‘Let me give you a lift home then,’ she said. ‘I probably don’t live too far from you.’
Cassa looked at her hesitantly and Frankie nodded to her phone.
‘Come on, I’m not a stranger. You can text your mum if you like and tell her I’m giving you a lift—and saving you some money.’
Cassa smiled and stood up. Frankie was encouraged to see she trusted her enough not to message her mother. They walked across to the Vauxhall Astra still on loan from the garage. Seeing the car sparked Frankie’s memory.
‘We’ve just got to make a slight detour. My housemate, Tom, will be at the pub and he’s got the keys to our house.’
*
They pulled out of the Community Centre’s car park and headed down Helensvale’s High Street towards the Golden Miller. Frankie was aware of Cassa sitting beside her as relaxed as a stone sculpture.
‘Did you enjoy tonight?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I thought you would. You said in the GFI Top Job that you wanted to be a singer.’
Cassa sent her a sharp look.
‘It’s okay,’ Frankie said. ‘I’m not about to tell your mum. Although I don’t see why wanting to be a singer should be a problem. From what I heard tonight you’ve got a really good voice.’
Cassa’s big eyes glinted in the darkness.
‘You really think so?’
‘Of course. You’ve got soul. Who’s your favourite singer?’
Cassa shrugged her bony shoulders.
‘I don’t know. I guess I listen to a lot of Adele.’
‘Good taste,’ Frankie said. She attempted the chorus to Set Fire to the Rain and Cassa collapsed into the corner of her seat in giggles. Frankie smiled, happy to see her relax.
A couple of minutes later, she yanked the handbrake up. In front of them, the Golden Miller looked surprisingly busy. Not heaving, but livelier than usual.
‘Right, won’t be a sec.’
‘Look! They’re having a singing competition,’ Cassa gasped, pointing at a big poster on the door.
‘Oh yes, I forgot that was starting tonight. God, I hope Tom’s not entering. Do you fancy a go?’ She grinned at Cassa as she went to unclip her seatbelt. The humour drained from her face though when she saw Cassa seriously considering her suggestion.
Cassa looked at her like a timid kitten.
‘Do you think I could?’ she whispered.
Entrusted to her care at a Girl Guides meeting, Mrs Preston would not look kindly on Frankie taking Cassa to the local pub and entering her in a karaoke competition.
‘I was just kidding, Cassa. It’s not a good idea.’
‘But you said I was good.’
‘You are, but…’
Cassa’s eyes bore into hers, desperate for her approval, self-confidence hanging in the balance. Frankie teetered. What harm would it do? Mrs Preston didn’t have to find out and the Golden Miller was a family pub.
‘All right, then,’ she said at last. She hesitated again as Cassa scrabbled to open the door. Leaning behind, she retrieved a black overcoat lying on the backseat. ‘Just wear this, okay? And don’t tell your mother about this.’
*
Holding Cassa’s hand, Frankie weaved her way through the crowd to the bar which, in the dim lighting, gleamed like a crown. Tom was sitting in his usual spot at the far corner of the bar. Nobody noticed their entrance, listening instead in grimacing fascination to a stable lad giving a particularly painful rendition of Kaiser Chiefs’ I Predict A Riot on a specially rigged stage in the restaurant section. Joey, the bartender, was leaning on the pine bar chatting with Tom. Beneath the sunken lights within the bar’s overhang, Joey’s blond ponytail shone almost white. Tom creased up at something he said, but stopped laughing when he saw Frankie.
‘Evening all,’ she beamed. ‘This is Cassa. We were hoping she could have a go in this karaoke competition thing. Joey, is there an age limit?’
‘Sixteen, I think.’
Half relieved, Frankie was about to express what a shame that was when Cassa piped up.
‘Lucky I had my birthday the other week then.’
Frankie opened her mouth to object, but closed it again when Cassa squeezed her hand. Her eyes pleaded with her. Frankie swayed. It was just the one evening, Cassa obviously really wanted to do this and she did look old for her age.
‘Yes, isn’t it just,’ she said.
Tom narrowed his eyes at her, but Joey didn’t notice her hesitant reply. Instead, he slapped an entry form onto the bar.
‘All you need to do is fill this in and since you’re still under eighteen, we need an adult’s signature.’
What harm could it do, Frankie asked herself again? Ha! Signing something that was untrue could potentially be very harmful. But Cassa was already carefully filling in both of their names.
‘Just sign here,’ she said, pushing the pen into Frankie’s hand. ‘Please.’
Frankie was just underlining her signature when the stable lad finished his song. A panel of three judges, which she hadn’t noticed before, then proceeded to rip him to shreds.
‘Oh, God. What am I getting us into?’ she murmured.
*
Twenty minutes later, Frankie had sunk a vodka and orange and was feeling more at ease with her new stint in fraud. She and Tom moved closer to the stage as Cassa’s name was called out.
The vibrant hum in the room quietened as thirteen-year-old Cassa Preston took centre stage. Her sequinned tutu peeped through the unbuttoned front of Frankie’s oversized coat. Frankie held her breath. Cassa licked her lips and passed the microphone from one hand to the other. The running piano introduction to Adele’s Someone Like You flooded the room. Raising the microphone trembling to her lips, Cassa began to sing. Hesitant at first, she gradually found her rhythm. Her rounded shoulders straightened as she belted out the chorus. The overcoat didn’t seem half so big anymore.
Frankie’s breath shuddered through her and her eyes prickled with tears. She darted a look around. The Golden Miller was captivated by the heartbroken melody and strength in Cassa’s voice. The final piano chord fell and for a moment the room remained quiet, like the moment following an earthquake. Then the ovation began. Frankie bit her lip and clapped her hands until they stung.
‘My God,’ Tom yelled above the noise. ‘Where did you find her?’
‘Girl Guides,’ Frankie yelled back, beaming with pride.
Cassa stood, smiling uncertainly beneath the spotlight. As the cheering subsided, the judges passed their verdicts. The third, a man who Frankie noticed had been particularly nasty to the previous contestants, sat with his arms crossed. Frankie figured he was trying to pull off a Simon Cowell, but not quite nailing it in his flat cap.
‘Cassa,’ he said. ‘How old are you?’
Frankie’s heart stopped. Her eyes inadvertently strayed to the exit.
‘S–sixteen,’ Cassa whispered into the mic.
The judge frowned and Frankie closed her eyes, waiting for her short-lived life of crime to end.
‘You’re at school?’ he prompted instead.
Cassa nodded.
‘So Wednesday nights you’re presumably at home doing your homework?’
‘I g–go to G–girl Guides.’
He regarded her with over-acted condescension.
‘Not anymore you’re not! You’re through to the next round!’
The patrons of the Golden Miller in their tweed jackets cheered their approval. But Frankie didn’t hear them. She turned to Tom, who was applauding along with them.
‘What does he mean “the next round”?’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought this was a one-night karaoke competition!’
‘Oh, no.’ Tom shook his head. ‘This is huge, one of the Golden Miller’s big ideas to bring in customers. They’re doing their own X Factor-cum-Helensvale’s Got Talent competition except with pub votes rather than phone votes.’
‘Jesus Christ Almighty, what have I done now?’ Frankie
groaned.
Chapter 22
Frankie sat in the salon chair wearing an apron while Vanessa tugged through her newly washed hair with a comb. With her fringe scraped back, Frankie watched her mother in the mirror critically examining her split ends. Their eyes met.
‘Let’s do something a bit more daring,’ Vanessa said with a twinkle in her eye.
‘How daring?’
‘Well, your fringe is so long now, it’s not even a fringe. It’s just a–a—’
Frankie waited for her mother to find a kind way to insult her.
‘A mess?’ she suggested.
‘Yes,’ Vanessa said, inspired. ‘And we need to take off at least two inches to get rid of these split ends, so why not take it a bit shorter? Have a bob with bangs.’
‘A bob?’ Frankie said, horrified at the thought of all of her hair being chopped off.
‘Not a short short bob. Just about here above the shoulders.’ Vanessa held up the serpent of wet hair. ‘See what lovely shoulders and neck you have. You’ll look divine.’
Frankie chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. She did want to look good, to make an impression tonight at the Aspen Valley Christmas party. She airily bypassed the image of Rhys which sprung into her head, but in the end couldn’t deny it; it was him she wanted to impress.
She imagined herself sauntering into the yard—she was still a bit hazy as to where exactly on the premises the party was being held—and her gaze locking with Rhys’s. She would smile coyly and become immediately distracted by other people wanting to be in her company. Rhys would limp over—no, she scrapped that fantasy—Rhys would walk over, pass her a glass of champagne. He would smile that crooked smile that lifted only one side of his mouth, a dimple indenting his cheek and say—
‘Darling, I really do feel you should use a better conditioner for your hair.’
Frankie blinked back to the present as Vanessa interrupted her daydream.
‘Hmm?’
‘What conditioner do you use?’
‘I don’t use conditioner.’
‘There you go then.’
‘Come on, Mum. I’m a jockey, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than what hair products to use. Besides, I wear a helmet all the time.’
Vanessa sighed dramatically.
‘That’s no excuse. Jockey or no jockey, every woman should take care of herself.’
‘God, you make me sound like a bag lady.’
‘That’s unfair on bag ladies,’ Vanessa said, waggling some scissors at her in the mirror. ‘Given the chance I’m sure they would take more care of their appearance.’
Frankie surrendered. She supposed an extra ten minutes a day applying some moisturiser and pampering her hair wouldn’t hurt. At the back of her mind, she concluded Rhys would probably never notice her if she didn’t put in some effort.
‘I do want to look good,’ she said.
Vanessa eyes twinkled and she snapped the pair of scissors together.
‘I am going to make you look drop dead gorgeous.’
Humming along to Rod Stewart, Vanessa got to work, measuring, snipping, sliding her fingers through Frankie’s blonde split ends. Frankie watched her work, feeling a stab of panic every now and then when a long lick of hair would spill into her lap. A question kneeled on her tongue, begging to be asked. Frankie waited until Vanessa had put the scissors down before attempting it. She didn’t want a Captain Spock like Susan Beckett.
‘Mum, why didn’t Dad get to ride Crowbar in the National?’
Vanessa paused and looked at her in the mirror. She secured a wad of Frankie’s hair onto her crown with a clip and shrugged.
‘I can’t remember. It was all such a long time ago.’
Frankie wasn’t convinced.
‘How come Alan Bradford got the ride? Is that why Dad hates the Bradfords so much?’
‘I don’t know, Frankie. They were rivals. Maybe that’s why they didn’t get on.’
‘But Dad’s still friends with other ex-jockeys.’
Vanessa stopped snipping and looked at Frankie, resigned.
‘Your father and Alan Bradford didn’t see eye-to-eye, that’s all. It happens.’
‘But what caused it? Dad gets so sensitive whenever I even mention the name Bradford. It had to have been more than just simple jockey rivalry.’
‘Frankie, honey. All of that happened nearly thirty years ago. It’s in the past, don’t go digging it up now. What went on was between your father and Alan Bradford.’
Frankie recalled Rhys’s outburst on the way to the vets.
‘He doesn’t sound like a very nice person,’ she said. ‘I don’t think Rhys gets on with his dad either.’
‘Really?’ Vanessa said airily. ‘Are you and Rhys friends, dear?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied in complete honesty. ‘We get on better than we used to, I suppose. He wasn’t terribly pleased when Pippa gave me the ride on Peace Offering or when I ran over his dog.’
Standing square behind her, Vanessa pulled Frankie’s hair through her fingers, measuring its lengths.
‘But now he’s forgiven you?’
Frankie shrugged, causing Vanessa to remeasure the lengths.
‘He must have. I stayed the night at his place the other day—ow,’ she complained as Vanessa pulled her hair.
‘Sorry. Are you and Rhys Bradford, um, you know—dating?’
Frankie sighed. Oh, if only.
‘No. I got locked out of the house and Tom was in London so he let me sleep on his sofa.’
‘That was very nice of him,’ Vanessa said, the words sounding like they were being strangled from her.
‘Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?’ Frankie said, almost proud of Rhys. She contemplated whether she could confide in her mother. Although Tom knew about her crush, he wasn’t very helpful when it came to building on it. On the other hand she wasn’t sure if her mother would approve, even after saying everything was in the past. ‘I like him,’ she said at last.
Vanessa spun her round in the chair so she could work on Frankie’s fringe and pumped the chair higher. Once she’d finished, she looked her daughter in the eye. Frankie hadn’t seen her so solemn before.
‘I thought you might,’ Vanessa finally said with a sigh.
‘Why?’
‘Well, you were a bit in awe of him when you first started working with him, weren’t you? He’s a stylish rider and he’s good-looking. I suppose I’d worry if you didn’t fancy him.’ Her usual joviality was back and Frankie grinned.
‘He is sexy, isn’t he?’
‘I’m not saying anything more.’ Vanessa leaned forward and snipped the last stray strands of her fringe away. She gave her daughter a mischievous smile. ‘But jockeys are the best shag you’ll ever have.’
‘Ew, Mum!’ Frankie squealed. ‘Too much information!’
Vanessa stood up straight, looking smug.
‘Just saying.’ She spun Frankie round again and looked at her in the mirror. ‘Is he going to be there tonight?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so,’ she added sheepishly.
‘Well, we are going to make you irresistible.’
‘Don’t you disapprove?’
‘Would it make any difference?’
Frankie pulled a doubtful face.
‘Maybe.’
‘Frankie, it’s your life. I’m not going to tell you how to live it. And if he’s as nice as you say he is then why would I want to stop you? Now, a few highlights here then we can shape your eyebrows now that we can see them. Rhys Bradford won’t know what hit him.’
‘I don’t want to look like I’ve made too much effort,’ Frankie said in a sudden panic. ‘It’s only a staff Christmas party.’
‘A party’s a party, my dear.’
‘So I’ve been told. Pippa’s organised the whole thing. She did last year’s party and apparently it was a blast.’
‘Remember to drink lots of water if you’re going to be drinking booze.’
‘Y
es, Mum.’
‘And remember to use protection if you—’
‘Okay, Mum! I am twenty-three. I have learnt these things.’
Vanessa unhooked the hairdryer from beside the mirror and looked at Frankie in mock horror.
‘What? You mean you’re not a virgin?’
‘Mum, please.’
‘Okay, okay. Sorry. So I know about David Grenton,’ she said, naming Frankie’s boyfriend from her teens.
‘Actually David was number two,’ Frankie said with a sly grin.
Vanessa switched on the dryer and began to pull Frankie’s hair down in an inward curl around her shoulders with a round-brush.
‘Scandalous!’ she said, raising her voice above the roar. ‘And to think a daughter of mine could be such a Jezebel.’
Frankie grinned.
‘May I remind you that you are currently “grooming” me for such a deed?’
Vanessa winked at her.
Chapter 23
Frankie pulled into Aspen Valley’,s car park at a quarter to nine that evening. Stepping out into the drizzle, she wished she’d worn something more suited to the weather. Instead, she had to rely on just a High Street rip-off of one of Victoria Beckham’s dresses and a pashmina shawl to keep the cold and rain at bay.
She followed the sound of booming music along the muddy walkway between the hay barn and the indoor school to the latter’s wide entrance at the far end. She realised her fantasy earlier was way off the mark as soon as she stepped over the threshold. The air was warm and musty with the mixed scents of horses, sand and perfumes. The vast building was lit by coloured lights whizzing across the tin ceiling. It seemed the whole of Aspen Valley’s fifty odd staff and their partners were inside, sitting on jumps and barrels stacked at the sides. At the far end a DJ was nodding to the beat of a dance track behind a barricade of music equipment, and tables on either side bore punch bowls and crates of drinks. Even though she felt overdressed and her hair still didn’t feel quite her own yet, she noticed most of the girls had also made an effort to don a more feminine look. Two of the seasonal workers from Poland were necking in the shadows beside the doorway while others danced in a clearing in the middle of the school.
Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) Page 15
