by Fiona Walker
Sylva suddenly realised what he was saying.
‘She’s left?’
‘A couple of days ago. Run off with her shrink – in every sense of the word. The man’s a midget. Dong. Have you met him?’
They’d arrived in a basement kitchen as big as a squash court, which had been decorated to resemble a rainforest, with floor-to-ceiling ipé cabinets and an extraordinary chandelier of green glass mouldings like a tree canopy suspended over a central island that had a waterfall running through it and eight little breakfast-bar settings still laid around it.
‘Took the kids.’ Pete sighed deeply. ‘Says I’m no father to them, which is probably right, but she kept getting more of the little bleeders. How was I supposed to remember all their names?’ He opened a fridge as big as a garage. ‘Krug or Cristal?’
‘Whatever you prefer.’
‘I’m teetotal,’ he said ruefully, popping the cork on a vintage Cristal rosé. ‘I still miss boozing. It just doesn’t feel the same emptying a bottle of Perrier water over a groupie in a hotel room.’
He handed her a brimming flute and they headed up in to the main house.
It looked immaculate, the minimalist rooms with their wicker and carpet panelling, tribal masks and shields on the walls, earthy Budda Bags, central fires, prayer mats and exotic musical instruments all as strange and staged as Sylva remembered.
‘I thought you said Indigo trashed this place when she left?’
‘Not when she left,’ he said, following her carrying a can of Coke. ‘Before she left, when she lived here. Look at it! It’s like living in a fucking African village.’
‘It’s where she came from,’ she reminded him. ‘It’s how she felt at home.’
‘She came from Bishops Stortford. Her dad’s a postman. She made up all that Somali stuff to further her career.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Sylva was agog.
‘Bloody hell, it’s over!’ He let out a whoop, kicking a sag bag into orbit. ‘She has been a living nightmare these last couple of years, collecting another orphan every time we had a row or I had a quick roll in the hay. At least the first Mrs Rafferty only collected dogs, cats and the odd horse. Indigo was out of control.’
‘It really is over?’ Sylva checked.
‘It really is over,’ he confirmed, settling on a huge floor cushion with a low groan as his hips gave another twinge. ‘She’s been banging on about divorce all year. She just needed an excuse.’ He fixed her with his wicked gaze. ‘I reckon they brought you in to test my mettle.’
‘Me?’
‘Indigo knows our pre-nup pays out double if I get caught with my pants down, so they brought in bait to tempt me – a gorgeous blonde who just happens to be my son’s new bird. Bad old Pete would have had you upside down and pulling your pants off with his teeth within five minutes.’ He chuckled fondly at the memory.
‘So why didn’t you?’ Sylva thought it sounded great fun.
Pete gave her a look that made her bikini hot up against her skin. ‘Believe me, I was tempted. But I’ve mellowed. My son’s a good lad and I want him back in my life.’
Sylva looked away, irritated by the direction of the conversation and his shift from groupie shagger to indulgent father.
‘So Indigo won’t double her money after all.’ Pete heaved himself upright with another groan of effort. ‘And she won’t get her Abbey Ever After either.’ He walked up to a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over his immaculate parkland. ‘But she will get a father for her kids, and now she’s found Ding-Dong, she doesn’t need the Rockfather any more. She even reckons they’re in love, which is quite cute really, ’cos she scares me shitless.’ He cackled, turning back to look around the room again. ‘I reckon I could like it here without the bongos and raffia. Time to get the decorators in.’ He turned to her, wicked smile dancing. ‘I’ll get some of your new bedding, I reckon. Saw an ad in the Sunday papers last week and thought, that looks like something I want spread out on my bed every night.’
Sylva flushed excitedly. She knew the advert he meant, featuring her obviously naked and slithering luxuriously beneath sheets from her Sylva at Home bedding range that claimed to be Egyptian cotton but had a lower thread count than a fishnet stocking.
‘Glad you’re following my career,’ she smirked, checking her phone which had just beeped with a text announcing that her driver was at the back gates.
‘Stay for another glass.’ He took her empty flute.
‘I can’t. I’ve got to get home and sort something out. I have a crisis meeting with Clive Maxwell later.’
‘Me too.’ He laughed uproariously, loving the happenstance. ‘You know what mine’s about. What’s your situation? Don’t tell me Dillon’s been messing you about? He’s far too strait-laced.’
She shook her head, suddenly feeling panicky again. ‘It’s something I did many years ago.’
‘Another teenage lesbian affair?’
He’d read her cuttings, she realised.
‘A love child.’
‘Oh, I know all about those,’ he reassured her, leathery face sympathetic. ‘Got several myself.’
‘It was years ago. In Slovakia. I was very young – still in my teens. I was on the Slovak pentathlon team then, and Zuzi’s father was on the men’s team. It’s a big sport in my country. All I cared about was going to the Olympics. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought my dream was over. I wanted to get rid of the baby but Mama convinced me that would be a sin. We had enough time for me to train again afterwards and win gold for my country, she said.’
He whistled. ‘That’s dedicated.’
She shook her head. ‘My sporting career was over: I had disgraced my team and was not welcome back. I was heartbroken. Mama found me a manager to promote my singing instead. My sister looked after the baby as her own. She is eight years older than me and her marriage was childless; they had been told there was no hope of children. We are a close family. We kept Zuzi a secret – that is my little girl. Hana’s little girl, you have met them both.’
‘And the press have got hold of the story?’
She nodded. ‘Tomorrow’s headlines. I must get home to deal with it. My driver is waiting outside.’
‘Don’t go just yet.’ He reached out his hand and took hers, kissing it. It was a curiously old-fashioned gesture.
‘You’re not wearing your engagement ring.’
‘Too much fake about me already,’ she said carelessly.
Pete’s gaze trapped hers. They both felt it again, that instinctive attraction so strong that it seemed to pull the walls in around them.
‘Nothing fake about this,’ he breathed.
‘Nothing.’ Her bikini felt as though it was on fire now.
‘You’re not really going to marry my son, are you?’ The blue eyes, twice as intense as Dillon’s at close range, seared into her face.
Sylva shook her head.
‘Good.’ He lifted the hand to his lips and kissed each finger. ‘Because I’m going to buy a ring for every one of these pretty little things, with diamonds as big as wing nuts on them.’ He bit her little finger quite hard, making her squeal deliciously.
The plug was pulled on her self-control and great whirlpools of lust eddied through her.
‘I have wanted you since the moment I set eyes on you. You have no idea of the restraint I’ve had to show staying away from here these past few weeks.’ He moved closer, his lips on her neck.
‘Dillon’s been nowhere near me. It’s all for the papers.’
‘That’s not like Dillon. He hates being in the papers.’ He slid the straps of her dress from her shoulders.
‘It’s what I do for a living.’
‘We’ve all got to earn a living.’ He stepped back, letting her dress slip down. ‘And what a piece of living art you are!’ He whistled, admiring the bodywork from all angles. He’d always liked custom-made cars and he was the same with women. This one could have been made to his exact specifications. She ev
en had piercings to match his so they’d jingle when they screwed face to face.
‘Get upstairs now,’ he growled, narrowing his eyes.
‘We can do it here.’ She was already undoing his flies.
There was a time when Pete would have shagged Sylva up against the ornate panelling, only pausing to inhale a line of coke from her collarbone. Now he eyed the floor cushions doubtfully. He didn’t think he could make it down there again easily and he needed to get to his drugs.
‘Upstairs now,’ he ordered. ‘Or you’re in trouble, Trouble.’
Sylva shuddered, thrilling at his arrogance. He was totally rock ’n’ roll.
Following stiffly behind her in every sense of the word, Pete hoped the mighty Fender fretboard would stay true, but by the time his creaking hips and painful knees had made it up the majestic Abbey stairs he was shrunken to a ukulele and out of puff.
‘Not in there!’ He managed to wheeze to redirect Sylva who was heading for the master suite, another mud hut homage. He waved her towards one of the few rooms he had designed himself.
‘Check out my sin bin.’
Meanwhile he dived into the adjacent bathroom to catch his breath and take an ibuprofen and a Viagra, the only drugs he used to enhance his sex life these days.
When he emerged through the interconnecting door Sylva was lying on a very battered old leather sofa, gazing around her at walls covered with photographs and platinum disks. She had expected a bondage chair, leather walls and chains, a few whips and cuffs, not a framed picture of Pete with Nelson Mandela and an old twelve-string propped up against the sofa.
‘Why do you call this the sin bin?’
‘Force of habit. All the Mask boys had a sin bin once we could afford a decent gaff – an inner sanctum, if you like. It’s where I come to think.’
She smiled deliciously, sliding a finger beneath the jewelled clip on one side of her bikini briefs. ‘And what are you thinking about now?’ Her eyes widened as the legendary Fender came back into play, all twenty-two frets ready to be fingered.
‘I’m thinking how much fun it’ll be to get in to Trouble.’
Ping! One clip snapped open. ‘You sent me all those gifts, didn’t you? The flowers and the jewellery and the presents for the children?’
He nodded, dropping his leather trousers and stepping out of them with practised skill, like a snake shedding its skin. ‘Force of habit. If I see something I like I have to buy it. If I see a woman I like, I have to buy her presents. Two pleasures combined.’
Ping! The other side of her bikini G-string popped apart. ‘I guess I should thank you.’
‘I guess you should.’ He stepped forwards and she sat up to sample a rock legend.
When Clive Maxwell arrived at Fox Oddfield Abbey later for the crisis meeting, he showed no surprise at the sight of Sylva lounging seductively on an ethnic sag bag dressed in nothing but a vintage Mask T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. Instead, he got straight down to business:
‘You want to nick your son’s fiancée and come up smelling of roses?’ he asked Pete.
‘In a nutshell.’
‘You want public sympathy for giving away your first born as a teenager,’ he checked with Sylva, ‘and then later dumping the world’s favourite sad ballad singer and organic farmer (who adores your children) in favour of his dad?’
She nodded.
Clive had handled plenty of relationship break-ups on the celebrity scene in his twenty years as a PR guru, but this was a complicated situation, even by his standards.
‘Leave it with me,’ he reassured them. ‘Just don’t say a thing to anybody for now. And don’t get caught together.’
Chapter 75
Rory was determined to be discharged from hospital so that he could get back to his horses. The consultants were reluctant to let him go, but he lied that he had no immediate plans to ride and that his mother was taking him for a relaxation and meditation holiday in the New Forest, and they reluctantly acquiesced. He then begged a lift from Faith, who brought along Twitch for an ecstatic reunion, the little dog lean and fit after a month as chief Lime Tree Farm rat-catcher. ‘MC had him transported to the Beauchamps along with your horses, but the Rat Pack kept chasing him away so Tash sent him to us.’
As they crawled south on the A34 in endless holiday traffic she filled him in with the latest Haydown news: ‘The official line is that Tash has taken the kids for a holiday, but Gus is pretty convinced that she’s left him. Hugo won’t talk about it, apparently.’
‘Ish Beccy really preshing chargesh?’
‘Of course not! She never claimed it was more than a drunken mistake, but it’s been blown out of all proportion by the jungle drums. Who told you about it?’
‘Firsht I heard was a couple of texts from the usual shuspects. Then Lough came to see me the day Tash left and shaid much the same as you. Poor shod; I think he jusht wanted to lie low for a few hours. He doesn’t give a lot away, but he wash pretty dejected.’
Faith hid a smile; Rory was sounding more like Sean Connery as his voice gradually improved. ‘Not half as dejected as Hugo.’
‘What wash he doing with Beccy, of all people?’
‘She’s very pretty,’ Faith defended her friend.
‘Hugo must be mad. If he was going to play around you’d think he’s at leasht do it with shomeone hot like Venetia, not a hippy girl groom who alsho happens to be a member of his extended family.’
‘You’d think he’d be faithful in the first place,’ she snapped, unpleasantly aware that she herself was a mere girl groom and could technically be counted a member of Rory’s extended family by dint of her grandfather’s long-standing affair with his mother.
‘Yesh, yesh!’ he agreed, back-pedalling fast. ‘If I had the woman of my dreamsh, there’s no way I’d do anything like that. I’d be totally faithful for life. Hugo’s an idiot. But he hash my horses right now, so I think it best not to mention my opinion on the matter. He needsh my help.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re the one who needs looking after right now, Rory.’
‘I’m fine,’ he insisted, rather more forcefully than he intended. He was tired of being seen as an invalid, particularly by Faith who had once looked up to him as such a hero. He wanted to get back to form as quickly as possible, to recapture the old Rory who could win the grand slam and the girl. ‘I jusht need to get on with my job away from dishtractions,’ he explained. ‘I musht get to Burghley. That meansh more to me than anything.’
Faith went very quiet after this, dropping him at the Haydown gates and explaining that she couldn’t stay because she was already on borrowed time. ‘Gus will dock my wages – at least he would if he ever paid me. Don’t overdo it. Good luck with Hugo. I’ll call later.’
Knowing that Hugo was desperately short-handed and needed him back even if he was too proud to admit it, Rory hadn’t phoned ahead. The yard was deserted, although the horseboxes were both parked up, meaning no one was away competing. Finding the key to the lodge cottage hidden beneath the usual plant pot, Rory let himself in to drop off his bags. It was obvious that nobody had been in since he and Lough left straight after Badminton; there was dust and mess everywhere.
He headed back to the yard, the sun directly overhead making him feel headachy already – he’d barely stepped outside in a fortnight. His horses were all back at Haydown, transported while he was in hospital, no doubt organised by MC. She’d sent him a very sweet card and flowers after his accident, saying there were no regrets.
He walked around his boys, breathing in their familiar smell and strength, loving the peace and fresh air of yard life after the sterile bustle of hospital.
Heart was missing, he realised, looking into the empty box where the big horse usually stood guard, bobbing his head for attention.
Glancing at his watch, Rory went back to feed Rio the rest of his packet of mints. ‘You have to win Burghley for me and your mistress,’ he whispered. ‘Help me prove I can do this and win the
woman of my dreamsh. Then I’ll be very faithful indeed.’
The sound of a car coming through the arch took him outside again. It was Franny in a faded Team Mogo polo shirt and hot pants, weighed down with Lidl bags. ‘Boy, do we need you!’ she greeted him. ‘I bet Hugo even cracked a smile now you’re back.’
‘Where ish he?’
‘I thought he was here.’ She dropped the bags outside the office and pushed at the door, but it was locked. ‘I just ran into Basborough for supplies – there’s not so much as a teabag in here or the house and Hugo has no food in whatsoever. How long have you been here?’
‘About forty minutes.’
‘That’s odd.’ She pulled out her mobile and tried Hugo’s number, but there was no answer. ‘He was just putting Heart on the walker when I left.’
They both turned to look at the horse walker. It was empty.
‘He not in his stable.’ Rory remembered.
‘Oh shit. I bet he’s bloody taken off again. He’s impossible to keep hold of right now.’
The quad bike was also missing.
‘Hugo must have gone after him.’ Franny rushed back to her car. ‘I’ll start going round the lanes. You get up on the downs.’
‘How?’ Rory had no car, and his head was throbbing hotly now.
But Franny was already starting the engine.
Rory headed for the tractor and found to his relief that the keys were still in it. With a great diesel roar he reversed it away from the muck heap and set off along the beech-wood track towards the Haydown downland above Maccombe village. At the highest point, he cut the engine and climbed up on to its roof. Two red kites were circling overhead, eyeing him curiously as he cupped his hands together and shouted. One of the birds angled its forked tail to swoop closer, calling back with its long, meowing whistle. Nothing else answered.
Scanning the landscape around him for signs of movement, Rory took out his phone to call Franny for an update, but there was no signal.