‘She needs taking in hand, like a lot of females.’ There was a hint of a crooked smile, which Tom wasn’t that keen on. ‘So, you’re not here to put in an offer, then?’ The question came out abruptly.
‘Sorry?’
Billy took that as a no. ‘Well, that’s okay, then. Lottie be a darling and get her untacked, Tiggy seems to have gone AWOL.’
‘Dad, I need—’ But he’d jumped off the horse and strode off, tapping his crop against his boot. Lottie grabbed the horse’s reins, just as she started to wander after Billy, which was an annoying habit most of his horses developed. The need to follow him.
She needed to talk to Tom, then she needed to get home and changed so that she could get to the pub before Rory, Pip and Mick were too drunk to miss her. The last thing she wanted to do was run round after her dad just because the vague and unreliable Tiggy had wandered off again. Why her father had employed the woman, Lottie really didn’t know.
‘You have got spare stables, though?’ Tom found that the further away the man was, the more relaxed he became.
‘I, er…’ Lottie stared at him. If she didn’t get rid of them soon she wouldn’t have time for a shower before she headed to the pub, and all of a sudden she didn’t want to be smelly.
‘Great, I knew it. How about we just try it for a week or two? I’m happy to pay the going rate. I mean you’ve got everything here.’ He named an amount that made Lottie’s stomach jolt. Was that monthly or weekly? ‘Then, how about a lesson next week so you can assess Tab?’ She felt her head nodding, which it really wasn’t supposed to be doing. Amazing what the need to get rid of someone could do to your common sense.
‘Brilliant, see you tomorrow. Come on Tabby, I can see Lottie’s busy.’
He winked, put a fatherly arm around his daughter and was heading for the eyesore of a car before Lottie got the chance to ask what was supposed to be happening tomorrow.
***
Amanda James stood, a picture of restrained elegance, and stared out of the window at the vast expanse of immaculate lawn and felt a sudden pang for a vision of concrete. It wasn’t that she didn’t like it here; she loved it. But everything was so raw, animal-like. Even Lady Stanthorpe was as sharp, assessing and brusque as they come. These ladies might play golf and have afternoon tea, but their homes were freezing and their furniture passed on down so many years that each piece had its own ten generation pedigree.
And an Aga was fine, when it bloody worked. That was the trouble; everything was such damned hard work. Even the talking, unless you had a degree in equine studies. God, how she hated horses sometimes; they were impossible to escape. Totally impossible.
It hadn’t bothered Marcus; he had a totally unshakeable self-belief that carried him through life untouched by the scathing comments and put-downs. He had loved being a part of the ‘country set’, as he termed his neighbours. And he didn’t care that he’d just bought his way in, that he was as much a part of it as a palm tree in a park. He had been there, and that was all that mattered.
Amanda missed him. She missed his confidence, missed the way he bellowed for more sugar in his tea, despite the fact that the sugar bowl had been a matter of inches from his cup, missed the fact that he looked after her in his loud, brash way, like a father.
She was being stupid.
Amanda just sometimes longed for convenience, for a meaningless chat about the latest fashion. She didn’t understand most of the people here, apart from Pippa. She picked up her mobile, paused for a moment with the contact list open. A flash of yellow down by the yard caught her eye and the tall slim figure caught her attention even more firmly. Whoever had been visiting Billy Brinkley was far different to the normal, scruffy, bow-legged characters, and the car was enough to make her feel her prayers had been answered. She hadn’t realised until now just how much she’d started to loathe the sight of 4X4s and long for leather and sleek. She needed a distraction, and she needed one now. Before she made the biggest mistake of her life.
She pressed the call button. Forget fashion, Pippa knew everything. Pippa would know exactly who the visitor was. And Pippa would know precisely how to fix the nightmare that the funeral was just about to turn into.
Chapter 6
‘You can’t go like that.’
Rory shrugged, the boyish grin spreading over his features. ‘Why not? It’s my best jacket.’ Infectious, but oh so wrong.
‘It’s a hunting jacket, and we’re going to a funeral. Remember?’ Lottie, who had been under strict instructions (via her invite, if you called it an invite where funerals where concerned) not to wear black, and on the verge of rebelling out of a sense of decorum, had found it hard enough to find something suitable for herself. But Rory was going too far. And they were running out of time. And she was about to start giggling, which was so wrong. ‘It’s a bit disrespectful, I know the invite said not to wear black, but…’ She bit down on her lip, to stop the smile that Rory was doing his best to draw out of her.
‘It’s what he wanted, look.’ Rory dug his own card out from the pile of papers on the table and waved it roughly in her direction.
‘I don’t want to look. I know what it says, but it feels wrong.’ One of the dogs, which had taken Rory’s dig through the paperwork as an invite to jump on the table, put her paws up on Lottie’s chest and grinned a terrier grin, tongue lolling. ‘Don’t you dare lick me.’ It sank down on its haunches, paws leaving a snagged trail down her best satin shirt as sharp nails dragged from her boobs down to her stomach. ‘Oh, Christ.’ She already felt a mess. The dog yapped and she was very tempted to pick it up, sit on the sofa and bury herself, not Marcus, for the rest of the day. She rubbed absentmindedly at the scratch mark instead, hoping it would go away. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Maybe he’s having a last laugh at the country yokels. Well, it will be a laugh with your dad as pall-bearer at one end of his bloody coffin, and me and Dom at the other. He’ll be sliding from one end of the coffin to the other.’ The grin had broadened. ‘Knock some bloody sense into him.’
Lottie shut her eyes against the image of the lopsided coffin and bit the inside of her cheek harder, to stop the hysteria bubbling out. It was true. Rory and Dom had to be at least eight inches taller apiece than Billy. ‘Maybe it was a joke. I mean he didn’t expect to drop dead did he? He must have written it when he was drunk and meant to change it when he was expecting—’
‘To die? He must have been well pissed; well it’s his own bloody fault then. And if this is his last request, well, who are we to deny the man?’
‘You’re enjoying this.’
‘I bloody am. Look, why should we all be in black and miserable as sin just because he’s pegged it?’
‘Well, Dad is.’ She suddenly remembered just what Marcus’s death could mean, did mean. ‘Miserable I mean.’ The equestrian centre had never been like a real family home to her, no more than the place she rented now (which she was never in long enough to add any homely touches to). She had no particular attachment to either place, but it was her father’s livelihood. And it was more. After her mother had died, he’d initially moved out of the farmhouse, which had only been rented, and moved in to the impersonal environment of the groom’s quarters above the stables at Folly Lake equestrian centre, which suited him perfectly. During his waking hours he could shut out the pain and immerse himself in his horses, with every need on tap. But as the nightmares had softened he’d realised that his daughter needed more. They had moved back in to the house that bordered the yard, but his work obsession hadn’t eased. And so Lottie’s early childhood had been spent surrounded by horses and riders, grooms who could keep an eye on her, and on-off nannies who loved horses and dogs. And riders. Not that she had ever thought it unconventional, or felt herself hard done by. But nor had it given her any roots. Which, Elizabeth was sure, was why she still had the urge to wander. To find what she was missing.
Now, if the centre was sold, Billy could find the refuge he had buried himself i
n following Alexa’s death dragged from his grasp. And Lottie was old and wise enough to be scared. For both of them. If he lost that, what was left?
‘At least one of us will keep a straight face, then. I rely on you, darling.’ Rory blew her a kiss and raised an eyebrow in his best devil-may-care manner. ‘Do you reckon he’d want me to take the hunting horn?’ He picked up the horn, which she hadn’t spotted, and gave an experimental blow, which sent the terrier, startled, into her arms, scrabbling long red weals down her chest.
‘Shit.’ The muscled-up body of the little dog went over her shoulder and hit the floor running. ‘Don’t you dare, Rory Steel. Go away Tilly, in your bed.’ Instead, the little dog started haring around the kitchen like a minor whirlwind, barking excitedly, sending papers flying from the table in her flight over and under everything that was in her way. Lottie knew better than to move. ‘The invite definitely didn’t mention hunting horns.’
‘It did say hunting jacket, though, so, like it or not, that’s what I’m wearing.’
‘Without the breeches?’ She looked at his legs pointedly, and wondered, not for the first time, why even the sexiest legs in the world had knobbly knees in the middle.
‘Bugger. It’s your fault for knocking when I was half dressed.’ Rory strode out of the kitchen, all three dogs at his heels, shirt tails sadly covering his well-muscled, but decidedly naked, thighs. ‘Just polish my boots, will you?’
Lottie stared at the boots, still decorated with mud from his last ride out. The smell of leather pricked at her nostrils as she picked one up and wondered whether it would be quicker to drop it in the sink, or scrub it with a brush.
***
It was colder inside the church than out. Lottie wondered if that was a tactical thing to make you feel sad and remorseful. Or just a lack of money. Or stinginess. The church, like her gran, had been around a long time and knew how to spend its pennies on what it wanted and not what the rest of the world might appreciate.
Elizabeth had embraced the theme of the funeral in her normal fashion. Wearing black, because it was what she considered right and proper, and to hell with what the bereaved or deceased might want. ‘Great Expectations’ was the first thought that hit Lottie, followed quickly by ‘Addams Family’ when she saw the dramatic make-up and newly manicured nails. It just wasn’t fair how her gran, who let’s face it didn’t need perfect nails, could have them that length and unchipped when her own looked exactly how nails tended to look when you spent most of your time mucking out stables and moving jump poles.
***
Amanda sat bolt upright, because otherwise she was sure she’d crumple in a heap, and felt strangely detached as she stared at the coffin. So, this was it. It hadn’t been a nightmare when she’d woken up to find his arm pressed cold against her. And it seemed surreal, and somehow wrong, to be sharing his last moments with the group of people he’d wanted here. In life they’d been such different people, and in death they were too. They’d grown apart because they were so different, but stayed together because maybe they were the same, deep down.
For one ghastly moment she imagined the coffin lid coming up and his great guffaw of a laugh ringing out into the silent cavernous interior of the church. But it didn’t. Just like he hadn’t turned around one day and asked forgiveness for all the women he’d laid and promised to be faithful to until the end of his days. No, some things were as improbable as landing on Mars and discovering it actually was inhabited by a race that understood every word you said to them.
The last time she’d sat in a church had been their wedding. Which was bad; maybe she didn’t deserve to be happy? All the trimmings: a horse and carriage, a white satin gown, enough flowers to finish off a hay-fever sufferer. The façade of a fairy tale, turning her into the princess he wanted to live with. Well, maybe not live with the person he wanted to put on a pedestal and use as a symbol of what you could achieve if you worked hard. Which was a bit ironic, as Amanda had worked bloody hard to turn herself into that type of person. From the geeky, unfashionable teenager brought up in the suburbs, she’d made a career out of self-improvement. ‘Self’ being the operative word. If she hadn’t bothered, maybe she’d have found a man who truly loved her, and who was faithful. Maybe not.
‘I’ll be good to you, Mandy. You’ll never want for anything, I promise.’ And he had been, and she hadn’t been left wanting. Whatever everybody thought. Which would have been fine if she’d been a pampered pet poodle.
She’d forgiven his affairs at first, but then she’d realised that he had to shag everything that had a pulse and she knew if she’d thought the tip of the iceberg had been bad enough, the rest that was hidden underwater would end up drowning her. And it was the fact that everyone knew; that was what really hurt her.
He’d been in her bed the night he died, for a reason. He’d wanted to explain all the reasons she didn’t want a divorce. Quietly, patiently, like you’d explain to a five-year-old with learning difficulties. Marcus was good, was believable, and was lovable in his own way. He knew how to persuade her, knew every weak spot, and knew that she didn’t really want to go through with it. He wanted to find a compromise that would suit both of them, and she was so close to saying yes to him. So close, because it was next to impossible for her to deny him, whatever he did. But the one thing that any compromise could never give her was what she needed most. Freedom. Freedom and her self-respect back.
The stained-glass window blurred, so she glanced down at the coffin, then down further to her cold hands clasped so tightly in her lap that the fingertips had gone from pinkish to white and were heading for blue.
And she fucking missed the stupid bastard. A drop of water splashed down onto her thumb. Shit, she couldn’t cry. She just mustn’t. But tensing her jaw didn’t seem to work, nor did biting her bottom lip. A second and third tear found their way out. Although someone had to mourn his passing, he was, had been, a good man, deep down. That was why she’d married him. He’d spent a whole life changing himself, like she had, into a symbol of success. But she’d recognised that kernel of the original man that still remained, as though he’d winkled out the bits of her that hung on from the past. And that was what tied them together. Until the reality of who they’d become had been too heavy to ignore. Why the hell did things have to change? What was wrong with just being happy?
She surreptitiously wiped across her cheek with the back of her hand and glanced around the packed pews. How many of these people knew Marcus? Really knew who he was. Had been. At a guess, none of them knew and none of them cared. They’d come because he was a success, and even in death some of that might rub off onto them.
If she could just march out now and tell them all to go to hell, she would. The old Amanda might have done, his Mandy. But she couldn’t. Marcus would have wanted it this way; he had wanted it this way. The circus, that didn’t respect him at all, but did celebrate his achievements. The attendance alone did that. You couldn’t count love by numbers, but you could count respect. Or envy. Now all she needed was the whole fiasco to pass as quickly as possible and then she could go to bed with a bottle of wine and flannelette pyjamas and mourn in her own way. He’d have laughed at that: ditching the satin nightwear to mourn him. And he’d have hugged her. Shit, she was going to start blubbing again if she wasn’t careful. She just had to concentrate. On the crowd, on being polite. On forgetting why they were there, like everyone else would soon do. God, she’d kill for a drink right now.
***
‘There was water in the bottom of my boot.’ Rory slid into the pew next to Lottie and hissed in her ear. The warmth of his thigh welcome in more ways than the normal ones.
‘Don’t wriggle, dear, sit still.’
Lottie had thought she’d only shifted a small, unnoticeable, amount, and in Rory’s direction. But eagle-eyed Elizabeth had noticed it.
‘I know. Accident with the tap.’ She’d gone for the sink option and the tap had spurted cold water out uncontrollably when she’d tu
rned it the wrong way. ‘It isn’t much.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’ He squeezed her own thigh, how the hell was she supposed not to wriggle when he did that? ‘He didn’t roll about too much, think old Billy must have put risers in his heels.’
‘I thought he looked taller.’ Elizabeth’s tone was dry.
And how did her gran hear whispered words when she played deaf most of the time? Obviously, she decided, there must be a gap between her ears and the words had gone straight through.
***
Mercifully the service was short, sweet and not too sycophantic. And the congregation sighed a collective sigh of relief when they got out of the cold, dark gloom of the ancient church and into the soft warmth of the spring sunshine.
Marcus had opted for cremation, which meant that although he didn’t go out with a bang, nor did he go with a thud. As Pip put it, ‘A ball of fire just has to be better than a clod of earth, doesn’t it?’
‘Sex on fire is even better.’
Lottie would have been pleased if she could have hung onto the urge to stamp on Mick’s foot, or put his own sex on fire, when the Irish burr cut into the conversation. But, annoyingly, the need went quickly when she looked up, straight into those dancing Irish eyes. She just wanted to gaze at him, like an adoring Spaniel might, and wag her tail, except now she was going from the ridiculous to the faintly obscene. ‘You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ The toe-curling smile made her want to spin the banter out, but Elizabeth was hot on her heels.
‘You and Rupert can come with me.’
‘Rory. You know he’s called Rory, Gran.’
‘Sorry, what was that, Roger?’
‘I’ve got my own car here, thanks.’
‘If you have to.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘But don’t park it too close to the others. And do remind me to have a word with your father about that later, dear.’
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 103
