by Fiona Walker
‘I must c-call h-him.’ Tash straightened up eventually. ‘W-would you and Pascal mind looking after the children for just a little bit longer?’
‘Of course.’ Alexandra patted her knee. ‘We’ll talk later. Come and find us in the garden when you’re ready.’
Tash went next door to Pascal’s book-lined study and dialled Hugo’s mobile, her heart ratcheting its way up into her mouth when she heard him answer.
‘We’re here,’ she managed to croak. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’
The silence between them stretched on. She could hear music in the background and someone complaining loudly that the bridle numbers were missing before apologising when he realised Hugo was on the phone.
‘Is that Rory?’
‘He’s lending a hand. We’re at Knotton Manor.’
Tash chewed her lip. A year earlier the big Leicestershire trials had been the British Olympic team’s final run. Heavily pregnant with Amery, Tash and Cora had gone to cheer Hugo on. They’d all camped in the horsebox, a supportive, happy little unit. Twelve months on, she could hardly believe they were the same family. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not great,’ he admitted.
Another voice was talking in the background now, a booming female tenor, demanding to know whether the call was from Tash. ‘Give the phone to me now, Hugo.’
There were several tussling, thudding sounds and then, to her horror, Tash found herself on the end of the line to her mother-inlaw, who spared no time or rod in waging an attack. ‘I thought better of you, Natasha. D’you know how selfish it is swanning orff on holiday at a time like this? We need you. I had to cancel a bridge evening to come here.’ She ignored Hugo’s protests that he hadn’t even asked her along. ‘You must come home at once. D’you know how bad this looks for Hugo? All he did was fondle a pretty girl at a party. Now you’ve gorn it looks so much worse. Show some bloody backbone and stand by your man. If you can’t toughen up, God help you when you find out about any others.’
At this point Hugo managed to wrench the phone from his mother and there was a lot of background movement as Rory escorted Alicia out of the horsebox for some fresh air. When he came back on the line, he was obviously alone. ‘Sorry about that.’
Tash ran her fingers along the carved scrollwork of Pascal’s desk. ‘What does she mean by “others”?’
‘I have no idea. She’s gone quite mad since you left. When are you coming home?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Call me when you are.’ He rang off.
It was hardly the conversation Tash had hoped for, but she supposed it was better than the screaming row they risked if they’d continued any longer. He had a competition to win, and she had children to feed. She was too weary to fight.
As soon as she’d fed, bathed and settled Cora and Amery in the little tower rooms that her nephews and nieces had traditionally occupied during family holidays, Tash fell straight into bed in the Salle Orchidée, one of the prettiest rooms in Le Manoir, nervous exhaustion pitching her into the blackest of deep sleep.
Far beneath her, Alexandra and Pascal debriefed in the kitchens, sharing a candlelit supper of globe artichokes and garlic butter washed down with a bottle of local rosé. Pascal loved to cook; food was his great passion after wine and love.
‘She would not eat,’ he complained in French, always highly offended if somebody spurned his fabulous fare. ‘She said she was too tired.’
‘She is, chéri – it’s exhausting travelling alone with children of that age, but I am glad she came. We should not have been away so long. Of all my children, I could have guessed Tash would be first to welcome me home.’
‘I think there is more to it than that.’ Pascal had seen Tash’s haunted face that day. ‘I think she is running away.’
‘Oh, I’m sure of it,’ Alexandra agreed.
Tash had always been notoriously difficult to open up, bottling things up for months and sometimes years. It was a family trait. There had been secrets stuffed in the cupboards and swept under the carpets of Benedict, her childhood home, since she was born, so it was hardly surprising she’d picked up on the habit. Sometimes Alexandra wished that she’d been more open with her children, had been a stronger character and a better mother, but she had little hope of redressing that now – apart from to do everything in her power to prevent the same legacy befalling Cora and Amery. She had a plan.
‘Tomorrow we will all relax together,’ she told Pascal. ‘Then you must go travelling again, my darling.’
‘But I have only just unpacked my walking boots and my Deet.’
‘Oh, you won’t need those, chéri. Just a raincoat and an umbrella. You’re going to England.’
At Knotton Manor, Rory and Alicia took shelter in the Moncrieffs’ horsebox and gratefully accepted cups of tea.
‘Hugo’s pretty exploshive this evening,’ Rory apologised, grimacing as he slurred his words. ‘He needs to shimmer down for a bit.’
‘Just like his father.’ Alicia looked wistful. ‘I’ve told him to go and fetch Tash back, but he’s got Henry’s stubborn bloody pride, too. When we were first married, and living in Kenya, I once wandered into in the bush alone and was trapped there for three nights before he came looking for me because he thought I’d gone orff to sulk, whereas in fact I’d got caught in a poacher’s trap. I was lucky to survive, quite frankly. I loved Kenya – such wonderful years.’
‘Has Tash got in contact?’ Penny settled down beside them at the cramped table with a box of fresh cream éclairs, berry eyes eager for news.
Rory nodded. ‘She’s in France, apparently.’
‘Poor Tash.’ Penny looked worried. ‘She must be in such a state.’
Alicia let out a deep sigh and stroked Beefeater, who was curled up on her lap. ‘Always was a lightweight, although I’m frightfully fond of the gel. What did Hugo think he was doing, groping a groom? His father didn’t start doing things like that until his sixties.’
Penny and Rory exchanged glances. Alicia was in fact a lot more upset by recent events than she let on, hence her recent haranguing Tash on the phone. She’d insisted on coming along to Knotton Manor because she hated being left alone at Haydown with her family so shattered. But she’d had rather too many toots from her hipflask that evening, making her unpredictable and malicious. Now she fixed Penny with a beady look. ‘Where’s your chap?’
‘Checking the horses.’
Alicia’s faded blue eyes softened amid their heavy veils of creased skin. ‘You’re lucky there. He’s got a bit of class. Told Hugo as much: “At least Gus Moncrieff is shafting the daughter of an ambassador – any wife would turn a blind eye to that”.’ She fed Beefy a piece of her éclair and beamed across at her.
Penny carefully set her cup of tea back down on the table. With great effort she returned Alicia’s smile and turned to Rory, who was staring fixedly at the old calendar pinned to the wall, cheeks colouring.
‘Four weeksh to go until Burghley!’ he said brightly.
‘Who exactly knows?’ she breathed in an undertone so low that Alicia, who was going deaf, couldn’t possibly hear.
‘Everyone,’ he whispered back, mortified for her.
But Penny was made of sterner stuff. When Gus finally joined them, looking flustered and shifty, his hair on end and his shirt buttons done up the wrong way, she offered him an éclair. Then she picked up a knife.
‘Imagine this is your cock,’ she hissed, slicing the pastry neatly into two lengthways, and then making three more divisions widthways. ‘If you go anywhere near Lucy Field again, it will be your cock.’
Turning pale, Gus didn’t touch his éclair. Alicia was only too happy to snaffle it up.
‘Delicious! I must get Tash to put these on my grocery order when she gets back. Lord, I hope she gets back soon. I’ll run out of fags, and who else is going to put on my bets for me? I was thinking of getting an au pair, but apparently most of them don’t speak fluent English, which is su
ch a bore.’
‘I hear the Ladbrokes website is very good,’ Penny told her brightly, laying the knife back down. ‘And Ocado deliver whenever you like. You just need a laptop and you’re away.’
‘Marvellous.’ Alicia wiped choux pastry from her lips. ‘Can one hire in staff to work one’s laptop?’
Chapter 77
Dillon loved the drive up to Scotland with Pom and Berry. It felt so normal and fatherly to sing songs in the car, play I-Spy and number-plate snap, although he was less keen on the service stations with their uniform bad food and over-priced shops. Getting recognised was always a pain, the camera phones angled towards him, the elbow-nudging conversations about him as though he was still on a television screen and unable to hear them.
Not that he was recognised much on this trip, not even when he forgetfully signed himself in with his real name to the rather bleak Northumberland guest house they stayed in overnight to break up the journey. Now tipping the scales at two hundred and twenty pounds with long hair and beard, his kids had nicknamed him Hobo. Certainly his ex-wife’s aunt, a strict Presbyterian who thought her niece’s acting life debauched, couldn’t wait to get him off her front step and away, gathering in the little girls like evacuees from a war zone.
The return journey was not enjoyable at all. Dillon hadn’t wanted to let them go for a week in Scotland in the first place, but Fawn insisted that they must stick to their routine, and his management were still eager to send him to St Croix with Sylva.
The situation was like a bad joke, and one he stewed over for many motorway miles. He hadn’t seen her once during his week in the Cotswolds, despite various texts promising she’d ‘pop by for a chat’. He’d seen her children – all three of them, it now transpired – arriving to play with Pom and Berry. They had been accompanied by the quiet, stern Hana, who maintained so much dignity despite the tabloid revelations in recent days, with her ex-husband appearing out of the woodwork to claim that Sylva had paid them to raise her daughter and that this cuckoo child had wrecked their marriage. Dillon didn’t believe it for a moment. One only had to see Hana with Zuzi to realise that the two were utterly and unconditionally bonded by love, and Zuzi was certainly one of the best-adjusted kids he’d ever come across. ‘My mother says that honesty is always best,’ she’d told him this week. ‘She says a good conscience makes a soft pillow.’
Dillon wondered how Sylva was sleeping at night. He certainly wasn’t; even West Oddford had failed to bring him its usual solace. Now that he had no children around, no fun chatter to accompany him everywhere and no chance of any more playdates with Zuzi and Hana, he was reluctant to rush back to the farm. It was harvest, usually his favourite time, but his heart was restless and, instead of heading towards Birmingham to pick up the M40 he stayed on the M1 to the London Orbital, tempted to head for Notting Hill to see his sister Kat, who always cheered him up. He stopped at London Gateway services to refuel and call ahead, but when she answered her mobile Kat told him she was in Ibiza.
‘Have you heard Dad and Indigo have split?’ she asked. ‘He sent me a text saying Easy come, Indi go. Good old dad. Sensitive family man, still.’
Dillon checked his phone and realised his father hadn’t even bothered to text him at all. So much for the rapprochement. But he was relieved Indigo had gone. She’d never seemed to make Pete happy.
There were no messages from Sylva. He couldn’t face a confrontation, so he texted her: Let’s be sensible and forget all the PRs. We’ll call it an amicable split.
She texted straight back: You must take the blame.
Whatever’s easiest. He no longer cared what his management said; he wanted out.
You’d better get laid then. Maybe lose the beard and have a bath first. Intensely irritated, he deleted her number to cheer himself up.
Looking through his other messages, he saw several from Rory, who he’d only visited in hospital once on that dreadful day with Sylva in tow. He knew that he was back at Haydown again now. It was many months since Dillon had been there. It was a beautiful place. He suddenly decided to go and visit his horses.
But when he called Rory he was also away at a trials in Leicestershire, and staying there overnight. ‘Even Hugo’s mother’s here. Nobody at home but scary Franny,’ he apologised. ‘She won’t mind showing you the horses, though – most of yoursh will be in.’
Dillon didn’t like the sound of scary Franny. Scrolling through his phone book he found Faith’s number and called her. ‘Hello stranger.’
‘God, I’m being called by a rock star,’ she said dryly. ‘Quick, let me sit down.’ Even after months of no communication her reaction to him was always refreshingly the same.
He explained that he’d wanted to call in on Haydown.
‘Yes, they’re all at Knotton Manor. I wanted to take Whitey but there was no space on any of the lorries. We’ve completed two three-stars this year, you know. That rocks.’
‘Great!’ It meant nothing to Dillon. ‘Do I own him?’
‘No, he’s Rory’s old horse.’
‘What are you doing this afternoon?’
‘Working, duh! Some of us do, although for how much longer I have no idea.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Gus can’t afford to pay my wages any more. I’ve been living off Rio’s Kentucky winnings. They don’t really need me with Lough and Lem here, but now Tash and Hugo have split up there might be some extra work going at Haydown.’
‘Tash and Hugo have what?’ he spluttered, then added: ‘No, don’t answer that. I’m coming to take you out to supper.’
Angelo at the Olive Branch was beside himself at finding a pop star dining in his restaurant. He had already whipped out his digital camera from behind the bar and plonked himself down between Dillon and the scruffy girl from the Moncrieff’s yard to pose with his arms around them, beaming proprietorially while Denise took a snap for the wall to be framed alongside the pictures of a beaming Angelo with Niall O’Shaughnessy, John Francome and ‘that bloke off Holby City’ as he was known, because nobody could remember his name.
‘You look terrible’ was the first thing Faith had said to Dillon.
Dillon thought exactly the same thing about her, but he was too polite to say it aloud.
‘God, I’m knackered.’ She rubbed her face in her hands and slumped back in her chair.
From all Dillon had heard through very occasional texts from Faith and more regular contact with her brother Magnus, she should have been thriving. She was loving the life, learning lots, competing regularly and practically within touching distance of her great love, Rory. Yet she looked drained and ill, the sunburn on her nose, cheeks and forearms emphasising the translucency of the pale skin on her thin upper arms and bony chest.
‘So take a holiday. You said yourself you’re not getting paid.’
‘It’s the middle of the season,’ she yawned. ‘Besides, I get bored on holiday.’
‘You’re too thin.’
‘You sound like my mother.’ She laughed, eyeing him with that clever gaze. ‘There’s never enough time to go shopping or cook or even eat. All the Moncrieffs are the same. You should see Gus – he’s a bag of bones. They live off catering-van bacon butties at events and beans on toast at home and I’m forced to do the same. I’m not anorexic or anything.’
Certainly the greedy relish with which she raced through her spaghetti carbonara seemed to back up her claim. And she had two puddings.
Talking with her mouth full, she told him about Tash leaving Hugo.
‘Franny saw it all from her cottage,’ she explained. ‘Lough turned up and begged Tash to run away with him. Then she tried to ram his horsebox. High drama.’
‘Jesus,’ Dillon whistled. ‘And I thought my life was melodramatic.’
‘How is “the nation’s favourite single mum”?’ She was trying very hard to modulate her voice to hide any sarcasm.
He gave her a withering look. ‘Popular.’
‘Is it true yo
u’re getting married in a mountain-top Slovakian castle? Carly read it in Cheers! It said the fireworks alone are costing over a million.’
He changed the subject: ‘Rory’s back riding, I hear?’
As ever her face lit up at the mention of his name. ‘Yeah – the doctors gave him the all clear, although I’m not sure he’s right.’
‘How is he?’
‘Weird.’ She started to eat his neglected pudding across the table. ‘He’s being really nice to me.’
‘Well that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I guess. But it’s like he’s embarrassed to talk to me, although he is tricky to understand with the slurred speech. And he won’t look at me.’
‘Maybe he’s shy around you?’
‘This is Rory we’re talking about!’ she scoffed. ‘I’ve offered to work at Haydown for a bit. They really need the help. I did the same last year, but Rory won’t hear of it. Told me I’d put him off, like some irritating schoolgirl that hangs around. I never hang around. I work my butt off.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Not that I can keep up with Rory any more. He’s obsessed with getting fit again for Burghley. He and Hugo run ten miles a day as well as riding a dozen horses between them.’
‘Isn’t that good?’
She shook her head. ‘Rory shouldn’t really compete so soon after an injury like that, certainly not at four-star level. British Eventing wanted to refuse his Burghley entry but he appealed to the international body and Marie-Clair backed him.’ She let out a small sneer. ‘He’s in with a real shout of the grand slam, so it would be horribly controversial to ban him, but what if he gets hurt?’ Her eyes went suddenly teary.
‘I challenged him to that in the first place,’ Dillon groaned. ‘I should stop him.’
She shook her head. ‘Ask any event rider in his position what they’d do and they’d say “go for it”. It’s the Holy Grail. Rory wants it more than anything else in the world and he won’t let anything stand in his way – even the things that are trying to help him.’ She sighed, picking hay off her jumper, then looked up brightly as a thought struck her. ‘If he does win it I’m going to give him the biggest kiss of his life, whether he likes it or not.’
