‘I couldn’t resist,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘You certainly will.’ I watch him stride across to Maisie and the dogs before I head back to Wisteria House in the truck, where I find bad news waiting for me in the form of a letter from the bank. It’s a reminder that I’ve reached the overdraft limit, and confirmation that I cannot close the joint account I opened with Ryan until it’s paid off in full.
I check my other account online. I don’t know why I bother, because I already know that I’ve hit the limit on that too.
I break out into a cold sweat. I have another three weeks until Mel pays me, Rafa needs his annual jab and a visit from the dentist to check his teeth, and I’m due to transfer the next repayment on the loan that Ryan took out on my behalf when we were together. I go and find Mel and ask him over a beer in the garden if he can let me have some of my wages in advance.
‘I’d like to help you out,’ he says, hesitating.
‘That’s great, thanks,’ I say, jumping in quickly. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘I think you bamboozled me into that one,’ he sighs. ‘What’s it for, the horse?’
‘How did you guess?’ I say, happy to let him think that.
‘Cheers.’ Mel touches his beer bottle against mine with a cool chinking sound. ‘Perhaps you should go back into management – you’d make more money.’
‘I was in sales and marketing, and no, no amount of money would make me go back.’
‘How do you think you’re getting on here? Is it working out?’
‘On the whole. It could be better. I mean, there are still some people out there who don’t want me shoeing their horses.’
‘You mean people like Gina.’
‘I’m sorry. She was in the pub the other night. Rambo’s shoe had come off and she was going to find somebody else to put it back on. I hadn’t got round to mentioning it to you.’
‘Don’t worry about it. These things happen. I think I’ve calmed her down.’
‘You’ve seen her?’
‘She called me. You can’t win them all, Flick.’ Mel grins. ‘Just mind you don’t go nailing yourself to another horse before the weekend. That shoe you left in the forge was almost perfect.’
‘Was it? I thought it was rubbish. It wasn’t one of my best efforts.’
‘You know something: when I gave up being a perfectionist, life became a whole lot easier. You should try it.’
In spite of my predicament, I smile to myself at the idea of Mel giving me advice when he hardly knows me. I finish my beer before I take Rafa an apple. He crunches it between his teeth, releasing its fragrance as I call Ryan. My ex’s mobile is switched off. I leave a couple of choice voicemail messages, but without any expectation of a response. It isn’t fair. I slip my phone back into my pocket. How am I ever going to clear the debt on my own? I wrap my arms around Rafa’s neck and bury my face in his mane, my heart breaking at the thought of being forced to sell him to start paying off my debts and cut my outgoings. I couldn’t do it. I’d rather die.
Chapter Ten
Hammer, Anvil, Forge and Fire
It’s the morning of my visit to the spring Farm and Country Festival and my heart is on fire, a burning ball of longing in the centre of my chest, at the thought of catching up with Robbie. It’s been five long days since I last saw him, fourteen hours since he last texted with the times of the stunt team’s performances. I know, I’m sounding pathetic.
I pull myself together as I sit in the truck, which is stuck in the double queue of traffic to get on to the showground, outside the city of Exeter and about twenty miles from Talyton St George. I check my reflection in the wing mirror – I took some time drying my hair, applying foundation, mascara, eyeliner and a semi-matte lipstick, wanting to appear practical but feminine. I settled on an outfit of a low-cut cotton blouse in fuchsia, and my best pair of black jeans, which are straight-cut and high-rise to avoid the risk of builder’s bum, an affliction that I’ve discovered to my cost isn’t exclusive to construction workers.
I glance to my left, aware that I’m being watched. An elderly man in a flat cap and brown coat gives me a thumbs-up as he drives slowly past in a muddy Land Rover towing a livestock trailer. I give him a wave. He grins. A cow’s nose appears between the slats of the trailer bearing the sign ‘Devon Red Rubies’. I assume it’s referring to a breed of cattle I haven’t heard of before.
Eventually, I arrive at the showground, and make my way to the exhibitors’ car park where I find a spot not far from the Saltertons’ horsebox. It is massive, designed with living quarters behind the cab and stalls for twelve horses. It’s painted in navy livery, with the Eclipse stunt team logo and a row of galloping horses picked out in silver across the front, rear and sides. There’s an awning, too, with a pasting table laden with bottles of water and cool-boxes, and a Range Rover, which I believe is Neil’s, parked beside the hedge.
When I get out of the truck, I can hear the distant rhythm of a marching band, the crackly tones of the announcer over the loudspeakers, and the low bellow of a cow or bull. What with the sight of acres of white canvas and the scent of crushed grass and burnt onions, I could almost be ten again and with my parents, my dad throwing the tack on one of the ponies, and mum fussing about the neatness of the knot in my tie.
The sound of Neil’s voice brings me back to the present.
‘Hi, Flick. It’s good to see you. I can’t stop – I’m titivating.’
There are eight horses – four black, two bay and two grey – tied up, four to each side of the lorry, with Nelson closest to the back. Neil is brushing their manes and tails, and painting their hooves with oil. Sally Ann is at the bottom of the ramp at the rear, tearing the plastic straw from a carton of juice. She sticks it through the top and gives it to Maisie.
‘Now, sit there, please. Nanny has a lot to do before Daddy and Dillon can take the horses into the ring.’ Her hair is frizzy, her dress is crumpled, and her bra straps are looping down her arms, but she’s smiling. ‘How are you, Flick?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘We’re running late. We had a flat tyre on the lorry, today of all days, but we’re here now. It’s only half an hour until the boys are on.’
‘Can I give you a hand?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure. Kerry’s repairing a tear in Dillon’s cloak with a needle and plaiting thread that we borrowed from one of the show-pony people. Robbie’s doing his make-up and Dillon … I don’t know where Dillon is. God, this is so stressful. I always say I’ll never do another one, yet here I am, a glutton for punishment.’
‘You can tell that my darling wife is stressed – she’s talking nineteen to the dozen.’ Neil peers up from underneath Nelson’s belly. ‘You could go and see if Robbie’s ready. He’s in the lorry. Tell him to get his skates on. It’s their penultimate performance at this event. If the boys don’t put on a good display, the organisers won’t rebook them for next year.’
When he says ‘boys’, I’m not sure if he’s referring to his sons, the horses, or both.
I climb the steps into the living quarters of the lorry at the same time as Kerry is leaving with a cloak thrown over her arm. She acknowledges me with a small smile. The wolfhounds are sitting with their hindquarters on the bench seats and their front paws on the floor, panting hot hair. Robbie is sitting between them, with various pots and potions lined up on a tray and a round magnifying mirror on his knees. He’s wearing a dark vest that reveals the contours of his muscular arms, and tight leggings – or are they ‘meggings’, I’m not sure? I can hardly look. Focus on his eyes, I tell myself. Don’t look down, no matter how compelling and fascinating the view. I clear my throat.
‘Your dad wants to know if you’re ready.’
He looks up with a lash-thickening wand in his hand.
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. This isn’t going well. We’re going to have to be better prepared for the Country Show in June when the TV guys are watching.’ He pulls a wipe out
of the packet on the tray and starts to dab mascara from his cheek.
‘Hey, you’re making things worse. Let me do that.’
‘You?’
‘You sound doubtful. Don’t I always look amazing?’ I say, flirting with him. ‘I am suitably qualified too, being a girl, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Oh, I’d noticed. Come and give me a kiss.’
I lean down to kiss him full on the lips before drawing back slightly to study his face, with the cobalt-blue eye shimmer and circles of blusher, and I can’t help grinning. ‘You aren’t going for the natural look then.’
He smiles ruefully. ‘It isn’t supposed to be subtle. It has to convey a sense of theatre.’
I take a tissue from my pocket to smudge the blusher on his cheeks, blending it so he looks less of a clown and more of the Roman emperor to suit the theme of the display. ‘Who usually does your make-up?’
‘Kerry’s the expert, but she’s clearing up some other disaster.’
‘Let me do your mascara,’ I offer.
He hands me the wand. Our fingers touch. An electric shock passes between us.
‘Is that static, or a dart of lust?’ I say. ‘It’s what happens in romantic novels. I’m reading one at the moment. Louise has lots of them on the shelves at the B&B.’
‘Does she?’
‘Maybe they’re Mel’s.’
‘I doubt it,’ Robbie says, with a hint of a smile. ‘I was joking.’
‘Did he come with you?’
‘Louise is going to drop him off so he doesn’t have to stand around all day. She says she’ll let Ashley have a look at the tractors if she thinks he can cope with the crowds.’ I load the wand with mascara. ‘Now, look straight at me.’
‘You have got a steady hand today?’ he teases.
‘Keep your head still and look down at your knee.’ I reach across and gently place my thumb on his eyelid, lifting the lashes slightly. ‘Relax.’ I touch the wand to the root of his lashes and flick it upwards to spread the mascara evenly along their length. I move my thumb to the outer corner of his eyelid to catch the lashes there. I’m aware of his breathing and how his knees press against my legs as I lean in. It’s intimate. Erotic.
I repeat the exercise with the other eye.
‘Keep still, otherwise you’re going to end up looking like a panda on horseback. Do you need any lipstick?’
‘Please,’ he says, pouting.
I chuckle as I take the lip-brush from the pot on the tray. I cup his chin with one hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against my skin. I press the lipstick to the centre of his upper lip, moving it to the left and then the right. I repeat with his lower lip.
‘Now, go like this – draw your lips back. Like this!’ I dab them with the tissue before reapplying a second coat.
‘What do you think?’ I hold up the mirror.
‘That’s perfect. Thanks.’ He gets up and pulls a dark cloak out from underneath one of the dogs. He flings it around his shoulders and fastens it at the neck. ‘What time are you down at the shoeing section?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s sometime this afternoon.’
‘I’ll come and watch with Maisie.’
‘Oh no, don’t. You’ll make me nervous.’
‘I can’t imagine that. You seem pretty cool-headed under stress.’
I hesitate, expecting him to leave the lorry with me, but he sits down again.
‘I hope it all goes well in the arena.’ What else can you say to a stuntman to wish him luck? Is it like urging an actor to break a leg? Break your neck, more like. A tiny shudder tremors down my spine at the thought of Robbie coming to grief. Stunt riding has to be one of the most dangerous professions in the world. No matter how carefully you prepare, you can’t eliminate every single risk.
‘I’m just going to take ten minutes,’ he says.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ I return outside where I find Dillon dressed up just like his brother. The pale sweat from a severe hangover glistens through his make-up. ‘Robbie says he’ll be with you soon.’
‘He’s meditating. He does it every time.’ He sips from a bottle of water.
‘Someone’s had a heavy night,’ I observe.
‘Just a bit.’ He checks the decidedly non-Roman timepiece on his wrist. ‘He’d better stop faffing – we’re supposed to be on our way to the collecting ring.’
‘I’m here.’ Robbie appears at the door. ‘You’d better be able to stand on the back of a horse, little brother. And get that watch off. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘All right. Keep your hair on.’ Dillon hands his watch to his father for safe-keeping.
I think back to Mel’s comment about perfectionism. I can sympathise with Robbie – it must be infuriating when your brother and teammate doesn’t care as much as you do. I watch as Kerry, Neil, Robbie and Dillon take two horses each and start leading them away, while Maisie walks along behind them, holding Sally Ann’s hand. I buy a coffee and a programme to check the times for the farriery classes en route to the main arena. I find a good vantage point at the end of a bench in one of the stands.
Robbie and Dillon are waiting with the horses in the collecting ring while Neil sets up a pair of vertical hoops side by side along the centre of the arena. The announcer introduces the Eclipse stunt team.
‘Whatever you do, folks, don’t try this at home!’ he says as the music begins, stirring, mysterious and with a rhythmic beat that reminds me of the soundtrack to Gladiator. Robbie and Dillon make their grand entrance, sitting astride Nelson and Scout and carrying flowing scarlet and gold standards. Six horses trot freely alongside them to the centre of the arena, where the riders stop and salute the crowd before planting their standards in the ground.
Robbie moves to one end of the arena and Dillon to the other, where they move their horses around in circles at a steady canter before taking to the standing position. The crowd cheers and the music builds as each rider moves on to the back of two horses, one foot on each.
I can hardly watch, but there is something utterly compelling about the display. I don’t know what it is, the athleticism of man – especially Robbie – and horse working in harmony, the skill and danger involved, or the sheer beauty of the performance, transporting me to another place and time, but I have a lump in my throat.
They gallop their teams of horses towards each other, raising their arms as they pass at speed. Dillon loses contact with his second horse, but regains his poise almost instantly so you’d hardly notice.
The music quietens while the brothers bring their horses together at a slow canter, performing a spiral pattern in and out again. Kerry opens the rope across the exit to the collecting ring and lets the free horses out, leaving Robbie and Dillon riding Roman-style on two horses each. As they canter around the arena side by side, Neil lights the wrapping on the hoops, setting them on fire. The music rises to a crescendo as the brothers ride at the hoops in opposite directions, galloping straight through them, their mounts apparently oblivious to the smoke and flames. The crowd roars. Robbie wheels round and gallops back to rejoin Dillon for a lap of honour, side by side, before flying out into the collecting ring.
When I walk past the ring, I notice that Kerry and Neil are catching the horses while the intrepid stuntmen are surrounded by teenage girls and their mums, wanting selfies.
I don’t stop. I make my way to the shoeing section, pushing my way through the crush of people to find Mel. He’s sitting on a director’s chair, which looks quite precarious for someone who’s recently undergone spinal surgery. He leans forwards, resting both hands on one end of a wooden stick, carved with a horse’s head. It’s so hot that the roof of the shelter, which is made from a metal scaffold and canvas, seems to be dripping with sweat, yet Mel manages to look cool in a navy blazer and long trousers.
‘Hey, Flick. You made it.’
‘I’m not late, am I?’ My forehead tightens.
‘No, you’re here with time to spare
. The demo’s running a little slow. One of the other farriers is demonstrating how to shoe a pony from start to finish.’ Mel clears his throat. ‘I thought I’d better give you the heads-up – your ex-boyfriend is here.’
The pungent scent of burning hoof and overheating sheep from the marquee next door fills my nostrils.
‘Ryan?’ I should have been prepared. We move in the same circles, but it’s more of a shock than it should be. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I was making myself known to some of your fellow competitors. I introduced myself and he told me he’d trained with Tony. I mentioned I’d taken on one of his apprentices, and of course, he knew all about you.’ Mel points the end of his stick towards the workstations set up at the rear of the covered area. ‘He’s over there with his wife.’
I feel like I’ve been hit in the chest with a hammer. Wife? It’s been four months since we split up. How could he move on so quickly and so definitively? And how could he afford to get married? The bastard! I bite my tongue.
‘Let’s hope you beat him, eh?’ Mel says, as if he’s read my mind.
‘Oh, I’ll make sure I do.’ I feel even hotter now. I wish I didn’t care, but the sight of my devious ex puts me in turmoil.
‘That’s the spirit.’ Mel struggles to his feet. ‘Right, the demo’s finished. You’re on next. Let’s get this party started.’
It’s hardly a party, I think, the nerves beginning to take over.
Ryan is moving towards me, dressed in a red vest, jeans and work boots. He’s two years younger than me and a couple of inches under six foot, a fact that’s always rankled with him. He’s good-looking, but nowhere near as gorgeous as Robbie, and I’m happy to observe that his sandy-brown hair is thinning on top.
So what originally attracted me to him, I wonder? It wasn’t love at first sight; more a friendship that grew as I discovered his sense of humour, generosity and willingness to help me out while we were out on the road together with Tony and the other apprentices. Okay, so he changed, or I got it wrong.
He appears to have a grandmother surgically attached to one of his massive arms. She has long dark hair left loose, a deep mahogany tan, and crow’s feet. She must be at least forty-five, and that’s being charitable. She’s wearing a white blouse to match her perfect teeth, pale jodhpurs, and long black boots with spurs. I wish I didn’t feel so mean about her. It wasn’t her fault that Ryan and I broke up. It was his choice to be unfaithful.
Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage Page 16
