by Fiona Walker
As with so many of his financial decisions, Dillon had sponsored Rory on a whim – and after rather a lot of bargaining and arm-twisting from one particular quarter – but his interest in eventing had dwindled dramatically in the light of his own punishing workload and prolonged absences from the Lodes Valley. Eventing seemed a very toffee-nosed, elitist sport, and Dillon had recently begun to suspect that Rory was too spoilt and self-indulgent to really make a success of it, however much cash he put in to bankroll him. True, he was a genuinely amiable character and was reputedly in possession of a tremendous riding talent, but Dillon had yet to see much evidence of it. His horses were always lame or sick. And Rory was always drunk.
Illogically, Dillon suddenly found himself envying Rory his booze-laden failure.
Dillon missed drinking. Every day of his life he missed drinking. He didn’t feel the same way about the drugs, the same sense of loss or the triggers that made his hands and throat twitch for the weight of a full glass, the slake of scotch or red wine against his throat. Even cigarettes no longer haunted his dreams in the way that alcohol did. Sometimes he still craved a drink so badly that it blotted out reason – and there was only one place where he was truly safe from the craving.
His heart felt as though it was trying to beat its way out of his chest and bounce down the three miles of criss-crossing bridleways and footpaths that separated Overlodes Stables high on the escarpment from West Oddford Farm deep in the lush valley.
Burning his mouth even more, he drank his tea in record time while Rory and Nell gossiped about mutual acquaintances.
‘Aunt Bell made me give pony rides at the Oddlode village fête – can you imagine the shame? I had to miss Stockland Lovell trials to do it. Poor Spurs had it even worse because she forced him to oversee the cow-pat grid …’
Suddenly unable to bear it any longer, Dillon let out an infuriated bellow, slammed down his mug and stormed out to the car.
Rory jumped back in alarm. ‘What on earth was that all about?’
Nell took it all in her stride. ‘He gets like that sometimes. He says he finds it hard to express himself.’
‘He should try saying a polite “goodbye”.’ Rory kissed Nell farewell on both cheeks and Milo on the top of his head and walked them to the car.
‘What does this little chap’s namesake make of your moody rock star?’ he asked in an undertone, nodding at the dog.
Nell pulled a face. Her on-off married lover, also called Milo, had been very much off lately. She didn’t like to admit how much she missed his company, his wisdom, his devotion to her and their simpatico humour. Casting around for a change of topic, she saw all Rory’s tack trunks piled up by the horsebox ready to be loaded and, remembering that he was setting off for Scotland the next day, wished him good luck for Bloneigh Castle.
‘Thanks.’ He grinned, crossing his fingers and his eyes at the same time. ‘I wish you were coming. You’re my mascot now. I can’t believe you’ve made this happen for me, N, honestly. I know it’s not Dillon’s horse in the big class, but I’ll still ride it for my guardian angel.’ He dropped another grateful kiss on her cheek.
Nell tilted her head modestly.
‘You taking ever-faithful Faith as a groom?’ she asked, already knowing the answer. She was very protective of Rory who, as well as being a lifelong family friend and her first boyfriend many years ago, was something of a personal pet that she guarded as jealously as little Milo. It was clear that Faith Brakespear was besotted with him, and bossy enough to influence him. Nell found the girl particularly abrasive and was livid that Dillon had accepted an invitation on both their behalves to go to her eighteenth birthday party with Magnus. Faith must have begged her brother shamelessly. Sending Rory to Scotland was Nell’s retaliation.
Rory was shaking his head. ‘I could use old Faith right now, but she’s got her birthday party next weekend, dammit. Diana and Mummy are coming instead.’
‘You have to be joking!’ Nell hooted, trying to imagine Rory’s blowsy sister and their gin-addled mother, Truffle, wielding sweat scrapers and stud spanners.
‘They’re all for it, and Aunt Til has promised to look in on the trials. She moved to Scotland a couple of years ago, remember? None of us have seen her since.’
‘A family reunion then?’ Nell could well imagine the three female Constantines with their feet up in the members’ tent, reminiscing while poor Rory was run ragged. She hugged him again as they reached the car, surprised by her sudden reluctance to get back inside with Dillon and his black mood.
‘I bloody well hope I bring back some ribbons,’ Rory muttered in an undertone. ‘Dillon will pull the plug on the lolly if I keep losing.’
‘Oh, he’ll never do that,’ Nell assured him brightly. ‘He’ll just buy you more toys to play with to cheer you up. He does that with us all: lover, children, ex-wife, even his farm staff. It’s like an agricultural equipment showroom down there. He’s bought me two identical cars already this year. He quite forgot that he bought me the first one, you see, so he ordered another by mistake.’
‘Lucky you,’ Rory sighed, glancing at his ancient horsebox and hoping that it would make it to Scotland.
‘Lucky me,’ she nodded, all expression hidden behind the huge black glasses as she dropped another pouting kiss on Milo’s head and climbed into the car.
They had barely travelled out of the village when she turned to Dillon.
‘I think Rory needs your support in Scotland next weekend. We’ll go up there and cheer him on.’
‘I think I’m in Milan.’ He checked his BlackBerry, which confirmed that his daughters’ short visit was to be followed by a lucrative personal appearance at an AC v Inter match.
‘No you’re not. You’re flying back on Saturday afternoon.’
He checked the BlackBerry again and groaned. ‘Of course. Magnus’s little sister is having a party.’
‘We can get out of that easily enough,’ she waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ll book us a lovely hotel near Bloneigh, shall I? The Borders are stunning at this time of year.’
‘We can’t possibly do that to Faith. She’s your family.’
‘Hardly!’
‘She’s Giselle’s aunt.’
She had to concede the point, but disliked the sanctimonious tone and couldn’t believe that he wasn’t as desperate as she was for an excuse to get out of this dreadful teen party. He could be very pious and moralising at times, like a fusty old vicar banging on about family and children. Well, he wasn’t the only one who could put family first.
Her own clan, recently scattered when her parents had down-sized from the vast Abbey to a barn conversion in which she and Gigi now reluctantly occupied the modest guest suite, still had a loudly beating heart that called her back to her mother’s lemon cake at times of need.
‘Take me to Chandler’s Barn,’ she announced suddenly. ‘I want to see my mo— my daughter.’
The toddling explosion of joy that burst from the barn’s vast double doors, blonde pigtails at wonky angles and toothy smile wide in those perfect pink, chubby cheeks lifted both Nell and Dillon’s spirits immeasurably.
‘Come home with me,’ he urged her as she finally slowed from spinning Gigi around and around in her arms.
There was no lemon drizzle cake on offer and Nell’s mother was keen to listen to a new recording of Stravinsky’s ‘The Nightingale’ on Radio 3 so she acquiesced, her mood lifting all the while.
An hour later, creased designer travelling clothes swapped for practical country casuals, they wandered around Dillon’s beloved farm and gardens in the balmy evening sunlight, dodging clouds of midges as they checked up on what had been happening in their absence. Gigi sat high on Dillon’s shoulders, giggling delightedly as he jogged in and out of the fruit trees in the orchards, ducking high and low and pretending to be an aeroplane.
Dillon was right, Nell decided. He was a better person at West Oddlode, for all its dreariness. He was truly relaxed here, and she was
grateful to be a part of it, not making a sulky stand for neglecting her. If that meant playing second fiddle to a herd of rare-breed sheep and several organic crops she would have to learn to live with it, for now at least. He could be a fantastic father for Gigi and a good, kind man to look after her. The urge to be cared for almost overwhelmed Nell at times. She was the moving compass needle that needed a fixed point. She had always been attracted to gentle, soulful men who saw through her tantrums and demands to the underlying vulnerability. Now, with Gigi to protect and care for, Nell wanted more than ever to find a man prepared to dedicate himself to her. Ironically, Milo, the man who understood her better than anyone, was married and determined to stay that way. His loyalty to his wife, however infuriating, meant that he had exactly what Nell loved most. He was totally steadfast. And he was rich and successful too.
Despite his chequered career, Dillon was very rich and successful, with celebrity status to boot, and although he had two young daughters and a rather annoying allegiance to his ex-wife and her family, they were at least all in the States. Here in the UK he was really more dedicated to his farm than anything else, which had to be less of a threat.
‘I love you,’ she turned to him suddenly as he swooped past with Gigi, who was banging cherries grabbed from passing trees on his head, so he looked like he was wearing a bobbly red crown.
He stopped suddenly and stared at her, blue eyes blazing from beneath the fruity wreath.
‘Both of you,’ she added, gathering them in her arms and stretching up to bite off a cherry from its stalk and share it with Dillon in a kiss. At the very peak of ripeness, the cherry burst on their tongues, its sweet flesh brimming with juice.
Left with the stone in his mouth, Dillon sucked it thoughtfully, squinting into the setting sun as he carried Gigi back towards the house on his shoulders, Nell leaning into his side. He loved being home at last, where it felt like he had the true beginnings of a family life again. For an absurd moment, when Nell had kissed him, the image of Adam and Eve eating the forbidden fruit had flashed up. He had never been religious, yet the sense of foreboding was, for that moment, as acute as pain. Now he dismissed it and smiled up at the tawny walls of his farmhouse, eager to fill it with laughter and noise. Tomorrow his daughters would arrive. He couldn’t wait for them all to be together like one happy family.
‘I love you too,’ he told Nell as they stood on his back doorstep, breathing in the heady scent of the jasmine growing over the porch above them.
Chapter 6
‘Yes! … Yes … Yes … Yes! Yes!’
Tash gasped with delight at every heroic thrust from her husband. His stamina was without question: he was performing for the second time that night, and barely breaking a sweat.
‘Yes! Oh, yes … oh, darling yes!’
‘Will you calm down?’ Beccy laughed, her fingers being crushed white as Tash gripped them. ‘You’ll go into labour.’
‘Over my dead body!’ growled Alicia, covering Beefy’s ears.
‘She’s talking about childbirth, not politics,’ pointed out family friend Penny Moncrieff, who was holding on to Tash’s other hand. ‘Now shh – this is the last line.’
On the flat screen in front of them, in a huge floodlit stadium surrounded by stands packed with tens of thousands, Hugo cantered his horse past a vast flower arrangement on a pillar topped with the Olympic rings and eyed up the final four jumps.
The Fox’s chestnut coat gleamed flame-bright, as golden, precious and rare as the medal he was chasing. He was a class apart from any other horse that had entered the arena that night. Wiry, short-coupled and as athletic as a Derby winner, he was purpose-built for the job. Just like his legendary sire, The Foxy Snob, he was brave and brilliant, defending the family honour for both his father and his rider at the ultimate global competition. On his back, Hugo was utterly focused on the fences ahead of them.
‘Come on, my darling.’ Tash could hardly bring herself to watch.
Beside her, Beccy’s crushed hand ached and her heart crashed huge and proud in her chest. For one brief, disloyal moment she’d found herself rooting for New Zealander Lough Strachan, currently in the silver medal position just a point behind Hugo. He had ridden his tricky, tantrum-throwing horse with such breathtaking skill to go clear he deserved victory. But one look at Hugo and she’d changed allegiance again. This wasn’t just about the best rider, this was about their horses, the trust, the training and the teamwork they shared. This was about a combination, and no horse was better produced than Fox, nor any man better at getting the most from him as Hugo. They were as cool as the cucumbers in iced Hendrick’s gin.
‘Yes!’ Tash cried as they cleared the first jump in the line.
‘Yes!’ whooped Penny as the middle part of the combination stayed up.
‘Yes!’ Beccy hollered as Fox’s white heels flicked up inches clear over the blue and white stripes of the penultimate parallel.
Then, a moment later, Tash let out an ear-splitting scream. ‘YES! He’s done it! Ohmygod, he’s done it!’ She jumped up and down, bump and all.
Crying, whooping and bansheeing in glee along with Alicia, Beccy, the Moncrieffs and the half-dozen other friends invited over to watch the event at Haydown, Tash hugged and high-fived and danced around the snug for the second time that evening.
In Olympic three day eventing the team medals are decided at the show-jumping phase like any other CCI, but for individual glory all competitors must jump again. When Team GB had won gold the assembled Haydown supporters had gone wild. Now, with Hugo’s individual gold, they went ballistic. They were making so much noise that nobody heard the phone ring.
It was only when Gus Moncrieff spotted Hugo on screen, still sitting on the horse in the collecting ring with a mobile pressed to his ear, looking suddenly anxious, that he realised what was going on and picked up the handset to pass to Tash.
But Tash was so overwhelmed with emotion she couldn’t speak at all, and just made eager panting squeaks.
‘What is it? Is it the baby?’ Hugo demanded, the crowd still cheering in the background behind him.
‘You won gold!’ she managed to bleat eventually. ‘I love you. I’m so proud of you.’
Now she realised that she could see him talking to her on the television screen, looking terribly dashing and brave and strangely normal despite all the lights and cameras and razzmatazz. His words and their conversation were out of synch with the pictures because of the broadcast delay.
‘We did it,’ he told her. Someone was demanding his attention in the background. ‘I must go. I love you. I’ll call you later.’
On screen he was still talking to her. There were tears in his eyes. She had only ever seen him look like that once before, when Cora was born.
While the others were popping open champagne she crept upstairs, forced to stop every few steps to catch her breath. Her pregnancy bump felt like lead now that the baby’s head was dropping ever lower, making her pelvis ache non-stop.
Cora was asleep in her cot bed, clutching her comfort blanket and Elmer Elephant, one arm flung above her head and her blankets kicked off.
‘Daddy done good,’ Tash whispered, straightening her cover and pressing a kiss to her fingertips to transfer to her daughter’s face because her bump was far too enormous to let her lean over the cot.
Downstairs they were shouting for her. The medal ceremonies were about to be broadcast.
*
Clutching their posies of flowers like two bridesmaids, individual three day event silver medallist Lough Strachan and the lanky German rider in bronze flanked Hugo as he bowed down from the top of the podium to receive his gold.
‘Congratulations.’ Lough turned to shake the Brit’s hand straight afterwards.
‘Could have easily gone the other way,’ he patted him on the back magnanimously. ‘Lucky my chap is so level-headed.’
They both knew that the positions would have been reversed had the over-wired New Zealand horse not require
d so long to settle in the first show-jumping round that he’d clocked up time penalties and dropped just one point off the individual top slot, a fact still being disputed by Lough’s groom who claimed the start beam had somehow been broken early. It was a miracle of good riding that the horse had jumped at all. Lough had to concede defeat; individual silver and team bronze were spoils enough.
As Hugo turned to shake the German’s hand, Lough glanced over his shoulder, to where his groom was fighting to hold his nervy grey. The horse, now black-sided with sweat, hated the atmosphere of the stadium. Both he and his groom looked livid, and quite ready to charge straight into the podiums to kick merry hell out of the medal ceremony. Beside them, The Fox appeared to be falling asleep while Hugo’s freckle-faced groom Jenny leant against him, discreetly blowing kisses at the German bronze medallist and giving her boss a big thumbs-up.
Facing forward again, Hugo studied the flags about to be hoisted, the Witney stripe of Germany’s tricolour clashing alongside the Union Flag and its smaller version in one canton of the New Zealand ensign.
‘Let’s talk before you fly home,’ he muttered quickly to the man on his right as the national anthem struck up. ‘Somewhere quiet. Tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ Lough said vaguely, his eye caught by a disturbance in a crowd directly in front of them. Then his dark eyebrows shot up as a nubile, bare-bottomed blonde made a beeline for the gold medal-list.
It was universally agreed that Hugo Beauchamp stepping on to the podium to receive his individual medal at that summer’s Olympics – his second medal of the Games – was one of the most memorable moments in equestrian sporting history. This was not just because he was among the best looking sportsman at the Games by far, not just because the man they named Hugold’s battle to that top step for queen and country had been Herculean in the extreme, and not because he had just won a brace of gold medals for Team GB.
