by Fiona Walker
‘Angel?’
She nodded. ‘He couldn’t have been less angelic, but he was so funny and charming I adored him. He came from Chile and had this fantastic accent, like a bandit in a movie, you know?’
Lough nodded, wondering how on earth she ever survived all those years on the road without being gang-raped or murdered.
‘About five of us travelled through Cambodia and Malaysia together. It was a great time.’
‘And you and Angel got it together?’ He sat down on the ramp, patting the matting beside him.
She shook her head, settling down too. ‘He flirted with everyone, but to be honest I don’t think he really fancied me like I did him. But he was very kind. I got seriously freaked out when we got to Singapore – I hadn’t been back since we lived there and my dad died – and Angel was fantastic. He looked after me through it and talked to me lots. He loved horses too, and I think he’d done some race riding in Argentina when he was younger.
Lough smiled. He was starting to see the pattern forming.
‘He had this dream of owning a little finca in Spain and breeding horses to sell back to South America – he said they paid huge money for them there. His uncle’s family had invited him to live with them in Jerez and find him work with local breeding studs until he set himself up. He asked me if I’d like to be a part of it. I was so happy.
‘Of course it was all pipe-dreams. Neither of us had a bean. I knew I could probably get a bit of money from my mother and James – they were desperate to get me home by then – but it would never be enough.’
‘So you decided to raise the cash for a farm by smuggling drugs?’ Lough was staggered by her gall. His own underhand methods of raising capital had been nothing compared to Beccy’s, it seemed.
‘Of course not.’ She rubbed her face with shaking hands, having gone through the events that led up to her arrest a thousand times. ‘I had no idea what was going on, but of course that counted for nothing with the authorities there.
‘I had just enough money to get us both back to Europe. I found flights direct to Madrid, but Angel wanted to go via Schiphol, saying he had an errand to run for our friend at the surf shop, so I went along with it. It meant catching different flights because we were on stand-by, but that was cool. He went on ahead, saying he’d meet me there.’
Lough closed his eyes, the scenario easy to imagine. Poor, besotted Beccy happy to check in bags for her great friend Angel, only to find one of them jam-packed with Class As. He couldn’t believe she’d been so naive.
‘What were you carrying?’
‘Khmer royal gold.’
‘Not drugs?’
‘God, no! They’d have executed me for that. The press over here often reported it wrong: it was jewellery. Rings mostly, just a few pieces, but incredibly old and rare so worth a lot of money. Angel must have got hold of it while we were travelling through Cambodia.’
‘Did you ever hear from him again?’
She shook her head.
Lough looked across at the stars again, brighter now the clouds were blowing over. He could see Ursa Major lifting its saucepan high in the sky. ‘You must have been so terrified.’
‘My mother and stepfather flew over straight away and worked with the British consul, pleading for clemency. James put the best legal team together while I was on remand. When I was found guilty I was told I was lucky not to get the death sentence, but James insisted on an appeal and I was eventually freed on a technicality, something to do with the source of artefacts being untraceable.’
‘He sounds amazing.’
‘He’s certainly pretty stubborn,’ she said stiffly.
‘Must be where Tash gets it from.’
Beccy fell silent, also looking up at the night sky. ‘I used to gaze at the Great Bear from Changi and remind myself it would follow me home if I ever got here.’
‘I did the same from my cell in Auckland.’
He turned to her, but Beccy’s mind was still crossing its own continents. ‘In India, they call it Saptarshi and each star is a sage. Some say they’re the sons of Brahma,’ she tilted her head up higher, ‘but I secretly always preferred the story I learned in Classics at school, that Hera turned one of Zeus’s lovers into a bear in a jealous rage, so he put that bear up in the sky to stop it being hunted.’
‘That’s more romantic, certainly.’ His deep voice had a sardonic undertone.
Hugging herself for warmth, Beccy noticed the light was still on in the stables flat. She hadn’t thought about Lemon at all for the past half-hour, she realised. The moment she did, a sob rose in her throat. ‘Lem isn’t at all romantic. I sometimes think he’s quite nasty.’
‘He’s great with horses.’
‘Just not women.’
‘He doesn’t know how.’
‘He’s like Lignère,’ she said quietly, referring to the character from Cyrano de Bergerac, handsome Christian’s offensive friend.
When Lough said nothing she stood up, rubbing her numb backside and fighting another onslaught of tears as she realised how pitiful her relationship with Lemon had been, and how shallow he was compared to Lough’s unfathomable depths. ‘Thanks for listening.’ She started to walk down the ramp. ‘You must be dying to get to bed.’
He stood up too, catching hold of her arm. ‘Beccy, I must ask you …’
‘Yes?’ she froze, hardly daring to hope that he might at last start to see past Tash’s leggy sweetness.
‘Has she said anything to you?’
Beccy chewed her lip, her chest concave with the blunt pain of being less than second best, not caring if she was quoting out of context. ‘Just that she wants Hugo to win.’
He drew a sharp breath.
Beccy turned back to him, savage with disappointment. ‘I used to think that if I rode well enough Hugo would fall madly in love with me, but it doesn’t work like that. We all want to win for ourselves. We do it because the adrenalin and the high of beating the field is the closest thing there is to that first punch-drunk moment of love. I stopped being competitive for a long time, but you know what? Now I want another chance.’
‘To win what?’ He stepped back, alarmed by her fervour. ‘Not Hugo, surely?’
She shook her head. ‘Respect, Lough. I want to win respect.’
‘Sounds like a good plan.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Perhaps one day, if I ride fast enough and well enough, I’ll shake the devil off my back too.’
‘He who dares wins.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Tash has no idea how lucky she is to have you. Then again, she’s the only one round here who’s stopped wanting to win.’ With that, she shook off the hand on her arm and hurtled down the ramp, running back to the flat.
The music was still booming from Lem’s room; the hob had been turned off, but the pan remained in place, its contents reduced to a solid, blackened mess.
Wearily, Beccy went to clean her teeth before locking herself in her own room and plugging in her iPod. The first song lined up on her playlist was ‘All You Need is Love’. She wept herself hoarse, but whether she was crying for Lemon, for her wasted crush on Hugo or even for Lough, perhaps the greatest missed opportunity of her life, she couldn’t tell.
There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done, she reminded herself firmly, knowing she had to get through the next few days without being a weeping wreck. Lough was right, Lemon had no idea how to handle women, although knowing that didn’t stop the feeling of loss that now ripped at her throat; she had just as little idea how to handle men, after all. She thought back over that recent, amazing conversation and suddenly yelped in alarm as it occurred to her what she’d said. He who dares wins.
Chapter 62
Eager to boost her profile, Sylva was determined to get Dillon to Badminton to watch his horse compete, but he had dug his heels in. Buried in a London studio most days, laying down the tracks of a new album, Dillon was uncommunicative and exhausted, only returning to the Cotswolds for brief periods to snatch sleep and check progress
on the farm, or to entertain his daughters when they visited. He looked terrible, and was piling on weight from snacking through the long working hours, permanently unshaven and wearing the same ancient cut-offs and Gay Pride T-shirt everywhere because he claimed none of his other clothes fitted.
Based in Le Petit Château with Mama and the family, and working her own long hours promoting her books, beauty lines, perfume and lingerie, Sylva felt powerless. Their relationship didn’t amount to very much at all, apart from press excitement and a couple of quick sexual encounters, the most recent of which had involved flying to the States for an unpleasantly rushed dinner at Nobu Malibu, which had left her with indigestion and carpet burns from the upholstery in her hire car. They’d had far more play-dates with all the children, Hana, Mama and Indigo than hot dates together. She now hated coming back to the Lodes Valley, finding its picture-postcard perfection too sugary and limited, its gardens already bursting with lupins and foxgloves, clematis and roses like sweets displayed in the window of the honey-stone shop to one side of the West Oddford Organics flagship store in Morrell on the Moor. She longed for something grander and wilder. She needed adrenalin and crowds and a man at her side.
Badminton Horse Trials with Dillon was her ticket to a little much-needed attention, public and private, and she wasn’t going to relinquish it easily. Every obstacle he threw up, she overcame. The girls would be coming over: not a problem, they’d take them along with Hana and Zuzi – the more the merrier. He was needed in the recording studio all day Friday: not a problem, his driver could bring him straight to the hotel afterwards.
At Mama’s insistence, Sylva had block-booked rooms at Calcot Manor Spa for the entire run of the competition. The luxurious surroundings, pampering and five-star food were exactly what they needed, Mama maintained, and it would finally kick-start the romance that was destined to lead to love and marriage, and the seven-figure exclusive wedding features that she and Sylva’s management team were currently negotiating with Cheers!.
But a phone call to Dillon on the Wednesday of Badminton week yet again threatened her well-laid plans.
‘We’re just about to leave, darlink,’ she told him as she stood on the drive outside Le Petit Château, kicking at the gravel with a pointed suede toe and watching nannies and drivers loading up her convoy.
Her camera team were filming her from behind a tubbed bay tree. She zipped up her little red suede jacket and turned away from them so that they couldn’t see her face. She was already wearing big dark glasses and a baseball cap, picking up vibes from Dillon who loathed Rodney’s presence and refused to let his team film him or his children.
‘Leave where?’ He sounded distracted, music and conversation in the background.
‘For Calcot Manor. I’ll see you there on Friday, yes?’
‘Not sure I’ll make it.’ ‘You have to!’
‘There’s so much to do here. We’ve all agreed to push on through the weekend if we need to.’
‘But Pom and Berry are coming!’
‘Their mother’s flying over with them and she’ll be in the London house, so I might as well stay there. It’s easier for me to see them that way.’
She shuffled further away from her documentary team, lowering her voice. ‘Zuzi will be devastated. She has been so desperately looking forward to seeing your girls. She always mentions Pom and Berry in her prayers each night.’
That hit him where it hurt.
‘She has had such a traumatic little life,’ she went on in a heartfelt whisper. ‘Her father in Slovakia has just forsaken Hana for another woman. They are trying to keep it from Zuzi, but children have an instinct about these things.’
That would surely score another body blow, Sylva decided, with Dillon unable to avoid painful parallels with his daughters’ suffering when his own long-distance marriage crumbled.
‘Is Hana okay?’
‘Hana?’ Sylva struggled for a moment to register what he was talking about. ‘Oh, fine. They did not love each other for many years. She is better here with me and Mama.’
‘Your family mean everything to you, don’t they?’
‘They must come first.’ ‘I’ll be there on Sunday with the girls.’
‘You will join me at the hotel on Saturday night?’
‘No. I can’t leave London. We’ll meet at Badminton.’
Sylva felt that, in the circumstances, it was as good as she could hope for – another play-date, this one played out in public at least.
At Calcot Spa, Sylva and Mama enjoyed massages, facials, manicures, body wraps and polishes on the first day, while Hana and the nannies entertained the children in the crèche and took them for adventures in the grounds. On Friday, Sylva worked out in the gym and swam hundreds of lengths in the pool, Mama had an eyelash tint, fake tan and cellulite treatment, and a protesting Hana was frog-marched to the spa for a facial and hot-stone massage.
By Friday night, when they tucked into veal sweetbreads in the Conservatory restaurant, there was a curious unity between the mother and daughters. Then Hana made a comment that shattered the family truce.
‘Why do you want to marry a man who does not want to marry you?’ she asked her younger sister calmly over vanilla-poached peaches.
Mama’s squawks of protest were interrupted by a text message arriving from Dillon.
Will be in studio all tomorrow day & night. Can’t make Badminton.
Sylva narrowed her eyes murderously. She might have guessed he’d wimp out. She already had a contingency plan, and so she immediately texted Indigo, suggesting a family outing that weekend.
D stuck in recording studio, but I know you and P can talk him round. Her thumb criss-crossed her phone’s touch screen, its long acrylic nail scratching against the glass. Would be so lovely to spend more time with all my new family, and D needs a treat. Can you help?
It was a bold move, Indigo could easily call her bluff and checkmate, but Sylva doubted she would deny herself the opportunity to cash in on her recent mother-in-law gamesmanship. It was Indigo who had started the engagement rumour, after all. She liked to play as much as Sylva. If she wanted to see it through, she knew how important it was to make sure that Sylva and Dillon were seen together in public, and soon.
She replied in seconds: Wicked stepmother on case.
Sylva giggled, earning curious looks from Mama and Hana. Indigo rarely betrayed a sense of humour, laughter being the enemy of smooth skin, but when she did Sylva found her almost human.
Not pausing for a beat, she put an urgent call through to her personal hair stylist.
‘Gary will come here tomorrow,’ she told Mama afterwards. ‘I am going blonde again.’
Mama’s face lit up, having thought the brunette very drab. Sylva was a good girl, and professional to a fault. If she couldn’t guarantee the top-ranking headlines that she ideally wanted to come next week, from an appearance with ‘fiancé Dillon Rafferty’ at Britain’s biggest equestrian event, then she could at least try to avoid slipping BKK by eliciting the media’s interest with a new hair colour. Now that was dedication.
Chapter 63
The atmosphere – and weather – at Badminton had already tested the Haydown team to the limit. Both dressage days were marked by unseasonally chilly temperatures and gusty showers, making the horses crabby and disobedient.
Hugo performed his first test in a hailstorm and came out with a cricket score on Sir Galahad. Twenty minutes later, in sideways rain, Lough and his scratch ride, Koura, picked up an equally unimpressive clutch of penalties by rearing after the rein back and fly-bucking through the flying changes. Both men were so hellbent on beating one another that they over-focused and over-pressurised their mounts.
Early on the second day, The Fox gave Rory an easier ride than his stablemate, despite a hailstorm during his canter work, and the pair raised the stalwart dressage crowd’s spirits with an electric test, only marred by the rider’s over-cocky bows and winks to the judges, like Liberace flirting over
a piano.
Left to his own devices away from the Hugo-Lough grudge match, Rory was on a roll and loving the attention his Kentucky win brought. To his delight, Marie-Clair had flown in to catch some four-star action en route to her stud in France, supporting one of her coaching protégés, a young French rider called Kevin, and checking in with her British interest.
They watched the other Haydown contenders from the stands. Hugo scraped into the top ten on a volatile The Cub and Lough raised his game too, riding Olympic horse Rangitoto with iron will to end the day in seventh, but neither competitor was happy, and MC was quick to proclaim why.
‘Zey ride wiz zeir cocks. It is always a mistake – like driving wiz your nose, huh?’
Rory flashed a smile, not entirely certain what she meant. She was frighteningly like Eric Cantona at times.
‘And your cock?’ she demanded, earning some shocked looks from near by seats.
‘Entirely at your service,’ he told her in an undertone, spoken into his collar like a spy.
‘Good. I book a hotel for tonight.’ She stood up. ‘You lie fourth, I sink.’
‘You mean there are three others sharing your bed before me?’ Rory gulped, unhappy with the idea of queuing up for his French mistress, however irresistible he found her lessons.
‘On the leaderboard, Rory,’ she laughed throatily, blowing him a kiss. ‘You are fourth after ze dressage, but always first in my heart, as I am in yours, non?’
‘Of course.’ Rory blew a kiss in return before setting off to the temporary stables to feed Fox a roll of Polos and give him a thank-you pat. Crossing back through the park, he half hoped he would bump into Faith and be able to share the news of his top-five slot with her, but she was nowhere to be seen as he returned to the Beauchamps’ horsebox to pack his things.
Paranoid that their trysts would be discovered by the scandal-loving British eventing crowd, MC had booked a B&B several miles away using a false name. Rory loved that the guesthouse’s owner called him Monsieur Nom de Plume without apparent irony.
