Kiss and Tell

by Fiona Walker

  Lough watched Tash clean a saddle, turning it this way and that to cover each curving surface with a damp, soapy cloth.

  ‘Beccy’s grown a lot calmer since she’s been here,’ Tash went on. ‘I think this place is good for her.’

  Lough said nothing, watching silently as Tash gripped the saddle between her thighs like a cello and rubbed saddle soap into the panels, long neck bent as her head lowered in concentration, hair falling into her eyes. It was so unintentionally erotic, he was spellbound.

  ‘Lem had better look after her,’ she said, looking up.

  ‘It’s her life,’ he muttered.

  ‘Hugo will disapprove.’

  He looked away.

  ‘He hates relationships on the yard. He says they get in the way of horsemanship.’

  ‘You two should divorce then.’

  ‘Not us.’ She dropped her sponge back in the soap tub and glanced at her watch. ‘I must take over the children’s bath time.’ She stood up to leave. ‘Do you want supper later?’

  Lough looked up in surprise. ‘Cabbage soup?’

  It was over a week since they’d eaten together because Tash had been on her crash diet. She looked sensational, her cheekbones heightened in her face, her waist more defined in that long, languid body, but Lough preferred sharing her table to admiring her from a distance any day. His spirits lifted like hot ash at the thought of one last meal together.

  But then she ruined it. ‘I’m trying out a sea bass recipe I want to cook for Hugo the night he gets home. I thought I’d invite Beccy and Lemon too. We can see if I’m right about them.’

  ‘I said I’d meet Faith for a drink at the Olive Branch.’

  Tash nodded, surprised to find herself feeling jealous. She’d wanted to make amends for letting him down today, and for being such lousy company recently. She had used the excuse of her cabbage soup diet to keep him away all week, but she knew a lot of it was fear. Lough’s intensity frightened her, along with the life he had left behind in New Zealand. She badly wanted to talk to Hugo about it. Now that he was almost home, she felt more confident that Lough would fit in and prosper at Haydown, and she told herself that she mustn’t resent him having his own social life.

  ‘Faith is lovely,’ she said encouragingly, heading for the door. ‘Enjoy your date.’

  He said nothing.

  That evening, blown out not only by Lough, but also by Beccy and Lemon who had gone to the Basingford multiplex together, Tash put the sea bass in the freezer and decided to give the diet another day. Feeling virtuously slim, she tried on clothes to select something to welcome Hugo home in, starting with the most important layer.

  But all the sexily supportive, figure enhancing underwear that she had bought before Christmas no longer fitted, her figure so altered by increased fitness and decreased comfort eating that she looked silly in the vast lacy pants and bras that bagged around her now-modest boobs like tropical butterfly nets capturing two humble cabbage whites. No longer breastfeeding, her belly almost completely flat and her buttock cheeks as hard as bowling balls from so many hours in the saddle, she had no need of control lingerie. Yet her laundry-faded pre-pregnancy Sloggi knickers and sports bras were far less appealing.

  She stood naked in front of the mirror, trying to remember what she had done with the basque and suspender set that she’d worn beneath her wedding dress. Hugo had loved it, but she hadn’t worn it since.

  ‘Seven years,’ she said out loud, brought up short by the realisation that so much time had passed.

  The months and years had seemed to accelerate once the children had arrived, propelling her through life almost too fast to keep count. Amery was six months old now, yet it seemed a moment ago that she was carrying the floppy, toasty little newborn around on her collarbone like a fat little brooch.

  She stared at her naked reflection, amazed her body had recovered from so much trauma, although she had her scar and a few tell-tale stretch marks just above her hips, already fading from red to silver.

  She still recalled pointing out her mother’s stretch marks for the first time, on holiday at the age of about ten and asking her what they were, to which Alexandra had barely lifted her head from her sunlounger to say: ‘They’re baby brushstrokes, painted there to remind me how lucky I am to have my three beautiful children.’

  Suddenly Tash hit upon an idea. She could add to the baby brushstrokes. Hugo would love it, and it was far more personal than badly fitting underwear or elaborate sea bass. She could practise tonight.

  Lough only stayed for one drink in the Olive Branch, though Faith was at least a brooding, malcontent ally.

  He felt bad that he’d done so little to follow up his promise to Rory to look out for her, although he always got the impression that she was the ultimate self-preservationist.

  She was muttering furiously about Nell Cottrell’s Mail exposé: ‘Rory and Sylva were hardly secret lovers; Sylva used him for sex. He gets that a lot: women exploit him’. She also grumbled about Lemon and Beccy: ‘They’re so horribly loved up, have you noticed? He calls her Limey. “Lemon and Limey”, I ask you! Ugh!’

  So Tash had been right. He hadn’t even noticed. He wished that he was eating with her now in the vast, messy Haydown kitchen. But he knew he had to immunise himself against Hugo returning to take over, a plague that would sweep through the yard and take control, wiping him out if he wasn’t prepared.

  Faith was talking about her plans for the season. The Moncrieffs obviously worked her far harder than she had at Haydown, but gave her more direction and guidance to compensate, with daily lessons, lots of outings and a competition plan for White Lies.

  ‘He’s a bit of a crock and he’s been off the circuit for a few years, but he was four-star in his heyday so Gus thinks he’ll enjoy it. Whitey’s nothing to Rio’s raw talent, of course, but he’s safe and steady.’

  ‘Tell me, why d’you let Rory ride that stallion of yours while you struggle with his cast-offs?’ Lough asked.

  She looked at him levelly. ‘Unrequited love. Go figure. It’s the pits.’

  He watched her closely, but she then reached out and dug him jovially in the ribs.

  ‘I do it because Rory rides better than me,’ she laughed. ‘And he’s got Hugo’s Mogo sponsorship deal covering him, which picks up the biggest tabs.’

  Lough thought Rory was unbelievably spoiled, his silver spoon still poking out of his mouth. If he was dreading Hugo coming back, the added weight of Rory reappearing – and sharing his little safe house once more – demoralised him utterly.

  But Faith was clearly as excited as Tash about the Haydown duo’s imminent return, still chattering about Rory’s talent as she stomped outside with him to say goodbye, pulling a woolly hat over her head and pausing to admire the old Yamaha Bandit he’d picked up cheap at auction.

  ‘Gus has just bought himself a motorbike too,’ she told him. ‘Bright green thing. He says it’s his mid-life crisis, but Penny says he had one of those years ago and she calls the bike AWH. Gus thought that was really cool until she explained it stood for Accident Waiting to Happen. They are funny. Thanks for the drink.’ She clambered on to her modest bicycle and pedalled back to Lime Tree Farm.

  Lough sliced through the lanes, wishing he had some of Faith Brakespear’s self belief.

  When Lough came in through Haydown’s electric gates, the Roadies snarled and snapped at his tyres as usual, thinking he was planning to make off with all the tack and red diesel.

  All the downstairs lights in the main house glowed welcomingly, and his stomach let out a longing rumble.

  It wasn’t yet nine. He could just put his head round the door and pass on the Lemon and Limey comment, which wasn’t his style at all, but was the only reason he could come up with for seeing Tash.

  The kitchen was deserted, the Bitches of Eastwick crowded on the sofa as usual, the Rat Pack clawing and grinning at his legs.

  Lough wandered along the back lobby, stooping to stroke Beetroot who
walked into him lovingly from the direction of the study, where Tash camped out at all times when she was in the house and the children were asleep, painting and doing paperwork, checking online scoreboards if Hugo was competing abroad.

  He pushed the door.

  She was totally naked, her back to him, focused upon her reflection in an old gilt-framed mirror propped up on a chair. She was painting with such absorption that she didn’t realise he was there. It was the most amazing canvas he’d ever seen.

  Her torso was covered with intricate swirls, flowers, horses and wildlife, painted with incredible lightness and delicacy. They reminded him of the most beautiful Maori t moko work.

  For a long time he risked detection, unable to drag his guilty eyes away, so torn apart by love and longing that his heart felt ready to rip itself out of his chest.

  The radio was on – a digital channel playing some sort of back-to-back bluesy folk. He recognised the song but not the artist. ‘Fields of Gold’. The voice was smoky and rich, laced with life and love and regret.

  Lough backed reluctantly away, stealing through the house and out into the night where yet another spring frost lit by a full moon was turning the gardens, parkland and home paddocks into fields of silver.

  Chapter 52

  While Jenny was dispatched in the horsebox to Heathrow Animal Centre to collect the horses that had just flown back from the States, Beccy was allotted the task of meeting the passenger flight later that evening.

  ‘You’d think Tash would go herself,’ she grumbled to Faith, who had hacked up from Lime Tree Farm to see if they were back yet, only to find Beccy bad-temperedly clearing out the tiny boot of her car. ‘I’d be desperate to see Hugo after all those weeks apart.’ She hid her blushes in frantic tidying.

  Faith was light-headed with anticipation, knowing that however much she kept reminding herself she must play it cool and not crowd Rory, fate had intervened. She couldn’t let Beccy be sent as a taxi service to Hugo after the New Year’s Eve encounter. It would be cruel.

  ‘I’ll meet the flight if you like,’ she offered as casually as she could.

  ‘Would you?’ Beccy looked relieved. ‘Lem and I want to see the new Percy Jackson film tonight.’ Then she cast a look at her watch. ‘You’ll have to get a move on, though. The flight lands at five.’

  Faith cantered all the way back along the cross-country route to Lime Tree Farm to fetch her own car, jumping hedges and ditches, grateful that Whitey was so trustworthy and easy to handle, unlike his master.

  She wished she could tart herself up, but by the time she had washed off Whitey, skipped out her charges, made up haynets and feeds, and persuaded Gus to let her finish an hour early, she could do no more than clean her teeth and cram in her chicken fillets.

  As it was, she was almost an hour late, and Hugo and Rory were waiting in the arrivals hall, as fantastically lean and bronze as two adventurers after a far-flung expedition. Both were surprised to find Faith welcoming them home in muddy breeches, hay poking from her frizzy hair and a strong horse pong drawing sideways glances from the private-hire drivers around her, some of whom discreetly lifted their name boards over their noses.

  ‘Where’s Tash?’ asked Hugo, striding forwards first.

  ‘Waiting at home,’ Faith told him. ‘She said something about the children being in bed? I volunteered.’ She was trying not to stare too conspicuously at Rory.

  He’d arrived back in the UK like an avenging angel to unrequited love, far more intimidating that she had anticipated. He seemed suddenly very grown up, and for the first time she felt the ten-year age gap between them. He seemed gratifyingly pleased to see her and kissed her sweetly on the cheek, making it sting with longing. Then he thrust a bag of Duty Free scent at her, which was generous, but made her feel like he was making some sort of point about her lack of femininity.

  Hugo was certainly not pleased by Tash’s non-appearance, and his black mood worsened when he found himself crammed in the back of a bright yellow Volkswagen that reeked of perfume, and sharing the seat with a dementedly excited Jack Russell.

  ‘You brought Twitch!’ Rory was close to tears, which would have pleased Faith had it not been for the fact he’d greeted her with such comparative cool. She realised sadly that he meant she rated lower than the dog.

  As they drove through the Heathrow underpass towards the M4, Hugo closed his eyes on the back seat and feigned sleep. He felt profoundly hurt that Tash hadn’t come to collect him. What’s more, Rory was suddenly behaving very oddly indeed.

  Faith had imagined this drive home all afternoon, rehearsing all the things she would tell Rory about life at Lime Tree Farm, Whitey, the start to the season – and planning all the questions she would ask him about Florida, the lecture tour, the competition and training.

  Instead her tongue was tightly knotted and there was an awkward silence as she digested the fact that there was something totally different about Rory. It wasn’t just the tan, the sun-bleached hair or the fabulous waft of spicy aftershave. Nor was it the great clothes – the suede jeans matched with a cowboy boots, the faded denim shirt and scuffed leather jacket that made him look like he’d just walked off the set of one of Dillon’s pop videos. The most noticeable thing about him was the silence. He had yet to say a word.

  It took him until they were past Reading Services to speak.

  ‘Your horse is well.’

  ‘So’s yours,’ she managed to splutter, abandoning plans to give him a fence by fence description of their cross-country round at Tweseldown.

  ‘Stefan and Kirsty promise to take good care of him.’

  It took her a moment to register what he was saying. Then her tongue gratefully unravelled itself from its knot faster than a cobra lunging.

  ‘You left Rio in America?’ she cried with a familiar burst of anger.

  Tash let the brush stroke her skin with quivers of anticipation as she imagined Hugo’s eyes on her new, taut canvas. She added a curl to her thigh and a butterfly to her navel. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she marvelled at the artistry.

  She reached for her wine glass and realised it was empty. When she reached to top it up, she found the bottle was empty too. But instead of feeling pleasantly tipsy she felt dizzy and sick with nerves. She’d been painting for a long time and had a crick in her neck from craning round to add flowers and horses on her buttocks. When she’d had to go to the loo earlier, several roses had transformed into something that looked like nappy rash. She had carefully wiped them clean and repainted them, and now she was standing naked with her legs splayed and arms out, praying that no yard crisis brought Jenny or Lemon to the door before Hugo got home.

  She was grateful the children had gone to sleep so easily that night. Amery’s pink cheeks forewarned teething or a cold, but the monitor remained silent and she’d had plenty of time to perfect her creation.

  But now she looked at her reflection one final time and panicked.

  Imagining Hugo’s eyes on her again, she suddenly doubted what she’d done. She looked like one of those freakish women at tattoo conventions, inked from collar to ankle. She wasn’t sure it was Hugo’s thing at all, returning after more than a month away to find his wife shuffling towards him plastered with paint. She should have stuck to a sea-bass supper.

  She contemplated rushing upstairs for a bath but, looking in the mirror, she wavered. Her handiwork was too beautiful to waste. She’d painted with such love and attention; it had taken her so long.

  She decided to open another bottle of wine.

  But just as she was taking wide-legged steps out of the study, she heard the buzzer go in the kitchen to indicate that the main electric gates were opening. He was home.

  Waiting for the Haydown gates to swing apart, Faith willed them to slow down so that she had more time to climb off her metaphorical high horse and tell Rory that he was forgiven for leaving her real horse in the States, but her heart was still crashing so violently in her chest she couldn’t spea
k.

  She’d overreacted to the news, as she so often did, the adrenalin-pumped excitement at seeing him again combusting alongside her anger that he’d so obviously changed and was even further beyond her reach. She wanted the old Rory back, dishevelled and chaotic, not this cool, calm demi-god posing as a young Robert Redford who’d proudly announced that they’d left Rio behind because Hugo wanted the duo to compete at Kentucky next month. Even though that was a dream come true for both her horse and her greatest love, Faith felt left out and furious that the decision had been made without her. She understood they’d left the stallion with the Johanssens, along with Hugo’s Kentucky hope Oil Tanker, in the belief that it would be better to have them fine-tuned by Stefan than fly them back and forth across the Atlantic. That all made sense. But Rory suddenly sounding horribly mature and sensible, like her mother, didn’t make sense. She’d ended up reacting much as she did during any confrontation with her mother, shouting so much that Rory had shut up, and they’d spent the past half-hour in stony silence. Now, as the Haydown gates opened, with the Roadies barking at her headlights like Cerberus, she knew she had to make concessions.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ she asked in an undertone, punching the VW into gear and kangaroo-hopping through the gates.

  ‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ His voice was flat with disappointment, having clearly believed the news would wow any owner. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. Rio’s enjoying five-star care and even has a webcam in his stable so you can keep an eye on him. I know how you fret.’

  Which made Faith feel like a maiden aunt stressing over her cats. As she pulled up behind the main house Rory fished out a postcard from his pocket and thrust it at her. ‘Here – I wrote down the URL for you.’

  Faith briefly studied the single line of indecipherable scrawl before flipping it over. The card featured a photograph of a cowboy with a saddle slung over one shoulder.

  ‘I was going to write something personal and post this to you,’ he explained sheepishly, ‘but you never read my cards, so I figured it was best to say it.’