The next jump loomed and Media Star, with a clear view, pricked his ears. Seeing a stride, he lengthened beneath Frankie and took off. Frankie whooped. There was no feeling quite like it when you met a jump perfectly. They bounded over the next three like a beach ball and were rewarded with the cheering of the packed grandstand.
*
The pair passed the winning post four from the rear and set out on the final circuit with a swinging stride. The open ditch at the highest point of the course found out two runners and Frankie easily steered around the jockeys curled up protectively in the pockmarked turf.
Ahead, she could still see Rhys riding high above Dory’s withers on the heels of the leaders. Passing their starting point, Frankie was encouraged when Media Star put in a big jump six from home. She didn’t need to press for more speed. The rest of the field were already coming back to them, the jockeys hard at work to keep up the pace.
Skidding round the turn once more into the home straight, Frankie crouched lower in the saddle, her sights set firmly ahead. The rain peppered her cheeks with increased force. Four out and they drew level with the fifth-placed horse. Three out, Donnie’s horse met it completely wrong and practically came to a halt on landing. Two out, Media Star passed the second and third horses. Come the last, only Dory’s steel-grey quarters and Rhys’s shapely behind were all that spoilt her view of the finish line.
Media Star twisted over the fence and grunted as he landed. His hooves plugged into the boggy ground before he laboriously galloped on. He didn’t have much left in the tank. Flicking her reins at him, she rocked back and forth in the saddle. Media Star stuck his neck out in the race for the line. The noise of the screaming crowd drifted over to them as they drew up alongside Rhys and Dory. Leaning into one another, the two stable companions battled out the final two hundred yards.
Frankie threaded her whip to her outside hand and let it fall on Media Star’s flank. Beside her, Rhys must have reached his maximum tally because he had his whip put away and was urging on his horse with hands and heels.
The shouts of the grandstand grew louder and more urgent as the ground between them and the red finish lollipop fell away. Media Star and Dory raced together, their heads bobbing in unison. Frankie’s jaw ached as she gritted her teeth and drove for more speed. Fifty yards to go. She momentarily lost her rhythm as her foot entangled with Rhys’s. Dory edged a head clear. Twenty yards to go. Media Star strained to draw level again. They thundered across the finish, locked together in battle.
Adrenalin roared through her body as Frankie stood up in her stirrups. She thought they might have nailed Rhys and Dory on the line, but she couldn’t be sure. She turned to Rhys to see if he knew.
Rhys pulled his goggles down, his eyes energised and shining. With a benevolent smirk, he lifted his hand and signed an ‘L’ on his forehead.
‘That’s for running over my dog,’ he said.
Frankie grinned.
By the look on his face, he had enjoyed that finish just as much as she had. And despite the official result which echoed from the loudspeaker confirming Blue Jean Baby as the winner, she knew she was no loser.
Chapter 18
Frankie was determined to look on the bright side of having to drive a Kars-A-Chiefs’ courtesy car and to park two streets from home in the drizzle. One: there was little chance of bumping (literally) into Rhys and Jasper this far from home and Two: Jasper was on the mend. A busted headlight was a small price to pay in comparison. And although it was raining, at least the temperatures had stayed relatively mild. Now into December, the National Hunt season was hotting up and as yet, not one single meeting had been lost to frost or snow.
Clipping the outside rear hubcap against the curb, Frankie managed to wedge the unfamiliar Vauxhall Astra into a parking space. She tried not to think about her beloved Mini sitting in a dirty Bristol garage surrounded by dismembered automobile body parts. She prayed that the Bonnie Tyler album jammed in the CD player wouldn’t count against the car’s assessment.
She zipped her Aspen Valley anorak up as far as it would go before opening the car door and stepping out into the murk. With her hands planted firmly in her pockets, she hurried across the road in the direction of her street. She jogged a couple of steps at the thought of a cup of hot tea and a toasted crumpet (a few hours on the cross-trainer should see that away fine). What’s more, Tom had gone to London for the day to see a Social Services advisor about tracking down his birth parents and had sent Frankie a text twenty minutes ago saying he was only just leaving to come home. That meant she had the telly to herself for two and a half hours minimum.
Atticus Finch sat framed in the lounge window on the sill above the radiator. He watched Frankie jog up the steps to the front door with disparaging yellow eyes.
‘Hello, Atticus!’ Frankie called, tapping on the pane. ‘Ready to watch some Come Dine With Me on Catch-up?’
Atticus Finch blinked at her and flicked his knobbly grey tail. He licked his lips, Frankie guessed not because he was anticipating the eating programme, but because he associated her presence with food.
She shook her head happily and dug into her jeans pocket for her keys. She pulled out the courtesy car key attached to a grimy cardboard stump. But no house keys. Frankie’s blood ran cold. In her mind’s eye she saw herself giving her Mini’s keys to the Kars-A-Chiefs receptionist in their puny front office. Resting her forehead against the cold damp wood of the front door, she recalled blissfully handing over her house keys on the same key ring.
‘Oh, shit,’ she groaned.
*
Standing beneath the relative shelter of the door canopy, Frankie dismally considered her options. She could drive all the way back into Bristol and retrieve her keys, but she doubted whether the garage would still be open by the time she’d got through rush hour traffic. Besides which, she didn’t really fancy driving all that way again.
She could go sit in the Golden Miller and wait for Tom to get back from London. As soon as that more attractive option occurred to her, she dismissed it. The Golden Miller was closed this evening as they prepared for some singing talent competition starting tomorrow.
Her only other option was to sit here and wait for Tom’s return. Frankie looked out from the front step over to the green and skateboard park, blurry in the early evening rain. She groaned again and slid down the door to sit on the step. Two and a half hours, possibly more. Okay, she could do this, she told herself. She tucked her hands into her armpits. If it got really cold she could always run back to the car and sit in there for a while.
*
The streetlamp opposite the house buzzed and flickered into life as the dusk faded to night and the seconds drifted into minutes. A plaintive meow sounded to Frankie’s right. Atticus Finch balanced precariously on top of the rickety garden gate that led down the side of the house. He leapt down and joined Frankie on the step, rubbing himself up against her legs. He looked up at her with round questioning eyes.
What are you doing sitting out here in the cold and wet? he seemed to ask.
‘I forgot to separate my house keys from my car keys.’ She sighed and stroked his bony back. ‘Wish we could both fit through the cat flap.’
Atticus looked at her with disdain then sat down to begin the arduous task of cleaning himself with loud juicy slurps.
As the green became more indistinct in the sinking darkness, Frankie stretched out her cramping legs and considered repatriating to the courtesy car. Her movement triggered the security light above her head, bathing her in a deceptively warm golden light.
Uneven footsteps and canine breathing from the pavement made her look up. Frankie’s heart did its customary triple beat. She did her best impersonation of a tortoise and tried to withdraw into her Aspen Valley jacket. The limping figure and his equally-limping dog passed by and she breathed a sigh of relief. But, of course, a bright red anorak wasn’t exactly the best camouflage. A moment later, the figure stopped. He remained frozen, his focus
still on the pavement five metres ahead of him. Slowly, he turned towards Frankie.
Frankie attempted a cheerful smile.
‘Evening, Rhys,’ she said.
Rhys continued to stare at her, his black curls plastered against his forehead. Jasper came loping on three legs back down the pavement to see what was keeping his master. Then, seeing Frankie sitting in the glow of the security light like some spiritual apparition, he bounded up the steps to greet her. Atticus hissed and whipped over the garden gate to safety.
‘Frankie,’ Rhys managed at last. ‘What are you doing sitting out here in the rain?’
Frankie ruffled Jasper’s brown and white speckled ears and fended off his friendly licks.
‘I see you’ve forgiven me,’ she said to the spaniel, letting the smell of damp dog clog her nostrils. She looked up at Rhys. ‘My car needed its headlight replaced after its run-in with Jasper and I forgot to take my house keys off the key ring.’ She felt a lot more stupid telling Rhys than she had telling Atticus.
Rhys surprisingly didn’t look as disgusted though.
‘Are you planning on sitting out here all night?’
‘No. Tom’s on his way back from London right now.’
Rhys moved a couple of steps closer to the path leading to her door.
‘When does he get home?’
Frankie shrugged and avoided meeting his eye.
‘Soon, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, right,’ Rhys said doubtfully.
‘He texted me about an hour ago. Said he was just leaving.’ Frankie took her mobile out of her pocket and looked at the time. ‘Oh. Actually, make that only half an hour ago. It feels like longer.’
‘It’s going to take him ages to get back at this hour,’ Rhys said.
‘I’ll be fine. I’m not actually getting that wet under here. And if it does get worse, I can always go sit in the courtesy car the garage gave me.’
Rhys nodded and an uncomfortable silence settled. Frankie dropped her gaze and scratched Jasper behind his ears. He panted happily in her face.
‘You’re bigger than I remember. Is he a Springer Spaniel?’ she asked in an attempt to break the awkwardness.
Rhys’s mouth twitched into a smile.
‘No. He’s just a big Cocker.’
Frankie laughed. Jasper tried to lick her cheeks and she fended him off.
‘Jasper, stop that,’ Rhys commanded.
The dog turned at the call of his name and lolloped down the path and down the street again.
‘Well, goodnight then,’ Rhys said clumsily.
‘Goodnight.’
Rhys walked a couple of steps down the pavement then stopped again. Jasper’s bark from further down the road made him take one more hesitant step.
Frankie tried not to watch him. She picked at the dried mud on the cuff of her jacket.
Rhys spun on his heel and marched back up her path.
‘Would you like to come wait at mine?’ he rushed.
Frankie stared at him in surprise.
Rhys looked away, embarrassment etched in every line on his face.
‘Really?’ Frankie managed at last.
Rhys shrugged.
‘I live ten minutes away. Seems stupid to let you sit out here.’
Frankie contemplated turning him down. What horrors would the evening entail if she and Rhys were alone in each other’s company for long? Then she considered the rain, now falling with more persistence, and the nose-diving temperature.
‘Okay,’ she said, surprising herself and Rhys. ‘Thanks.’
Chapter 19
Rhys swore beneath his breath as he unlocked the front door to his home and Jasper bulldozed past him into the front room.
‘He doesn’t seem any worse for his run-in with my car,’ Frankie said.
Rhys grunted, flicking on the lights to reveal a comfortable modernised Georgian living room. Jasper headed for a beanbag in front of the fireplace and belly-flopped into its depths. Rhys gestured vaguely to two obese sofas.
‘Make yourself at home.’
Frankie smiled her thanks and, feeling his eyes following her movements, walked across the creaking oak floorboards. She perched on the edge of one sofa, her hands clasped and looked up at him. Rhys stood stiffly to the side of the room.
‘Excuse the mess,’ he mumbled.
Frankie looked at her surroundings. A flat screen television hung above a DVD cabinet. A couple of what Frankie hoped were Jasper’s toys lay on the floor and a coffee table hosted a shaggy pile of Racing Post newspapers and a winding tower of books.
‘Mess? You should see mine and Tom’s place if you want to see mess.’
Rhys attempted a smile.
‘Would you like a drink? I don’t have any alcohol. I, um, don’t drink very often.’
Frankie nodded fervently. She needed a couple of minutes alone to find her bearings.
‘Yes, please. Tea if you have any.’
‘Last I checked tea doesn’t contain hard liquor so yes, I do have tea.’
He exited the room through an archway at the rear of the lounge. Left to her own devices, Frankie removed her grubby trainers. A waft of smelly feet invaded the room and she hurriedly kicked her shoes beneath the sofa and waved the air in a futile attempt to disperse the odour. She padded around the room, brushing her fingers over a Mumford and Sons CD case lying on top of a stereo system. The mantelpiece above the fireplace supported an array of bronze horses, some framed landscape photographs and a solitary twenty-eighth birthday card. Frankie peeked at the inscription inside.
Dear Rhys, Happy birthday. Mamà.
She moved on to examine the photos. She was mildly surprised to see none of Rhys himself. In fact, in a room which boasted an entire wall of photographs in addition to the mantel, there were no people in them at all. Except for one, standing alone on a side table beneath a lamp. A beautiful Latino woman smiled at the camera. The fine lines at her eyes and mouth and the slight creping at her throat were the only giveaway signs of her middle-age. Frankie didn’t need to look too closely either to tell she was the one who had written the birthday card. Although Rhys didn’t share her smooth coffee-coloured skin, they both had the same straight narrow nose and deep-set eyes.
‘Ha,’ Frankie muttered. ‘I knew those cheekbones couldn’t be British.’
She moved to the adjoining wall, avoiding Jasper who was enthusiastically chewing on an old riding boot while keeping one boiled-egg eye on her. The blown up photographs hanging here looked professional. A derelict sea jetty at sunset; a bunch of sunlit daffodils stemming from crunchy snow; a grey heron wading through shallow water.
‘Tea,’ Rhys’s voice interrupted her from behind. He put the mugs down on a side table separating the two sofas and sat down with a grunt. Frankie watched warily to see if her hidden trainers were still making their presence known. He wrinkled his nose. Maybe she could pin the blame on Jasper.
‘These pictures are amazing,’ she said in an attempt to distract him.
Rhys looked embarrassed.
‘Thanks.’
Frankie’s mouth fell open in surprise.
‘These are yours?’ she said. ‘You did these?’
Rhys shrugged and blew on his tea.
‘Photography’s a hobby. We all need hobbies, right? It can’t all be horses, horses, horses. What’s yours?’
Now it was Frankie’s turn to be embarrassed.
‘Girl Guides. I help out once a week.’
Rhys’s mouth twitched into a smile.
‘Not poker club then?’
Frankie’s laugh rattled, an octave too high. The mention of poker brought back memories of the night she’d won the ride on Dust Storm. And her win on Dust Storm she automatically associated with being given the National ride on Peace Offering. She wanted to broach that subject with Rhys about as much as she wanted a hole in the head.
‘Your tea’s here.’
She still wanted to look at the photos, but to appear polite she re
ached for her drink where its steam was blurring the picture of the Latino woman on the table.
‘Is that your mother?’ she asked.
Rhys nodded. Frankie took a slurp of tea and burnt her lip.
‘She’s gorgeous.’ A moment of panic followed as Rhys must surely know of his similarity to his mother. Would he think she was implying she thought he was gorgeous too? But following it up with a defensive You don’t look like her at all would also come across as insulting as well as a blatant lie. She looked at the picture’s lonely human significance in the room and figured he must be close to his mother. ‘Does she live nearby?’
Rhys shook his head.
‘She’s back living in Spain with my stepfather.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity.’
Rhys shrugged.
‘Not really, no. My stepfather’s a prick.’
Frankie could imagine Rhys being a nightmare stepchild too, but kept that to herself.
She turned back to the photographs on the wall, this time noticing a couple with horses in them. The first she had no trouble recognising. It was a shot of a tank-like racehorse crossing the Cheltenham finishing post with Rhys in red and white silks aboard.
‘Virtuoso’s Gold Cup,’ she murmured. ‘What a day that was.’
‘Were you riding that day?’ Rhys frowned.
Frankie shook her head.
‘No chance. I’ve never ridden at the Festival. I’d love to though. There’s so much history in that course.’
Dreams of perhaps having her first Cheltenham ride for Aspen Valley followed her to the next photograph. The horse was unsaddled and there were no distinguishing jockey silks to identify him by. It was obviously an Aspen Valley resident because she recognised the stabling in the background, but the tall dark bay horse in the foreshot didn’t look familiar.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked, turning back to Rhys.
Rhys’s face sobered.
Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) Page 13
