true depth of her feelings, couldn’t face his amused rejection. She secretly suspected that they both chose to ignore it. Better say nothing until she had transformed into a butterfly and returned to claim him.
‘I want somebody reliable, who remembers my birthday,’ she muttered instead, pulling down the stirrups on Whitey’s saddle ready to mount. ‘And is a good kisser.’
‘Sounds fair enough.’
They rode back in silence, Faith castigating herself all the while for being so cowardly and letting the opportunity slip past. She was about to go away for months and months without telling him the truth.
At the yard Rory, as usual, left her washing off the horses and disappeared into his office. She could hear him banging around in there for ages, presumably looking for scotch.
But when he re-emerged, he was holding a beautiful bronze of an event horse.
‘Happy birthday.’ He thrust it towards her. ‘And good luck with Kurt and Graeme. They’ll teach you a lot more than I can.’
F
aith cradled the horse in disbelief, feeling its smooth weight in her hands.
‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever been given. Thank you!’
Before Rory knew what was happening, she had planted a thank-you kiss on him; not the usual shy peck on the cheek but something far fuller and firmer that landed on his lips with a sweet but assertive juiciness which surprised him so much that a great whoosh of blood rushed unexpectedly from his head to his groin.
After she had left Rory put the kiss to the back of his mind and instead wondered whatever had possessed him to give Faith the trophy he had just won for being the top British rider at Bloneigh Castle. He had to hand it back to the event committee after eleven months. But eleven months was a long time, he reminded himself cheerfully as he licked his lips and headed back to his office for the bottle of Famous Grouse he had spotted while ransacking trunks for the trophy.
Anke was delighted when, the evening before her departure to Essex, Faith suddenly asked more about her biological father. ‘What was he like? As a person, I mean.’
‘Very funny, charming and easy to like.’ Anke thought back, choosing her words carefully. ‘He could be a little arrogant and irresponsible at times, but he has such wit and charisma that everyone forgives him. And as for riding, he is just so gifted. They called him fearless Fearghal on the hunting field because he was so brave and skilful across country.’
‘Why did he never compete?’
‘I doubt he could afford to – he had a big family to keep, a business to run, then he was a widower. And I think he was rather too fond of the liquor in the early days.’
‘Did he like big boobs?’
‘What?’
‘Big boobs. I know you haven’t got any, but would you describe him as a boob man, generally speaking?’
Perturbed by her daughter’s new-found breast fixation, Anke regarded her suspiciously. ‘Faith, where is this leading?’
‘Nowhere. But I definitely don’t want to meet Fearghal,’ she said firmly. ‘I already know all I need to know, thanks.’
She marched up to her room and, unpacking several sets of thermal underwear that her mother had crammed into a corner of one suitcase, replaced them with a bronze horse as heavy as her heart.