by Fiona Walker
He’d reluctantly agreed to make an appearance and a short speech at a drinks reception being hosted by his sponsors, followed by a rather tedious photocall at Mogo’s trade stand. His natural instinct was to find Tash and walk the cross-country course with her once more, putting his lousy dressage behind him, but with any renewal of the sponsorship deal so precariously poised he knew that he had to keep the clothing label sweet, particularly as Rory was proving a rather wayward member of the Mogo team. He was the first person Hugo spotted in their sponsor’s hospitality tent, flirting with the managing director’s wife. He could see Tash making a valiant attempt to distract the attention of the managing directors away from the overexcited Rory, but with both children and the Czechs in tow, she wasn’t doing the Beauchampions any favours. Sensing an uphill struggle ahead, Hugo braced himself.
What he hadn’t anticipated was his sponsors’ delight when Sylva Frost arrived after him; it was rather like Camilla arriving as guest of honour at a charity fundraiser, only to be followed in by The Queen.
Immediately swamped by Mogo VIPS and unable to get close to Tash, who not only had his heart in his pocket, but also his lifeline in the form of his mobile phone, Hugo was forced to introduce Sylva to the throng. He did this with a polite, stiff-jawed respect, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to be associated with her. A few, especially the snobbish older eventing fraternity, concurred with a cold handshake, but when the flavour of the month arrives to sweeten a rather embittered little mix, it’s a mouth-watering moment guaranteed to get tongues wagging.
Across the tent Tash tried, and failed, to stop jealousy slice through her when she saw who was prowling around her husband as excitedly as a kitten rubbing its whiskers on catmint. Sylva was so sylph-like and petite that you could fit the whole of her into one leg of Tash’s jeans.
Hearing Hugo’s phone beep in her pocket, she resisted the urge to dive behind a lifesize cutout of her husband reciving his Olympic team gold and check if the text was from V. Hugo’s new handset was far too tricky to navigate quickly, besides which she had promised herself that she wouldn’t dwell on the V texts or Waitrose flowers, which were undoubtedly perfectly innocent. This week was all about offering unconditional family support and she was determined to tame her suspicion radar.
Beside Tash, and oblivious to the small media storm at the entrance, Vasilly and Veruschka were devoting all their attentions to the children and the buffet respectively. Both had quickly tired of the delights of three day eventing. Veruschka complained that their bed was too soft, the breakfast in the B and B was too greasy, and that the weather was too cold. Vasilly, a more laid-back character from what Tash could surmise, was apparently suffering from chronic fatigue brought about by lack of nutrition. He seemed to be busy remedying that right now as he laid into the buffet common to all these events: vast silver foil trays crammed with sandwich triangles, still sweaty and flat from too-tight cling-film and canapés that looked suspiciously like something a Nolan sister and Christopher Biggins would advertise in Coronation Street ad breaks.
‘He will be ill, I tell him,’ Veruschka said to Tash with a jerk of her head towards her boyfriend. As she did so she laid Amery out on a stretch of white tablecloth, changing bag at the ready. ‘He ees greedy peeg.’
‘What are you doing?’ Tash asked in alarm as she suddenly realised that her au pair was stripping her baby in full view of her sponsors’ most valued clients, family and friends.
‘He haff dirty nappy.’
‘Not here, Veruschka!’ Tash hissed.
‘I weel not change baby in plastic lavatory box!’
‘Of course not. We can go back to the horsebox.’
‘He is miles away.’
‘Then I’m sure the waiters can find us somewhere more discreet behind—’
Too late. Amery was naked from the waist down and a nappy containing something resembling piccalilli was thrust at Tash while Veruschka delved in the bag for wipes and Sudocrem.
She found herself holding the laden nappy out in front of her as Vasilly turned to her, big cheeks bulging and half a dozen chicken skewers between his fingers like unlit sparklers.
‘Ees good!’ he spluttered approvingly.
For one ludicrous moment Tash thought that he was going to dunk a skewer in the offending nappy, but he simply beamed at her.
Cora let out an approving shriek from knee height as she wobbled around pulling at the tablecloths and peering beneath the trestles.
Hugo finally closed in on her, the baby-blue Barbie at his side. ‘Tash! At last. You haven’t met Sylva yet, have you?’ He immediately peeled off towards the buffet, having not eaten all day.
‘No – we missed each other yesterday – hello there!’ Tash held the nappy behind her back and looked down at the cowboy hat, beneath which she could see only a glossy pout. For a brief moment jealousy and low self esteem curdled in her belly, then Sylva disarmed her with a single blow.
‘These are your children? They are so beautiful!’
Sinking down on to her haunches she cooed at Cora, who was now playing peekaboo amid the overhanging tablecloths. Instantly identifying an audience, the little girl twirled, giggled and ducked behind the white damask, only to bob her head up a moment later with shrieks of delight. Sylva giggled along with equal enchantment. Even Amery, now with a fresh nappy and buttoned back into his pramsuit, was lifted upright in time to see the magical blue figure with the big white smile straighten up, home in on him and kiss his nose. He gurgled in appreciation.
Tash’s heart was won.
Not so Veruschka, who snatched the baby to her chest and glared at Sylva over his downy head.
Meanwhile, still in possession of a full nappy and an uncertain smile, Tash was making introductions.
‘This is Veruschka and this is Vasilly.’ She managed to attract the attention of the big Czech who was now guzzling his way through a tray of stuffed cherry tomatoes. Noticing Sylva for the first time, his eyes bulged and he started to choke.
‘You come from the same country, of course!’ Tash fumbled on like a demented hostess, realising that her social skills were as out of practice as her supportive-wife ones.
‘You are from Slovakia?’ Sylva asked in English, rather pointedly, her native accent nowhere to be heard – she had a disconcerting ability to drop it at a moment’s notice.
‘»eški,’ Vasilly muttered, spitting tomato juice on to the brim of her cowboy hat.
‘Neighbours, then?’ Tash corrected her gaffe.
Saying nothing, Veruschka made a strange hissing noise that was part tut and part snarl, and turned away to gather the children and spirit them away for a walk.
When Sylva called something out in Czech – or Slovakian, for all Tash knew – there was a distinct waving of a finger over one yellow shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Tash bleated, then squeaked in pain as Vasilly blundered after his girlfriend, canapés flying, big feet crashing down on Tash’s as he passed by at speed. ‘They’re terribly nice, but they’ve only just arrived in this country and some things don’t translate, I think.’
‘It’s okay. I’m used to it.’ Sylva shrugged with surprisingly sanguine air. ‘In the Czech Republic, they think they’re better than us poor Slovakian neighbours.’ Then she nudged Tash with her elbow which, given their height difference, meant jabbing her in the hip. ‘Your husband does not fuck that nanny, I take it?’
Tash stood, momentarily open-mouthed, before gratefully spotting her sister approaching.
Dressed in an immaculately tailored long tweed coat with a nipped-in waist and a kick skirt, Sophia looked absolutely the part of the wealthy owner, from her fur collar to buttoned cuffs, and from the neat ponytail in her blue-black hair down to her brown leather Le Chameau boots.
The same could not be said for Tash. Mascara smudged and hair on end, her Mogo team coat covered in horse slobber and baby sick, she made an uncharacteristically loving lunge towards her sister. At the same moment, Hu
go’s phone rang in her pocket – a newly assigned ringtone that she didn’t recognise. For a moment it sounded as though there was an angry troll in her jeans.
Thus Tash and Sophia embraced with a lot of strange grunts and roars emanating from below.
‘It’s a haka,’ Sophia told her as Tash groped for the rubber-cased phone that Hugo had acquired because it was waterproof and rugged.
‘A what?’ She stared at the phone, which was still grunting.
‘Maori chant. I recognise it from All Blacks matches. Ben watches enough bloody rugby for me to be able to recite it like the Lord’s Prayer.’
Finally Tash worked out how to answer the call, turning away to try to hear better and gesturing for her sister to introduce herself to Sylva.
Feeling magnanimous, Sophia stepped towards Sylva Frost with a smile.
‘We’ve met.’ She shook the little Slovak’s manicured hand while examining her cosmetic work in close detail. It was flawless. ‘Polo, I think.’
Sophia was in her element at Blenheim, although not particularly horsy herself. Having only ever been a hobby rider, and rather nervous, she’d gratefully hung up her boots after marriage, but she was now serving a long internship as a Pony-Club mum, and loved the country houses and tweed of the eventing scene. Having a sister and brother-in-law ranked so highly in the sport lent one a certain gravitas, along with owning a half share in a horse like Sir Galahad. He’d somewhat underperformed today, but any disappointment Sophia felt was counterbalanced by the fact that Miranda Rock had just greeted her like an old chum and asked her when they were going to host a horse trials at Holdham, making her truly feel one of the clique.
But Sylva, who already thought uppity Sophia Meredith far less likeable than her sister, undermined that sense of well-being in an instant. ‘Forgive me, I meet so many people … your name is?’
Sophia looked hugely put out. ‘Actually, I’m Lady Malvern.’
‘How lovely – like Lady Gaga,’ Sylva teased, knowing perfectly well who she was.
Stranded together, the two women – former models, mothers and expert self-publicists, but almost a generation apart – looked around desperately for a distraction.
It came in the form of Mike Seith, the Mogo managing director, banging on a glass at the PA mic in the corner and introducing Hugo to his eager guests: ‘… our Hu-gold medallist, our Beauchampion, our Mogo team captain who represents what this brand stands for – tough, resillient, outstanding performance, top of the ranks, an out-and-out winner and, of course, incredibly good looking. Please welcome Hugo Beauchamp!’
Hugo sent a titter of laughter through the tent by politely requesting that his wife get off the phone. Then he ran a hand through his thick tortoiseshell hair and stepped forward to charm the room.
‘Good afternoon. Those of you who saw my dressage test earlier might not agree with Mike’s wonderful appraisal, but in my defence I have to say that if the rules allowed the horse and I to compete in Mogo waterproof wear we’d be home and dry. Very dry.’
Primed to respond to any Mogo name checks, his captive audience laughed obediently.
But Hugo wasn’t at his best. Usually a natural, witty public speaker and excellent raconteur, he was suffering from lack of sleep and from the blow to his ego after two appalling dressage tests on horses that were expected to do much better.
His competition strings were suddenly looking frayed. He’d sold two four star horses and retired another one in the past month, actions for which he took full responsibility but that were starting to seem foolish if these lower-ranking horses didn’t progress. Based on today’s performance, he could be left with just one four-star horse next year. And his sponsors were already in possession of itchy feet.
He knew that delivering a lacklustre speech was hardly going to win Mogo approval, but as soon as it started to go wrong he found that he couldn’t do anything to rescue the situation.
He hadn’t really thought through what he was going to say and now, instead of finding that the adrenalin rush from that lack of preparation gave him great off-the-cuff one liners as it had in the past, he just felt distracted and ill at ease. He was aware that, across the room, Rory – who’d posted a far better test than his trainer – was not listening to a word he was saying, instead flirting loudly with Sylva and Sophia Meredith. Most distracting of all, Tash was holding his mobile phone as though it was an unexploded bomb and making discreet hand signals.
Then, just as he was finally starting to win over his audience with an anecdote about losing his way in a foreign championships and finding himself tangled up with a bunch of carriage drivers, he heard a strange barracking from the floor, accompanied by what sounded like a slow hand clap:
‘Ho ri ti! Ha ho ripe! Ka mau! Hi!’
Directly in front of him, Tash let out a squeak of recognition and looked at the phone in her hand.
Don’t answer it, Hugo thought desperately, somehow still talking into the mic.
But Tash had the phone to her ear and was making her way towards the exit.
Hugo’s knuckles whitened and he glowered at the audience, muttering, ‘It was all a bit of a fuck-up, basically.’
There were a few titters. Mike Seith covered his eyes. Rory let out a seal-bark of laughter.
Mood blackened beyond repair, Hugo carried on, praising the Mogo product range by half-hearted rote and making it abundantly clear that he would rather be standing anywhere else than right there. The applause when he finished was more from relief than praise. He couldn’t wait to get out on to the course with his wife and dogs.
But, to add to his ire, Tash had other plans.
‘I think Lough Strachan’s arrived at Haydown!’ she announced breathlessly the moment he left the Mogo tent, handing his mobile phone back.
Hugo wanted to hurl the thing into the nearest puddle.
‘I must get back to Maccombe!’ she panted, all too eager to escape.
‘Absolutely not!’ he insisted. ‘Send someone else.’
‘There is no one else.’
‘Jenny can go. Or Beccy – send Beccy back.’
‘It hardly looks good sending poor Beccy. It has to be one of us.’
‘Well, for God’s sake take someone with you,’ he said, making it sound like they’d had a break-in rather than an unexpected arrival.
‘I’m taking the Czechs and the children of course,’ she pointed out, before adding guiltily: ‘It’ll be much easier for you to concentrate without us getting under your feet.’
‘You’d better buzz off home then. And I’d prefer it if you don’t answer my calls in future. Let it go to voicemail. Better still, turn the bloody thing off when I’m speaking in public.’ He stomped off to gather his dogs from the lorry park without so much as a farewell.
Tash almost ran after him to try to pacify him, and to offer to walk the course with him before she left, but she held herself in check, unwilling to put herself up against his bad mood. Hugo was only being vile because he was so tense, this week’s task playing on his nerves far more than usual. The Olympic gold medallist was expected to shine but his horses were uptight and underpowered, his sponsors increasingly unimpressed and his wife wholly distracted. It didn’t make his behaviour any less immature, but Tash understood it. She’d suffered from competition nerves far more than her husband and at times had battled to stay positive. Over the years, Hugo had played a large part in controlling her tension until it had almost totally disappeared at the peak of her success, but now that he needed her to return the favour she was helpless.
He needed the old, practical Tash by his side, upbeat and focused, who could read a course and solve potential problems with a keen eye and instinct; she understood the way he rode better than anyone, along with each individual horse’s way of going, meaning that her help was invaluable. But that Tash wasn’t here this week and she knew it. This Tash was a distracted, over-emotional mother whose first instinct upon seeing the track she’d completed many times in the past
in its differing incarnations was to wonder why on earth anyone would want to undertake such a dangerous endeavour. All the fences looked monstrous to her and she was genuinely scared for Hugo.
Coming to Blenheim to support him had been a big mistake, she reflected, especially bringing the children plus the Czechs and their Eurovision Song Contest wardrobe. Any excuse to relieve Hugo of it all seemed heaven-sent. She hoped he could focus on the competition without all her distractions that got on his nerves and disturbed his preparation. She would make it up to him when he returned to Haydown, she promised herself, already craving home and routine and domesticity, even if there was a strange New Zealander there.
‘Mr Beauchamp, he stay here to ride horses in Queen’s garden?’ Veruschka asked as they left the park, craning over her shoulder for the last glimpses of Blenheim Palace through the rear windscreen.
‘Yes, he’s staying a few more days.’ Tash glanced towards the lorry park, where she could just make out the green and gold livery of the Beauchampions lorry. ‘We’re all rooting for him.’
But the thin wedge that had edged between them during the summer splintered wider as she drove away far too enthusiastically, firing up the heated seats, an Eurythmics CD on the stereo and the sat nav pointed at home.
Singing along to ‘Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves’ and telling herself that she was doing the right thing, Tash tried not to feel too grateful for her liberation. Away from the lorry park gossip it was much easier to put jealous thoughts from her mind, to stop dwelling on their deferred sex life and Hugo’s active text life, and to enjoy being the great woman behind the great man.
‘Sisters are doin’ it for themselves!’ she repeated, only hoping that Beccy would cope without her.
Unaccustomed to being so far down the leader board on the eve of cross-country day, Hugo was sorely tempted to drive home to handle Lough Strachan’s arrival himself, certain that the man had timed it deliberately to coincide with Blenheim. But it wasn’t in his nature to wimp out and so he girded his loins and resolved to salvage some dignity with good, fast clear rounds the following day. Dusk falling, he walked the course as he intended to ride it – quickly, efficiently and with no distractions. He refused to think about Lough Strachan and the secrets they shared; he couldn’t afford to. When he got back to the start–finish area he set out once again and walked the course afresh, head bowed against the driving rain. It was now dark, but he trudged on, his exhausted, sodden dogs trailing behind him. In his pocket his phone rang continually – different ringtones to identify the callers – Tash from Haydown, Rory’s mobile, Jenny, Ben. He ignored them all.