Kiss and Tell

by Fiona Walker

  ‘She could buy a four-day car pass like everybody else,’ she muttered, pain starting to fray her temper. Tears were welling at the thought of selling her beautiful, clever Fox, who she had cradled as a foal. Her hormones were rising like sap now. She had to get up, she realised. She must looked as though she was about to clean his shoes, or perform a sex act, neither of which was very professional.

  This time she had truly lost the fight to keep the baby tears in check. She was now too choked to even speak. If she tried to explain to Dillon Rafferty that she had given birth earlier that week, the weeping dam would burst totally and she’d be inconsolable for hours. Beccy was right, it was best to simply say nothing. The man was a rock superstar willing to pay seven figures for a horse. She owed it to the yard’s reputation to treat him like a VIP and show him their star horse as requested, even if he did fly off in his helicopter afterwards to buy his girlfriend a diamond-encrusted polo helmet instead.

  It took Tash a long time to stand up again.

  Dillon reached out to help but she waved him away and Beetroot snarled in agreement, making him step back hastily.

  Despite the fantastic legs she was very thick around the middle, Dillon realised, the baggy reindeer sweatshirt artlessly draped over a big bulge.

  ‘When’s the baby due?’

  ‘I’m not pregnant,’ she insisted, in too much pain to be polite about it as she led the way at a snail’s pace again.

  Following behind her along lines of immaculate stables, Dillon had plenty of time to marvel at the baking sun on his face and the heady smell from the rambling roses tangled across the roofs of the main yard.

  ‘Here he is,’ Tash managed to croak, pointing at a friendly face looking over a half door.

  The Fox was a wiry chestnut with a white stripe running from halfway down his nose and widening over his muzzle to cover his freckled pink lips, as though he’d dipped his mouth in strawberry ripple milkshake.

  Her face now flaming from the lurching walk that had left blood pumping too fast around her body, Tash busied herself pulling off his summer sheet and checking him over.

  ‘You okay?’ Dillon called over the door as she picked out the horse’s hooves with a lot of involuntary gasping and groaning noises reminiscent of her early contractions.

  ‘Fine!’ Tash squeaked. She wished he wouldn’t keep asking that just as she thought she’d got herself under control. It wasn’t fair. She had to stop these soppy tears coming like a tsunami. She took a deep, shuddering breath and hung on to Fox’s leg, trying not to think what she was losing, and focus hard on the money instead.

  It would patch up the house, cover the estate and yard expenses for a year, pay off the overdraft and buy them some breathing space in a sport notorious for costing a king’s ransom. The Beauchamps were living entirely hand to mouth, and with so many human and animal mouths to feed that was a dangerous state of play. They were asset rich and cash poor to an almost ridiculous extreme. Selling Fox could really stave off the long-dreaded decision that they both knew they would have to make sooner or later: pack in eventing or sell Haydown?

  Tash knew it was partly her fault. Her pregnancies and the consequent loss of so much core Beauchampions sponsorship had come at a very unfortunate time, not long after the crash in the square mile that had quickly robbed Hugo of most of the small army of investment banks, venture capitalists, private equity funds and hedge fund managers who had traditionally sponsored him and owned most of his own top horses. Last year the yard had lost no less than six advanced horses to new owners, half of them going overseas. It was a devastating blow. Family and loyal friends had rallied, doing what they could. But it was an uphill struggle and there was no doubt that Tash had disappeared from the scene at exactly the wrong time. The dream team couple didn’t function as profitably as single players. Hugo’s recent Olympic title was a great fillip, but the gold medals were no real draw in comparison to the original golden couple of eventing. Hugo’s main sponsor, the country clothing label Mogo, had been loyal for many years, but they were now looking increasingly fickle as the brand long associated with equestrianism sought new markets in other sports.

  The Fox was worth ten times as much as any other horse on the yard. Wise, robust, cocky and graceful, he was the biggest, oldest and most successful of three chestnut full siblings, and he was the ultimate equine athlete, reaching the pinnacle of the sport by just nine years old, a whippersnapper compared to most horses at the top level. He still had an amazing future ahead of him and, perhaps what marked him out as the most desirable horse competing at his level, he was a doddle to ride. Tash had hoped he would be the one to get her confidence back on the big tracks once she returned to riding again. The only European four-star he hadn’t yet tackled was Badminton. He was the best event horse in the world, with the price tag to match.

  Dillon said nothing as he looked at the seven-figure investment bite Tash’s bottom while she took off his stable bandages. He might be a lamb under saddle, but The Fox still displayed a streak of his obstinate, bad-tempered father at times; Snob had been extremely tricky to handle. His son equalled his talent, and could be just as standoffish in the stable.

  She led him out, grimacing at the tugs from the lead rope that seemed to pull directly at her stitches as he danced about, fed up with a day of box rest and eager to be out and about.

  The horse in the neighbouring stable spun around in his box, kicking furiously and making the usually laid-back Fox even more skittish.

  ‘Do you want to see him trotted up?’ Tash asked, feeling sick at the prospect, then added hopefully. ‘Or loose schooled?’

  Dillon shook his head, glancing around. ‘You the only one here?’

  She nodded. This was ridiculous, Tash realised. She was about to cry again. She had to explain why she was such a mess and why it had just taken her ten minutes to remove four stable bandages. ‘The thing is – shit!’

  With a great clatter, the horse in the box beside Fox’s jumped clean over its stable door, his body missing Dillon by a fraction of an inch as it hurled itself into the yard and swerved excitedly off to the left to trot around with its tail in the air, snorting loudly and shaking its head.

  Tash thrust The Fox’s lead rope at Dillon and, lumbering painfully, managed to corner the loose horse by the hay-soaker, grateful that all the gates were shut.

  Dillon watched her lead the snorting, spooking rebel back towards his quarters.

  ‘It’s his party trick,’ she apologised breathlessly. ‘He normally has a grille above his door but Beccy must have forgotten to close it.’ So much for professionalism, she chastised herself silently. Not content with letting her dog bite him, she’d now allowed Rocco Naylor’s unruly thug to almost land on top of him. Hugo would weep. She definitely had to keep her trap shut about the baby tears.

  Thankfully, Dillon seemed more fascinated by the escapee.

  ‘Amazing white marking on his face.’

  Tash stopped, looking across at the tall horse beside her. ‘Yes, that star certainly gets him noticed.’

  The big bright bay, who had eyes as wild as a crystal-meth addict, had a large white star on his forehead that was shaped like a perfect heart.

  ‘It’s how he gets his name – Cœur d’Or.’

  ‘Corridor?’ he misheard her.

  ‘No. Cœur d’Or – heart of gold. But that’s a misnomer if ever there was. He was bred by a friend of ours, Marie-Clair Tucson, as an Olympic prospect, but he’s way too strong and galloping for that format. It’s not his fault. He was conceived at a time the sport was far more daring,’ she explained. ‘By the time he came of age, the FEI had ruled for shorter distances and more technical fences, so he only suits the biggest and boldest old-fashioned courses. Now, this one is entered for Burghley. And he’s up for sale or lease.’ She suddenly fixed him with a meaningful look.

  Cœur d’Or currently belonged to legendary hedge fund maverick Rocco Naylor and his fifth wife, who’d once been among Hugo’s b
iggest owners. But Rocco’s recent downsizing departure had left a huge hole in their working capital and several empty stables, with his top horse’s future still hanging in the balance and a cause of a great many arguments at Haydown. Hugo rated Cœur d’Or as the most talented horse on the yard and loved riding him; Tash thought he was downright dangerous.

  The horse was altogether flashier than Fox – at least a hand taller with a coat the colour of palest polished walnut, that distinctive heart on his face matched with four white socks which contrasted beautifully with his glossy black knees and ears, and his satin-shiny black mane and tail. In simple aesthetics, he made Fox look minor league.

  Nell would love this horse, Dillon realised. He was a complete show-stopper. Beside him, Fox let out a loud fart, sighed deeply and rested a hind hoof on its rim.

  Meanwhile Cœur d’Or reared up, whinnied and finally settled back down on all four feet to stamp furiously and fix them all with an arrogant look.

  ‘How much?’

  Tash added twenty per cent on to the price Rocco Naylor had been asking for all year with no takers. She knew the commission for selling was a drop in the ocean compared to the pure profit from Fox, but if it meant the rock star got to go to Burghley and she got to keep Snob’s son, she would at least pitch it.

  ‘He’s not an amateur’s horse,’ she said carefully, not wanting to mislead him.

  Cœur d’Or, known at home as Heart, was a notoriously difficult ride and had been through half a dozen yards before ending up at Haydown at a bargain price. At least one previous rider had almost been killed going across country with him, but he and Hugo had formed a partnership that was going from strength to strength, only missing out on a Badminton win earlier that year by the narrowest of margins. Hugo badly wanted to keep the ride, but for a moment Tash didn’t care.

  ‘He’s fantastic looking.’ Dillon edged behind laid-back Fox as the big bright bay continued rearing up and cavorting around for attention, neck arched, tail aloft, looking like a true star.

  Fox, meanwhile, had his eyelids at half mast and his ears back, grumpily swatting flies with his tail and regarding his neighbour with huge disdain. He knew his true value.

  ‘He’s only in today because he jumps out of all the fields,’ Tash explained, shaking the lead rope and growling to get the horse’s attention and stop him dancing. ‘Even Snob’s old stallion paddock. He’s notorious.’

  Dillon knew without doubt that he wanted to buy the bay, but he could hear a voice of reason – a voice of Faith – in the back of his head, telling him that he had come to see the rather dull, bad-tempered one that had won the Olympics.

  On cue, Fox’s big head suddenly swing around, teeth bared, coming straight at him.

  ‘Agh!’ Dillon dropped the rope and leaped away.

  ‘He was after a horse fly, not you,’ Tash pointed out kindly, shuffling forwards to claim yet another loose horse.

  Dillon felt foolish. She must think he was such a city gump, still dressed for a Paris television studio not a stable yard. He wanted to point out that he was a farmer too, that he could shear a sheep and lay a hedge, but she was busy putting horses back in their stables, walking more oddly than ever.

  When she reappeared she was dripping with sweat and still looking horribly uncomfortable. There were sweat marks under the arms of her reindeer sweatshirt and, strangely, two dark, damp circles on her chest.

  Unaware that she had started leaking breast milk, Tash closed the grille over Heart’s door and lent her forehead briefly on the cool bars.

  She didn’t want to sell any of the horses, she realised suddenly, turning to face Dillon and noticing that his eyebrow was pierced with a barbell like Beccy’s. Instead of having balls at each end, his were capped with a tiny gold hand and a diamond-crowned heart like a Claddagh ring.

  She stared at it gormlessly, a country bumpkin who no longer even had time to find matching earrings looking at a megastar sporting designer piercings. All she could think was how expensive it must have been, how pointless it was and how painful it would be to take a fall from a horse on to it. He really was from another world.

  Then, to her surprise, Dillon suddenly smiled his big wattage smile. ‘I’d like to see them ridden.’

  ‘What?’ Tash felt the sweat on her face turn ice cold.

  ‘I can’t really part with this sort of money without seeing the horses work.’

  Tash gaped at him again, at the familiar album-sleeve face, the designer hairdo and stubble, the silly piercing, whiter than white teeth and bluer than blue eyes. The man was on a serious shopping trip, however hard she tried to put him off.

  ‘Fox has just won Olympic gold. Surely his track record stands for itself?’

  ‘I never buy a car without a test drive.’

  ‘This isn’t a car,’ Tash gasped, worried by his attitude. Perhaps he wanted to ride the horse? Was he going to hop on wearing trainers and ripped jeans and gallop around for fun?

  She suddenly wondered why he’d come alone – no trainer, no rider, no expert adviser, not even a camcorder. It was unheard of in her experience, especially for a relative newcomer to eventing. Most deals like this took weeks if not months of delicate negotiations, usually brokered by at least one agent. She was reminded of the premiership striker who had famously bought two of the country’s top dressage horses for his young wife as a wedding present and driven them home to her in a custom-built horsebox painted with his club’s colours. The highly strung, highly trained horses, accustomed only to expert professional riding, had soon frightened their novice owner and themselves so much that she lost interest. When she fell pregnant the horses were thrown out in a field where they had stayed for three years before being sent to some backwater auction, a million pounds’ worth of horseflesh and talent sold on as unwarranted hacks to the highest cash bidder.

  ‘Hugo’s the only one who rides Heart.’

  ‘Then we’ll start with the other one.’

  Tash felt nausea rise as she looked up at Fox’s clever red head and high sloping shoulder and knew she couldn’t hope to ride him. He might be easy, but she’d had a baby four days ago and was incapable of mounting stairs easily, let alone a horse. Her boobs were throbbing as her let-down reflex went into overdrive; her scar had been stretched and strained by all this activity and her painkillers were wearing off, making her feel sicker by the second. She could feel the blood seeping between her legs and her support stockings were itching so madly beneath her leather boots that she wanted to plunge them in the nearest water trough.

  Instead, she forced a smile to match his, sales girl to awkward customer.

  ‘I’ll go and rustle up a jockey,’ she said politely, making it sound as though she was going to fling together Frankie Dettori as a light snack. ‘I promise I won’t be long. Would you like a drink while you wait? There’s a kettle in the office there, and a fridge with cold drinks if they haven’t all been snaffled. I’m sorry, it’s self-service.’

  ‘I can handle it.’ He waved her away, already pulling a phone from his pocket. ‘Thanks.’

  She turned to lumber back to the house, tears of pain in her eyes, tempted to just lock the doors and hide until he went away.

  *

  The trademark smile dropped away when Tash went out of view and Dillon turned to look at The Fox once more, but the horse had returned to his haynet and was presenting his bum to his potential purchaser.

  ‘Bloody idiot,’ Dillon cursed himself under his breath.

  He’d only diverted to Berkshire today to avoid the gathering storm clouds back home, figuratively and literally. Whisked to Paris the previous night to perform in a studio with talk-of-the-town French singer Lola Lèvres on a live link to the MTV Video Music Awards in Hollywood, Dillon was not feeling his best. He and Nell had been having a text row for almost twenty-four hours now, sparked by the fact that he refused to take her with him to Paris, knowing she’d be bored and would jealously snub poor little Lola, who might look like a horn
y porn star and had already been dubbed the new Amy Winehouse, but was in fact rather sweet and innocent, and guarded by alarmingly over-protective parents. Having insisted that the PR, Tania, and all the other record label hand-holders stay away, Dillon had been overridden continually by la famille Lèvres to the point that he’d practically become a backing singer to the pouty princess in the live link – not great billing for a man still in the number-one slot in thirteen countries. It had been a wearying trip. Dillon hadn’t slept in thirty hours, had eaten outside his body clock, had longed for a drink more than ever and had spent far too long with the sound of his own backing track, studio talkback, rapid-fire French and helicopter rotors shuddering through him.

  Now he tilted his head up to the flawless sky and let the sun bake his face for a moment. The roses clambering around the eaves of the buildings smelled incredible. It was a beautiful spot. If he knew about it, his father would no doubt try to snap it up to add to his country-house collection. Pete had once famously boasted that he wanted to buy a stately pile in every English county: ‘I want to be a rich country gent, and these days any rich cunt can be gentry.’ It was a very Pete Rafferty epigram.

  Dillon winced at the memory. His father and family were was due to move to his newly refurbished Cotswolds house any day now, and he regularly found himself wishing that the three-quarters of an acre of retiled Abbey roof was being struck by lightning that very minute.

  When crossing the Channel earlier, his pilot had received reports that storms were making flying conditions hazardous north of the M4 and had asked Dillon if there was anywhere he’d like to make an unscheduled stop. At which point Dillon had finally bothered to start reading the thirty-five texts he had received from Faith in the past two days, and which contained details of the Beauchamps’ wonder horse. Faith, being better organised than his own PA, had naturally attached every contact number available for the Beauchamps, plus email, a postcode reference and even GPS coordinates. She was unbeatable, a ray of sunshine poking from the stormy Lodes valley sky. He wished she wasn’t going away to Essex.