‘Given the right horse and a bit of luck, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a chance of winning.’
‘Come on, Jack,’ Pippa urged. ‘One chance, that’s all we’re asking.’
Jack looked from one to the other, reluctant defeat creeping into his eyes.
‘You’ll change my world around,’ Frankie whispered.
‘I thought I’d already done that by giving you the job here,’ Jack muttered.
Whatever this was code for, Pippa interpreted it as favourable. She leapt to her feet and threw her arms round Jack. Jack accepted her kisses, a reluctant smile breaking as he cradled Pippa in his arms.
‘Okay, Pippa. Okay, Frankie. You win.’
Frankie felt like kissing him as well, but managed to contain her joy to a beaming smile.
‘Thank you. I won’t let you down.’
Jack shook his head.
‘Don’t make those sorts of promises. The National’s not as straight forward as that.’ He budged Pippa to the side of his lap and pointed a finger at Frankie. ‘But I do expect you to make peace with Rhys. He’s just been given one of the most public humiliations of his career thanks to your girls’ stunt.’
Frankie nodded, absorbing just what she’d done to Rhys. Guilt wrapped around her.
‘I’ll make it up to him,’ she said, really meaning it.
‘Okay, then. Go on, you’ve got horses to muck out and ride and you’re already late.’
*
That night, Frankie lay back against her pillows. A rumbling ball of soft fur, otherwise known as Atticus Finch, purred in her ear. The reflection from her dim bedside lamp danced over the framed photograph she cradled in her fingers. Tenderly, she traced the horse and rider in the picture and returned the smile Seth directed at the camera. He was heading a string of work riders, lolling confidently in his saddle with one hand on his thigh. Frankie couldn’t remember who’d given her the photo or who’d taken it, but it summed up Seth beautifully. A leader, confident, laid back, always with a friendly smile.
‘I wish you were here for all this, Seth,’ she whispered. ‘It’s been such a whirlwind—or a Dust Storm. When we won…it was so much more than a race. We’d won for Aspen Valley.’ She smiled at the memory then shook her head in wonder. ‘I remember when you got the job there first. I thought my ribs were going to break, you hugged me so hard.’ Frankie tilted the frame so the light no longer reflected off the glass and studied it again. All the work riders were wearing Aspen Valley jackets except for one further back. Her gaze travelled past the photograph to her open wardrobe where her own red jacket hung. She looked back at Seth’s smiling face. ‘It’s insane how things can change so suddenly. Fate has weird ways of guiding our lives. I’m there now. Just how you wanted to be. Just how you were. And I’m riding in the Grand National. How crazy is that?’
It occurred to her for the first time to study the faces of the other six or seven riders in the picture. Now that she was at Aspen Valley, she might recognise some. The rider immediately to Seth’s left Frankie could now name as June. The two behind were unfamiliar and the third was looking down so she couldn’t see his face. The others further back were out of focus so Frankie had to squint to see their faces. She looked at the rider wearing a black jacket instead of a red one. His blurry features were in shadow, making him harder to identify. Frankie’s jaw slackened. She stared at the photograph for a long moment before replacing it on her bedside table with a shaking hand. She flicked off her lamp and let her head fall back. Atticus Finch extended a foreleg, spreading his paw pads in an almighty stretch before flopping it across her collarbone. She stared at the ceiling and gave a short laugh of disbelief. She wonder what Rhys would have to say if she told him she’d had a photograph of him beside her bed for the past five years.
Chapter 9
The cold north wind that had arrived over the weekend continued to gnaw at the yard’s brickwork over the next few days. With all her lots ridden, fed and mucked out, Frankie joined a cluster of staff gathered in the tack room. She turned over a bucket and sat beside June, gratefully accepting the cup of Thermos tea she was handed.
‘You’ve been the talk of the town this week,’ June winked.
Frankie blushed. Now that reality had begun to reassert, her National revelation was becoming a bit of an embarrassment. Thrilled as she was to have the ride, she wasn’t particularly proud now of how she’d got it.
‘The news wasn’t meant to be broken quite so soon or in such a manner.’
‘To hell with that. What better way, I say. It’s not every day you get given the ride on the National favourite.’
Frankie stared at the milky liquid in her mug, cupping her fingers around the china to absorb as much heat as possible.
‘I–I know, but still,’ she stammered. ‘It wasn’t very fair on Jack or Rhys.’
‘You’re not feeling sorry for Rhys, are you?’ June said.
Another member of staff leaned in.
‘Not sorry enough to give the ride back.’
The room was filled with everyone’s laughter—everyone’s, that is, except for Frankie’s. She smiled politely. The door opened, letting in a gust of biting air and extinguishing the laughter. Rhys stood, his hand clenched on the doorknob. He faltered as all eyes came to rest on him. Frankie’s heart skipped a beat.
‘You want some tea, Rhys?’ someone eventually said.
His eyes flickered from face to face, his brows dipping when he passed over Frankie. He shook his head and gestured to a metal box strewn with odd pieces of tack and riding gear.
‘Pass me a whip, will you.’
With a deft hand, he caught the item as it was tossed to him then turned on his heel and walked back into the cold.
‘My pleasure,’ someone muttered.
Frankie didn’t know what to think. Was it because she felt guilty at so publically humiliating him or was it that lingering sweet spot she harboured that made her feel compassion for him? She took a gulp of tea which burnt her throat then handed her mug to June.
‘Be back in a sec.’
*
Rhys was headed for the car park, his habitual limp buffeted further by the wind. Frankie ran after him.
‘Rhys!’
He looked behind then seeing who it was, shook his head and carried on walking. His black Audi’s lights flashed as he beeped open the locks.
‘Rhys, wait!’ Even when she’d caught up to him, he still continued on, his head down, hands thrust deep into his black jacket pockets. ‘Just stop for a moment—’
‘Why, Frankie?’ he said, suddenly turning on her. ‘Why should I waste my time listening to anything you have to say?’
She frowned at him.
‘I’m sorry, okay? You weren’t meant to find out through the papers. I didn’t mean to humiliate you.’
‘You’ve no idea, do you?’ He shook his head. ‘You think that all that’s happened is a little embarrassing blip, don’t you?’
‘No—I mean, I don’t know. It could be just a blip if you allow it.’
‘This isn’t just a blip, Frankie! This is the National! And I’ve been jocked off by some new upstart—some girl!’
‘Oh, so it wouldn’t be so bad if I was a guy, is that it?’
Rhys’s eyes glittered as he glared at her.
‘You want the truth? No, it wouldn’t be so bad if you were a guy. It wouldn’t make it much better, but there you go. That’s what you want this to be about, don’t you? You want to blame it on sexism, because sexism is such an easy shield to hide behind. When you fuck everything up, you can just hold up your hands and say “Oops, silly me. It’s only because I’m a girl.” And the crazy thing is everyone believes you. To the extent that when I get jocked off in favour of a girl, it makes me look like a completely useless wanker.’
Frankie ground her teeth and matched his glare.
‘Well, you’re not doing much to dispel that image right now. I came over to apologise.’
‘D
on’t apologise.’ He brushed past her and she hurried to keep pace. ‘I don’t want your apologies. I don’t want your pity. What good is it to me?’
‘I don’t want you to hate me, Rhys!’
Rhys opened the door to his car.
‘You should’ve thought of that before you took my ride then, shouldn’t you? You can’t have your cake and eat it.’
He got in and slammed the door, effectively ending their conversation. Frankie kicked the gravel against his tyre and turned to walk back. She heard the Audi fishtail behind her before the wind carried a cloud of dust over her head.
*
At dusk that evening, Frankie pulled up outside the narrow Victorian house in Helensvale she shared with Tom. Noticing all their neighbours had their bins out reminded her tomorrow was collection day so she squeezed through the side gate to the back of the house to retrieve theirs. She could never remember if it was black or blue bin day and usually relied on Tom to sort those things out. Taking the rubbish out was a man’s responsibility, after all, wasn’t it?
No, she told herself sternly. She remembered Rhys’s earlier words and repeated her mantra that she couldn’t fall back on feminism if she wanted to be a jockey. In a man’s world, you had to act manly. She let herself in through the backdoor into the kitchen to get the bin bag still in use. Tom was sat in the dark at their small breakfast table, the light from his laptop illuminating his face. He nearly fell off his chair when, in a false baritone, Frankie yelled,
‘Hi honey. I’m home!’
‘Jesus, Frankie! You scared the life out of me.’
Frankie flicked the light switch and Tom shied away from the brightness. She took his wrist and felt his pulse.
‘No, you’re still alive. What are you doing sitting in the dark?’ She peered down at the laptop screen but Tom slammed it shut before she could read anything.
‘Nothing important. I just lost track of time.’ He got up and put the kettle on.
‘Tea?’
Frankie shook her head.
‘No, thanks. I’m going to take the rubbish out.’
Instead, she reached into an overhead cupboard and removed a bottle of cider vinegar. It wasn’t the rubbish she had been referring to but she knew it tasted just as unappetising. After mixing a small measure with water, she pinched her nostrils shut and downed the liquid. Her taste buds cringed away from the vile taste and she had to concentrate hard on controlling her gag reflex.
‘Bleurgh,’ she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. ‘That is so rank.’
Tom shook his head.
‘That stuff will rot your teeth,’ he informed her.
Frankie shrugged.
‘What do I need teeth for? I don’t eat food.’
‘All this wasting can’t be good for you.’
‘Sure, but at least with this stuff I do get to have the occasional meal. It breaks it up faster.’
A meowing from the doorway stopped her and she squatted down to greet the fluffy grey cat that sauntered in.
‘Hello, Atticus, my darling,’ she cooed. ‘How are you?’
Atticus arched his knobbly back as she stroked him and wound himself through her legs.
Starving! he wailed. He fixed Frankie with pleading yellow eyes and she obediently stood up to get him some cat food.
‘He’s lying,’ Tom said, plopping a tea bag into his mug. ‘He ate most of my spaghetti bolognaise and he’s had his own dinner.’
Atticus Finch gave Tom a resentful look and flicked his tail at him.
‘Really, Atticus,’ Frankie scolded. ‘You mustn’t lie like that. Do you think cats are the only animals apart from humans that consciously lie?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Tom replied. ‘I don’t know why you dote on him so much. He’s such a grumpy bugger.’
‘He’s old,’ she argued. She turned back to the cat who was still looking at her hopefully. ‘Old men are allowed to be grumpy, aren’t they? Yes, they are. Yes, they are. Yes, they—’
‘How’s work going? Everyone was talking about you at Warwick today.’
Frankie shrugged.
‘The usual—had a fight with Rhys, jumped Ta’ Qali over a couple of crossbars, Jack’s pleased with me, Rhys hates me.’
‘I wouldn’t take it personally. Rhys hates everyone.’
‘Yes, but it’s usually passively that he dislikes everyone. There was nothing passive about the way he was talking to me this morning.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He jumped down my throat when I tried to apologise to him. Said I should man up.’
‘Is that why you’re taking the rubbish out?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Wow. Maybe we should organise some more of these chats with Rhys.’
‘Very funny.’ Absently, she watched Atticus flounce out of the room, shooting feline V-signs at his humans with his tail. His dramatics didn’t register with her. ‘Don’t you think he’s being unfair?’
‘Frankie, you did jock the guy off his best chance in the Grand National.’
‘Yeah, but—it wasn’t like I was gunning for his ride right for the beginning. I was just as shocked as anyone when Pippa called me. Dad took ages to recover from it.’
‘But it’ll be worth it, won’t it?’
Frankie gave him a dubious look.
‘Truth be told, I don’t know. Rhys looks like he wants to kill me the whole time, and Dad doesn’t appear all that ecstatic about it either. You would think he would be considering I’m doing this for him in a way.’
‘Does he know you’re doing it for him?’
‘Yeah. Well, I think he does. He must surely do. Yet he could barely raise a smile when I said I got the ride.’
‘He’s an old man. Didn’t you say old men were allowed to be grumpy?’
Frankie pouted. Tom wasn’t taking her seriously.
‘He’s not that old. He’s only about fifty-five or something.’
‘You can’t blame your father too much, Frankie. Wasn’t it Seth’s anniversary last week too? You know he always goes through a dip at this time. You not putting flowers on his grave might have just aggravated things for him.’
‘Tom, you’re meant to be on my side,’ Frankie reminded him, annoyance creeping up on her. So far he had defended Rhys’s corner and her father’s. What about hers?
‘I know and I am. I just think you should give him a break.’
‘But what about my job at Aspen Valley? He must surely realise how momentous that is!’
‘Yes, and you’ve got plenty of time to hog the limelight.’
‘Tom!’ Frankie gasped, shock and indignation rising in her voice.
‘What? All I know is that you’ve been given this once in a lifetime opportunity and you haven’t stopped complaining about it since you’ve stepped through the door.’
‘I have not! You asked me how work was. I had a fight with Rhys, okay? Did you want me to lie?’ She glared at Tom.
Tom glared back.
‘I thought you were going to take the rubbish out?’ he said finally.
Frankie thumped her glass down on the table and ripped the bin liner out of the bin. She held it open, ignoring the whoosh of gag-inducing smells and raised a challenging eyebrow at Tom.
‘Care to step inside?’ she said.
Tom clicked his tongue and, snatching up his laptop, stomped out of the room. With vicious tugs, which ended up splitting the seam on the bag, Frankie stomped in the opposite direction.
*
Angry and hurt, she dumped the rubbish bag into the wheelie bin and dragged it down the path. She never fought with Tom. He was always so easy-going. Nothing ever irked him. Ever since Pippa’s phone call she seemed to be alienating everyone she cared about. Not that she cared for Rhys with the same affection that she did Tom—it was more of a physical affection—but nonetheless, it wasn’t fun when your crush hated your guts.
She wrestled the bin through the cramped gateway in the dark and wheeled i
t into position at the front of the house. She paused with her hands still on the plastic handles, gazing out over the small green opposite the house. A yellow light illuminated the deserted skateboard ramps and swings beyond the bushes. Maybe she was being too self-involved. Maybe Doug was upset with her because she now had the job originally intended for his son.
She thought of Seth and immediately felt guilty.
‘I do miss you,’ she whispered into the silence. He had always bolstered her confidence. He’d never turned his nose up because she was a girl. Frankie acknowledged she probably wouldn’t be a jockey if it hadn’t been for Seth. She exhaled, the cold autumnal air clouding into foggy vapour in front of her. She suddenly felt very alone.
Just as suddenly, it was gone as she noticed a solitary figure walking a dog across the shadowy green. The dog scampered ahead, bounding onto the skateboard ramp and thirstily lapping at the puddle gathered at the base. Its owner followed at a slower pace, a slight limp in his step, his hands thrust into his pockets.
Frankie stiffened. Even before he stepped into the glow of the street lamp, she already recognised Rhys. She edged backwards, careful not to make a sound. But such was her unfamiliarity with putting the bins out, she forgot about the abandoned flowerpots lined up against the gate. Frankie registered ice cold water as she stepped in one of the pots before she crashed to the floor. Rhys stopped in his tracks. Frankie dived for cover behind the wheelie bins.
Heart thumping, she peeped through the gap between them. Rhys was looking her way. She whipped out of sight again and sat with her back against the bin, uncomfortably aware of cold water now seeping through her jeans. How, she wondered, could her life have been so pleasantly Rhys Bradford-free for twenty-three whole years yet now he was on her radar wherever she bloody went?
Chapter 10
Peace Offering broke into a lethargic canter and Frankie flapped her legs against his ribs. She was finding the thrill of riding the Grand National favourite slowly being sweated out of her. With the Becher Chase, the stage for her mount’s seasonal reappearance, less than a fortnight away, the Aspen Valley team were working hard on getting their performer fit. Jack quizzed Frankie more thoroughly about the feel she got from each ride on him than he did about any of her other horses and he checked him over after each gallop. Frankie wondered if this special attention was because Peace Offering was the Grand National favourite or because Peace Offering belonged to his future wife. Maybe it was a bit of both. All she knew was that Virtuoso, their antepost favourite to win another Cheltenham Gold Cup, barely got a look in.
Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) Page 8
