He was devoted to Lottie, his free spirit of a daughter, in the same way he’d been totally addicted and devoted to her beautiful but wild mother. Alexa had been elusive, impossible to pin down, and Billy had fallen, as many had, head over heels in love with that side of her. But he had also loved her vulnerability, had wanted to care for her. Tiggy remembered when Charlotte had been a toddler. The proud Billy, when he had been home, had put her in the saddle before she could walk, had laughed at her chuckles and demands for more. But he hadn’t been home enough; he’d been on tour all summer, every summer. He’d played away in every sense possible. And slowly he’d destroyed the one thing that meant the most to him.
Tiggy sighed. She could never compete with the beautiful and whimsical Alexa. Nobody could. But Billy wanted, needed, someone to love him the way Alexa had. Not because he was cuddly and a laugh, not because he shagged with the abandon of a man intent on being the best, despite his ever-spreading girth. He wanted a grand passion. A woman who took him seriously.
‘Stop mooning and pop that pole back before you go will you, love?’
She looked at him as he cantered around the edge of the arena. ‘You should have a riding hat on, William.’
He chuckled. ‘And you should be finding my daughter. Then get your arse back here and give me a hand.’
‘Oh, you do have such a way with words.’ But at least, Tiggy thought as she watched him kick the horse on towards the fence, he seemed to have recovered some of his normal bonhomie. But she doubted that his way with words would extend to telling her what was on his mind. Though it didn’t take a genius to guess that the answer probably lay up at the house, and in the hands of Amanda James. And in the notional ‘For Sale’ board that everyone was convinced had materialised on the day Marcus James breathed his last breath.
***
The horse, when it finally came down the ramp of the massive horse transporter, wasn’t what Lottie expected at all.
‘That’s it?’
She looked past the driver into the cavernous exterior, as though she expected there to be a string of horses in there. Or at least one more, because this one was a mistake.
‘Yup. Here you go, love.’ The driver handed her the end of the rope, had the ramp back up with the type of indecent haste that said he was expecting trouble and passed her a docket to sign, along with a horse passport.
‘Merlin, bay gelding, Mr T. Strachan. Sign here, love, and then I can get back on the road.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Tiggy looked from the horse, to Lottie, then back to the horse again, as the driver expertly turned the transporter and edged it out of the yard. She looked again, as though she half-expected there to be a leg missing, or something equally obvious. Tiggy’s devotion to the yard went only as far as Billy; it didn’t extend to any kind of equine knowledge, which for some strange, unexplained reason (given the highly strung horses Billy worked with) hadn’t yet caused any catastrophes.
‘Well, I don’t know. It’s just I expected something a bit more, well…’
‘More flashy, less carthorse?’
‘He’s a cob, a Welsh cob, not a carthorse. Really, Tigs, I would have thought you’d know something about horses by now. All the time you hang around Dad.’
‘I don’t hang around.’ Tiggy kept her tone mild, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘I help him out, when I’m not too busy.’ She flapped the bottom of her smocked top to let some air in and wished she was one of those people who kept their cool whatever the weather. She only had to sense the sun and her skin went a horrible pink that clashed with her auburn hair, and her internal temperature rocketed. She loved the British summertime; it just didn’t love her.
‘Tom’s into dogs, you know, maybe he’ll bring you some business.’ Lottie had never been quite sure what Tiggy did with her time. She had lived in Tippermere for all of her life, and after her author husband had run off with his editor, she’d set up the grooming business. But there wasn’t much call for dog grooming in Tippermere. Most of the dogs, as far as Lottie could see, were short-haired terriers, or Labradors, or working spaniels and border collies that enjoyed life in the mud and didn’t want, or need, a bath or a haircut. Which was why, Charlotte guessed, Tiggy had become a more or less (when it suited her) permanent fixture around Billy. The meagre pay he gave her kept her fed, and she liked the company. Why Billy put up with her was more of a mystery. She knew zilch about horses and was totally unreliable, prone to wandering off talking to herself just at a crucial moment. ‘And I wouldn’t flap your top around like that, he thinks you’re about to take off.’ Lottie felt instantly guilty as Tiggy coloured up even more, if that was possible, and shot Merlin a worried look. She was nice, very nice, and the one permanent fixture around Billy’s yard.
‘Well, I think he’s quite pretty.’
You would, thought Lottie. He looked slightly wild, like Tiggy’s own dogs, which didn’t say much for her grooming skills.
‘Handsome.’
‘Butch.’ Tiggy grinned and gave him a tentative pat, then rapidly retreated, like the tide on its way out, when the horse flicked his ears back at the sound of a car turning into the centre. ‘I’d better get back.’ She waved a hand in the vague direction of the indoor school as Billy’s gruff tones filtered across the yard to them, ‘I’m supposed to be putting poles back up, or something.’
‘You shouldn’t let Dad boss you around, you know.’
‘I don’t.’ Tiggy’s voice was soft as she met Lottie’s look. ‘I like helping him out.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘He’s sweet.’
‘Sweet? But he never even says thanks, and you don’t even really work for him.’
‘He does in his own way.’ Tiggy stepped back in alarm as Merlin circled Lottie at the end of the lead rope.
‘He could get one of the grooms to pick up dropped poles for him.’
‘But I like doing it.’ There was a gentle smile on Tiggy’s face that Lottie couldn’t quite work out. Like she was, well, fond of him. ‘And he needs someone.’
‘Needs?’ She furrowed her brow. ‘He’s got lots of people, and,’ now she was feeling slightly peeved, ‘he’s got me.’
‘You’re grown up Lottie, you’ve got your own life. Have you never thought that he might be lonely?’
Which was the strangest idea she’d ever heard, and she would have dwelled on it had it not been for the ear-splitting shriek. ‘Merlin.’ The car had barely scrunched to a halt on the gravel before the door was flung open and a gangly mess of stick-thin legs encased in stretch denim, long black hair and a t-shirt that looked like it belonged at a punk rockers’ convention practically fell out, but somehow hit the ground running – straight over to the gelding, who nickered a soft welcome of affection as the previously unemotional Tabby draped herself around him.
Good Lord, Lottie thought in shock, was the girl kissing her horse? Could that actually be a smile of pure happiness on her face? But Lottie knew exactly how it felt. When she had been Tabby’s age, her horses were her everything.
Tom slowly edged into view, running fingers through his floppy Hugh Grant fringe and looking similarly abashed. And as if he’d been run over by a juggernaut.
Lottie grinned and forgot all about the weird Tiggy who had taken the opportunity to run back to Billy. ‘Pip said you’d be a lightweight.’
Tom stared back, horrified that details of the mad coupling had already spread through the village like wildfire, including a detailed description of any sexual deviancies and shortcomings he was presumed to have.
‘She said that?’ What had she meant, lightweight? Small, totally inadequate? Hung like a horse suddenly took on a whole new connotation of expectation and disappointment.
‘You’d never stand the pace, she said when she texted.’
Texting? She’d been texting in the middle of that? Was he really so pissed that he’d missed her waving her mobile phone around in between thrusts? And he’d got there, and so had she, unless all those animal-like
noises had been because her mobile had got stuck somewhere it shouldn’t. Or were they to disguise the fact that she was actually reporting the whole thing while he’d been buried deep between those evenly tanned and toned legs?
‘And she was right, I mean all-nighters are the norm around here, you know.’ She was obviously amused at his aghast expression.
‘It was practically all night.’ Tab had temporarily untangled herself from her long-lost horse and added her normal touch of sarcasm to the proceedings.
Shit, she hadn’t heard, had she? Tom had assumed that from her attic bedroom, which she’d insisted on having, the noise wouldn’t have reached. Or he would never have let things go the way they had. But he was half tempted to add that it was pretty much all night, which coupled with copious amounts of the local brew and the vodka bombs, or whatever Pip had called them, had left him feeling like he’d been turned inside out. Depth charge; that was what she’d called them. And it figured. How the hell he’d even got it up was a bit of a mystery, let alone had the energy to do what they had done. That type of lust was something that he’d thought had disappeared along with his youth and acne. And she’d said he was a lightweight?
‘No it wasn’t,’ Lottie was laughing at Tab, ‘it was only ten thirty. Eleven tops when he left.’
‘Dad had his own party.’ She gave them a look of disgust and turned her attention back to all things equine.
Lottie stared, and Tom stared back, as the truth of the situation dawned on him. No one was accusing him of under-performing. The comments were about the dazed look in his eyes, not the diffused feel in his pants.
She was just talking about his early departure from the pub, followed by his hung-over state this morning. ‘You had a party and didn’t invite us?’ Lottie looked crestfallen, and he felt a sudden stab of guilt at mentally accusing her of discussing his sexual prowess behind his back, and at making her feel left out.
‘It was a private party.’ Tab glanced from one to the other. ‘You know? Party for two? Look, do you two mind if we put Merlin in a stable? I mean he has got to be tired; he’s just stood for hours in that box.’
Lottie glanced from the horse to Tom, and back again. Torn between obvious duty to horse-kind, and a more pressing duty to find out just who he’d been with. After all, he wasn’t supposed to know anyone here, was he?
Tab cleared her throat noisily.
‘Sure, of course, I mean, come on I’ll show you.’
‘Great, thanks.’ The words came out of Tom’s mouth in a ‘grateful for the distraction, and now let’s move on’ kind of way.
She’d have to ask Pip. Pip would know; she knew everything. Or, if she didn’t, Elizabeth would. Not that it was a good idea to ask her, unless she really had to. Maybe it was Amanda. Maybe the papers had been right all along. He had been very insistent about coming to the equestrian centre, hadn’t he? He could have quite easily found some penny-pinching farmer who was more than happy to rent out a field and a stable. But he’d wanted to come here, so his darling, precocious daughter could have riding lessons with her; someone he knew absolutely nothing about at all. But did that mean he was actually after Amanda? It was almost believable. They’d look quite good together. She tried not to stare too obviously as she imagined them arm in arm, or snogging. Or in bed, being very polite and making the proper oo and ah noises at the right times, which was something she’d never managed to do. It would all be very proper and perfect. Oh my God, what was she doing, imagining them in bed? What if he guessed? Lottie cleared her throat in an attempt to clear her dirty mind. ‘Er, great that you’re settling in so quickly.’ But he wasn’t really listening, he was staring over the fields with a glazed look.
***
Tom only half heard. None of this was turning out quite how he’d planned. Not that there had been any big master plan, but it definitely hadn’t involved hitting the national headlines, landing a two-page spread in the local rag and getting the best shag of the decade followed swiftly by the hangover from hell. Nope, it had involved obscurity in the countryside. Yeah, great to be settling in, who the hell had coined the phrase ‘rural idyll’? Except, for some strange reason, he actually couldn’t feel upset about it. Although the primary aim had been to settle Tabatha, and right now she didn’t look that settled, even with her precious four-legged and furry friend in tow.
‘Are you going to come or not, Dad?’ She was glaring at him.
‘Sure I am, poppet.’
‘I told you not to call me poppet.’
So much for the happy phase – that had lasted about five minutes, at a push. Maybe once she got the animal bedded and boarded she’d admit to being slightly satisfied.
‘Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Mom rang this morning.’ And with a satisfied smirk on her face, mission accomplished, she turned and strode off after Lottie.
His own happy phase exploded into the ether as he stared after her, his mouth open, with a new churning in his stomach that had nothing to do with vodka.
Chapter 10
If Tippermere was the epitome of English countryside, then Kitterly Heath was the Lady of the Manor. Elegant, refined and yet, in its subtle way, shouting out a message of money and glamour. Lady Bountiful.
The single main street curved graciously from one end to the other;a prize necklace adorned with a carefully crafted range of jewels, some flash and sparkly, some more refined and quietly glamorous. All were designed to part the wealthy residents from their stash of cash. Designer shops, wine importers and estate agents vied for attention with the type of village shop that has all but disappeared from the villages of England, and there was, of course, an upmarket nail salon, flanked by the kind of shoe shop that displayed only designer labels with killer heels and heart-stopping price tags, and a sweet shop that sold candy canes and flying saucers at sky-high prices. But the point was, if you needed to look at the price, Kitterly Heath really wasn’t the place for you.
At one end of the village stood a proud and solid-looking church, dating back (so the plaque proclaimed) to the 14th century. But whilst the building looked relatively understated and traditional, the churchyard told a different story. Within the surrounding walls, its occupants competed even in death. It was crammed full of local dignitaries, with the type of imposing headstones that would have cost an arm and a leg and anywhere else would have been laid flat for health and safety reasons.
The village was flanked at its other end by a private school, with its origins in a deep and respectable past, but with so many additions and modifications proudly paid for by competing benefactors it could have dignified any surroundings.
In between the two sentinels nestled a quintessential village that was as small as it was perfect.
Here, you could find a small deli selling a wide range of local cheeses, sitting alongside more glamorous foreign delights that Harrods would have been proud to display. A few short strides on along the wide pavement was a local butcher, proudly displaying game, hanging still in its furred and feathered splendour, with the best steaks and pork for those with less adventurous tastes. And scattered with glorious abandon between the upmarket purveyors of all things culinary was a range of tea shops, wine bars and restaurants that could cater for any taste, provided that money was no object. And if you could afford to live in Kitterly Heath, then it was a given that money was indeed no object.
There were three broad categories of resident in the village. The type who had lived here for generations, and inhabited the grand but slightly dilapidated mansions just up the hill. Then there were those who had made their money in the City, following perfectly respectable (to some) careers that usually involved money. And then there were the others. The ones who ensured recession didn’t exist in this cosy corner of Cheshire. The ones who had made it here on the back of a skill set that could cause tutting and censure. The pop stars, the footballers – after all, two major rival teams were based within a short Ferrari drive away – and the actors who hankered after a country-
estate address to add to their Hollywood and City portfolio.
Pip squeezed her moped in between an eclectic selection of BMWs, Mercedes and the odd Rolls Royce, wishing money was no object for her, and headed into the bakery to pick up a few of her favourites. She’d need something to eat before heading off to the interview. Footballers’ wives weren’t in the habit of stocking carbs in the cupboard and an evening of drink followed by a night of surprisingly athletic shagging had left her absolutely ravenous.
Tom had been something of a revelation; even half-cut, well, more than half, he’d looked like he was completely wasted. But he’d been an amazingly good lover, with the type of stamina that had left her mildly shocked. And, for his age, he had a very well-maintained body, which she supposed went with the territory – not something City bankers often took that seriously. They thought that if they had the barely discernible start of a six-pack, then they’d got it made. And if they could keep it up for more than the requisite three minutes, they were a lothario in the making. She’d always done her best to avoid getting involved with other journalists; not that they weren’t good for a laugh and a drink, or ten, but muddying her own patch wasn’t her style. Nor was sleeping with someone who made their living out of extracting secrets. But her social life and job in London had meant it was surprisingly easy to get laid, if and when she desired. This part of Cheshire, with its close-knit community and out-of-control grapevine, was an altogether different kettle of fish, as her mother would have said. Tom was different.
As she ate the freshly baked pie, she stared at the photographs that were tastefully displayed in the estate agent’s window, and tried to imagine what she would buy if she were, by some highly unlikely stroke of fate, able to snag herself a millionaire, as Amanda had done. Obviously Tom, for all his attractions, was too old, and came with a stroppy teenager attached and, she guessed, enough emotional baggage to last a lifetime. He was sweet, rich, from what she’d heard, and good in bed. But hey ho, even in a highly optimistic frame of mind she knew they’d be a disaster together, even if they could find a single thing in common, which she sincerely doubted. From the rumours she’d heard, his wife had become totally bored when he’d hit his mid-life crisis and decided to become a slippers-and-sweater type of guy. What a total waste. Maybe he’d grow out of it.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 108
