by Fiona Walker
She shrugged. ‘Up to Niall. Matty, I should imagine.’
‘Ushers?’
‘Well, Rufus is paying me a tenner to make him one but I should put Gus down really – Rufe can assist. And Niall will come up with another – his friend Donal probably.’
‘Will they all need to hire morning suits?’
‘God knows.’ Tash gazed at a hunting print and wished more than anything that Niall was with her. She felt no excitement as it was – just a nervous, almost deadened, sense of pressure.
Henrietta, although the soul of politeness, felt exactly the same. As Tash drifted further and further into a state of near-catatonia, she tried to plug a couple of her real reasons for hurtling along the M4 that day. Beccy badly needed a few tips about making eventing a career. Could Tash help? Perhaps Beccy could come to Lime Tree Farm during her Easter vacs and help out for a meagre wage and a bit of experience?
‘Um – not sure, really.’ Tash thought about the bills she had seen on the kitchen table the morning before, and knew that Gus and Penny, far from wanting to fork out a meagre wage for a teenage hopeful, would be realistically thinking about dumping one of their working pupils instead. That meant either her or Kirsty.
‘I’m sorry.’ She grimaced. ‘I’ll ask, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Perhaps Hugo might help?’
‘Oh, would you ask him?’ Henrietta looked eager at the prospect, secretly thinking him far more professional and successful than Gus and Penny Moncrieff.
‘Well, I honestly think it would be far better coming from Ben and Sophia,’ Tash confessed, unwilling to let too much of Hugo’s and her distaste for one another slip. ‘They’re much closer to him.’
‘I see.’ Henrietta looked slightly boot-faced at Tash’s reluctance.
Feeling mean, she insisted both that she pay for the meal, and that Henrietta have a dessert.
They tackled the puddings in silence – Tash slipping from her ‘30 Cals Per Hour’ speed limit by diving into a gutsy old-fashioned bread-and-butter mountain; Henrietta was far more abstemious with a light lemon soufflé.
Finally, she broached the other favour.
‘Do you think that Niall would be able to get Emily a couple of days’ work experience on a film set?’ she asked, slightly shame-faced at her cheek. ‘I know it’s a bit much, but she’s terribly keen and wouldn’t get in the way. She’s set her heart on working in films or telly after graduating, you see.’
Again, Tash was worried about asking. With the current tension between herself and Niall, she wasn’t brave enough to petition a favour that encroached upon his career. He was always very distant when she tried to talk about the film world, as though she was Guinevere asking Merlin to show her a simple magic trick.
‘I’ll ask him,’ she promised lamely.
‘What’s he got lined up? Anything exciting? Is he going back to America soon?’ Henrietta was eager for gossip. She found the film industry wildly exciting and elusively sexy.
‘He’ll finish this over-budget Scottish epic thing, Celt, then fly off to promote Tough Justice in the States,’ Tash recited flatly, having told umpteen people of Niall’s future movements of late. ‘Then he’s back working for the Beeb in Yorkshire with The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, doing Mill On the Floss for Radio Four, promoting Tough Justice in the UK, then off to the States again promoting Celt – and poling up to the Oscars, I should imagine. And then he’s shooting an English film called Four Poster Bed.’
‘Oh, that sounds great fun!’ Henrietta was almost beside herself with the glitz of it all.
‘His ex-wife is producing the bed romp,’ Tash said, feeling a bit mean at her bluntness. But sometimes she got so wound up relating Niall’s work schedule to eager ears who listened as avidly as though it was The Archers. She often felt she spoke about Niall – how he was, what he was doing, what gossip he had told her and what he had lined up – far more than she ever spoke directly to him. Sometimes she felt just like his press secretary.
Henrietta had completely missed the bitterness in Tash’s last comment.
‘So will you be going to the Oscars with him, or will she?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Who?’ Tash wrinkled her brow.
‘His ex-wife?’
Tash tried hard to smile, but found that it wavered on her lips and faltered into a worried wobble as though she’d had an injection at the dentist’s which hadn’t quite worn off.
‘That,’ she said slowly, ‘is like asking whether you will be sitting next to Daddy at the wedding or whether you think Mummy should.’
Henrietta barely said a word over coffee and, forgetting even to broach the subject of catering for the reception, made up a lame excuse about a hair appointment to race home immediately afterwards. Hastily promising that they’d talk again at Henry’s christening in a fortnight, she left Tash with the bill and a half-eaten dessert.
During the fortnight that separated her lunch with her step-mother from the far grander impending christening in Worcestershire, Tash cast off another four pounds – most of which was still the result of her craftily removing another layer before each Flab-busters session. She also continued to work laboriously on the horses, fighting a continual power struggle with Snob who had lost all respect for her since the autumn, and trying again and again to prove that the belligerent but supremely talented Mickey Rourke was worthy of keeping and bringing on. Gus was currently selling several horses to ease his debts, which worried her. Mickey was undoubtedly top of his list of four-legged burdens that he wanted to turn into five-figure sums. Ted had already descended into a serious and understandable fit of resentful surliness that week because Gus had sold Fruit Chew to America – a horse Ted had spent the previous year upgrading and bringing on in the hope that he would have a chance to event himself in the spring season. But Gus hadn’t wanted to sell him either; he simply had no choice when offered tens of thousands.
‘Right now I’d sell Wally for a few weeks’ diesel money,’ he sighed.
As Wally, the faithful heel-hugger, had developed raging mange which the vet put down to stress, Tash was convinced that he had understood every word.
It was screamingly obvious that cash was very tight at the farm. India and Rufus were both bursting out of their school uniforms, and whingeing non-stop that they were missing out on skiing trips and art excursions because Zoe refused to fork out as she sank all her money into covering her sister’s outstanding debts for feed and vet’s bills. Tash noticed that Zoe herself was still wearing the much-patched jumpers that she had worn all the time she had known her – most of which had belonged to Gus in their prime. Gus and Penny now shopped at jumble sales and relied on hand-me-down competition clothes offered by other eventers – frequently Hugo.
Even though it was still below freezing at night, the farm’s central heating had been switched off for the ‘summer’ and the only heat came from the unpredictable, coke-guzzling range and the fire in the sitting room. The bedrooms were like refrigerated trailers. With no money for a supermarket stock-up, Zoe had served sausage and bean casserole three nights on the trot, simply varying the flavour by adding chilli one night, curry the next and – a legendary meal even by her standards – aniseed essence on the third.
Two days before Henry’s christening, Gus came raging into the kitchen clutching a letter that he’d finally got around to reading, several days after it had arrived.
‘Those bastards at Drover Clothing have pulled out of the sponsorship deal!’ he howled. ‘I can’t believe it – it was worth thirty grand a year. They say the corporate image wasn’t right. They’re planning to sponsor some Welsh golfer this year.’
‘Christ, I’m sorry.’ Zoe, who had been gossiping with Tash about Ted stealing Rufus’s girlfriends, turned to him in horror. ‘Do they own any of the horses?’
‘Thankfully, no.’ Gus threw the letter on the table and stalked over to the damp larder to forage for biscuits which, knowing Gus, would constitute his lunch. ‘But they subsidised
a hell of a lot of food and their bloody coats kept Pen and me dry last year. Shit!’ He took his anger out on a packet of Maryland cookies which split open and landed at a delighted Wally’s feet.
‘What are you going to do?’ Tash looked up from Horse and Hound, which she had been slyly checking through to see if Mickey was advertised, which he wasn’t. Four other of the yard’s hopefuls were, however, including Groupie.
‘Lord knows,’ he sighed. ‘I’m still waiting to hear from a couple of firms, but it’s getting pretty late to expect anyone to come forward with a big wad of cash to get us through this season. I just don’t know how in hell we’re going to cope.’
‘We’ll have to win a lot – that’s all.’ She smiled with far more confidence than she felt.
‘Don’t be fucking facetious!’ Gus snapped. ‘How can we win anything when we can’t afford the diesel money to get us to the competitions in the first place?’ He stalked out of the room, crunching biscuits underfoot.
Tash winced. Although she and Gus got on well at a superficial level, she was always the first in the line of fire when he was uptight, confirming a niggling little fear she kept to herself that he was not really very keen on her. It also came out when he was pissed; he would pick on her and mob her up ceaselessly, delighting in her discomfort and fear of confrontation. She sometimes felt he resented her, although she had no idea why.
‘Don’t worry – he’ll calm down soon.’ Zoe rubbed her shoulder encouragingly. ‘You know what he’s like: so combative and grouchy about money.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Tash guiltily sloped back to work.
What she also knew only too well was that she was the most expendable member of the team. So far she had won relatively little compared to Gus, Penny and Kirsty and had no international experience at all, having bypassed the junior and young rider ranks by coming to the sport so late. She brought them in valuable stud fees through Snob, and was getting a fairly high-profile following in the sport – largely thanks to Hugo’s early support and, latterly, her romance with Niall as reported in the national press – but these were superficial plus points compared to the day-in, day-out earning potential of a professional event rider. Gus was a seasoned international who coached as well as evented, added to which he designed courses, wrote books and rode horses for private owners. Penny, once a star in her own right, was the true horse-trainer who was invaluable in spotting talented youngsters, breaking them and bringing them on; she also ran the livery side of the business practically single-handed. And Kirsty was not only a high-ranking team member and long-standing professional, she was now the only rider in the yard with sponsorship – all three of her advanced horses were owned and supported by a City investment bank.
It was only a matter of time, Tash reasoned, before she was asked to leave and she, Snob and Hunk, were out on ten limbs. For now, she remained on tenterhooks.
Working very late into the night in the floodlit menage to gain Brownie points, she fell into bed without a second thought for the impending family gathering.
She had little time to plan what to wear to Henry’s christening, although she knew she owed it to Sophia to smarten up for once. Sophia had bestowed the ultimate compliment upon them by asking Niall to be a godfather, along with one of her old modelling cronies.
Niall, who was filming late into the night on the Friday again, had agreed to fly to Birmingham airport on Saturday morning and meet Tash at the tiny church in Holdham village, which fell within the estate’s grounds.
Leaving it as late as possible, Tash raced around the shops before her Flab-busters session, hawking her buys with her to the United Reform Church Hall.
‘Two pounds – congratulations!’ Theresa was beside herself to find someone among her regulars who had actually lost weight. This week, one of her motivational ploys was to pin a large star-shaped paper badge to each of her slimmers, emblazoned with the amount that they had lost over the past seven days.
Later that night, Tash pinned her glittery ‘2’ to the fireguard beside the melted fridge magnet and wondered whether her life would really be as hunky-dory as Theresa promised if she were slim.
She scrunched her eyes closed and tried to imagine herself as a slinky size eight in the Lisette Norton mould, but superimposing her head on that consumptive-whippet figure just made her think of a character on a Cluedo playing card – all big, menacing face and tiny, matchstick body. The happiest, most level-headed and certainly the most sexy woman Tash knew was Zoe, and she was an elegant, voluptuous size fourteen with curves that a car designer could only dream of for a new prototype.
‘The problem with me isn’t weight,’ she told a fascinated Beetroot, ‘it’s waiting. I spend my entire life at the moment waiting for Niall. If he was here more often it would be a wait off my bloody shoulders.’
Beetroot nudged her delightedly with her wiry muzzle, brown eyes glued devotedly to Tash’s face.
‘Niall used to look at me like that,’ she sighed. ‘You know, Root, I’ve started to think I’m weight-watching in vain.’
Ten
* * *
SHE BORROWED TED’S RICKETY Renault 5 to drive to Worcestershire, as Gus needed the Land-Rover to tow the trailer, delivering one of the youngsters he had just sold to a new owner for a much-needed four-figure sum. The Land-Rover was cheaper to run than the box, which was uneconomical for transporting just one horse.
‘The clutch is a bit iffy,’ Ted warned Tash as she fought her way inside past a lot of dangling football paraphernalia and found herself sitting on several tape boxes and an old, gucky packet of fruit Polos. ‘And she tends to cut out over seventy. Plus the accelerator cable has been known to snap, so be gentle. There’s a coathanger in the boot in case you need to mend it.’
She nodded worriedly.
Ted rubbed his growing-out crew cut as he watched her. With his bullish neck and broken nose, the stubbly hairdo made him look like a squaddie. He claimed it had improved his pulling no end, but Tash thought he looked terrifying, and far more likely to pull a trigger than a woman.
‘Are you seriously wearing that?’ He regarded her outfit doubtfully.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Oh, nothing – it’s pretty wild, that’s all.’ He gave her one of his seedy winks. ‘You’re looking well choice. See you later – take care of my baby.’
* * *
Trying hard not to go above sixty all the way to Worcestershire, and treating the accelerator pedal like a sewing-machine control during some delicate embroidery, Tash arrived at the sleepy Holdham village chapel ten minutes late.
It was immediately apparent that her outfit was not one of her best. The first person she encountered in the car park was Sally. Backing out of the Audi’s passenger door, she burst out laughing.
‘Christ – Sophia will go ape!’ She looked Tash up and down. ‘Not that she isn’t already. One of the godfathers is already stoned, and the other one – your dear intended – hasn’t turned up yet. She’s spitting. Ben is trying to pacify her in the vestry, but Henry has just puked everywhere and the vicar says he’s got a wedding at midday and can’t hold things up any longer than twenty-past.’
Tash, still shaking from her nerve-racking journey, tried to take this in.
Sally was looking very merry and pink-faced in a lilac angora top and deep heather-coloured silk skirt. Her wispy blonde hair had recently been cut into a smart layered bob and was today topped by a squashy fake fur hat.
‘You’re looking fantastic,’ Tash said admiringly.
‘New friends and lots of influence at the hair salon.’ Sally hooked her arm through Tash’s and led her under the lych-gate. ‘I just came out to fetch some teething gel for Linus – actually he doesn’t really need it anymore, but he’s addicted to the stuff, the little junky, and he’s wailing so much in sympathy with horrible Henry that I thought it would shut him up. Perhaps I should squirt some at your sister.’
‘Oh God, I hope Niall gets here.’ Tash looke
d fretfully over her shoulder towards the car park, but amongst the flashy Mercs, BMWs and Discoverys, nothing stirred. She suddenly recognised Hugo’s racy little green sportscar and winced. Why her stomach flip-flopped quite so much every time she spotted it she had no idea – she supposed it must be because she had once had a lift in it and almost thrown up at the speed he had driven.
‘Is Hugo here?’ she asked, even though she knew.
‘Chatting up your mother,’ Sally said dreamily. ‘God, he’s so good-looking it’s unfair – when he walked in I almost died with desire until I realised who it was, the bastard! Matty has ’flu, by the way, so don’t kiss him. Have you lost weight?’
‘Some.’ Tash felt slightly bucked, but Sally didn’t pursue the topic enough to bolster her confidence further.
‘Isn’t this place heavenly? I’d quite forgotten,’ she was babbling on as she admired the fat yew trees and crumbling graves that fronted the little flint chapel. ‘Look at all those daffs coming out – Wordsworth would erect crowd barriers. They match your outfit.’
Yellow had never been one of Tash’s best colours – it tended to make her look bleached out and pink-eyed; the only colour it brought out in her was that of her teeth. But she had been in a hurry in Marlbury, which only had one decent clothes shop. Having found nothing in there above a size eight, she had resorted to one of the cheap but cheerful bargain stores that littered Marlbury’s unsuccessful shopping mall – shops that lasted just a few months before they sold off their stock cheap and were replaced by a bargain book store. The assistant in Frock Off and Die had been incredibly flattering, and Tash had been so amazed that she could once again get into a size twelve that she’d bought the little sixties-style suit without question, racing next door to buy some trashy but trendy footwear.
The latest fashion was for knee-length patent leather boots. Even more hardened fashion victims were wearing snakeskin ones. The shop in questionable taste had possessed a pair of snakeskin bunion-squeezers in Tash’s size and another eager assistant had raved on about the fact that most people’s legs were too short and fat to get away with them. Tash – who had long, gangly legs – had been absurdly pleased. What the assistant hadn’t pointed out was the fact that knees as bruised as a prep school bully’s were not a becoming addition to the look, or that they were desperate to get rid of the boots because they were a size eight. Coupled with her too-short, too-shiny and far too yellow suit, Tash was dressed more for a tarts and vicars party than a christening among the landed gentry. She was wearing two pairs of opaque tights to hide the bruises, and had added her black dressage top hat wrapped in a checked silk scarf to detract from the ghastly suit, but was nevertheless acutely aware of looking on the unflattering side of disgusting.