‘What for?’
Frankie opened her mouth to speak and felt a familiar wave of emotion rise up again. She swallowed hard.
‘Rhys and I broke up,’ she said in a stilted voice.
‘Oh, Frankie,’ Vanessa said sympathetically.
Frankie looked at Doug and her eyes filled.
‘You were right, Dad. I’m sorry, I should’ve listened. You were right about him.’
Doug stiffened.
‘What did he do to you?’
It hurt to even think about it; the pain was still so fresh.
‘I found out on Friday that–that what we…shared hadn’t meant the same thing to him as it did to me. It was all a ruse to make me give him the National ride on Peace Offering.’
‘I knew it!’ muttered Doug. ‘The son of a bitch.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’ She hung her head. ‘You told me right from the start that he was up to no good. I didn’t listen. He–he played me so well. He saw that I was a fool and he took advantage of it.’
‘Darling,’ Vanessa said reaching out her hand to squeeze Frankie’s knee. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’
Frankie’s gaze flickered between her parents. In contrast to Vanessa’s sympathy, Doug’s face was turning purple with anger.
‘You know,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘I was even beginning to doubt myself. That maybe I was overreacting, living in the past, but now…’
‘I know. I’m so sorry.’
Doug shook his head and gave a cheerless laugh.
‘It’s like history repeating itself all over again.’ He looked at Frankie helplessly. ‘What is it about those Bradfords that makes us sacrifice our own?’
Frankie sighed.
‘An incredible power of persuasion? Manipulation? I don’t know. He never asked me outright that I give him the ride, but it was in everything he did, everything he said. He made me think he deserved it more than I did. Even when I told him Peace Offering was his to ride, he still played along, tried to refuse it.’ Frankie’s voice faltered. ‘He said that he’d win it for me, that he loved me.’
‘And all the while I bet he was congratulating himself,’ Doug sneered. ‘Useless pile of shit. Are you going to try get the ride back?’
Frankie shrugged, feeling hopeless.
‘How can I? The National’s only three weeks away. Rhys has ridden Peace Offering in just about all of his prep races. I couldn’t ask Pippa and Jack to change everything back just because he’s an arsehole, especially not at this late stage.’
Doug sucked his teeth and looked across the room to the mantelpiece. Frankie squeezed her eyes shut. She could imagine his thoughts, how Seth would never have been so foolish.
‘I’m sorry I let you down, Dad,’ she said in a small voice.
‘What?’ Doug’s eyes flashed back to her, but she couldn’t hold his gaze.
‘I know how much the National means to you. I wanted to ride in it—to win it for you. I wanted to make you proud. I—’
‘What are you talking about, Frankie?’
Frankie couldn’t help herself. She burst into tears, overcome by shame and humiliation.
‘I know I’ll never measure up to Seth. I’ll never be as good a jockey as he was.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘But it’s true. You were always so proud of him. Nothing I could do could compare. So I thought by winning the National you’d be proud—’
‘But I am proud of you!’
Frankie looked at him helplessly.
‘But how can you be? Every time I have the opportunity to win a big race I fall flat on my face. I know you’re just trying to make me feel better, but I can see it, Dad. When I got the job at Aspen Valley, when Pippa gave me the ride on Peace Offering, you hardly even acknowledged those things.’
‘Frankie—’
‘I didn’t know what else to do to make you proud. Then I kept messing things up. Every time you came to watch me race I either made a complete hash of things or ended up in hospital. Then Peace Offering didn’t take to me, Rhys was working his magic on me. I just despaired. And I was angry at you because you wouldn’t accept Rhys so I gave up the one thing which I knew would make you proud. I—’
‘Frankie! Stop!’ Doug exclaimed.
Frankie halted mid-blub.
Doug got up and kneeled in front of her. He mopped her wet cheeks with his handkerchief then took her hands in his.
‘Frankie, honey. I am proud of you. Not because of what you do or how many races you win, but of who you are.’
Her eyes stung as she looked up at him.
‘But why?’
‘You’re a good person. You’re generous, kind, helpful. How could I not be proud of you?’
Frankie crumpled again and she clenched her fingers in his.
‘Then why have you always made me feel second best to Seth?’
‘I never meant to make you feel that way.’
‘Of course I felt that way. Look around, Dad. Why are there photos everywhere of Seth and none of me? They’re everywhere! Seth winning this, Seth winning that. I’m invisible.’
Doug looked at the mantelpiece with a new sadness.
‘Oh, Frankie. I’m sorry. We never thought you’d see it like that.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose we surround ourselves with photos of Seth because it’s all we have left of him. Whereas, I guess with you here, living, breathing, there was never any need to remind ourselves. I could be proud of you in the moment, so to speak.’
A bitterness seeped into her mouth and she scowled at her father.
‘Then why haven’t you ever told me? Why haven’t you ever shown it?’
Doug hesitated, summoning the courage to continue the conversation.
‘After what happened to Seth, I was just so scared of losing you too. I thought that if I didn’t encourage you then maybe you wouldn’t want to be a jockey. It wasn’t because I wasn’t interested. I just didn’t want the same thing happening to you as it did Seth.’ His voice cracked and he bit his lips together.
Frankie stared at him, her mouth agape. She really did need to work on her people-reading skills.
‘You mean that? You don’t want me to ride? Why’ve you never said anything?’
Frankie was distracted from her father’s anguished face by her mother leaning forward beside her.
‘Your father and I never wanted to stand in the way of what you wanted to do with your life,’ Vanessa said. ‘We’d never have forbidden you from your chosen career—well, except if you’d wanted to be a hooker or a drug dealer. It’s your life. It isn’t for us to say how you should live it.’
Frankie looked at her, dumbstruck.
‘Seriously?’ was all she could muster.
‘Yes,’ Doug sniffed.
Frankie looked back at her father.
‘You don’t want me to ride?’
‘I know you love to ride, Frankie. I wouldn’t ask you to quit, but racing is just so dangerous. You could be killed. I don’t know what I’d do if you were–were—’
Frankie looked away distractedly. What was happening? What was she doing? She remembered that night snuggled in Rhys’s bed when he’d asked her what she dreamed about and she’d answered making her father proud. The only way she’d ever considered this possible was by winning races. Yet now, in contrast, Doug was saying that he didn’t want her to race-ride. She’d built an entire career on a delusion.
She looked back at him, feeling dazed. Her father’s blue eyes searched hers desperately.
‘I–I have to think about it. I don’t know what else to say,’ she stammered. ‘Racing’s my job. It’s the only thing I know how to do.’
Vanessa patted her thigh and got to her feet.
‘We can’t ask for more than that. I’d better go check on the food.’ She made a move to the kitchen then paused. She held up an inspired finger. ‘On second thoughts, while I’m busy in the kitchen…’ She trotted out of the room in the opposite direction to the kitchen.
Frankie and Doug looked at each other.
‘What do you reckon she’s up to?’ Doug said.
‘Beats me.’
A moment later, Vanessa reappeared with a stack of photo albums piled in her arms. She dumped them on the table beside Frankie.
‘Here you are. I think now is a good opportunity for you two to catch up on some good times. Show Frankie the times you’ve been proud of her.’
Frankie opened the first album and gasped. Behind the laminate, a six-year-old Frankie sat in front of the Christmas tree; presents which were now old and tired looked sparkling and new. She flipped through the pages, gazing at the pictures which so often showed her on Doug’s shoulders, of the two of them playing in the surf in Cornwall.
Doug grunted as he got off his knees and came and sat beside her. Frankie tore her eyes away from the pictures to look at him.
‘Where’ve these been? I’d forgotten about these times.’
Already feeling cheerier, she giggled at the photo of herself and Seth burying Doug in beach sand, with ten-year-old Seth moulding two lumpy breasts onto his father’s chest.
*
With Vanessa excusing herself to the kitchen, they sat together, reliving Frankie’s childhood. Frankie felt Doug was being particularly brave about not baulking from the memories of Seth. She reached for the last album, dog-eared and more old-fashioned than the ones they’d already looked at. The photographs had long lost their sticky backs and were gathered haphazardly along the inner spine of the album. Frankie picked up one and snorted.
‘You had a moustache, Dad?’
Doug took the photo and shook his head with a wry smile.
‘God, this was a lifetime ago. I only had the moustache for a short while. Your mother fancied Tom Selleck so I grew it to impress her, but she didn’t like it on me.’
Frankie giggled and flicked through the loose photos—photos of Doug riding racehorses, eighties hairstyles and superhero-esque shoulder pads. She studied a Polaroid of a young dark-haired Doug with his arm around an equally young good-looking blond man. They were sat in a pub and both held up pints of lager in a toast. Her interest piqued by the friend’s good looks, she turned to her father.
‘Who’s this?’
Doug gave her a bemused look.
‘Don’t you know?’
Frankie looked closer. She mentally ran through all her far-flung uncles, but none of them matched the man in the photo.
‘I don’t think so. Should I?’
‘It’s Alan Bradford. Rhys’s dad.’
She gasped. His hair was blond and straight and his face fuller, but with closer scrutiny, she recognised the man’s crooked, teasing smile.
‘My God,’ she breathed. Her attention flickered to a woman standing to the right of the picture.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked. ‘Do I know her?’
‘Wouldn’t have thought so. She was gone long before you were born. That was Heidi.’
Frankie threw him a wary glance.
‘Heidi, as in the one Rhys’s dad was having an affair with?’
‘Yup.’ He shook his head with a heavy sigh. ‘The one and the same.’
Frankie’s reply was interrupted by her mobile bursting into song from her jeans pocket. She squirmed under her tray of photo albums to retrieve it. It was Tom.
‘Hey, Tom. You okay?’
‘Frankie. Thank God you answered,’ Tom said breathlessly.
‘What’s wrong? Have you locked yourself out the house?’
‘No. I’m inside. I’ve just got home. It’s Atticus, Frankie. I think he needs to go to the vets.’
Frankie sat bolt upright.
‘Atticus?’
‘Yeah. He doesn’t look well. I think there’s something wrong with him.’
Panic swelled inside her.
‘Like what? Is he vomiting? What?’
‘No, he’s just lying here like–like—I don’t know. But he doesn’t look good, Frankie.’
‘Okay, I’m on my way.’
She cut the call with a trembling finger.
‘It’s Atticus. He’s sick. I’ve got to get him to the vet.’ She stood up in a rush, spilling the photo albums all over her bag and the floor. ‘Oh!’ Her knees shook as she scrabbled to pick up all the loose photos.
‘Leave it, honey. Let me deal with this. You go on.’
‘God, I’m sorry, Dad. Thanks.’ She looped her bag over her shoulder and made for the door. ‘Tell Mum I’m sorry.’
Chapter 47
The surgery waiting room’s deathly silence was punctuated by Atticus Finch’s less than complimentary yowls as Frankie and Tom waited to be called.
‘He’s not sounding pleased,’ she said, peering into the cat carrier.
Atticus glared at her with yellow eyes.
‘Let’s hope his vocalising’s a good sign then,’ Tom replied.
A door opened and Mr Warnock, Aspen Valley’s regular vet, stepped out.
‘Atticus Finch?’
Frankie leapt to her feet and grabbed Atticus’s carrier.
‘I’ll wait here for you,’ Tom said, picking up a Your Pet magazine and making himself comfortable.
Mr Warnock smiled at Frankie and stepped aside to let her into the examination room.
‘Hello, Frankie. Not often I see you outside the yard.’
‘Thankfully,’ Frankie said, lifting the cat carrier onto the table. Realising how that sounded she clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
Mr Warnock laughed.
‘I know what you meant. Now what’s the problem with Atticus Finch?’
‘We’re not entirely sure. Tom came home tonight and found him lying in the kitchen, yowling like he was in pain. He’s not the liveliest cat, but he’s acting more lethargic than usual. And he’s fifteen years old so we thought it best to have him checked out.’
‘Quite right,’ Mr Warnock said, unclipping the carrier and extracting a rigidly reluctant Atticus.
Chewing her lips, Frankie watched as the vet’s gentle hands prodded and probed the elderly cat. He lifted him onto a weighing tray then checked his teeth.
‘He’s got a good set of gnashers for his age. What’s his appetite like?’
‘Very healthy. He’s always hungry.’
‘Hmm. Well, he’s a little underweight. Worming up to date?’
Frankie nodded. Atticus scowled as the vet probed his intestines.
‘…Feels like he’s got a stool waiting to pass. Okay, okay, old boy, I’ll let you keep your dignity.’ He took a thermometer and contrary to his words inserted it in Atticus’s most undignified orifice. Atticus’s eyes bulged at this violation. Frankie would have laughed if she hadn’t been so concerned.
With temperature and heart rate checked, Mr Warnock gave Atticus a consolatory pat on the head.
‘Well, there’s nothing obviously wrong with him. It might just be that he’s eaten something which he’s struggling to pass. It’s not unusual for older cats to have digestive problems. But since he’s as underweight as he is, I’d like to keep him in, do some blood tests. We’ll have a much better idea of what might be troubling him after that. Do you have pet insurance?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jolly good. Just let Ali know at reception and give us a call on Thursday.’
‘So he’ll be okay?’
‘I can’t say for sure until we have the blood tests done, but he doesn’t appear to be on his death bed. He might just be feeling a little lethargic like we all do sometimes. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.’
Relief that Atticus wasn’t on the last of his nine lives flooded through her.
‘Oh, thank God.’ She fondled Atticus’s bony back, but thought better of the kiss she was about to drop on his head. He looked about as thrilled as a turkey on Christmas Eve.
*
The house felt empty without the arthritic bag of grey fur wandering around and Frankie plonked down at the kitchen table and st
ared glumly at the opposite wall.
‘He’ll be okay,’ Tom said. ‘I probably over-reacted by calling you like I did.’
Frankie gave him a grateful smile.
‘I’m glad you did. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. You had anything to eat?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m not hungry.’
Tom extracted a tin of chocolate digestives and came to sit opposite her. Frankie closed her eyes, shutting out the image of the creamy chocolate biscuits, but her mouth still watered.
‘How did it go at your folks’?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘I told them,’ she shrugged. ‘Dad wasn’t best pleased, as you can imagine.’
‘Should Rhys think about getting police protection?’
Frankie gave a half-hearted laugh. It would be a good long while before she could make jokes about Rhys.
‘Nah. In a way, it turned out to be quite a good evening. Well, maybe not good,’ she said when Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Productive, more like. I learnt a few things about Dad that I didn’t know before.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. I discovered he doesn’t really want me to be a jockey.’
Tom spat out biscuit crumbs.
‘What?’
Frankie raised a wry smile.
‘I know. Ironic, wouldn’t you say? I spend my time trying to impress him by becoming a jockey, while all the time he wanted me to quit.’
‘Why did he never say anything?’
‘Mum and Dad have always been very good about letting me choose my own path. They thought this was what I wanted.’
‘And is it?’
Frankie lifted her hands in a gesture of defeat.
‘I don’t know. Honestly, I really don’t. I mean it just seems that all my goals, all my ambitions have suddenly disintegrated.’
‘Are you considering quitting?’
She grimaced, her loyalties torn.
‘I don’t want to quit Aspen Valley,’ she said. ‘I love it there—well, I did until me and Rhys split. It’s all a bit egg-shelly now.’
‘But the racing side of things? Come on, Frankie, do you really enjoy it that much?’
Frankie wrinkled her nose. She watched Tom munch through another biscuit.
‘Probably not as much as I should. But I couldn’t quit. How could I do that to Jack? He’s done so much for me this season. I’d look so ungrateful if I just jacked it all in after only one season.’
Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) Page 31
