Kiss and Tell

by Fiona Walker

  ‘Vines well?’ Hugo moved on, blue eyes darting from window to door, his unconscious trying to escape the interrogation he guessed was coming.

  ‘Mildew,’ Pascal lamented, rolling his eyes and reaching for his cognac.

  ‘Alexandra and Polly?’

  Pascal puffed out his cheeks for dramatic emphasis as he reported good-naturedly. ‘My beautiful, demanding femme et fille, so alike nowadays. I am ze hero for one and euros for the ozer, but I love them, oui?’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Hugo lit one cigarette from another, barely listening. ‘And the harvest?’

  ‘You asked me about that already, mon brave.’

  Hugo nodded, not looking at him. There was a pause. Eventually he asked: ‘Are they all right?’

  Pascal immediately understood. ‘They are well. Your children are so beautiful. Xandra is so proud of her grandson.’

  He nodded, his tongue running around one cheek, so much pain in his eyes that Pascal felt scalded by it.

  ‘Tash, she bearing up as you say.’

  ‘Good for Tash.’

  ‘She is more beautiful than ever, non?’

  ‘Isn’t she just?’

  ‘You two are in a mess, ’ugo.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  But however much Pascal tried to get him to open up, it was hopeless. Hugo was, as always, civil and just menacing enough to back him off.

  There was a long pause. Pascal was too much of a good cop to push him, and too much of a scaredy-cat to ask anything challenging about any alleged sexual assault. Instead he decided to try his wife’s trusty tactic.

  ‘I have a little advice for you, mon brave. When my first marriage ended—’

  ‘My marriage hasn’t ended,’ Hugo interrupted.

  ‘Bien sûr.’ Pascal cleared his throat and brushed imaginary fluff from his cashmere sweater. ‘Let me give you another example. I was having a very difficile time with my third wife Lucille, who thought that I was having an affair with my secretary – in fact I was having an affair with my secretary.’ He thought back fondly. ‘Anyway, that is not important. Lucille, she say to me, “Pascal, mon bélier” – that is French for ram, which was her nickname for me because—’

  ‘Pascal, is this going anywhere?’ Hugo snapped.

  Pascal looked hurt.

  ‘Because, with respect, I have a lot of horses to feed out there and time is money.’

  They went out into the summer rain, the grey sky over the downs arced through with a rainbow. As Hugo turned to shake Pascal’s hand farewell, the Frenchman turned in the direction of the rose walks, his dark eyebrows aloft. ‘Do you usually let your horses loose in ze garden?’

  ‘What?’ Hugo swung round just in time to see a distinctive heart shaped star disappeared behind a Cardinal de Richelieu in full bloom. ‘Bloody hell, he’s got out again. Franny!’

  Pascal joined the team that circled the beautiful bright bay gelding and finally caught him by a pretty Rosa Mundi.

  As they led him back, Franny was contrite in front of an apoplectic Hugo: ‘I had the grille up. He must have jumped through the window at the back. I think Fudge left it open.’

  ‘Cretinous girl.’ He eyed the horse’s heavily bandaged legs for signs of damage. ‘She’s even worse than Beccy.’

  ‘Give her longer,’ begged Franny, who had persuaded him to take on her cousin as a working pupil in the first place. ‘It’s only her first week.’

  ‘Le cheval is fine, ’ugo,’ Pascal agreed, admiring the huge horse, his coat grubby from rolling in garden bark chips, so that it was dusted like a young Grolleau Gris in his own vinyards. ‘He is just bored and lonely, non?’

  Having satisfied himself that Heart was unscathed by this adventure, Hugo let Franny lead him away as he turned to thank Pascal with the postponed farewell handshake.

  ‘A lonely fellow needs camaraderie, mon ami. A lady to make him feel loved. Une amoreause. If you have nussink here, you must buy one.’

  Hugo looked at him curiously, obviously concerned that his father-in-law, who had purportedly come as a marriage peacemaker, was suddenly acting like a pimp.

  Pascal suddenly guffawed, realising the misunderstanding. ‘I was talking about ze horse. He needs a companion. My best race horse in France, he is just the same. He has a leetle girlfriend called Poupee.’

  ‘“Doll”?’ Hugo translated.

  ‘Non, we name her Poupee because she poops a lot.’

  As he joined in the laughter, the break in Hugo’s tension was like the sun suddenly beaming through the rain overhead.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t stay?’ He walked Pascal to his hire car.

  He shook his head. ‘Thank you, mais non. I am a terrible house guest. I prefer ’otels where I pay for the privilege of being able to complain as much as I like. À bientôt.’

  Waving him off to drive to Fosbourne Ducis and the Olive Branch, where he would no doubt complain at Angelo a great deal, Hugo turned back to the yard to find Fudge cowering by Heart’s stable, an apology on her lips.

  She tearfully watched Hugo pull a curl of cash from a rear pocket and peel off several fifties, certain that he was about to pay her notice and tell her to pack her bags. But instead he handed her both the cash and the keys to the hunting box. ‘There’s a miniature-Shetland stud just outside Marlbury, on the Basborough road. I want you to go there and buy a small, friendly one.’

  Delighted, Fudge raced off and unwittingly acquired the fattest and meanest pony anybody had ever seen, thirty inches of fluffy white malevolence. All afternoon, speculation at Haydown was rife that Hugo was going to send this pretty, wall-eyed purchase to France as a love token to lure back his wife. Instead, rather to the staff’s disappointment – and trepidation – he was re-christened Soul and given to the yard’s escapologist as a stable companion.

  ‘Heart and Soul,’ Fudge sighed, admiring the grumpy little beast fighting his way to Heart’s haynet. ‘That’s so sweet.’

  ‘No, it’s “Sole” as in Arsehole,’ Franny explained, also watching as the already-besotted bay gelding stretched out to nuzzle his new playmate, who squealed furiously and chased him away. ‘Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen, eh Soul man? I like your style.’

  The following morning, after a full English breakfast which he pretended not to enjoy, Pascal picked his way along the pock-marked drive to Lime Tree Farm, hopping between puddles to protect his suede loafers and linen chinos, a cotton sweater knotted around his neck and Lacroix sunglasses propped hopefully in his gunmetal hair despite the equally grey clouds amassing on the horizon.

  An incredibly attractive man in tight green breeches was mounting a dancing black horse with four white legs on the main yard. With their matching black hair and wild, white-rimmed eyes, Pascal sensed horse and rider wouldn’t hang around for long enough to be quizzed.

  ‘Je m’excuse! I am looking for a man zey call The Lemon.’ Pascal consulted the piece of paper from his pocket. ‘And a girl who calls herself Faith.’

  The man looked down at him distrustfully, horse still dancing, making Pascal step back.

  ‘Are you police?’

  ‘Non, je t’assure! I am Pascal d’Eblouir.’ He squared his shoulders and looked up.

  The man looked singularly unimpressed, but he jerked his head towards a large metal barn. ‘Lem’s in there.’

  As horse and rider trotted away along the pot-holed driveway, Pascal ducked out of the beginning of another rain shower into a big, open-faced barn full of straw and shavings bales. Somebody was humming Abba’s ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ to themselves just out of sight.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Are you The Lemon?’

  ‘Depends who’s asking.’ Lemon peered suspiciously over a bale, Kiwi cockatoo to French rooster.

  It took just a handful of twenty pound notes to convince him to sit alongside Pascal on a straw bale and tell his new Gallic friend anything he wanted to know.

  ‘Hugo thinks Lough’s been trying to scupper his career,’ he t
old him, ‘but Lough’s gone soft since coming here: he’s lost the balls to do stuff like that. He’s just in love with Tash, which is his bad luck …’

  Pascal puffed out his cheeks, eyebrows shooting up as he asked about the New Year’s Eve party.

  ‘Yeah, Beccy told me what happened the next day. Hugo’s a red-blooded guy and he got a come-on there, no mistake, but he pushed his luck too far. It was one degree from brute force, yeah? She was terrified. If someone hadn’t come along, I reckon he’d have taken her whether she wanted it or not. Tash has no idea what a bastard he is.’

  When Lough rode back into the yard, Pascal was long gone.

  ‘What did Inspector Clouseau want?’ he demanded as Lemon appeared to take the horse.

  ‘Nothing much,’ the little groom shrugged. ‘Talk about Beccy.’

  ‘Beccy?’ Lough kicked his feet from the stirrups, his horse backing up and both their eyes flashing.

  ‘Just the New Year thing – Hugo forcing his dick into her mouth.’

  ‘What did he want to know about that for?’

  ‘Inspector Clouseau is Tash’s stepfather.’

  Lough hurriedly put his feet back in the pedals. ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘I think he said something about staying with Ange and Den,’ Lemon said vaguely as Lough turned the horse and clattered back along the drive.

  At the Olive Branch, Angelo sensed a story. ‘Signor d’Eblouir checked out half an hour ago.’

  ‘Did he leave a number?’ demanded Lough.

  Angelo quickly found it for him. ‘He is going to somewhere near Windsor today, he said.’

  But Lough had already started to ride away. He punched the number on his mobile as he trotted back along the lane.

  ‘Where is she?’ he demanded as soon as his call was picked up, hooves ringing out beneath his words.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Lough Strachan. I must get in contact with Tash.’

  ‘Tash is not available.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Back at Lime Tree Farm, Lough washed off his horse before marching in to the house to find a vaguely familiar and very statuesque blonde making coffee in the kitchen.

  ‘Hi Lough.’ She beamed at him with such warmth he paused for a beat. She held up the coffee pot. ‘It’s best Arabica, bought from Borough Market this morning.’

  He nodded, and she poured him a cup.

  ‘India,’ she reminded him of her name as she handed it over. ‘Penny’s niece. I groomed for Tash and Hugo in Germany.’

  He nodded again, noticing that her face was incredibly pretty, her eyes as wide and blue as Matauri Bay.

  ‘Have you seen my aunt at all?’

  ‘Hartpury,’ he muttered, referring to the venue where Gus and Penny were competing that week.

  ‘I’ve been ringing her mobile all day,’ she groaned. ‘I must talk to her.’

  He took a swig of coffee, as deliciously bitter as his heart. ‘They’ll be back tonight.’

  India sat on the kitchen table, hugging herself. ‘I’m flying out of Heathrow at six. I can’t wait.’ She pulled out her mobile and tried Penny’s number and then Gus’s.

  ‘They’re competing six horses back to back. They won’t return any calls until they’re home.’

  She clicked her tongue on the top of her mouth and looked at him with her big, sea-blue eyes. ‘If I write Pen a note, will you promise to give it to her as soon as she gets home?’

  He nodded.

  She disappeared into Gus and Penny’s bombsite of an office while he helped himself to more coffee and some stale biscuits from the tin, his first food in twenty-four hours.

  It was almost twenty minutes before India reappeared, reluctantly handing him an envelope. ‘Tell Penny I’ll call her about this from Mum’s – as soon as I reach LA. And I’ll visit her as soon as I’m back.’ She glanced around the room, smiling to herself. ‘I miss this place. I might just force them to let me work here again.’

  ‘You do that.’

  As conversations went, India had got more out of Lough than most, although she would never guess it. He even waved her off – or at least stood outside, shouldering the doorframe and finishing off the coffee and biscuits while she reversed her car and then drove away in the pouring rain.

  By the time he had ridden two more horses, he’d completely forgotten about the note in his pocket.

  That evening, Lough met Rory in the Olive Branch. In recent weeks, the two men had struck up a friendship that showed all the signs of sinking roots deep beneath them. Rory, like the Moncrieffs, saw no reason not to be friends with both Lough and Hugo. And he was a remarkably good friend: discreet when it mattered, salacious and very funny when it didn’t, always upbeat and entertaining. Tonight Lough needed entertaining, his mood sullied by his encounter with Tash’s stepfather. He just wanted to know that she was okay.

  Rory was late as usual, hair wet from the shower and Twitch at his heels.

  ‘God what a day!’ he grumbled good-naturedly as they settled at the bar. ‘We took a lorry full to Hartpury. Hugo had fielded this imposhible number of entries, thinking Tash would be riding too, and instead of withdrawing any he inshisted we could cover it and had written out this military timetable to stick to, but it was madness. We were like trick riders hopping on and off with Franny shouting at us. Boy she’s scary.’ His voice, improving all the time, was now far easier to understand.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Lough had found himself on the wrong side of the Haydown head groom’s tongue more than once. She was like a bull terrier, lying in wait for him out hacking.

  ‘She thinks I’m incredibly dishloyal, meeting you for a drink. If she had her way we’d erect a barbed wire barricade on all the bridle paths between here and Maccombe to stop you getting close.’

  ‘What does she think I’m going to do? Challenge Hugo to a duel?’

  ‘Might clear the air. Faith back yet?’

  Lough shook his head and Rory swilled the mineral water in his glass, wishing it had some scotch in it. The Moncrieffs were being incredibly vague about where Faith had gone, muttering about a family holiday, but Rory, who had spoken to an equally vague Anke just that week suspected it was no such thing. He just hoped to God she wasn’t having more plastic surgery. The thought made him sick with worry. He drained his water and ordered another.

  Landlady Denise took this as a cue to join her new favourite barflies to discuss the hottest local gossip.

  ‘Seen who your best owner’s canoodling with in all the papers today?’ she asked Rory. ‘Talk about two “souls lost in one moment” …’ she sang a line from the previous year’s number-one hit, her voice a surprisingly sweet and tuneful alto.

  ‘I’ve not seen a paper all day,’ Rory admitted with a yawn. ‘Anyway, as she’s always reminding me, Faith’s my best owner, not Dillon Rafferty.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying.’ Denise slid a copy of the Daily News across to them. ‘Take a look at this, boys.’

  The red tops had all gone wild that morning with photographic proof that Dillon Rafferty had been cheating on poor Sylva Frost – super-mum, super-WAG, super-woman. Bleary photos of Dillon kissing a mysterious, slim blonde in a sun-soaked Caribbean swimming pool had been syndicated everywhere. Nobody knew who she was, the rags claimed, but there was no mistaking the red-hot passion between her and the rock star in the blue water.

  ‘Bloody hell – it is her!’ Rory’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Naughty old Dillon.’ Lough whistled, tilting his head this way and that to try to make sense of the picture.

  ‘Taken from a hot-air balloon,’ Den explained. ‘These are her legs around him here, you see, and they’re both looking up so you can clearly see their faces, even though the features are a bit fuzzy. Looks much sexier without a beard, don’t you think?’

  ‘Faith or Dillon?’ Lough lost interest as his mobile beeped a text alert.

  Rory was too poleaxed to notice the way Lough’s face lit up as he read it
. Taking his drink, the New Zealander headed outside to write a reply.

  ‘You all right, Rory love?’ Denise asked worriedly. The young man’s face had drained totally of colour.

  ‘Think I need something stronger in this,’ he mumbled, sliding his glass forward.

  ‘You sure?’ Denise turned to hold it up to the whisky optic, eager to confirm it was the Moncrieffs’ groom and find out the girl’s surname so she could call the Sun news desk and claim the reward on offer. ‘So you’re certain that’s Faith with Dillon Rafferty?’

  ‘Sure.’ He stared down at the photo, swallowing hard.

  ‘Only I thought she was – well – a little less attractive, shall we say?’

  ‘Faith is fucking beautiful!’ Rory howled, making the landlady step back.

  ‘What’s her second name again?’ she asked casually.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Rory repeated, draining his first scotch since Boxing Day the previous year. It tasted like nectar on fire.

  Half an hour later, Lough returned to find the bar unmanned and Rory with his head in his hands and the best malt bottle from the shelves on the table beside him.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he kept repeating. ‘Shesh beautiful and I’ve losht her for ever.’

  ‘Is this the slurring thing because of the accident or are you pissed?’

  ‘Both, I guess.’

  Half-supporting, half-dragging him to a quiet window seat, Lough placed himself squarely between Rory and the bar.

  After almost three teetotal months, Rory was an instant drunk these days.

  ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,’ he sighed quietly, pressing his face to his palms.

  ‘Definitely a fuck-up,’ Lough conceded. ‘Blew your chance there.’

  Rory felt anger flare. ‘What the hell do you know? You’re in love with Tash Beauchamp, and that’s the mother and father of all lost causes.’

  ‘Say again?’ The voice had a chill factor that could frostbite any accusing finger.

  But Rory was too hurt to care. ‘It just ain’t gonna happen, Lough.’

  ‘You really think not?’ The chill hit bone-deep.

  Rory raised his eyes to Lough’s face and two war masks squared up over the quiet pub table. The Brit didn’t really fancy a fight: Lough was seriously ripped. The muscles on his arms were a landscape of hilly sinew and power, the left one covered with those distinctive tribal tattoos. But tonight he was too beaten up by jealousy to care if he took a few extra punches. It needed saying. ‘I think not.’