Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  No mention had been made at all about how things stood between us since last night. I’d enquired if she was all right when we met for breakfast in the dining room, and she’d been her usual relaxed self, no sign of being uptight. I hadn’t pushed it. When she was ready to talk, I’d be waiting to listen. Until then, I was just relieved there was no awkwardness between us.

  We made our way back in the brilliant sunshine to the lake and went into a marquee for coffee – and, for the girls, some very naughty nibbles. The very decent breakfast I’d downed would last me for quite a while.

  In some ways, it was like a normal racecourse here – crowds flooding in, expectant, happy, keen to watch the racing. But here the similarity ended. It was in no way like an English racecourse! The backdrop of the Alps, starkly white, the crowds, a good percentage wearing furs, all wearing dark glasses to counteract the glare of sunshine reflected off the dazzling snow, and the overriding atmosphere of wealth. Not just wealth – fabulous wealth!

  I reminded myself that this was the playground of the privileged rich. However, intertwined in the beautiful tapestry of humankind displaying goodwill to each other, there were also the local people and visiting tourists.

  But for each and every person – however much their wallet held – their base line was enjoyment.

  As the clock ticked on to eleven thirty, the buzz of expectant energy in the air increased the tension until the charged electricity was almost tangible.

  And the weather couldn’t have been better – brilliant, warm sunshine. It reflected off the stands of BMW cars, waxed, polished and gleaming. A light breeze fluttered the flags and insignia-printed banners. The sponsors were BMW.

  The starting stalls, painted in bright yellow and green, were drawn on to the ice by four-by-four vehicles and set in place on the ice at the start of the race.

  It was a strange feeling, standing behind the firm wooden and plastic barriers, watching the preparations going on and the horses and jockeys circling round prior to loading up. It felt wrong and I experienced a pull to get myself down among them. Being a spectator didn’t do it for me.

  Georgia was watching me. ‘Wish you could be in one of those saddles?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. But it takes an experienced jockey to race in these conditions. I’d be hopeless.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think “hopeless” is the right word. But I have to admit it looks very testing, if not downright dangerous. And what about the skijoring?’

  ‘One of the most dangerous sports in the world, I believe.’

  ‘I can believe it. Racing on grass is risky, but racing at that speed on top of slippery ice and snow, well …’

  ‘I’ve heard it mentioned that securing a good position before the first bend is key to doing well in the race. Still, I suppose all the other jockeys are going to be going for it, too. Could end up a real scrum.’

  ‘I have to trust the skill of Gerard Faulkes. Tally says he’s ridden on snow before, so it’s not an unknown experience for him,’ Lady Branshawe said. ‘And he was successful, too.’

  ‘It would be great if he wins today,’ I said.

  And I hoped he would. Lady Branshawe was just the sort of owner that trainers – and jockeys – hope will use their services. Despite her wealth and position, there was no side to her whatsoever. Indeed, I’d pointed out to her she was quite entitled to share the marquee designated for VIPs, but, with a wide smile, she’d shaken her head.

  ‘Thank you, Harry, but I’d much rather be right here with all of you.’ She waved an arm out towards the lake. ‘What you could call “up close and personal”. Tally says the kickback from the hooves causes quite a mini-snowstorm. I might even feel the snow. You know, like walking by the side of the sea, feeling the spray on your face. It’s all part of the pleasure.’

  ‘I don’t know if the jockeys would agree with you. They have to wear plastic ski masks to race in because it’s not just snow but ice as well that gets balled up and hurled at them by the hooves. At the speed they race, it could cut their faces if they weren’t wearing any protection.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m sure, Harry. And, of course, they’re all very brave to be riding.’

  ‘Brave or foolhardy,’ said Tally, joining us and picking up the conversation.

  ‘If they thought too hard about the risks, they wouldn’t do it,’ Georgia said.

  I cast a glance at the time. Almost eleven forty-five. The first race was about to start.

  ‘You happy to watch from here, Lady Branshawe?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Tally. I was just explaining to Harry that when we stand by the barriers, it’s somehow more thrilling.’

  Over the loudspeakers we were informed that the horses had now all been loaded into the stalls and, moments later, ‘They’re off!’

  Lady Branshawe’s choice of the word ‘thrilling’ was certainly appropriate. As the stalls opened, the eight runners burst forward on to the ice. What appeared to be a white cloud rose up and enveloped the horses. And with hooves crashing on the crusty snow-topped ice, they raced towards us, bringing the snow cloud with them. At that distance, it looked like a toy – a globe that, when shaken, caused a snowstorm within to whirl upwards and circle around in one enclosed space. But this was no toy. This was real, almost frighteningly alive, and coming straight down the lake heading towards the winning post.

  As they drew closer, what struck me the most was their leg action. Perhaps caused by the different racing plates, it was high, almost a prancing action, particularly with their forelegs. But it was like looking through a cloud of white smoke.

  However, as they swept up the course to draw level with us, their lower legs were practically hidden by a blur of white. The horses appeared to be racing through a blizzard of snow, albeit a snowstorm that rose up rather than came down from the sky before it fell in a lingering white haze behind them. Without the goggles, the jockeys could have been blinded by the whirling and swirling snow and ice. It was magnificent and scary at the same time.

  In awe, we stood watching, speechless, the spectacular action taking place in front of us casting a spell that held us almost breathless. The white cloud followed the horses down to the winning post. And as the horses galloped past, the crowd erupted with whoops, cheers and excited laughter.

  And suddenly we were whooping along with the other racegoers. The noise was so loud that it almost wiped out the speaker announcing that number seven, Dark Dream, had come first – Lady Branshawe’s horse! And then we were all hugging each other and laughing, sharing her success.

  ‘Oh, that was magnificent,’ she managed to say joyfully through choking emotion. ‘Absolutely superb.’

  And so it was – an experience that couldn’t be described adequately.

  ‘Wow.’ Georgia’s eyes were starry with excitement. ‘Thank you so much, Lady Branshawe, for letting me come to witness that.’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ Tally said, laughing with delight, ‘I knew it would blow you away. It’s a totally unique racing venue. What did you think, Harry?’

  The women all turned to me, faces alight with joy, all as high as kites in a strong wind in the aftermath of seeing our horse win.

  I shook my head. ‘If someone back home asked you to put it into words, you couldn’t. You have to witness it yourself.’

  ‘You were all watching it for the very first time. That’s why it made such an impact.’

  ‘I’m certainly very glad I changed my mind about coming, or’ – I wagged an admonishing finger at her – ‘had it changed for me.’

  Tally laughed, ‘You’ll all be dining out on the story for months.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Despite Tally’s warning that the first time of witnessing was not repeated in quite the same way again, I didn’t agree. Each subsequent race still filled us with awe and held us riveted against the barriers as the horses powered past, bathed in their ball of flying snow.

  However, the skijoring race was an eye-opener – an incredible feat of
athleticism and courage on the part of the jockeys. This time, they weren’t seated astride the horses but had their boots locked into skis that ran along the surface of the ice and snow. Long reins trailed back behind the horses and the jockeys used these to balance as they skied, weaving from side to side, trying to stay upright, while being pulled along at a seriously frightening speed.

  A flapping, narrow sheet of fabric was used as encouragement, lifting and dipping behind the horses’ rear legs. If the risk factor in traditional riding was hair-raising under these icy conditions, then the skijoring was sharply terrifying. With little control, the jockeys flapped encouragement to the prancing, whinnying horses and set blistering speeds along the frozen lake.

  The watching crowd roared their appreciation at the sheer bravado and nerve of the participants. The eager yells of the jockeys, coupled with the harsh hiss of around ten pairs of skis, added to the noise and excitement levels. It was a spectacular sight, enhanced by being such an incredibly dangerous sport.

  Rawlson was one of the jockeys. And this was his first time skijoring.

  Georgia watched with eyes wide with apprehension, hand over her mouth.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘The devil looks after his own.’

  ‘It’s more scary than the Cresta Run.’

  ‘Hmm … you need a deal of nerve.’

  ‘Not for you, Harry?’ Tally asked mischievously.

  I shook my head. ‘No, ma’am. No way.’

  ‘My word, I should say not.’ Lady Branshawe was gripping the top of the barrier tightly.

  ‘Gerard’s doing well,’ Tally said.

  Faulkes, an experienced jockey, was also strutting his stuff. He was taking part for another trainer.

  ‘He won one before, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  We watched, mesmerized, as the skiers and horses drew level. It made my own efforts on an English racecourse look like strolling down a country lane. I might not like Rawlson, but at that moment I found I had a grudging respect for him. Both men warranted a gesture of appreciation for their bravery in taking part, whether they won or not.

  The horses swept past, throwing up balls of snow and ice that left the desperately striving skiers behind them caked in glistening white. The sight held the racegoers in fascinated suspense. And then, quite suddenly, the horses reached the winning post and it was over. The applause and cheering that rang out would have shamed a crowd at a cup final.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ Lady Branshawe said, shaking her head, ‘that is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.’

  We were all in agreement.

  But while the women were lit up, busy relishing, reliving every minute and giving a personal take on it, I stood beside them, smiling, nodding agreement at the comments – and shamelessly using the cover of our little group to scan the crowds.

  I’d been doing a quick recce most of the afternoon, except when the action on the racecourse demanded fullest attention. And as I now panned my gaze around the ardent racegoers, I knew with depressing certainty that Jackson Fellows wasn’t here.

  Yet, even as I silently cursed his absence, I wondered if it was significant. I decided it had to be. Nathaniel Willoughby had said Jackson came every year, but just this one time he’d seen fit to stay away. Why?

  It was a question that I knew I’d be asking myself all the way back to England. If I could work it out, the answer could prove enlightening. Because there had to be a sound reason he’d ducked it this year.

  Most of the very best parties I’d attended had been given by Barbara Maguire, a trainer from Leicestershire, a good friend and a very present help in dangerous times. But even Barbara’s parties would have found this evening’s one a challenge. It was held in the Barouche Bar, in the middle of St Moritz, a fabulous setting, which supplied every need in catering and alcohol – and stayed open until four o’clock in the morning. Well, I was told that the next day.

  Georgia had declared it time for bed at around two a.m. I’d been a hundred per cent in accordance. Rendered considerably uninhibited but not quite plastered, the pair of us had returned through the black, star-spangled night and walked up the steps into the warmth of the foyer of the Koselig Hotel.

  ‘Must you leave?’ Lady Branshawe had swayed gracefully against me as I’d taken our leave. ‘Tally and I are staying to the end.’

  I’d cast a glance around at the joy-filled crowd raising the roof along with their drinks, the uproariously laughing females who had commandeered the tabletops for dancing, and nodded.

  ‘See you on the other side, in the morning.’

  ‘Have a good night,’ Tally said, and winked lasciviously at us.

  Georgia, already flushed from alcohol and having danced me around the floor most of the night, turned a deeper shade of pink.

  Now, closeted close together in the hotel lift on the way to the second floor, she leaned against me.

  ‘That was some party.’

  ‘Some party,’ she agreed, nodding and wobbling.

  ‘I think coffee’s called for.’

  ‘I think,’ she said solemnly, with distinct care, ‘I’m pished.’ And giggled.

  I put an arm around her for additional support. ‘I think you could be right.’

  We fell out of the lift at the second floor, both of us laughing helplessly and stumbled along to room 203.

  ‘Are you coming in?’

  Our eyes met, locked – those same words I’d spoken last night.

  ‘Since I’m here’ – she emphasized the words – ‘I will.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘I’d like you to, as well.’

  I turned the key and let us in.

  Suddenly, there was no urgency. We sat on the plush two-seater settee, sipped coffee, came down from the overheated mood of the party, and talked. And talked: Georgia about her man, the serving soldier in Afghanistan; me about Annabel.

  When the talking stopped, we slid between cool white sheets, reached out for each other and held on tightly. It felt good, a warm body and a beating heart held close against my own. I’d forgotten the solace it could bring. I drank it in, drowned in the moment.

  ‘I need some comfort, Harry.’ Georgia nuzzled her face between my chin and shoulder.

  I didn’t reply, simply nodded and began kissing her face very gently, very slowly, beginning with her closed eyelids and finding my way down her softly rounded cheeks to her waiting lips. The rest should have followed on naturally – but didn’t.

  By the time I remembered that drinking quantities of alcohol didn’t do lovemaking any favours, I also realized by the slackening of tension in Georgia’s body and her slower breathing that she’d fallen fast asleep in my arms. As I willingly succumbed and followed her example, my last thought was that she had saved me from the ultimate in humiliating embarrassment.

  But at seven o’clock the next morning, we awoke together as the muted alarm clock went off. And this time I wasn’t feeling in the least embarrassed. The last woman I’d made love to had been Annabel, a long time ago – far too long.

  Georgia was still sleepy as I stroked her silky smooth skin, kissed her nipples, felt them harden into desire as she came fully awake. I ran my lips softly down her neck, smelled the echo of perfume still clinging to her. Cupped her cheeks with both hands and kissed her warm, waiting lips. She returned my kisses, increasingly hungrily. Then, as her seeking hands traced their way down my chest, my belly, and found my pulsing hardness, she caught her breath in a gasp of desire.

  The heat of our need and passion turned into a conflagration that melted away the material world outside. Nothing else existed; it was just the two of us – as one – in our own unique universe. Our lovemaking was urgent, passionate, yet tender. I honoured her rhythm, lasting until the sensation was totally beyond control, and climaxed with her. The exquisite relief was as needed as snow on a ski-slope, but as my heart rate steadied, I felt Georgia�
�s body begin to move jerkily, awkwardly beneath me.

  Raising myself, I looked down at her. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, face flushed and lightly dewed. Then the tears she was struggling so hard to contain overflowed, flooding down her cheeks.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she sobbed, rolling her head from side to side.

  ‘For what?’ I ran a finger across her cheek, displacing the flow of tears. ‘What’s the matter?’

  She just shook her head helplessly. I eased away from her and got out of bed.

  ‘Would a cup of tea help?’

  She choked and sobbed, laughter and tears battling it out. ‘England’s answer,’ she managed to say.

  I bent and kissed her wet cheek. ‘Lie still; I’ll make us both some.’

  I flicked on the kettle before going over to the window. I drew back the heavy drapes. The early-morning view of the glistening white Alps was glorious – it was a beautiful day. Sunshine bounced off the snowy peaks and poured into the room.

  When I returned to bed with two steaming mugs, Georgia had collected herself and was sitting propped up against the pillows.

  ‘Thanks.’ She took the tea I offered.

  For two or three minutes we sat in bed and sipped in silence. But it wasn’t a comfortable silence. As tension crept in and the silence stretched, Georgia placed a hand on my arm.

  ‘I have to tell you, Harry.’ She buried her face over the drink. ‘I must. And I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I know what you’re going to say.’

  She shook her head. ‘How can you?’

  ‘You’re sorry because at a … shall we say, crucial moment – or maybe even before – you imagined it was your soldier … not me, loving you. And now you’re feeling guilty.’

  ‘Oh my God, yes!’ She stared wide-eyed at me. ‘I did. And it’s so disrespectful to you.’

  I put a hand out and smoothed back a stray lock of hair from her damp forehead. ‘Let it go; it doesn’t matter.’

  I watched her hand shake as she took a big gulp of tea.

  ‘It does matter; believe me, it does,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. Hastily draining the rest of her drink, Georgia pushed back the duvet and climbed out. She stood at the end of the bed, naked and beautiful. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Harry? It matters very much – to me.’