by Fiona Walker
And when Tash read the reverse, she let out a grateful sob: Home next week! So many traveller’s tales to tell. Speak very soon. xxxx
His chin in his hands and his heart like lead, Lough sat on the hill for a long time as the morning mist cleared, affording an incredible view over Haydown from so high above it.
He saw Tash running across the yard to the main house, then various grooms coming and going. A string of horses from a nearby training yard trotted along the village lane, their riders pointing out Lough’s horsebox parked across Haydown’s entrance. Then suddenly Tash reappeared with Amery in her arms and Cora at her knee.
Lough’s heart lifted as she loaded them into a car, followed by a suitcase.
Stumbling and falling in his haste to run down the hill to meet her, certain that she had changed her mind, he saw Hugo coming out of the house dressed in nothing but an old pair of cut-off jeans, waving his arms around and pleading with her. Tash’s ancient shortsighted dog was cowering at his heels, trying to press her greying muzzle anxiously to his leg. Tripping over her, Hugo shouted even more.
White-faced, Tash got in the car and started the engine. Hugo pressed his palms to his head and watched her reverse and swing around, the wheels spitting gravel.
Lough had reached the hedge, and it was not so easy to hurdle a second time. It caught his ankle and turned him over, causing him to crash down into a dry ditch.
He stood up just in time to see Tash driving through the gates. Misjudging the amount of space needed to get her wide off-roader past his horsebox, she forced her way through the gap with a terrible graunching noise as she scraped all the paint off one side and ripped a skirt-locker door clean off, leaving a gaping hole. It was a hole that matched the slash in Lough’s heart when she drove straight past him and hurtled away through the village.
‘The Wheels on the Bus’ was booming through the open windows.
Lough stood in the lane for a long time, staring after her, heart bursting.
When he turned back to his lorry he realised that Hugo was in his gateway, dogs at his heels, studying the wrecked paintwork.
‘She did a good job on that,’ he pointed out.
Lough ignored him, walking towards the cab. His horses were still on board, kicking and snorting impatiently.
‘I suppose you’re behind this ridiculous accusation too,’ Hugo hissed.
Lough stopped, one foot on the cab step.
‘Well, you got what you wanted,’ Hugo continued, running a hand through his hair. ‘Well done. Shame she doesn’t want you either. All bets are off.’
Lough said nothing as he climbed into his lorry and reversed into the lane. Standing sentry beside the pack leader, her small body still shaking with anxiety, old Beetroot’s barks were drowned out by the furious roar of the truck engine.
As the horsebox drove away Hugo turned to walk back through his gates, but then stopped, stooping down to pick up the twisted metal locker door that had been ripped off in Tash’s getaway and hurling it furiously at one gatepost. His aim was surprisingly accurate as one ancient, lichened lion rampant toppled from its pedestal.
Chapter 74
Sylva had recently let her friendship with Indigo cool to almost nothing, although it was her one fragile link with Dillon beyond the media circus. Dong infuriated her and Pete had been away in Ireland all summer while his young wife prowled around the Abbey, adding yet more ethnic furnishings and children.
Their girls’ lunches were now a rarity, but Sylva still regularly used the Raffertys’ underground gym and pool, and sometimes borrowed a horse for an hour. Pete and Indigo had much flashier horses than Jules: Andalusian stallions in every available colour.
Today she texted Indigo to ask if she could take a dip and was relieved to receive the reply: Be my guest. Running with Dong. Help yourself to whatever you like. It’s all yours for the taking. Ix. Sylva always preferred going to the Abbey when they were out.
She decided to take her new Lambretta for a run, noticing as she zipped out of Le Petit Château’s electric gates that there were quite a few more paps than usual, and even a couple of grubby journalist types stepping from cars, but she didn’t hang about to talk to them, giving her snappers their action shot of the day by accelerating past them with a wave and racing off along the sun-dappled village lane before cutting through an alley far too narrow for them to follow, loving the throaty little gurgle of the vintage engine. Dillon’s management had good taste.
Being Dillon Rafferty’s girlfriend was a very profitable affair and great for her public profile. Sylva now had almost as many Twitter followers as Stephen Fry, more hits on her website than a laughing baby on YouTube and her Facebook wall was plastered with more comments than graffiti on a New York subway. Ratings for Sylva’s Shadow were up twenty per cent and she was in constant demand for photo shoots and exclusives, including renewing her contract with Cheers! for a seven-figure sum. Business was looking good: her named range of products were selling better than ever and she was adding more and more income streams, including soft furnishings and children’s riding clothes. Her latest book had been a Sunday Times top-ten bestseller for eight weeks now, although she hadn’t yet got around to reading it.
She seemed to spend her life in the back of cars, on planes and in hotels, but the only reading she had done lately was a very enlightening biography of legendary rock group Mask, and a more detailed biography of its lead singer and sole surviving member Pete Rafferty, more famous now of course for his subsequent solo career which had led him to be known simply as the Rockfather.
Her own ghostwritten books were of no interest, and more recently she had started to forsake her own press too. For the first time in her career she had no interest in following what was being written about her and whether or not she was IFOP. She was always IFOP now that she and Dillon were ‘engaged’, but reading about it depressed her – she preferred non-fiction. She was accustomed to her own publicity machine exaggerating facts and creating newsworthy angles to otherwise apparently mundane activities and events, but this had gone into overdrive as the Sylva and Dillon myth was created. A snap of the couple together had become one of the most valuable commodities on the open market. She currently had photographers following her day and night, knowing that one shot could pay their mortgage for a year.
Their respective management teams were boxing clever, reluctant to be the first to pull the plug because it could reflect so badly on two such popular celebrity figures who had both been through a bad time, and the fickle public could go either way if they split.
Sylva’s team, spearheaded by Mama, played closer to the flames, and to The Sun, with leaked wedding plan stories galore, but they could afford to because she was seen as a more sympathetic figure than her husband-to-be. Dillon’s team had retaliated with the strange tactic of romantic gifts that had been arriving on a regular basis at Le Petit Château all summer, delivery of which were joyously snapped by her paparazzi gatekeepers: first it was a diamond-encrusted gold pendant in the shape of a horse, then a huge abstract painting, statues for the garden, the baby-blue scooter she was riding now, miniature Ferraris for the boys, a little palomino pony for Zuzi, and endless bunches of flowers, all just signed ‘Rafferty’. Dillon denied all knowledge, but Sylva knew positive PR when she saw it. The public lapped up these expensive scraps.
Dillon had been in the States for over a month, much of it sequestered in his ex in-laws’ Malibu guest lodge. He was due to fly back with his daughters tomorrow, and they would spend a week of their summer vacation at West Oddford before going to Scotland to stay with their maternal great aunt while Dillon and Sylva finally put a stop to the press speculation.
The obvious thing was to aim for an amicable split, with nobody else involved, citing too many differences and busy lifestyles pulling in opposite directions, but the fact that the children were involved, as they had been from the start, made that a delicate process.
The parties had only just begun to negotiat
e. A holiday in Dillon’s favourite St Croix hideaway, far from their young families, was being discussed as a stage-managed ‘make or break’, allowing them both to top up their tans and ensure that they were looking their best for the break.
Sylva had no great desire for a week alone with Dillon’s nerviness and earnest organic food talk while awaiting the go-ahead to split up. It was hurricane season in the Caribbean, after all. If there was already a media storm raging at home, she would rather maximise impact by staying put and going for the big, explosive break-up, with the army of nannies protecting the kids. But the growing attachment between Pom and Zuzi was a sticking point.
When they were apart the girls sent endless emails and instant messages to each other with the help of their mothers, full of bad spellings and smiley faces and even photo attachments. Hana put the children first at all times, backed up by a surprise ally in Fawn, who Sylva was certain was only using her sister as a spy to find out what her ex-husband was up to when he was in the UK.
Sylva resented the way in which Hana was becoming increasingly interfering. She wanted their secret to be made public, and had even talked to Zuzi about it, preparing the little girl for a short burst of media interest. This infuriated Sylva; the press were already digging very deeply right now and she had no desire to bring any more of her own private scandal into the cat-and-mouse PR game she and Dillon were playing. Mama backed her completely and Hana was clearly livid at being overridden in any decisions about Zuzi’s life. Only that morning Sylva had caught her sneakily texting Dillon with the aid of an English–Slovak dictionary to arrange for Zuzi and Pom to play together while his girls were at West Oddford. When Sylva rounded on her, she was unapologetic. ‘The girls have a real relationship, unlike their parents.’
Sylva needed to escape for a few hours before she and her sister truly crossed swords – never a good thing for two former pentathletes. She opened the throttle on the little scooter and it growled up the hill.
She always loved the moment when she crested the ridge above the valley and Fox Oddfield Abbey loomed into view, the big iced cake of a Regency house ideal for a wedding. Not that there would be a wedding, but the fantasy was nice to spin out. As she swung her new baby-blue scooter into the drive her phone vibrated in her pocket. Under the shade of a tree, she cut the engine and pulled off her helmet to take the call.
‘Sylva, Gaz Pratt – News on Sunday,’ came a sneering, mosquito whine of a voice. ‘Just want to let you know about a story we’re running tomorrow concerning your daughter Zuzi, who we believe was adopted at birth in Slovakia by your older sister, Hana.’
Sylva went icy cold with fear.
‘No comment!’ She hung up and rang straight through to Clive Maxwell’s private line. He was at the Cartier polo tournament. She could hear chatter and commentary behind him.
‘I’m heading out to the Cotswolds later, as it happens. Don’t leave the house until I get there.’
‘I already have. I’m at Fox Oddfield Abbey.’ She suddenly wondered how on earth she would get home and what would be waiting for her there. She’d made herself so vulnerable by bringing the scooter, with no driver to threaten to drive over photographers to protect her, nor did she have the blackened windows of the car to shield her. Her visor wasn’t even tinted.
‘Pete Rafferty’s place?’ Clive sounded gobsmacked.
‘He’s never here. I know his wife.’
Clive cleared his throat. ‘Then you’ll know you’re about three days too late for a catch-up. Now get someone to come out there and pick you up. Warn your family what’s happening. Where are Hana and Zuzi?’
‘At home with Mama and the boys,’ she said, a sudden suspicion starting to form.
‘Do they know Zuzi’s their sister?’
‘No, they’re too young to understand, but Zuzi knows.’ Hana has done this, she thought. She’s gone ahead and told the press anyway.
‘Good, then you have already made this situation a lot, lot easier for her. Dillon?’
‘He has no idea about any of it. He’s flying back from the States today.’
‘Can you contact him?’
She looked at her watch, counting back eight hours. ‘Only his management until he lands.’
‘Do it,’ Clive said darkly. ‘We’re all aware that the only thing the public will really want to know about this story right now is how you react to this as a couple. Now let’s get off this line so we can both make some calls. I’ll see you later and we’ll put a statement together.’
As she rang off she heard an engine approaching and, to her horror, recognised the distinctive green livery of the Cotswolds Celebrity Tours minibus heading towards her along the tiny, wooded lane that ran in front of Fox Oddfield Abbey, packed with eager tourists and their cameras fresh from checking out Liz Hurley’s pad and Pete Doherty’s den, now dying for a gawp at the Rockfather’s base.
She pulled on her helmet and scrabbled with the Lambretta’s ignition, but in her panic she over-choked it and it wouldn’t start.
The big gates in front of her were closed, but she knew the key code and punched it in. To her relief, the gates started to crank open just as the minibus drew level and Sylva pushed the scooter through the gap as soon as it was wide enough.
‘That will be a member of Pete’s huge army of staff,’ she heard a thick Gloucestershire accent announce as she hurriedly pushed the little bike along the tree-lined drive so that it was out of the line of view from the road. She propped it on its stand behind a big cedar and called Mama, wandering distractedly along the shaded outskirts of the parkland in front of the house. Glancing through the trees she noticed to her surprise that the helicopter was on its pad. Her heart lurched with unexpected force.
Mama was close to hysterics, convinced that it would blow everything, and shouting at Hana in Slovakian that she would pay for this. But Sylva felt curiously calm as she soothed her: ‘It’s a story about a very special, very loved little girl, Mama. We will deal with it.’
Having placated her mother and arranged for her to organise cars and decoys, she made another call, walking a little closer to the house. The Ferraris were gleaming in a neat red line around the gravel sweep like overpriced ornamental boulders. They only came out of their climate-controlled garages when Pete was in residence.
As she waited for Dillon’s answering service to kick in she drew level with the first Ferrari. Just as the voicemail beep rang in her ear to start recording her message, she felt a click underfoot as she stepped on some sort of pressure pad, and suddenly a siren started to wail. Moments later a figure appeared beneath the portico.
‘Oi!’ a voice shouted and then, without any further warning, a gunshot rang out.
With a shriek Sylva turned and ran, dropping her phone, the line still open to Dillon’s voicemail as it recorded the encounter in full.
She almost made it as far as her scooter when she heard a huge, growling engine behind her. She was no match for its speed as it overtook her, swinging perpendicular in a cloud of burning tyres to stop right in front of her, cutting off her exit route.
Sitting aboard a massive Harley-Davidson, cowboy boots on the pegs, was Pete Rafferty. He was laughing his head off, his battered leather face creased with delight, his very white teeth and very blue eyes sparkling like roulette chips.
He cut the throbbing engine.
‘I said,’ he rasped in his trademark voice, ‘oi!’
‘I’m sorry.’ She held up her hands, sounding more like a Bond girl than ever. ‘I will leave straight away.’
‘Do that, Trouble, and I might be forced to use this again.’ He picked up the gun that he’d wedged behind him.
She held her hands higher, making him laugh even more. ‘You are the sweetest thing. Come in for a drink. You liked the scooter then?’ He shouldered the gun and indicated the Lambretta with a jerk of his head.
Sylva was too frightened to do more than nod, but things were starting to add up rather thrillingly.
‘Race you,’ he laughed, stretching down to pick up her abandoned helmet and hand it to her.
‘That’s not a fair match,’ she managed to squeak. ‘Your bike is bigger.’
He swung his leg off the Harley and stepped back, bowing to her as he indicated its leather seat. ‘All yours, Trouble. I’ll take the little Italian.’ And he straddled the Lambretta. He was no giant – maybe five ten and wiry rather than muscular – but he still looked like a Highland chieftain on a Shetland pony.
Sylva cautiously swung her leg over the Harley, loving the sensation of warm leather against her groin. She was only wearing a tiny slip dress and the flimsiest of bikini briefs ready for a swim.
She’d posed on Harleys several times in her career; it was a classic glamour-model cliché. And she wasn’t the sort of girl to let opportunities like that slip by without taking one for a run on several occasions. As Pete started the little scooter and raced ahead whooping, she kicked the hog back into life and roared after him. His expression of surprise as she raced past was one she would treasure. She slid the big bike to an angled halt in front of his house and wriggled back on the seat to make space for him.
‘You show me how to really ride this thing!’
Grinning, he ditched the scooter in a flash and climbed aboard, trying not to show the wince of pain at his stiff hips.
For a heady twenty minutes, the Rockfather was in his element, the wind in his long hair as he took her on a whistle-stop tour of the freshly tarmaced private roads on his estate, beautiful black stripes snaking through an immaculate green playpen with its pollarded and fenced trees, shady walks and follies, the ultimate park for a latter-day rake, his thousands of acres kept show-stoppingly pristine for his very few visits each year.
Which could not be said of the house when they finally spilled inside, sun-drenched and wind-swept, weaving their way from one of the back entrances through a labyrinth of corridors.
‘Brace yourself,’ Pete warned her as they passed endless domestic offices with panelled, half-glazed walls. ‘It’s worse than you remember it. Indigo’s wreaked havoc,’ he moaned. ‘She trashed the place before she walked out. It’ll take years to put right.’
