by Fiona Walker
‘I can’t believe you just stood back and let that happen,’ she told Hugo after Gus and Lucy had left.
‘What am I supposed to do? Throw a bucket of cold water over them?’
‘Penny is an old friend.’
‘Affairs happen in this sport; we all just have to get on with it. The Moncrieffs have been giving house room to your Kiwi admirer for weeks and I haven’t kicked up a fuss, have I?’
‘Don’t start that again, Hugo.’ Tash sighed, grateful that Lough had returned to Berkshire as soon as he’d completed his class and wasn’t staying in the lorry park. ‘We agreed to put it behind us. We have to trust each other.’
‘Trust none, for oaths are straws,’ he glowered out of the window, ‘men’s faiths are wafer-cakes.’
‘Henry the Fifth.’ Tash recognised, studying him curiously; she couldn’t remember him ever quoting Shakespeare before.
He looked sheepish. ‘I played Pistol in a school production.’
‘Does that make me Mistress Quickly?’ Tash anxiously recalled a downtrodden Judi Dench in unflattering sackcloth in the movie version she’d seen.
‘You always knew more about literature than me.’ He shrugged. ‘I just remember it was hell wearing tights, and I kept forgetting my lines. Pistol talks far too much for a minor character.’
‘Men of few words are the best men.’ Tash reached out to touch his arm. Secretly she wished he would open up more, but his face was its familiar, handsome mask again, and she knew better than to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war half way through a competition.
In her hospital room, Beccy was doing a lot of talking, but not all of it made sense. She was trying to explain about her father, but kept muddling him up with Hugo, past and present becoming hopelessly jumbled as she fought though a mental maze and physical pain.
‘I loved him so much, even though he hurt me. Tash says I mustn’t blame myself, but it was my fault, wasn’t it? She only said that to make me feel better.’
‘Tash knows?’ Em gaped at her.
But Beccy wasn’t listening. ‘It’s why I’m the way I am, why I can’t ever have normal relationships. Lem really hates Hugo, so he called it sexual assault, but it wasn’t like that. It was my fault. I’m the reason Tash and Hugo’s marriage is in trouble. I led Lough on, just like I led on Hugo, just like I rode too fast and did this to myself. I deserved it all, Em. I’m to blame for everything.’ She talked herself in circles, remorseful and wretched, never fully making sense, drifting in and out of tears and sleep, her fantasy world and her secrets unravelling simultaneously.
As soon as their mother had arrived from Portugal, tearful and contrite with a sullen James in tow, Em left them all together and went outside to phone Lemon, whose number she’d found on her sister’s phone. Using her steeliest charms honed from years working in media high finance, Em demanded facts, and fast. False loyalty swept aside by such practised coercion, Lemon was a great deal more forthcoming, soon sparing no detail of the sordid, drunken encounter that had gone too far and left Beccy reeling. ‘I’m only telling you all this because he mustn’t get away with it, yeah?’
Tash was dumbfounded when her father and Henrietta appeared across the gravel car park at Stockland Lovell shortly after she arrived, looking out of place in their golfing casuals amid the scruffy polo shirts and breeches of the professional mid-week event riders.
One look at her father’s face told her to be afraid. His usually ruddy cheeks were streaked with grey, and he couldn’t look her in the eye.
‘What is it?’ Tash asked, knowing that if they hadn’t driven all this way just to cheer her on.
‘Let’s sit in the box.’ Henrietta couldn’t look her in the eye.
‘There’s no luxury living in this thing,’ Tash apologised as they clambered into a little groom’s living area that was no bigger than a broom cupboard and sweltering hot, but there was a tiny table and two benches.
She was certainly glad to be sitting down when Henrietta finally confessed why they were there.
Tash couldn’t take it in at first.
‘Beccy is saying Hugo tried to rape her on New Years’ Eve?’ she clarified, so shocked that she almost wanted to laugh.
‘Rape’s a very emotive word, but what went on was certainly not entirely consensual.’
‘Well that’s rape, then,’ Tash gasped, her head spinning. ‘Christ. Oh bloody Christ. Why would she say such a thing?’
‘Because it happened.’ Henrietta was too angry to show any compassion. ‘Those painkilling drugs that she’s on are terribly powerful. Apparently all sorts of things come out when people are on them.’
‘Is she sure it was Hugo? It must be pretty dark in that loft above the stables at Lime Tree Farm.’
‘She’s totally sure. They spoke. He said his name.’
Tash felt panic and bile rising.
‘One of Beccy’s friends alerted us,’ Henrietta went on. ‘In strictest confidence, of course. Beccy confided in those closest to her as soon as it happened. She was terribly upset at the time, apparently – I’m surprised you didn’t notice.’ She eyed Tash critically. ‘Her friend wanted her to report it to the police, but she was adamant that she didn’t want to get Hugo into trouble. She’s very muddled about her feelings, you see. She still thinks she might have led him on.’
Tash was too horrified to speak. Her father, struck equally dumb with embarrassment, couldn’t bring himself to look at her at all.
‘We gather that Hugo has a bit of a … reputation,’ Henrietta said delicately, while James cleared his throat.
‘Says who?’ Tash bleated.
‘I think it’s best not to reveal any names in case …’ Henrietta looked down at her hands.
‘In case what? The “friend” appears as a prosecution witness?’ Tash laughed disbelievingly. ‘Do you think I’m going to hire some heavies and have them frightened off for turning supergrass?’ She pressed her face into her hands and fought to control her breathing. She knew she could hardly defend Hugo’s reputation by pointing out that he’d been flirting with Sylva Frost for a lot of New Year’s Eve. And then there was the Debbie Double-G fiasco, and of course V.
To make matters worse, when Hugo finally returned Tash’s increasingly frantic calls he refused to take it at all seriously. He was at the Brightling Park trials and leading one section already. ‘I’m riding two horses tomorrow. I’m not packing up early because of some nonsense Beccy’s made up.’
‘And what will you do if the police turn up and arrest you for rape in the start box?’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘It will if Henrietta has her way.’
Tash went to the hospital while Hugo was driving back from Sussex. She was still wearing riding gear, her cream breeches immaculate because she hadn’t even got on a horse. This time, the trainers on her feet squeaked through the corridors as she raced to Beccy. They’d just moved her on to a ward, which made it difficult to talk, especially when the elderly woman in the next bed lent over chattily and admired Tash’s mismatched knee-length stripy socks, which were pulled up over her breeches. ‘Is that the fashion these days, dear?’
Tash smiled politely and drew the curtains around Beccy’s bed.
‘Please tell me this is some sort of terrible mistake?’ she whispered.
But Beccy shook her head, her china doll face crumpling as tears gushed up. ‘It’s no mistake, Tash.’
‘He tried to’ – the word caught in her throat – ‘to rape you?’
‘No! It wasn’t like that. We were both very drunk and got carried away, then I was upset and he just walked away and left me there.’
Deathly pale, obviously in a great deal of pain despite the drugs, Beccy looked utterly pathetic. Tash had known Beccy to cry wolf on many occasions, but this time she sensed she was telling the truth. It was just too terrible a thing to lie about. She patted her arm abstractedly, too anguished by the facts to feel sympathy or comfort. She was just furiously an
gry at them both, at Hugo and at Beccy.
‘Did you encourage him?’ she asked bluntly.
Beccy chewed her lips. ‘I might have said something.’
‘Said what?’
‘A line I’d heard. I thought it was funny.’
‘What line?’
Beccy was volcano-core red. ‘I said something about taking the weight off his feet and t-thrusting it into—’
‘Ok, I get the picture.’ Tash held up her hand. Icy fingers gripped at her temples and throat. She’d heard that line before. Hugo had used it. She felt faint.
‘What’s going to happen?’ Beccy asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Tash said honestly.
Beccy turned her cheek to the pillow, her skin almost grey. Her forehead was glistening waxily because the searing pain made her perspire and there were deep black circles around her eyes. She looked truly ghastly. ‘I wish Em and Mummy had left well alone. I didn’t mean to say anything. I just want to forget about it.’
‘These things don’t get forgotten though, do they?’ Tash sighed. ‘The things that change our lives for ever, like what happened with your father.’
Beccy let out a bleat and closed her eyes. ‘I’ve been talking about him too, you know, but Em blanks it out every time, like she just doesn’t want to hear. I guess that’s half the reason she and Mummy are kicking up such a stink about the other thing. They’re happy to sacrifice Hugo’s honour to preserve the memory of my father.’
Tash said nothing, thinking that Hugo’s honour looked pretty shabby right now.
‘I did lead him on,’ Beccy whispered, desperate for atonement. ‘There wasn’t anything remotely romantic about it, I promise, and afterwards he just acted like it had never happened. I could have been anyone, really. He said he was excited by—’ She stopped herself.
Tash looked up sharply. ‘Excited by what?’
Beccy bit her lower lip, eyes opening and peering warily at Tash. ‘Sylva Frost. I’d seen them flirting outside, you see. I set off a car alarm by mistake and Sylva went inside again, or was it the other way around?’ Her eyelids were drooping again. She looked beaten up with pain and tiredness. ‘Then Hugo followed me to the stables loft.’
Tash ran her tongue along her top teeth and nodded.
‘I have to go.’ She started to pull back the curtains.
But as she reached for her bag Beccy grabbed her sleeve. ‘What happened to Riley? Is he okay? Mum and Em won’t tell me.’
Just for a moment, Tash wanted to yell it in her face: he’s dead, Beccy, he’s dead like my marriage is dead, and it’s all your fault.
But she couldn’t do it to her.
She perched on the edge of the bed, keeping her voice low. ‘He had an injury that meant he would never have competed again. It was kindest to let him go. He was in a lot of pain.’
Beccy shrank away, her eyes going strangely blank. ‘I know how he felt.’
‘Would you like me to call a nurse for more painkillers?’
‘It’s not my pelvis hurting, it’s here.’ She prodded angry fingers at her chest. ‘Everyone hates me. I hate me.’
Tash took her hand. It was shaking. The nails had been bitten down so much they’d been bleeding. ‘I don’t hate you.’
‘Even though Hugo wanted me to give him a blowjob, and I didn’t say no?’
Tash winced. Put that way, hate was burning up every vein. Mumbling that she really had to go, she turned and walked out before she broke down in front of everyone on the ward.
The woman in the bed beside Beccy leaned over again, ‘Next time, tell that friend of yours the stripy socks and cream leggings do nothing for her. Pretty girl, but doesn’t make the most of herself, does she? Not surprised her husband had a crack at you.’
At Brightling Park the scandalmongers were on full alert, speculating why Hugo had left the event in such a hurry while he’d been topping the leaderboard on day one. Penny had already phoned Gus to alert him and it took all his powers of self-control not to share such momentous news, even with his mistress. But this was too dangerous a rumour. Hugo was an old friend and such a slur could ruin his reputation, even if there was absolutely no truth in it as Gus didn’t doubt for a moment there was.
Lemon had no such compunction and was happy to let the story slip among the more gossipy grooms. Soon, word was out: Hugo Beauchamp had not only been caught with his trousers down, but with his wife’s sister, and he’d taken it too far.
Focussing totally on the competition, ignoring course talk as always, Lough had no idea what was being said, although Hugo’s prompt departure hadn’t gone unnoticed. That evening, avoiding the lorry-park parties as usual, making tom yum soup on the little gas hob of his horsebox, the punch of the lemon grass and ginger in his nostrils reminded him of the night he’d cooked it for Tash.
He picked up his phone, but stopped himself just in time. Instead he texted Beccy to ask how she was doing, the first contact he’d made since her accident. He knew she’d smashed her pelvis; it was a big blow.
It was typically the early hours of the morning before she replied, his phone beeping in the dark. Thinking it was his alarm, he half woke, reaching for it. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he read the message.
‘Lem!’ he bellowed, causing his little groom to fall off his bunk in the opposite corner of the box. ‘What in hell is going on?’
That night, Tash couldn’t sleep. Hugo denied the accusation, treating it with total contempt, but she didn’t know who to believe any more.
Looking back, she found herself wondering whether she had noticed a change in him since that night. Her mind threw trick images and lights across her restless eyes as she lay awake into the early hours, thinking about recent weeks, the way Hugo had seemingly revelled in treating her like a sexual object and had wanted to control her more and more. He must think so little of her to drunkenly force himself on her stepsister. How many other women had he been cavorting with? There was the mystery V and possibly a host of others in England and America. All the time he’d been beating his chest fiercely and haranguing her about Lough, he’d carried on taking his own pleasure wherever he found it, at home and away.
As dawn broke she stole out of bed and pulled on the first clothes she could find, going commando in Hugo’s jeans and an ancient shrunken T-shirt, creeping through the house and out into the yard.
She saddled up a surprised Mickey Rourke and rode out through sleeping Maccombe to the downs, flying along the ridge with tears streaking back into her hair.
She needed her mother more than ever, she realised with hopeless sobs. She was as frightened as she’d ever been.
As she rode back she saw a familiar sight weaving along the narrow lane from the Fosbournes, glossy and black. It was Lough’s horsebox.
Just as he started to swing in through the Haydown gates, Lough looked out of his side window and spotted her. He abandoned his box right there, cutting the engine and blocking the drive as he jumped from the cab and sprinted across the lane, hurdling a low hedge and running up the track towards her.
When he drew level she pulled up and he looked up at her, dark eyes cavernous with concern, black hair on end. It needed cutting again, Tash found herself thinking.
‘Oh Jesus, Tash, I never wanted this to be true.’
‘It’s not true!’ She caught her breath. ‘Just how many people knew about it? Was it in Horse & Hound or something? Did I miss the press release?’
‘Get off the horse,’ he begged.
‘No.’ She shook her head as Mickey strained to be home for his breakfast.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I won’t,’ she replied mulishly, knowing that to be on his level would to be lost, because he would touch her and comfort her and she so badly needed to be hugged and reassured, but if that happened she didn’t trust herself.
‘I want you to come back with me.’
‘Back with you where? To the Moncrieffs?’
‘We’ll find somewhere. We�
��ll live in the horsebox. I don’t care. I love you. I need to look after you.’
‘I have two children.’
‘They’re part of this,’ he agreed. ‘They come too.’
For just a moment, just a split second, the salvation that he offered was almost tempting, the run-away escape, the blot-it-out craziness of eloping.
But she was already shaking her head. ‘No Lough. No. You rescued me once before. That’s enough.’
‘What?’
‘Melbourne.’ She reached down to him and he took her hand and pressed it to his lips, electricity shooting through them both. ‘Thank you. But I can go it alone now. We both can.’
Straightening up, she looked out across the valley steeped in misty early-morning sunshine, to her beautiful strawberry house with its courtyards of stables, the ultimate happily ever after any pony-mad girl might dream. And inside that house was Hugo, more exciting and magnetic than any fantasy she’d conjured up when pop stars and heart-throb actors had eventually usurped ponies. When she had met him for the first time, in her teens, she really had believed that all her dreams would come true if only he loved her. Now it was a living nightmare.
Kicking a more than eager Mickey, she cantered down the hill, jumped the little hedge Lough had hurdled and clattered across the road, almost causing the post van to drive into the ditch as the big grey spooked at the horsebox.
The postman, pale from his near-miss and now hounded by the barking Roadies, thrust a big pile of mail straight at Tash through the window of his van.
Dismounting on the yard, she let Mickey wander to the water trough for a drink as she picked up the postcard from the top of the pile, her heart lifting as she recognised the uniform of the Cadre Noir at Saumur, a handsome cavalryman directing his horse in the expressive capriole in hand. It had to be from her mother, probably posted from a desert island. A set of postage stamps featuring a despotic-looking ruler and an unfamiliar alphabet obscured part of the horse’s head. Alexandra always took a clutch of French postcards with her on holiday, an eccentricity her family had never understood, although she claimed it stemmed homesickness, in the same way that she regularly sent ‘Greetings from Rural England’ postcards from the Loire.
