by Fiona Walker
‘My philosophy entirely.’ Ronnie cast Blair a beguiling look, then turned at the sound of a car on the drive, a small, muddy coupé trundling steadily between the poplars, familiar in its Toytown curviness, a flash of red hair visible through the side window. ‘Here they are!’
‘The Horseman cometh,’ muttered Blair in a sardonic undertone.
Ronnie ignored him, the phone call from Mack suddenly playing on a loop in her head again as though she’d just replaced the receiver. Alcoholic. Picked up a stranger and spent the night with him. She’ll lose Kes.
She grabbed Blair’s arm. ‘I need you to look after Luca.’
‘What?’ He snatched it away.
‘I have to talk to Pax. Can you make him a coffee and show him around or something? If that really is him.’ She peered closer. Pax was the one in the passenger seat, a fierce-looking bearded man driving. He was absolutely nothing like she remembered.
‘I’m not bloody showing lover boy round,’ Blair sounded insulted.
‘I’ll do it if you like,’ Carly offered, unslotting her toddler from the buggy. ‘We’ve got a few minutes.’
‘That’s the Horsemaker?’ Blair whistled incongruously as the car turned towards them.
For a moment, Ronnie took the man behind the wheel to be a stranger, her daughter white-faced and murderous alongside. Then the driver smiled, that unforgettable O’Brien weapon of mass destruction, and she felt her heart plummet. It was the only thing she recognised about him. ‘Oh Christ, what’s happened to Luca?’
*
Pax cut the radio – ‘Holding Back the Years’, Simply Red – as Luca steered around potholes and loose dogs in the arrivals yard, Knott barking excitedly in the boot.
‘Welcome to Compton Magna Stud. Looks like they’ve laid on a reception committee.’ It was an odd line-up, a babushka doll of surprised faces: her mother and her Australian beefcake lover, alongside a vaguely familiar scraggy-looking blonde with small children hanging off both arms and a leg.
She glanced at Luca; his smile was at full beam as they came to a halt in front of the grand old buildings. With the beard on top, it was an explorer’s mask, taking in the tribal ceremony. He kept so much of himself hidden, Pax didn’t trust him at all. Only his eyes, green as mint, were giveaway intense, fixed firmly on her mother’s pretty features like a castaway spotting a ship.
‘Just remember, Mummy’s the only one of us happy you’re here,’ she murmured, realising she sounded like Alice. But she felt like Alice, aggrieved and protective, their childhood home under threat. She’d been denied her one night alone here with her memories. The more her day unravelled, the more she wished she’d been granted its sanctuary. ‘I don’t think her boyfriend’s too keen on you either,’ she added, noting Blair’s glowering face. Seeing Luca’s eyes flicker, processing this, she felt a degree of satisfaction for putting down a marker. If Blair was here at the stud, it was obviously back on.
‘Luca!’ Her mother was already at the driver’s door, charm at full throttle, eyes sparkling. ‘I hardly recognised you in your winter coat! Welcome! Good journey?’
Out of the car, Ronnie’s small dogs eagerly sniffed Luca’s trouser legs and shoes while she introduced him to everyone, circus showman rollcalling her troupe for the benefit of the tired-eyed Irishman: ‘my brilliant eventing star friend, Blair’, ‘my secret-weapon apprentice, Carly’ and ‘her three ravishing little jockeys in training who are all going to give you a quick guided tour – meet Ellis, Sienna and Jackson – while I have a word with Pax in the house.’ Her small, firm hand clamped around her daughter’s. ‘You two have had quite a night of it with the fog, haven’t you? You’ll forgive me dragging her off, won’t you, Luca?’
‘Be my guest.’ The O’Brien smile was fixed in place.
Pax looked away, her gaze inadvertently meeting Blair’s, sensing his bad temper as he snapped in a gravelly undertone, ‘Ron, I’m going to push off.’
‘I should get back home too.’ Pax took his cue gratefully, needing to pace the Mack Shack and form a plan.
‘It’s important, Pax,’ Ronnie said urgently, her voice lowered so that the others couldn’t hear. ‘I’ve spoken with the Forsyths.’
‘That’s my business!’ The last thing she wanted was her mother’s involvement.
‘If you want to keep Kes, you’ll listen to what I have to say.’
Heartbeat spiking at the mention of her son’s name, Pax waited with gritted teeth and tightly folded arms while her mother said a brisk farewell to Blair. The formal way they pecked cheeks was at odds with the white-knuckled emotion with which they briefly clasped hands, she realised, struck with reluctant admiration for the self-control with which the two loved one another.
Turning away, she saw that Luca was also watching them. Aware that he was under scrutiny, he glanced across at her. For once he didn’t smile.
*
Luca, tired to his bone marrow, had already forgotten the young woman’s name. She seemed to have a lot of children. And tattoos. And disturbingly intense grey eyes, the left bearing two streaks of blue in its iris like clock arms, reading quarter to four.
‘What d’you want me to show you first – the mares in foal?’ she offered. Her kids looked frozen through, Luca realised. The dog was shivering too. Sleet had started to turn to rain.
Luca fished the deerhound puppy out of the boot. ‘A hot drink would be great.’
‘There’s a kettle in the tack room,’ she said, leading the way. ‘You come far?’
‘Canada.’ He couldn’t even remember when he’d set out, his sense of time lost; he was beyond exhausted.
‘Long way to bring a dog.’
‘I picked him up on the way. He’s called Knott.’
‘Knot as in “tie the” knot?’
‘You could say that.’ Or untie it in the case of Pax Forsyth’s marriage. The bloody woman was unhinged.
‘Cute little thing.’ The blonde led the way into a big tack room with polished wooden racks, a vaulted roof and a wood burner in one corner. ‘That’s Pricey.’ She indicated the coffin-headed hound, brindle-striped like a tiger, that looked as though it was lovingly but insanely about to eat her children. ‘Don’t mind the fact she’s nutty looking. Heart of gold.’
Luca thought of Pax again. He preferred the dog.
Distracting the older two children with her phone, and the baby with a stainless-steel snaffle that he started gumming at furiously, she set about making coffee at supersonic speed, a pace at which he suspected she did most things. ‘Isn’t this place amazing?’ She pronounced it ‘’mazing’ in a creamy accent. ‘Like something out of a telly adaptation. You know, Downton Abbey? I love it here. Look at all them old bridles.’
Luca, who had seen a lot of tack rooms, sagged in one of the ancient floral armchairs by the unlit wood-burning stove and looked at her instead. Sleepy hacienda eyes, tattoos, urban clothes and a steel rod of sass belying her Wessex-wench voice, she wasn’t at all what he expected of a Ronnie Percy apprentice. The Ronnie he knew, savvy and straight-speaking, had a tight inner circle of contemporaries, generally preferring the company of men.
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Carly. Like Carly Simon. Sang “You’re So Vain”.’ Outside, they could hear a horsebox roaring into life. ‘He probably thinks that song is about him. Sorry if he’s an old friend of yours, but he’s a grumpy bugger, that Blair.’
‘Never met him before.’ The man was a legend Luca had long been inspired by. The disappointment of being snubbed was blunted by tiredness. ‘Is it always like this here?’
‘Dunno. I only started today.’
‘So we’re both new recruits?’
‘Yeah,’ she laughed, turning to put the kettle on. ‘You’re the one everyone’s talking about, aren’t you? The whisperer.’
‘I’m just a horsebreaker.’
‘Ronnie says you heal.’
‘Does she now?’
‘Only I have this thing. With m
y hands. They get hot and stuff, you know.’ She turned back, holding them out like a child showing she’d washed them.
‘I know.’ It wasn’t unusual. His own use of therapeutic hands – a skill that ran in the O’Brien family, useful for de-stressing horses, easing strains and sprains – was no great magic.
‘Thing is, not trying to sound weird or nothing but,’ she scrunched up her face, ‘they feel a bit odd right now. Better I show you.’ She set down the teaspoon she was holding, wiped her fingers on a grubby tea towel and walked up to him, reaching out to take his hands in hers, gold and diamonds glinting on her ring finger.
A hot brand welted his palms. It was as though she’d had them pressed to the scalding kettle.
‘What’s all that about, then?’ she asked matter-of-factly.
Her gaze was earnest, wide eyes a milky grey with smudged mascara and dark bags beneath them. He studied them curiously as the hands burned into his. It was a while before he realised he was holding his breath.
He blew out, forcing a smile. ‘Are they feeling any cooler?’
‘No different. I’m having a well-weird day, me. Must be the magic working.’
‘It’s not magic.’ He wanted to let go because it hurt, but knew she needed reassuring. ‘Nobody knows quite what it is – like divining. It just is. Controlling it’s harder.’
‘Are your hands hot too?’ She laughed, nervously.
‘They are now.’ Her wedding band was hard beneath the fingers of his right one.
She made to laugh again then stopped uncertainly, and for the briefest moment he saw in through the practical, sardonic front. Immediately, his own hands were pure electric.
She looked at them in surprise, feeling it too. ‘What’s that?’
‘Therapeutic touch.’
‘Wow. That’s ’mazing.’ She looked up at him, eyes widening, black pupils flooding the clock hands.
And from nowhere, inconvenient as hell, and with such a punch it penetrated twenty hours without sleep, Luca felt a familiar pull of attraction. It was a Pavlovian reaction he was trying hard to kick. For some men it was stockings and garters, others a stud in a pierced pink tongue, but for Luca it was a wedding ring. Like a spaniel trained to find drugs in an airport, he could sense out an unhappy marriage.
‘Mum, why are you doing that with that man?’
She let go abruptly, returning to the coffee-making, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘It’s a horse thing, Ellis.’
Luca found himself faced by three feet of outraged child brandishing a feather duster.
‘It’s my ’Splorer Stick,’ the boy announced. ‘It has super powers, my dad says. He was a soldier and killed lots of bad people. He has big muscles.’
‘Nicely to the point,’ he breathed, smiling. ‘Ellis is a cool name, so it is.’
‘My dad’s called Ash, like the Pokémon trainer. What’s your favourite Pokémon? Mine’s Pikachu.’
‘Don’t bother the man, Ellis. Get back to your game.’
‘Charizard,’ Luca called out, earning an eyebrow curl of respect over one small bomber-jacketed shoulder. ‘I was working in Japan when Pokémon GO was a fad,’ he told Carly as she carried a mug across. ‘My ex-boss went crazy for it. Kept running round with her mobile between jump-offs.’
‘You’ve worked all over the world, haven’t you?’ She retreated to the sink.
‘Here and there.’
‘That’s ’mazing.’ The black coffee with two sugars he’d asked for turned out to be very milky and sugar-free, and she now wouldn’t look him in the eye. He wasn’t quite sure what she’d felt when they held hands – maybe, like him, it was as though she’d grabbed a hot grill pan without oven gloves – but it had scared her and he wished it hadn’t. He badly needed allies. It was, as she had said, a ‘well-weird’ day.
‘You and your husband live here at the stud?’
‘I wish! Close. In the village. He’s at college. Wants to be a fitness instructor. Eight years in the army.’
‘That’s impressive.’
‘Yeah, he’s the family hero.’
‘That’s cool.’
‘He’s lush.’ She looked at her watch.
‘You gotta be somewhere?’
‘Meeting a friend in a bit.’ Her fingers drummed the sink. ‘I’ve got a couple more minutes. You want to look around? You can meet Spirit. He’s my favourite.’
‘It can wait.’ He stifled another yawn. ‘I just need to find a bed and crash.’
‘I only know how to make the horses’ beds here.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Lester taught me today. He’s like the main man around here.’
‘Not any more.’
She rolled her big, smudged eyes. ‘You don’t know Lester. I love him already. Tight-fisted bastard, he is, and he thinks a working girl and working mum are the same thing, bless him, but what he doesn’t know about horses ain’t worth knowing, I reckon. He’s gone hunting today. You approve of that, do you?’
The half-closed eyes gave no clues. She had a way of looking askance at you that was challenging as a gangsta moll and disturbingly cute.
Luca, who strongly disapproved of hunting, held his tongue. It didn’t do to bandy your opinions about upon arrival. ‘That’s a great accent. Is it local?’
‘Swindon, in Wiltshire. You know it?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s not that famous. Unless you like roundabouts.’
‘Only magic ones.’
‘Do you believe in magic, then?’
‘I’ve never seen anything I can’t explain yet.’ He battled another flurry of yawns
She glanced at her kids, then back, grinning. ‘Watch this space, mate. Witchcraft’s compulsory round here.’
He closed his eyes, smiling, so beaten up by tiredness and being trapped with the manic redhead that it sounded a very reasonable summary. He’d felt hexed almost from the moment he’d touched down. His hands throbbed warmly.
*
Pax sat at her grandmother’s old kitchen table, nursing a glass of water, shoulders hunched defensively, waiting for the lecture to end. The whole room reeked of whisky from the smashed bottle of the previous night, making it almost impossible to convince Ronnie that she wasn’t spiralling down the same tunnel her father had.
‘He had a disease, Pax. It killed him.’
‘I’ve stopped!’ This room was one of the few places Pax ever let herself shout. This was where she’d buried her face in her grandmother’s wide shoulders and howled. Ann Percy was never a physically affectionate character – a pat on the back and a ‘pull yourself together, there’s a girl’ was as much as you got – but she loved a good argument, unafraid of raised voices and strong opinions, even the odd teenage tantrum, as long as it was backed up with justification. The heavy-bottomed glasses of kitchen sherry had been slammed down on this table with great passion over bad show judges, ill-mannered hunt followers and rude neighbours on many occasions.
‘I’ve stopped,’ she repeated. God, but she wanted a drink. A Bloody Mary to pep her up, with an extra shot of vodka to stop her hands shaking, a cool beer to slake her thirst.
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Ronnie was saying. ‘Addictions aren’t. I promised Mack I’d try to help.’
‘Help with what, exactly?’ Her hangover was staging a fresh wave of hot-cold shivers, sweat springing from her temples. She shrugged off her coat.
‘You mustn’t make the mistakes I did.’
‘I’m nothing like you!’
‘I ran away too far too fast; I assumed I could come back for you, but the family closed ranks. That’s precisely what the Forsyths will do, given half the chance to keep Kes from you.’
‘No, they won’t. It’s all just threats; Mack will never follow through.’
‘That’s what I thought!’
‘I won’t let it happen.’ Pax glared at Ronnie.
Her mother’s clear blue gaze lingered, making her sq
uirm.
‘What are you wearing?’ Ronnie asked suddenly.
She glanced down. A T-shirt with no bra, men’s breeches, a belt strangely twisted because it was too big. ‘My clothes got wet. I had to change.’
‘And those are Luca’s?’
She nodded defiantly, hating herself for enjoying the confusion on her mother’s face.
‘Mack’s accusing you of infidelity, you realise? He says you told him you slept with a stranger last night.’
‘We slept in the same room.’ She shrugged, seventeen again.
Ronnie rubbed her face, stretching the skin around her eyes so they looked briefly startled. ‘Did anything happen?’
‘None of your business.’ That might slow the toy boy’s progress down a bit. She and her mother had history on that front.
Ronnie turned away, hugging herself, and Pax felt guilty and sad, her peacemaking solace shredded by peevishness.
‘You have to talk to Mack.’ Ronnie refused to give up. ‘Be open about what you want. Fight the urge to run and hide.’
‘He’s insanely angry. You heard him.’
‘All the more reason to be the rational one, to keep notes and get advice. You’re so good at all that.’
‘Not right now.’
‘I can help.’
‘I hardly think so, Mummy.’ Then, as if a switch had clicked, the calm returned. She felt it settle over her like a cool, silk sheet.
Ronnie was pacing around even more than Pax had at her restless height, hands raking her thick blonde bob as she thought hard. ‘If you really are serious about separating, I think you should move in here.’
‘Why ever would I do that?’
‘Because it will look better as a home for Kes. You live in a damp caravan, this is a fine Cotswold house. You have support here. We’ll help you through recovery.’
‘This house is damper than the mobile home – which has three bedrooms, superfast Wi-Fi and decent insulation by the way – and I have plenty of support: I have friends; I have Alice. I have stopped drinking.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘You need a jolly good lawyer. Mine was hopeless. Bunny will know somebody.’
‘No, Mummy.’ Pax held up her hands, but her voice remained smooth, in control. ‘I’m not getting some friend of a friend who hunts with a silk from Lincoln’s Inn involved in this.’