by Fiona Walker
Still sulking from witnessing such a hot kiss between the Beauchamps earlier, Beccy distractedly muddled up different gauges.
‘Won’t Lough be angry that Hugo’s taken two of his horses hunting?’ she asked.
Tash rolled her eyes. ‘He’s hardly here to ask, is he?’
‘You’ve heard nothing from him then?’
‘Not even a Christmas card.’
‘How rude,’ Beccy muttered into a big box of cartridges, turning pink.
*
When Sylva arrived, using Haydown’s front carriage sweep for dramatic effect, Tash joined the rest of her family gaping from the drawing room windows and let out a yelp of horror as Sylva’s huge entourage emerged from the three cars. ‘Do you think they’ll all want lunch?’
But nobody was listening, as they watched Sylva Frost stepping from the back of her Porsche Cayenne in all her glory.
Dressed in Ralph Lauren plus-twos and knee-high Stella McCartney boots, with a low cut, wasp-waisted tweed jacket from which a lot of lacy bra was frothing, and a leather shooting waistcoat that was more rough trade than rough shoot, she looked as though she was about to pose for a Playboy spread, draped over a shooting-brake bonnet undoing a button at a time.
Tash was too relieved by the sight of all the super-efficient Slovakian nannies to care that the rest of her family were gaping at Sylva in horror, or that Rodney and his crew were pulling a camera and sound equipment from the boot of a Freelander.
‘Daarlink!’ Sylva enveloped Tash in a reassuringly tight hug of silicone and bone. ‘I have been so looking forward to this! Is everybody here? Am I terribly late?’
‘Dillon’s lot aren’t here yet,’ she reassured her as they walked to the house.
‘How rude,’ Sylva huffed, her much-planned entrance wasted.
A little girl raced between them as they reached the steps up to Haydown’s rather pretentious portico (a legacy dating back to Hugo’s great-grandfather who fantasised himself Andrea Palladio), bounding up to them to pirouette beneath the grand entrance and chattering away in Slovakian.
‘My … niece, Zuzi,’ Sylva laughed, calling out to the girl in Slovak.
‘She’s beautiful!’ Tash exclaimed as Zuzi spun to a halt in third ballet position and held out her hand to shake her hostess’s.
‘Dobrýden!’ she chirruped, tilting her head. With her huge eyes, rosebud lips, heart-shaped face and thick blonde curls she was a miniature of her aunt.
‘She refuses to speak English,’ Sylva complained as Tash crouched down to talk to her, but before she could address her the girl was whipped away by a dark haired woman muttering oaths.
‘Hana, my half sister,’ Sylva explained almost apologetically as the woman carried the little girl away, casting Tash a furious look over her shoulder. ‘She doesn’t speak English either. I send her for lessons, but she says it is a horrible language. Sophia, my darlink!’ She spotted Tash’s sister just inside the house and rushed forwards to greet her like an old friend. Sophia, who had been bitching throughout Christmas that Tash was selling out, looked mortified as Sylva air-kissed her extravagantly. ‘So lovely to see you again. And this gorgeous man must be a new husband?’
‘This is Daddy,’ Sophia quacked.
James looked thrilled.
Within twenty minutes, Sylva had them all charmed, demonstrating that the unique appeal which kept her at the top of the tabloid popularity stakes despite her gaudiness was her ability to disarm and appeal to all sexes and ages. When she pulled out the big guns and put on the Sylva show, she was irresistible.
The shotguns, meanwhile, lay idle on the rack in the back of Alf Vanner’s pick-up as they waited for Dillon Rafferty.
Tash started to fret that her shooting lunch, already scheduled for three o’clock, wouldn’t happen until nightfall. The Bitches of Eastwick, having seen the guns come out, had for once snapped out of their usual stupor and were going beserk with excitement, barking loudly and wagging tails so vigorously that decorations were volleying from the tree with pings and smashes.
She dashed upstairs to check on Amery, who was having his mid-morning nap.
‘Vasilly’s put the dogs in the back of the car to keep them quiet,’ Ben told her when she came back down.
Tash froze. ‘Which car?’
‘The big red bugger, I think.’
‘My game pies!’ she wailed, sprinting outside.
Dillon was running over an hour late. The argument with Nell that had started on the phone first thing that morning was still blazing as they belted off the A34 and on through the downs lanes to Maccombe.
Furious that she had been excluded from the family Christmas at West Oddfield with his children, Fawn and her family, Nell had decided that Dillon should devote his Boxing Day exclusively to her. She loathed shooting, big lunches and boorish horsy families like the Beauchamps. She wanted rock ’n’ roll and wild adventure.
But Dillon was adamant that they would go, making her feel as though she came a paltry second to his social calendar. He’d urged her to bring Giselle – ‘There’ll be lots of toddlers and children there’ – but she’d arranged for her mother to look after her, thinking that at least they could stop off somewhere romantic on the way home for supper and sex, little realising that, when he collected her that morning, the back seat would be occupied by Pom and Berry, looking as blank-faced and beautiful as their mother. Wrapped up in their dual-screen DVD player, they had headphones clamped over their little ears, which at least enabled her to give Dillon a piece of her mind without fear of being overheard.
Her only consolation was that he hadn’t brought along his ex-wife and in-laws, who were by now on their way to visit relatives in Scotland.
Even turning into the Beauchamps’ driveway between two spectacular brick and flint gateposts with lions rampant, her jaw kept moving as she complained that he might as well hire a girlfriend by the hour for all that he made her feel special. But Dillon had long since tuned out.
He was surprised by how much he was looking forward to seeing the Beauchamps again and being enveloped in their enviably hearty, straightforward life. He only hoped that Nell would appreciate it too.
What he saw as they finally drove into Maccombe didn’t disappoint. The weather was perfect – a misty frost burning off to reveal blue sky with just a few dark clouds over the downs on the horizon hinting at the snow to come later. A scene reminiscent of a Merchant Ivory production greeted their arrival, with tweedy types and Labradors striding around various off-roaders and trailers in front of that exquisite strawberry pink house that lifted his spirits as surely as the sight of a beautiful woman. He was looking forward to the day ahead.
Tash rushed forwards to greet him, looking far slimmer than he remembered her, and those odd eyes sparkling warmly.
‘What beautiful children! Hello!’ She kissed them all. ‘We have smalls inside, and games galore. And you must be Nell.’ Tash gathered her arm beneath Nell’s to lead them inside. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t manage to find out whether you shoot or not. Do you want a gun today?’
‘Only if Dillon behaves really badly,’ she replied glumly.
As Dillon took his little blonde girls to meet the host of other children that seemed to be milling about like something out of The Sound of Music, Nell grumpily fingered the hard little heart at her throat and wondered whether she should have brought Gigi after all, but decided it would have just stressed her out. Even though she knew that things were bad with Dillon, when he had produced a little Tiffany box she had somehow still hoped that it might be a ring. Instead it was a gold heart pendant; very pretty but quite probably chosen by his PA. She couldn’t hide her disappointment.
She supposed she should be grateful that he hadn’t given her another horse. It made her edgy to know that beautiful and mad Cœur d’Or was here at Haydown, recovering from his injuries and facing an uncertain future.
She was even more disconsolate about the day ahead when she realised that neither darlin
g Rory nor sexy Hugo were in evidence. If it hadn’t been for the off-putting presence of Pom and Berry she would have insisted on joining the children in the house with an army of jolly nannies who were setting up quaintly old-fashioned activities like apple-bobbing, musical bumps and mask-making. Finding herself standing beside a dark-haired woman in a velvet jogging suit that was so unfashionable it had to be catwalk cutting-edge, and taking her to be another of Tash’s high-calibre sisters, she pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Not coming out with us?’
The woman said nothing, glowering at the floor.
Realising now that she must be one of the help, Nell reached in her bag and pulled out a couple of twenties. ‘Make sure the little blonde girls are exhausted,’ she said, pushing the notes into the woman’s hands.
They were pushed right back. ‘Get lost,’ she whispered, her accent so thick that it was a while after she’d turned and walked away that Nell realised what she’d said.
At last, Sylva had her moment. She had waited months for this and had rehearsed it many times over Christmas, drilled by Mama to get it absolutely right first time.
When Tash made the introduction to Dillon Rafferty – discreetly filmed by Sylva’s documentary team, who were lurking behind the Christmas tree – Sylva had Zuzi at her side and Hain under one arm. She smiled at him with such lovely, natural, engaging warmth (practised endlessly in front of the mirror at home) that the air around her practically glowed and it wouldn’t have surprised anyone if small animated birds hadn’t twittered down from above to form a sweetly singing halo about her head.
Dillon had a daughter to either side, both of whom were eyeing Zuzi hopefully.
Close up, he was less charismatic than Sylva had hoped, and far shorter. Despite the trademark stubble and piercings, he had a baby face and shy expression. Newly accustomed to Castigates’s exciting height, breadth and ruggedness, Sylva found Dillon disappointingly diminutive. The smile when it returned fire, however, was quite devastating.
‘I gather we are almost neighbours these days,’ he said.
‘Yes, I have a house in the Lodes – a place to escape with my family.’ She introduced Zuzi who, already briefed by her aunt, obediently led Dillon’s daughters away to play.
Dillon was pulling faces at Hain, who gave him the benefit of his giggly laugh, laying a pink cheek on his mother’s magnificent chest and looking up at the stranger through the longest, lushest lashes available to any toddler – creating an effect far better than Sylva could have hoped to achieve herself. Mama had insisted Kor be kept away because, just as his little brother had inherited his actor father’s flirtatious charm, Sylva’s older son had his footballer father’s belligerent tendency to kick strangers.
The plan worked like a dream: Dillon was at their mercy. By the time one of Sylva’s nannies appeared at her side to unobtrusively whisk Hain away, his eyes were quite lost in her face.
‘Let’s shoot,’ he said in a sexy undertone.
For a moment, as their blue gazes played together, Sylva thought her tactics had been so successful that he was suggesting they both leave inconspicuously by a back door, but then Dillon turned to follow their hostess who was trying politely but firmly to herd them all to the shooting brake, much as she encouraged young horses up a horsebox ramp.
Gathering her shooting party together, Tash hoped that Hugo would get back soon. He’d promised to come and find them after he returned from the meet. It was just a walk-up family shoot, a traditional part of any Beauchamp Christmas, and so there were no beaters or organised drives – more of a big ramble with guns, but with only Alf and Vasilly around to help and so many guests she knew she’d still struggle to control it. At least only experienced shots got to carry guns. She had an unpleasant feeling of trepidation, as though something truly calamitous was about to happen.
She cast a worried look across to the horizon now, knowing the snow wasn’t far away. The Cotswolds had already been dusted with it when they had left, according to Dillon.
‘Oh, I love snow,’ Sylva said excitedly as she clambered into the brake, making sure Dillon got the full benefit of her perfectly shaped rear in the skin-tight plus twos. ‘It reminds me of my home. So romantic.’
‘Ah yes, the reindeer and sleigh-bells of old Amersham,’ Nell muttered, hopping in behind and making sure she was wedged between the little Slovak and Dillon. Just like Tash, she had a very nasty premonition that something bad was about to happen, and she was going to do her damndest to stop it.
Chapter 41
The Haydown family shoot was surprisingly fruitful. They bagged Mallards and snipe by the huge trout ponds; gundogs sent up pheasant and partridge from the copses; and Ben even claimed a brace of woodcock.
The impromptu arrival of Hugo’s mother with a houseguest almost caused carnage when Alicia took a few random pot-shots at a telegraph pole and brought down her own phone lines, but as her houseguest pointed out, ‘you never answer the damned thing anyway’.
His aim improving all the time, Dillon was having a superb afternoon and felt more relaxed than he had in weeks, despite Nell sulking and Sylva Frost’s rather overpowering presence with her camera crew’s lens constantly trained on him. When he politely requested that they stop, they reluctantly acquiesced and Sylva was profoundly apologetic: ‘I forget they are there these days, but of course your private time is very precious.’ To her credit she was a crack shot – far better than any of the other women there – and single-handedly accounted for five brace of pheasant and a couple of crows.
Increasingly petulant at the sight of her lover lapping up the attentions of an orange-tanned bimbo, Nell set about flirting to make him jealous, but mistakenly chose Tash’s affable but dim brother-in-law Ben Meredith, who had absolutely no idea what was going on and, assuming that she really did want his advice on how to handle that ‘terribly big gun’, started to bore her rigid on good shooting practice.
By the time Hugo joined them, still in his breeches and stock, but now teamed with Dubarry boots and a big tweed shooting jacket thrown over his shoulders, the party was marching out of Pinnock’s Copse. He made a beeline for Tash.
‘Who let Mother join in?’ he asked in horror as he spotted Alicia waving a gun around, Beefy panting eagerly in her poacher’s pocket while the Bitches of Eastwick cowered behind her.
‘I can hardly have her removed,’ Tash pointed out.
‘When’s Rory getting back?’ he asked in an undertone as they moved on towards the edge of the old forestry that usually provided great cover and rich pickings for the fattest, laziest pheasants. ‘I could use his help on the yard. Beccy’s on her own.’
‘No idea – sorry.’ Tash had more pressing concerns as she handed him her gun. ‘You take over: I’ve got to take a car back to the house to rescue lunch. The dogs ate two of the game pies, so I need to raid the freezers and improvise like mad.’ She kissed him on the lips to stop his bark of protest.
Moments later, Hugo had spotted a late pheasant lifting from the safety of the copse, and claimed it before any of the others could even lift their guns.
It started to snow properly as Tash drove back across the estate, big flakes whooshing towards her windscreen.
Back at the house, the children were having a riotous time dashing in and out of the tall glazed doors to catch the snowflakes, impatient for enough snow to fall so they could make a snowman.
Tash kicked off her boots at the back door and headed straight across the rear lobby to the old pantry that housed the two big chest freezers, pulling a big bag of local sausages from one, followed by two huge plastic pots of the chicken soup that Henrietta always brought with her when she visited, and which Tash and Hugo always forgot to eat.
Holding them in place with her chin, she teetered precariously into the kitchen and then stopped in the doorway.
A man was standing with his back to her, thick black hair full of snow. His shoulders were as wide as rower’s, his hips as narrow as a jockey’s. Just above his collar,
on the back of his tanned neck, she could see the black edge of a tattoo. She knew instantly who it was.
‘Ohmygod, Lough Strachan! You’re here!’
As he turned to face her, his black eyes smouldering like coal, a slow smile widened across his face, a smile so exultant it seemed to heat the room.
His voice seemed as deep as a blue whale’s call as he dipped his head apologetically. ‘Sorry it took me so long.’
Tash found her smile matching his, genuinely delighted to find him so warm. The Devil on Horseback had ridden in at last, but with sunshine rather than hellfire.
‘Welcome.’ She hastily dropped her frozen spoils on the kitchen table and went to shake his hand. Hers were icy from clutching sausages straight from the freezer, his as warm as toast. As he pulled her towards him to land a kiss on her cheek, Tash was caught by surprise and tilted her face the wrong way, so he ended up practically sucking her nose. He smelled deliciously of aftershave and mints. Turning pink, Tash backed away, her nose damp and her face glowing.
‘You’ve caught us on the hop – there’s a shoot here, and it was the big meet this morning, so we’re all over the place – oh!’ She suddenly remembered that Lough’s horses had gone in place of Haydown ones. ‘Actually, I should mention something straight away …’
As she tried to explain the last-minute switch she got the impression that he wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused on her face, but they had a faraway look. She guessed he must be feeling quite jetlagged. ‘Boxing Day meets are really just a procession,’ she told him, ‘so the horses did no more than stand about, trot out of Marlbury and have a quick canter across a couple of fields.’
Lough’s dark gaze was fixed on hers.
‘You’re even more beautiful than I remember,’ he said suddenly.