by Fiona Walker
But at that moment Hugo thumped back in. ‘No sign of them, but look who I did find.’
‘Hi.’ It was Lough’s dry, Kiwi voice, sounding distinctly awkward.
In contrast, Hugo was unusually conciliatory. ‘I’ve insisted he joins us for a drink.’
‘That’s lovely,’ Tash blustered. ‘But can we all go outside?’
Hugo didn’t appear to be listening. ‘He’s just told me who was behind the smear campaign, and you are not going to believe how bloody thick we all were not to see it under our noses, Lough here being stupidest of all.’
‘Thanks.’ Lough let out his gruff, embarrassed laugh.
‘We’re practically brothers-in-law.’ Hugo popped a champagne cork. ‘Being stupid is a prerequisite – look at Ben here.’ He welcomed the third man into the box.
‘Just popped in to congratulate the Midwinter boy,’ he hawed. ‘He not here?’
Tash tried again. ‘Hi Ben, do you think you could just turn around and lead the – oh.’
Then there was another voice with a distinctive Swedish accent that Rory knew straight away. ‘Tash, my darling! I hear you have champagne.’
‘Yes, Stefan.’ Tash was getting more and more flustered. ‘The thing is – congratulations on your second place by the way – the thing is, oh hi there, Kirsty.’
‘You’re having another baby!’ Kirsty whooped. ‘That’s great news.’
‘Budge up!’ ordered a familiar bark as Gus Moncrieff joined the fray. ‘Getting a bit crowded around this doorway.’
‘Perhaps we should all go outside, then?’ Tash suggested hopelessly.
‘Don’t be daft, it’s starting to rain.’ Penny’s distinctive laugh rang out as another champagne cork popped. ‘Have you heard the gossip? Pete Rafferty has made Marie-Clair an offer she simply cannot refuse for that lovely black mare Kevin rides … rumour is Sylva Frost is going to compete it …’
‘No!’ Stefan gasped.
‘I heard he was going to take it to America …’
‘Is it true Lem’s run off to join a Cossack stunt-riding troupe, Lough?’
‘Did he really try to kill Hugo at Badminton? It’s all round the lorry park.’
‘I thought they’d all be far more interested in talking about Rory’s romantic stunt.’
‘Oh, wasn’t that gorgeous?’
Behind the curtain, Rory started to kiss Faith again. Ardour quickly revitalised, he quietly shifted himself on top of her, reaching down to lift her leg.
She raised her eyebrows.
He said nothing, but she knew exactly what he was thinking. In the gypsy life of three day eventers, where everybody was crammed cheek-by-jowl in tiny horsebox living quarters in lorry parks in muddy fields, they would soon get very accustomed to this. They might as well start practising straight away.
‘Don’t Rory and Faith make a lovely couple?’ Kirsty was saying.
Making love just a few feet away, Rory and Faith couldn’t agree more.
Chapter 90
November that year
‘SURPRISE!’
Friends appeared out of cupboards and from under tables; they came down from upstairs and up from the cellars; they burst out of side rooms, emerged from behind the curtains and flooded in from the yard. There were more waiting in a marquee discreetly erected at the back of the house, yet more on the lawn and even a few early drunks hiding in the pool, teeth chattering. Cars soon started flooding in as the second wave of guests arrived, cramming every available parking space. A hired coach full of event riders who had block-booked a local hotel dispatched its load in the village lane before turning round to go and fetch more. The more enterprising had brought their horseboxes to stay in overnight, so that one of the Beauchamp’s turn-out paddocks now resembled a horse trials lorry park.
‘Did you know about this?’ Tash asked Hugo in total astonishment.
‘Only that your sister was going to arrange a small get-together for our anniversary.’
‘But there are more people here than came to our wedding party. And why are so many of them wearing cowboy hats?’
Sophia had pulled out all the stops for what had become known as the Haydown Hooley to all its many co-conspirators. It was a huge, barn-storming party that had succeeded in taking Tash completely unawares and even caught Hugo broadside because Sophia and Ben had led him to believe that this would be a modest anniversary surprise. Instead, the party was also a belated fortieth birthday celebration for Hugo on an epic scale. He hadn’t for a moment expected to return from the short break he and Tash had taken at Le Manoir after Pau trials to find three hundred people waiting for them at Haydown.
Lots of familiar faces were there, scores of event riders congregating from all over the country along with many events organisers, sponsors and owners old and new including Dillon and Fawn Rafferty, Venetia Gundry, the Bucklands and the Seatons. Many had flown in from overseas or delayed their return home at the end of the season. Marie-Clair was there along with Janet Madsen, Stefan, Kirsty and the Florida gang; Jenny and Dolf had come from Germany; Australian and New Zealand friends chattered and joked about the forthcoming long hauls home to see families over Christmas; and the O’Shaughnessys had flown in from LA.
All of Tash’s disparate family were in on the act: her mother and Pascal with Polly, who had been keeping them unwitting captives in the Loire while Sophia was setting the scene; James and Henrietta; Matty and Sally; aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews galore. Hugo’s tribe was smaller, but none the less conspicuous: Alicia had got the family diamonds out of the bank to sparkle brighter than anyone, and Hugo’s brother Charles had brought his family along from London for a rare visit to his childhood home. Em and Tim had also made the voyage along the M4, along with India and Rufus, and a host of Tash’s old college friends who she hadn’t seen for years.
Hugo stood back for a moment to watch his wife shrieking and jumping up and down as she was reunited with a gaggle of equally happy, tearful, squealing women. He was incredibly humbled to realise that they had so many people whom they could count as friends and that so many of them had made a gargantuan effort to be there. Some had travelled thousands of miles. Others had merely walked up the road or across the courtyard, like the Bells and the Carolls, the Maccombe and Fosbourne villagers, Rory and Faith and the Moncrieffs, but for them it had been one of the toughest journeys of all. Their marriage had been in injury time since the exposure of Gus’s affair with Lucy Field, but it was finally looking as though they might make it through too.
Gus was among the first to congratulate his surprised host.
‘Can’t believe they’ve pulled it off. You should have seen this place yesterday – marquee in the wrong place, catering vans stuck in the mud, portaloos facing the wrong way. Every time I hacked past your sister-in-law was standing in the same place in the garden shouting into a mobile phone. It was only the third time I came through the village that I realised her heels had sunk and she couldn’t budge. Fourth time past, just the shoes were left, like she’d combusted.’
‘Sophia’s amazing,’ Hugo laughed.
‘Dread to think what it’s costing you.’
‘Rory’s paying for it as a thank-you.’
‘He can certainly afford to,’ Gus pointed out as he spotted the Grand Slam victor being fêted from all sides. Rory, whose second place in Pau the previous week had now secured the top spot in the FEI Classics ranking and a handsome prize pot to add to his many other accolades, was currently the biggest star of eventing, with the fattest annual prize-money cache on record. ‘I’m surprised the path from his cottage isn’t paved with gold.’
‘We all have purple patches,’ Hugo told him.
‘Penny would say I just have cross patches.’ Gus grabbed more champagne from a passing waiter and raised the glass in his friend’s honour. ‘But to cast aside my customary malaise for a moment, congratulations on eight years with that super wife of yours, and on your ever-expanding brood of little Beauchampions.
I gather you’re planning to bring them all on the road next season?’
Hugo grinned, raising his own glass. ‘Best to start them young, we feel.’
‘Well one’s jumped clear around Blenheim already,’ Gus pointed out, referring to Tash’s recent win while four months pregnant. He looked around at all the decorations and props that had been used to dress up the beautiful old house and hired marquee to make it look like a Wild West ranch, from bunting to swinging saloon doors, sawdust and straw bales; there were even gigantic cacti dotted about and the odd strategically placed tumbleweed ball. ‘It’s like walking into an episode of Bonanza.’
‘You wait till you see the automatic rodeo bull. Brian Sedgewick’s already pulled a groin muscle and is threatening to sue, I hear.’
‘The Milky Bar Kid can pay for that, too,’ Gus sniffed, finding it a lot harder than Hugo to forgive Rory his current success.
But Hugo didn’t resent his protégé enjoying his good fortune, because he’d more than proven his loyalty and worth lately. Despite the well publicised ride-off between Hugo and Lough, it was Rory who had been offered the lucrative Mogo deal. In an extraordinarily unwise but very loyal show of solidarity, all three men had told the company in a collective letter to get stuffed.
Hugo missed the income – and clothes – but not the constant pressure and fear that came with having so many eggs in one basket. He had been working hard on replacing them and already had the makings of a good spread of sponsorship between four or five companies for next year that looked set to match the Mogo fund. And eventing’s biggest new owner – who now had horses in training with Hugo, Lough and Rory – was about to drop in on the party.
Making a show-stopping arrival in the Rockfather’s private helicopter, Sylva Frost couldn’t wait to show off a diamond as big as a hazelnut on her ring finger, her engagement having been announced via a sixteen-page Cheers! exclusive just that week. Her craggy-faced fiancé beamed proudly at her side.
‘I have told my darling Pete that he must now buy me a horse called Diamond to go with the others,’ she told Hugo and Tash amid lots of air kissing. All her new horses were named after precious metals and stones: Sylva’s Gold was with Lough, Sylva’s Sapphire with Rory and, most recently, Sylva’s Ruby and Sylva’s Platinum with Tash and Hugo.
‘I want a new horse called Sylva’s Diamond. Can you fix that for me, Hugo, darlink?’
‘I’ve got one that’s just come back from an injury and looks bloody good,’ he suggested. ‘It was leased last season, but that’s lapsed and the owner wants to sell.’
‘Is it grey?’
He shook his head. ‘Bay with a heart-shaped star.’ Heart was confounding expectations and his long unlucky streak by staying sound and sane, and looking set to take the world by storm the following season. Devoted to small, evil companion Soul, he no longer tried to escape from stables and fields at all, and had relaxed in his work too. He still had that touch of brilliance which would always make him a sharp ride, but it was easier to control now that he was mellowed by love.
But Sylva wasn’t interested. ‘I want a grey one.’
Hugo had a lot of demanding, eccentric female owners, but few had such strange buying criteria as Sylva, who chose the colour first. Not that he minded. Having resisted her determination to buy herself in to the sport for so long, he was amazed to find her a very supportive and loyal owner, and gratifyingly hands-off.
‘The bay’s stablemate is grey,’ he pointed out cheerfully.
‘Pure white?’
‘Indeed, but I warn you he’s rather on the small side and very bad tempered.’
‘No matter. He sounds perfect, darlink.’ Her eyes scanned the room, locking on to a high-grade celebrity target with pinpoint accuracy. ‘Who are Dillon and Fawn talking to?’
‘Rory and Faith.’
‘No, the other couple.’
Hugo vaguely recognised the tall, dark-haired girl, but her redhaired companion had his back to them. ‘No idea.’
‘I’m sure that’s Prince Harry. We must say hello!’ She whisked Pete off in the direction of his famous son and daughter-in-law, while Tash gathered Hugo to greet more old friends.
Left unmarked, Gus let out a melancholy sigh. ‘I used to have a horse called Diamond Geezer,’ he told nobody in particular with a heartfelt sigh as he remembered the good old days. ‘Best horse I ever had.’
Penny stepped in beside him. ‘The best wife you ever had would like to dance.’
His sad, bloodhound eyes looked to hers, seeking forgiveness. ‘Really?’
The Moncrieffs made up a set with the O’Shaughnessys and Matty and Sally French. Protesting loudly, Niall and his old friend Matty tried their hardest to get out of the Kentucky Reel, but their wives had a very firm grip. Only Gus obediently walked straight on to the floor to take his place opposite Penny, knowing that there was no point in putting up a fight.
‘Sophia’s excelled herself again,’ Matty grumbled good-naturedly as they waited for the caller to start shouting. ‘Even the ceiling’s gingham.’
‘Why a barn dance hooley?’ asked Niall, flashing his big, charming smile at his wife, who was clapping her hands in time to the music and looking eager.
‘I guess they’re celebrating eight years of hooley matrimony,’ Matty suggested as the caller coughed into the mic in a fake Southern accent:
‘Grab your dogs and grab your gun, let’s start to dance and have some fun!’
Two minutes later, all three couples were weeping with laughter as they twirled and whirled and do-si-doed. Proving remarkably talented, Matty whipped a delighted Sally under his arm and around his back, flipping her this way and that like Patrick Swayze in his prime, and reminding her of their student days at May balls. Niall, a great Irish wolfhound let loose amid obedient collies, was less skilled but added greatly to the hilarity. And Gus and Penny astounded everybody by locking eyes, lifting chins and dancing with the elegant skill of a pair of dressage riders performing a pas de deux as they trotted this way and that, performing airs above the ground and only letting out the occasional naughty buck, all those hours spent schooling together paying off.
Long after the other four had all retired exhausted to a table for champagne, the Moncrieffs were still out there like young Elizabeth and Robert Dudley at court, flirting deliciously with their eyes, trust starting to rebuild in the most unexpected setting.
Dillon was grateful that his father’s loud complaints about his sciatica meant their current group forfeited the dancefloor. Forming a set in which he had slept with all four of the women would be far too awkward, and Fawn was still marking him very closely.
Not that she had any reason to be suspicious. All those ex-lovers were deeply in love, not least Faith who radiated so much happiness it was like standing next to a glowing chiminea. With Rory blazing at her side, they were warmer than any Caribbean sunset. Despite his recent unbeatable form, Rory was far more boastful of Faith’s success than his own, and was her greatest supporter as she continued to climb the eventing ladder. As he towed her off to introduce her to Janet Madsen, Dillon found himself engulfed in a cloud of Sylva’s latest signature fragrance.
‘Is that Prince Harry with Nell?’ she whispered excitedly, her false eyelashes tickling his ear.
Dillon had been surprised but none the less pleased to see Nell at the party, along with her very dashing red-haired companion, whom she’d introduced simply as Harry. She looked fabulous and seemed genuinely happy. The way they held hands non-stop was very sweet.
Now he laughed, shaking his head as he turned to Sylva. ‘He’s something in the City, apparently, and likes eventing at weekends. Nell was going out with his father Piers for a bit, but I gather the son rose more often.’
The irony was not lost on Sylva, who let out a long, kittenish giggle and patted his cheek. She was not quite as bad a prospect as a stepmother as Dillon might have feared, and they got on surprisingly well on the occasions they met, although Fawn mistrusted
her deeply. Even now, she hurriedly broke off from telling Nell that she’d encouraged the girls to embrace feminism from pre-school and drew him back to her side.
‘I hear you and Pete plan to get married at the Abbey?’ she asked Sylva coolly.
It was a question guaranteed to trigger the little Slovakian into a long and detailed description of her grand plans, as spearheaded by wedding-organiser extraordinaire, Mama, who made Sophia Malvern’s party planning look small fry. With a good-natured groan, Pete headed outside to smoke a cigar, having heard it all before.
About to follow his father, Dillon found Nell’s hand on his arm, her face defensive yet curious.
‘You look well,’ she told him stiffly.
‘I was thinking the same about you,’ he smiled.
At her side, handsome Harry cast an indulgent look at the love of his life. It was what she’d wanted all along, Dillon realised. The hotel room fetish, non-stop tantrums and desperate demands for commitment were just the glass casket she’d been sealed in to and tried to break by hurling stones. She had just wanted to be saved by the dashing prince with unconditional love.
‘How’s Gigi?’
‘Great.’ Her voice softened. ‘She and Harry adore one another. Your girls?’
He nodded. ‘They’re fabulous.’
Despite this outward politeness, her sea-green eyes were drawing layers off his face as the tide of hurt finally retreated. Their relationship may have ended badly, but neither could deny they were in a better place now.
Nell dropped her voice to a breath, glancing across at Fawn. ‘I knew you two would get back together one day.’
‘You did?’
‘You’re a one-woman man, Dillon. All the best ones are. Look at Hugo.’
They turned to look just as Hugo was cornered by Venetia Gundry in a plunging checked shirt and figure-hugging leather chaps, which was unfortunate timing. Wrapping her arms around him, she pinned him up against a stack of straw bales and branded his cheeks with red lipstick.
Dillon felt Fawn’s hand slip in to his, and was immensely grateful to know that she’d be straight in with a pitchfork if any woman tried that on him.
