Kiss and Tell

by Fiona Walker

  Now Tash regarded her in wonder, memories creeping back of Beccy’s teenage desire to be a professional rider, bankrolled by her reluctant stepfather as she joined the hundreds of hopeful young things who thought eventing could be a career. Surely James’s bull-headed sale of her horse hadn’t been the reason that she’d bulk-bought tie-dye, renewed her passport and taken her prolonged hippy trip? If so, it was a gross overreaction. But Beccy had always been as impetuous as she was ingenuous.

  She certainly looked much the same, to Tash’s surprise – fresh faced and pink cheeked, with those big, pale-lashed grey-blue eyes, an upturned nose and a dusting of freckles. It was a little-girl face, and seemed at odds with the hippy paraphernalia. Tash had envisaged her gaunt and weathered from her life on the road, her many adventures in far-flung climes. Much of the time that she had been travelling, especially those first years, remained unaccounted for, months having passed when she hadn’t called, emailed or sent so much as a postcard, and when she had apparently crossed several time zones without explaining how or with whom. Yet Beccy’s face still looked as innocent as a bisque doll that has been dressed in Bratz clothes and then covered with pen marks by the rebellious child playing with it.

  ‘So what are you planning to do with yourself now?’ she asked her.

  ‘Come and work here.’ Beccy laughed, her eyes sliding toward her mother. ‘I thought it had all been arranged.’

  ‘Yes, well I did mention something, but Tash has been very busy lately …’

  Tash briefly closed her eyes as another lost memory popped up to mortify her.

  Not long after Beccy had returned home Henrietta had called Haydown to talk through the possibility of Tash and Hugo helping Beccy back on to the road towards a ‘normal’ life. Terrified of losing her daughter to the high seas again, Henrietta thought it would be good for her to return to one of the passions she’d held before the travelling bug had bitten. She had even persuaded James that it might be worth buying her a horse again. She had put him on the phone to Tash, who in turn had handed her father to Hugo to talk through options. Then she’d wandered off to go to the loo, got distracted and forgotten all about the call until now. She had no idea how Hugo had left it at all.

  ‘He offered Beccy a job,’ Henrietta explained, still frantically trying to keep her hair from blowing in her eyes. ‘Said to leave the arrangements to you, but that she could start as soon as she felt ready.’

  ‘He did?’ Tash gulped. It sounded very unlike Hugo.

  ‘He did,’ Henrietta assured her. ‘James was very clear on the detail.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Tash tried not to look too appalled. They could really do with an extra pair of hands around the yard, after all. ‘And do I take it you’re ready now?’

  Shrugging, Beccy stared back, looking far from ready. She just looked cornered, fed up and willing to do anything to get away from her over-fussing mother and her stepfather’s badgering.

  ‘I want to bring a dog with me,’ she said, sounding just like her seventeen-year-old self.

  ‘You’d be better off bringing a horse if you want to compete again,’ Tash pointed out.

  ‘Hugo said I could ride yours while you’re off the circuit.’

  ‘He did?’ She was staggered.

  Beccy looked rather dreamy, clearly having not lost her teenage crush on her stepsister’s husband.

  ‘I think I’d better start with something easier than Snob, though,’ she told Tash. ‘I’m a bit rusty; I’ll build up to him gradually.’

  Tash looked away, the sudden lump in her throat choking her. ‘You’ll have to dig him up first.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘He died, Beccy. Three months ago. Colic.’ It was still so raw, she felt winded with pain by the loss of her greatest campaigner and most loyal servant.

  ‘I didn’t know!’ Beccy was mouthing stupidly.

  ‘You were in—’ about to say ‘jail’, Tash hastily changed it to ‘Singapore at the time; you can’t be expected to know.’

  Looking across the table she saw huge tears in Beccy’s eyes and suddenly realised that it could work out. Beccy understood what made them all tick; it had made her tick once too. She loved and understood horses and the sport. If she really had taken off around the world because her dreams of a riding career had been scuppered, she deserved a second chance.

  ‘I have other horses that you might remember,’ she told her. ‘Hunk’s retired now, but Mickey’s still going strong, you’ll like him. And a couple of the novices I was competing last year are really good, straightforward sorts to get your feel back.’

  ‘So when does she start?’ Henrietta asked, her hair now a lopsided beehive. ‘Only James and I are going to the Algarve next week and were rather hoping she could be here by then.’ She made it sound as though she was trying to offload a particularly troublesome pony that needed schooling on. They clearly didn’t want Beccy left alone in the family house in their absence.

  ‘It’s the Olympics next week,’ Tash said weakly, trying not to feel affronted that her father was leaving the country just as his son-inlaw was riding for gold.

  ‘Oh, yes – so you said. Well that’s brilliant, isn’t it? You can watch all the live coverage together.’ Hair on end, Henrietta helped herself to another glass of champagne – totally unheard of when she was driving; she normally restricted herself to a thimble. ‘This calls for a toast, I think, don’t you?’

  Tash and Beccy eyed one another with suspicion.

  Chapter 2

  ‘I agreed to no such thing!’ Hugo raged later. ‘They can forget it. That girl is completely unreliable. Look at her disappearing act in the Far East, followed by all that drug nonsense.’ He pushed his still-full plate away from him and lit a cigarette, tipping back in his chair and leaning against the balustrade so that the smoke wouldn’t go near Tash.

  Their romantic Olympic send-off meal was not going according to plan, even though the weather had come on side and was draping the terrace in the fire-glow warmth of evening sunshine, the wind having dropped to a seductive whisper, the birds roosting melodically in the beech wood beyond Flat Pad, the dusty old pony paddock, a huge moon already suspended overhead like a paper ceiling lamp waiting to be switched on.

  Despite being forced to defrost an inappropriately unseasonal venison casserole, Tash had tried to recapture some of her intended seductive atmosphere with lemon-scented outdoor candles, lanterns and fire-torches to keep away the bugs, velvet throws on the chairs and the chimera burning away with sweet-scented apple smoke, clashing beautifully with the big bunches of sweet peas that tumbled informally from painted jam-jars on the table. She had washed her shoulder-length brown waves so that they gleamed like wet snakes and put on make-up for once – not too much because Hugo disliked anything obvious – and was wearing a pretty peacock-blue silk tunic dress that minimised the bump and showed off her long, fake-tanned legs that were only very slightly streaky. She felt attractive for the first time in weeks. But now she had blown it all by letting herself wander off topic into the dangerous territory of Beccy and the ‘job’. What was worse, she found she simply couldn’t let the matter drop. Her step-family had always been a sensitive subject and accepting them had taken Tash until adulthood – it was very easy to undermine the status quo.

  ‘Henrietta seems pretty convinced that you agreed to Beccy coming to work here.’

  ‘Definitely not!’

  ‘How could they be so mistaken?’

  He narrowed his eyes, glaring up at his cigarette smoke as he thought back to the conversation with James. Watching him, Tash’s heart flipped over as it always did when she had an opportunity to study him, even when he was moody and tempestuous as now – perhaps more so because that was when his beauty was all the more like a force of nature. The way that amazing bone structure worked was sublime – she had painted and sketched it a hundred times and never bored of the high cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, perfect symmetry of his wide, bow-like lips, the straight G
recian-hero nose, the wide, arched wingspan of his brows and those blue, blue eyes beneath the wild mane of tortoiseshell hair that badly needed a cut before he took off to represent his country. He never had time and Tash, who secretly adored it dishevelled, sun-streaked and flopping into his eyes, had done nothing to remedy the situation. She had always loved running her fingers through his hair.

  But now it was Hugo who was raking a suntanned hand through it, his fingernails still tipped with dark crescents despite ten minutes scrubbing them with a brush when he came in from the yard.

  ‘I remember advising your father not to buy the girl a horse just yet,’ he muttered, ‘and something about Beccy needing a boot camp not new König boots – ah!’ His eyebrows shot up in sudden enlightenment. ‘I think he may have misinterpreted my words there.’

  ‘Are you saying that Daddy thinks that we are going to provide some sort of teenage boot camp for Beccy?’ Tash gasped. ‘She’s twenty-seven, not fourteen.’

  ‘She hardly behaved like a responsible adult on her travels though, did she?’

  Tash said nothing. Having seen for herself how immature her stepsister was earlier that day, she agreed. It amazed her that all those years on the road – or in the cult – had done nothing to wise up Beccy’s outlook. She seemed more childlike than ever.

  ‘I really can’t deal with this right now.’ Hugo sprang from his seat and began pacing the corners of the terrace, staring moodily out across his overgrown gardens towards the beech woods. ‘You know what it’s like. I have to stay focused.’

  ‘I know,’ Tash said hollowly, wishing she could stay focused on anything for more than five minutes, but that was the lot of the heavily pregnant multi-tasker with hormones in overdrive and family in increasing disarray. She had until recently been looking forward to the Games, comforted by the idea of being happy and pregnant, curled up at home with her mother, the television and a vast box of chocolates, ready to cheer on Hugo. That was when it was all a daydream, and now she was faced with the reality of Hugo going away, of the yard being under-staffed, of her mother being unable to come and help, Alicia needing her help, the baby truly imminent and Cora toddling about in almost constant peril from loose electrical sockets, stone steps, horses, dogs and water features.

  Trying not to worry about her mother, who was still not returning her calls, she cheered herself up by admiring Hugo’s bottom in tight-fitting chinos, creased perfectly around the long muscular legs that were as hard as carved mahogany trunks.

  ‘You can sort it out, can’t you darling?’ he was saying, still dwelling on the Beccy dilemma. ‘Put her off? The Moncrieffs might take her – they’re always looking for working pupils willing to do the long winter slog.’

  ‘I don’t think Beccy does “slogging”.’

  ‘Which is why she can’t come here. We need really hard workers, not hangers-on. I hope these bloody Czechoslovakians know how hard they’re going to have to work for their euro dollar.’

  ‘They are from the Czech Republic,’ Tash corrected. ‘Czechoslovakia doesn’t exist any more.’

  ‘Cumberland doesn’t exist any more but they haven’t changed the name of the sausage,’ Hugo pointed out. ‘Same bloody difference.’

  ‘Not to the Jelineks,’ she said, struggling with the pronunciation.

  ‘And what sort of name’s Jellyneck?’

  ‘The “j” is pronounced “y” and the “k” is “tch”, I think – “yellinetch”,’ she over-emphasised the word, sounding like Moira Stuart reporting on an Eastern European skirmish. ‘He’s called Vasilly and she’s Veruschka.’

  Hugo let out a bark of laughter, momentarily lifted from his dark, pre-competition brooding. ‘Silly and Verucca Jellyneck.’

  ‘Don’t start that again,’ Tash warned.

  He held up an apologetic hand, although he was still fighting laughter. ‘Well, whatever they call themselves, they’ll have to pull their fingers out and graft. Have they worked with horses at all?’

  ‘They’re domestic au pairs.’

  ‘Bound to know about horses. Racing yards are full of Eastern Europeans these days – Nicky Heaton’s got at least a dozen of them. And Indians.’

  ‘Veruschka will do childcare and housework, and Vasilly will do general maintenance and look after the garden.’

  Hugo lit another cigarette, the domestic running of the house only a fleeting distraction when he had to worry about the huge contest ahead, along with juggling horses and schedules. ‘We’ll need them to put some hours in on the yard. They can do night Czech for a start.’ He hated night-check, the final patrol around the yard, changing rugs and filling up nets and water drinkers last thing at night.

  ‘Perhaps we do need Beccy after all,’ Tash led gently, knowing that backing out of the agreement now would be impossible if she ever wanted to speak to her father again.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ He flicked his lighter closed.

  ‘What harm can she do?’

  ‘Plenty. I’d rather hire in half a dozen of your finest illegals from the Calcutta slums than that girl.’

  ‘Even they wouldn’t work for the peanuts we pay working pupils.’

  ‘Pay peanuts, get monkeys,’ he sighed, glancing across at her. ‘I miss having you working alongside me.’

  ‘I miss it too,’ she overstated, although right now the thought of going anywhere near a horse was anathema. She knew it would return very quickly after the birth – with Cora she’d been riding again within weeks. And she did miss the close daily companionship with Hugo. She felt a sudden happy glow from the mutual affection bubbling between them as they studied one another with lingering enjoyment and appreciation, a rare treat afforded by having the time to do so. The evening was finally getting on track, so she wasn’t about to risk losing the mood by being pedantically truthful.

  But, typically, Hugo failed to respect the intimacy of the moment.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re about to have a baby now, of all times,’ he grumbled, pacing around again, cigarette puffing. ‘Bloody Olympic month!’

  ‘You were there at the conception,’ she parried. ‘Shoot seed, get babies.’

  ‘You told me breast-feeding was the best form of contraception.’

  ‘You were the one who thought it was funny to start feeding Cora spoonfuls of your breakfast.’ She had been too busy frying up huge feasts for Hugo and the staff at the time to spot that Cora was gummily snorkelling up great quantities of porridge dripping in milk and Demerara sugar and so weaning herself.

  ‘So let’s sue Quaker.’

  He was impossible when he was as tetchy as this. Tash knew that it was pre-competition tension, plus he was picking on her because she couldn’t be there with him, but it didn’t make him any easier to handle.

  She decided to shelve telling him that Beccy was definitely coming to Haydown until after the Olympics, by which time her stepsister would already be ensconced and pulling her weight. It wasn’t as though they were short of space, and they needed more help. With Tash laid off they lacked riding talent as well as spare hands around the yard.

  ‘Perhaps you could look around for a new work rider next week? Someone like Stefan?’ Now based in the US, the Swedish event rider and their great friend Stefan Johanssen had once been based at Haydown, bringing in an essential income as well as providing physical back-up on the yard.

  ‘Next week,’ Hugo said darkly, still looking out across his acres, ‘all I am going to be thinking about is beating every bastard out there to gold, and making up for last time.’

  Smiling supportively across at him, Tash decided that she would also wait until after the Olympics to tackle him about the flowers that he had been buying in Waitrose.

  Oblivious to her scrutiny, Hugo carried on glaring out past the overgrown garden towards the equally neglected parkland, his face a beautiful, still mask hiding a raging torrent of pre-match adrenalin and bad memories.

  On the Surrey borders, Beccy was also looking broodily across several a
cres, although this was a well-manicured garden lovingly maintained by her mother, with rose walks, rhododendron hedges and vast tracts of herbaceous border stretching down past the potting sheds to the pony paddocks at the far end.

  Like Tash and her older sister Sophia a decade before them, Beccy and her sister Emily had kept ponies there as teenagers. Now, ten years further on still, the stables were used for storage and the paddocks had been turned into a driving range for James, complete with a putting green where Beccy had once erected show jumps from oil cans, now fastidiously mown by James, week in week out, on the sit-on mower.

  Beccy could hear her stepfather now, haw-hawing to Henrietta across the landing in their dressing room as they prepared to go out to dinner with some of his old banking cronies.

  Beccy had never had as tempestuous a relationship with James as her sister. But whereas Emily, having loathed James with a passion throughout her teens and early twenties, was now completely reconciled to and hugely fond of the man that her children called Grampa Goffa because of his passion for nine irons and plus fours, Beccy still felt a strangely frozen ambivalence towards her mother’s second husband.

  Emily made James enormously proud, just like his own daughter, Sophia, who had married into the aristocracy after a successful modelling career. Em was now taking a baby break from her career in broadcast financing. Married to high-flying executive producer, Tim, with three children under five, a house in London and cottage in Dorset, and more power-party invitations on her mantelpiece than Elisabeth Murdoch, she was a stepdaughter par excellence.

  Beccy was yet to attain the first rung on the ladder of James’s approbation. In fact, in this particular game of snakes and ladders she was off the bottom rung, down the lift shaft and deep within the mines of his contempt.

  And now that she was back where she started, sitting in Tash’s old bedroom, staring across the view that teenage Tash had gazed upon, about to go and work with Tash and Hugo at Haydown, she couldn’t help but feel aggrieved to be once again cast in her step-sister’s ever-lengthening shadow.