by Fiona Walker
‘Why wasn’t I told?’ she asked now. ‘We need to break these things to them gently, not spring it. They’re just little kids and they still dream that Mom and Dad are gonna get back together. This could seriously damage them. I mean, do they even know her?’
‘No,’ he admitted hoarsely, ‘and neither do I.’ He promised to sort it out, but had no idea how.
Sylva called legendary PR guru Clive Maxwell, who she only hired in for big gigs, like her break-ups with Strawberry and Jonte, her rumoured affair with a married racing driver and Jules’s recent lesbian kiss and tell.
‘It’s all cool,’ she told Dillon after she had spoken with Clive at length. ‘He says let the papers have their fun, keep a very dignified distance with no interviews or photo calls, issue a simple statement that there’s no truth to the current marriage rumours and leave it at that.’
‘That’s all?’
She nodded. ‘He also wanted to know whether there is a relationship here.’
He flashed a big white smile, but nervously, like a weapon. ‘And is there?’
‘I reckon so.’ Checking nobody could see, she reached between his legs and cupped his groin, her thumb stroking his cock through his jeans, feeling his balls tighten above her fingers.
Both their assets were rising, she realised happily. The publicity was going to be superb. She was IFOP for the foreseeable future.
‘What did Nell say?’ she asked.
‘That I can go hang. It’s over.’
Sylva had the tact to look contrite as Dillon headed upstairs to see his girls, knowing that he had just swapped a relationship that looked so good on paper for one that looked good in the papers, but both of which weren’t worth the paper they were written on.
Later, Sylva abandoned Mama to a guided tour of the renovations from Indigo and joined Pete on the front steps, where he seemed to be taking up permanent residence.
‘Like my pretty cars?’
She did. Ferraris had always turned her on.
‘I’d offer to take you for a spin, but your fiancé might get jealous – knows his old Dad’s a terrible roué.’ Pete tilted his head and contemplated the giant cedar just beyond his cars, as big as a cooling tower, which he was pondering turning into a totem pole with the faces of Mask’s late, great band members carved into it.
Sylva watched him, loving the vigour in his battered face. ‘You like it standing out here, admiring your parkland?’
‘Prefer Wandsworth Common.’ He sighed, turning his back to lean against the palisade wall and look up at his house’s façade. ‘Pretty gaff, this, I’ll grant you, but I only bought it to be closer to the lad. I prefer Ireland. That’s my spiritual home. Dillon’s mum did it up lovely there. I won’t let Ind touch it with her animal prints and raffia crap.’ He jerked his head towards the Abbey’s doors. ‘Have you seen it in there? It’s like a scene from Zulu.’
Sylva suddenly understood why he preferred standing outside, and why he so rarely stayed here. The Abbey was Indigo’s pet project. It was her fantasy and his nightmare.
‘Tell you the truth,’ – he drained his glass – ‘I only asked you up here today to try to get in your pants, but I reckon you and Dillon are more serious than I realised so I’ll lay off. I always used to nick his girlfriends when he was a kid and it drove him mad. They were underage then, of course, not all grown up and gorgeous like you, Trouble.’
‘Don’t call me that.’ She looked up through her eyelashes at him, deciding that she would very much like him to try to get in her pants. If only she had known that all those weeks of campaigning against his bullying landowner tactics could have been resolved so pleasurably and quickly with one face to face meeting.
‘I was never much cop at school,’ he admitted as they looked up at his beautiful house, ‘but I do know when something spells trouble.’
Following his gaze, Sylva saw that there was an inscription carved into the stonework above the door. It appeared to be in Latin.
‘And what does that spell?’
‘Some crap Indigo thought up,’ he shrugged, and then chuckled. ‘Probably “divorce me and I’ll keep your balls as earrings”.’
Things were definitely on the rocks in the Rafferty marriage, Sylva deduced excitedly.
She looked across at him and, to her fear and surprise, felt her stomach drop and flutter, her heart swell in her chest and her clitoris thrum. She couldn’t remember desiring anybody this much in years, this gloriously preserved rock fossil who had survived against the odds both professionally and medically, who was famously impulsive, forgetful and womanising. She fancied him rotten.
Looking back at her levelly, his wise, craggy face so famous yet exclusively his, the eyes incredibly similar to Dillon’s but more hooded and bloodshot and carnal; the testosterone-loaded smile not nearly so white and straight but ten times more gut-kicking, he ran a surprisingly pink, healthy-looking tongue along those famous teeth.
‘Good job you’re not still blonde,’ he said, rasping voice seeming to stroke all her nerve endings.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Never could resist a blonde.’ He flashed his ladykiller smile again. ‘But I’ve had to give them up now, like the booze. The wife doesn’t trust me around either.’
Looking into his eyes, Sylva found herself wishing with all her heart that she was still blonde.
He returned her gaze and let out a long, regretful sigh. ‘Fuck.’
The electric charge between them could have powered every light in the house.
‘Fuck,’ she agreed, walking away before she did something she might regret, her heels echoing through the hallways as she fled in search of Mama and rescue.
*
Indigo pounced on Sylva from behind a life-size carving of a water buffalo on the landing. It took Sylva all her powers not to scream.
‘What have you done with Mama?’ she asked nervously.
‘She’s trying out Pete’s massage chair.’ Indigo slid her arm through Sylva’s. ‘I have someone very special for you to meet.’
The expensively suited oriental man that Sylva had previously seen with Indigo was sitting at one end of the huge nursery, occupying a vast throne that appeared to be made out of animal bones. At the opposite end of the room the children were playing with Hana and the nanny army.
‘Dong is my resident child psychologist,’ Indigo told Sylva, introducing her to the diminutive Chinese-American.
Not taking his eyes from the children, Dong held up a hand to Sylva with almost papal grace and for a moment she wondered whether she was supposed to kiss it.
‘A child psychologist?’ She shook the limp hand suspiciously. She had a great many nannies and assistants, a personal stylist, trainer and driver, but this was a new one on her.
‘Dong is responsible for the mental nutrition of all my children,’ Indigo said coolly.
Sylva looked from Dong to the children. Indigo’s huge brood were shrieking with delight along with Pom, Berry and her own kids as they splatted organically sourced food dye paint hand-prints on a huge canvas laid out across the floor. ‘I take it you don’t like getting your hands dirty?’
‘My role is to observe, not interact,’ he told her in a measured Californian drawl.
‘And what do you observe right now?’ Sylva asked as Kor and Hain spotted their mother and charged up to her and wrapped their arms around her legs.
Dong looked up, hooded eyes taking a long time to profile her face and body.
‘That you are perfect.’ He turned to Indigo and they exchanged warm smiles. ‘Quite, quite perfect.’
The Rockfather was having quite a sociable time on his front steps. No sooner had Sylva departed than his son joined him, limping backwards and forwards as he smoked a rare cigarette.
‘What do I do, Dad? Nell’s in bits. I like Sylva, but this is way too fast-track.’
‘Chill out, kid. She’s a great-looking bird. Your kids get on. So what’s the problem? Go with the flow. The story w
ill blow over.’
Dillon flicked away the barely puffed Marlboro that he’d bummed off one of Sylva’s bodyguards. ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’
‘So do I, but it’s probably just the gout.’ Pete sighed, kicking out his stiff leg to get the bloodflow going again and then patting his son on the back. ‘If you really want her off your hands, there could be a vacancy coming up here quite soon.’
‘Don’t even go there.’ Dillon looked murderous.
‘Joke,’ Pete laughed, holding up his hands. Having tested the water and found it boiling he was happy to let it cool a bit. He put his arm around his boy, admiring his Ferraris again for comfort. ‘Now tell me what you’ve heard from Kat lately. You know she just texts me once a month, saying “still alive”. I thought she was referring to herself until she started adding a question mark. Bloody cheek!’
In a hotel suite in Amsterdam, Nell blew her nose, composed herself and phoned Milo at his office. ‘It’s over with Dillon.’
His monotone response was as businesslike as ever. ‘Good. I’ll buy you and Gigi lunch at Envy.’
‘I’d rather you bought me a flat in London,’ she said petulantly.
‘You need to learn to stand on your feet, my darling girl.’
Nell was livid. ‘That’s not what you said when my legs were around your neck.’
Not long ago, when she found out that she was pregnant with Giselle and seriously contemplating marrying Magnus, the father, Milo had offered her a serviced apartment opposite Green Park. But the recession had hit since then, and he played his assets more cautiously these days.
‘Meet me half way.’
‘I will. You just watch me: I can go Dutch!’ She hung up and immediately set about finding the number of a good publicity agent. She knew that Sylva used Clive Maxwell, so she chose his arch rival Piers Fox. A vague friend of the family – he’d even asked her on a date years ago – he was more than delighted to receive her call.
‘Of course I can help,’ he assured her in his cougar-smooth growl. ‘Let’s meet for a quiet dinner to talk about it.’
‘I’m in Amsterdam.’
‘I’ll phone my pilot. I can be at your hotel by eight.’
‘I have my little girl with me.’
‘Book a listening service.’
Nell was impressed, and remembered that Piers had an incredibly attractive aura, even if he was six inches shorter than her and extremely ginger. It was, at least, an encouraging start. She had no intention of standing on her own two feet when lying back and letting a man take the strain on his elbows was so much easier.
On cue, Milo texted her. When I said meet me half way, I meant an apartment in Paris.
Nell smiled and looked at Giselle napping on her hotel bed, a tiny perfect doll on a huge raft of white linen. She had both their futures to think about. Milo would never leave his wife. Piers Fox, as far as she was aware, was between marriages.
I’ll think about it. Je t’aime, she texted back, settling back beside her daughter on the bed. Even though Giselle was sleeping, she decided to tell her a story.
‘Once upon a time there was a fox and a crow,’ Nell whispered. ‘The crow found a fantastically tasty piece of cheese and flew into a tree to keep it safe from the greedy fox. But that fox was very cunning …’
Chapter 51
March’s blustery weather brought out flocks of cumulus that raced across the sky so that the bright sunlight was switched on and off in perpetual camera flashes, lighting up the Berkshire Downs, urging the sleeping landscape to pose and preen after its long winter hibernation, and to bring its jewellery out to adorn throats and wrists. The snowdrops and crocuses that lined the village rides were soon joined by daffodils and tulips; wild primroses clumped in the wilder verges at the base of the downs; the woods burst with rising sap and waking wildlife bent on flirtation.
All the Haydown team were working flat out as the eventing season kicked off. Tash and Lough had started taking horses out two or three times a week to dressage and show-jumping competitions along with the early trials. They also loaded the lorry at least once a week to head for the all-weather gallops for really fast work and more concentrated interval training for the more advanced horses. Lovebirds Lemon and Beccy stayed behind and worked with the horses at home, supervised by the ever-trusty Jenny, who had returned from the States a week ahead of the others to help where she was most needed.
‘I’ll miss her,’ Tash confessed to Lough as they set out for a competition in Hampshire. ‘She’s getting married in June. I should start advertising her position soon, but Hugo’s old head groom Franny emailed this week saying she wants to come back. I need to talk to him about it when he gets home.’
Lough wasn’t listening. He was watching the way her mouth moved. It was just beautiful, those small teeth and the exquisite curve of her upper lip with its distinctive bow and sharp incline to her nose.
She crashed through the gears trying to find second as they slowed for the Fosbourne Ducis turn. ‘Hugo hates me doing that. He won’t let me drive the HGV unless it’s an emergency. I’ve got my operator’s licence, but I’m frankly crap.’
She was so excited about Hugo’s imminent return that she unwittingly mentioned him in every other sentence. Lough felt every reference like a knife in his chest.
Sitting between them, Beetroot gave Lough a long-suffering look. Not long afterwards, she and Lough fell off the seat when Tash swung the lorry too sharply into the competition venue’s gateway. In the back, there was a lurching and stamping of hooves and a few furious whinnies.
Tash’s appalling nerves were holding her completely to ransom now that she was out competing again. By the time she had parked up, been to the secretary’s box and walked the course, she was too frozen with fear to think straight.
‘Just imagine you’re at home, doing it for fun – no pressure,’ Lough calmed her. ‘Don’t get distracted.’
Tash tried to draw on her reserves and focus on his voice as she did at Haydown, but there were too many familiar faces wanting to catch up with her, questions about how Hugo was faring in the States, people crowding around angling for an introduction to Lough.
The Moncrieffs were out in force, fielding a horsebox full of contenders including Faith on Rory’s old elite horse, White Lies. Unlike Tash, she was so focused on the task ahead that she was ignoring everybody around her, determined to post a good score by Rory’s return. The only time she became distracted, for just a moment, was when she overheard Penny asking Tash when Hugo and Rory were flying home.
‘Two days,’ she spouted happily. ‘I’ve spent the last week eating nothing but cabbage soup – Sylva Frost always swears by it.’ Since Tash had started riding so many horses each day, the baby weight was dropping off and she couldn’t wait for Hugo to see the changes.
‘Ah, young love.’ Penny sighed. ‘If Gus goes overseas I change the locks and get out the Ben & Jerrys.’
Lough rode up hurriedly, having just come out of the dressage arena. ‘Tash! They’re calling your number. You have two minutes or you’ll be disqualified.’
‘Oh God.’ The nerves seized her, along with blind panic because she must have misread the start times and the horse wasn’t worked in properly.
She rode so defensively that both her horses failed to get close to the placings, although she was just grateful that she hadn’t fallen off.
‘You’ll do better next time,’ Lough told her as she drove them home. He was in a black mood despite winning prize money on his rides.
‘I’m sorry I let you down.’ She chewed her lip guiltily, knowing that he’d sacrificed a great deal of time to work with her and her horses in recent weeks, and so far all her competition results had been dismal. Hugo was bound to be disappointed.
When they returned to Haydown at dusk with aching muscles, Beccy and Lemon helped them unload in a high state of animation.
‘Nell Cottrell’s done a kiss and tell on Dillon Rafferty in the papers!’ Beccy
waved the Mail on Sunday in front of Tash as she was unloading batty Lauren Bacall, making the horse pull back and almost wrench her arm from its socket. ‘She says that Sylva Frost will basically shag anything that moves, including … wait for it … Rory! His photo’s in here. And you and Hugo get a mention.’
‘Oh Christ, he’ll go mad.’ Tash took the paper, but their names were merely listed as part of the eventing elite with whom Dillon and Sylva now socialised, and had contributed to their love affair.
She tried to visualise this inner circle, but if she and Sylva were to be depicted in a Venn diagram these days, they’d occupy two separate circles. Sylva had quite lost interest in her since New Year, despite a few tentative phone messages from Tash, including a request for her cabbage soup recipe. She felt quite hurt, but consoled herself with the notion that Sylva was the sort of friend who called ten times a day when she was bored and never at all if she was busy, as she clearly was now.
Once the horses were settled, Beccy and Lemon mucked out the lorry while she and Lough cleaned their competition bridles in the huge tack room, the wood-burner glowing away in the corner.
‘Lem and Beccy make an odd couple don’t you think?’ she asked idly.
‘Not for me to say.’
‘But they’re lovers now, don’t you think?’
‘No fucking idea,’ he said brusquely, uncomfortable with the topic.
‘I always assumed he was gay.’
She looked at him questioningly, but Lough didn’t reply, making Tash jumpy given all the bad things she already knew about Lemon. If Lough wouldn’t be drawn on the subject, it didn’t bode well. She was worried about Beccy.
‘Surely you two talk sometimes?’
‘Only about the horses. Don’t you talk to your sister?’
‘Not a lot,’ she admitted. ‘She’s a complicated character.’ She dropped her voice in case Beccy came in and realised she was being talked about. ‘She’s had a tough time in the past few years.’