Well Groomed

by Fiona Walker

  Niall cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘Well, I think I did.’

  ‘What d’you mean, you think you did?’ Tash laughed, remembering all the personal snap-shots – including a couple of her in the sex-on-legs basque he had given her for Christmas. ‘Wasn’t it obvious? If you haven’t opened it yet, I put my address on the back of the envelope.’

  ‘Oh, I opened it.’ Niall cleared his throat yet again, and then went quiet for a moment as someone spoke in the background, probably leaning in through the door of his trailer to issue an instruction. He sounded more hurried as he spoke again. ‘I mean, it’s a very charming wee picture, Tash – and I’m sure you went to a great deal of effort on my behalf, but I don’t quite understand—’

  ‘You ungrateful sod!’ she yelled, suddenly finding her face was colouring as though dipped in red ink. She couldn’t believe how insulting he was being. ‘You bastard! I bet you’ve been having a good laugh at my expense all day, haven’t you?’

  ‘What?’ He sounded pole-axed.

  ‘Very charming wee picture, my ass! In fact most of the pictures were of my bloody ass!’ she spluttered on. ‘I know what you don’t quite understand.’ She could feel tears welling up now. She couldn’t care less that Hugo was swigging wine and ear-wigging happily from less than three yards away – she was furious. ‘You just don’t understand what you’re doing with a big-arsed old bag like me when you could be with Minty, or Sandra, or Julia, or Purdy, or whatever the latest starlet’s called. That’s what you don’t bloody understand!’

  Realising she had said all those resentful and jealous things that she had sworn to herself she would never say, she burst into tears.

  There was a long pause at the other end, during which Tash could hear Hugo starting to knife and fork his way into the steaks in the background. She hoped he got BSE and croaked. Her back was prickling with embarrassment that he was overhearing all this.

  There was more mumbling at the end of the phone and Tash suddenly realised to her increased shame and horror that, far from being stunned into silence by the searing insight and painful truth of her words, Niall was conducting a conversation with someone else whilst muffling the phone.

  Finally he uncovered the receiver and started speaking with hushed urgency.

  ‘I really have to go,’ he whispered. ‘But I truthfully think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick here, Tash – all I was saying now was that I didn’t understand the quote about adultery. Were you trying to say something about me and Lisette, angel? Because you really don’t have to worry yourself about that on any account.’

  ‘But—’ Tash was nonplussed for a moment.

  ‘I mean, I know I’ve taken this part in Four Poster Bed with her producing, but I barely need to meet her during the film shoot. We’ll hardly speak – in fact, my taking it is a sign of just how over her I am. For Christ’s sake, I’ll be marrying you a few days after the first location shoot’s over! Some glossy magazine is photographing the wedding – that’s how I’m getting paid. Lisette arranged it. That line about flirtation being adulteration really freaked me, angel.’

  Tash barely took most of this in. Feeling as though her downward-bound free-fall had just been broken by a mid-air mattress, she suddenly realised what she had done.

  ‘You got the Byron card!’ she gasped.

  ‘I got your card, Tash.’ Niall sounded pressurised. ‘A few stick-horses and a quote about flirting and adultery. I realise the Lisette news must have come as a shock but I didn’t expect this.’

  ‘Niall, I didn’t mean you at all!’ She was torn between confusion and amazement. She’d had no idea that Lisette was producing the comic film. Tash was horrified that she was, appalled that she was, but even more flabbergasted by how much Niall seemed to think he had told her without having uttered a word until tonight.

  ‘I have to go, angel.’ His voice was fading, as though he was already stretching away from the phone. ‘Please, please don’t worry – and, if I think about it, the card is really moving. Even more so because it shows how vulnerable you are and, believe me, I would never take advantage of that. I’ll call you later if I can. I love you.’

  And he was gone, leaving a curt dialling tone.

  Tash replaced the receiver and, straightening her ridden-up skirt yet again, turned warily back to Hugo who had eaten almost an entire steak now.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she offered in a strangled voice, starting to realise the full, appalling implications of her rushed posting technique.

  ‘Oh – so sorry.’ Lazily, Hugo looked down at the ravaged pan, sounding not at all apologetic. ‘You really weren’t expecting anyone, were you?’ He glanced at the unlaid table, and the piles of Tash’s clothes strewn around.

  She shook her head, tempted to say, ‘Only you,’ to scare him. But she stopped herself in time.

  ‘Listen – about that card . . .’ She coughed uncomfortably. ‘There’s been a bit of a mistake.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Sounding relieved, he offered her a refilled wine glass.

  Looking straight at him, Tash saw that his blue eyes were unfriendly, his mouth curled into a taut bow of insolence.

  ‘Yes – you see, it wasn’t intended for you.’

  ‘I see.’ He plainly didn’t believe her.

  ‘Yes.’ Tash made a grab for her wine and took a huge slug, most of which trickled down her windpipe. ‘It was meant for Niall,’ she spluttered.

  Hugo’s scornful gaze didn’t flicker. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘And I posted him the wrong one.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tash’s lips were starting to quiver as the awfulness of the telephone conversation started to sink in.

  ‘You posted Niall a card you intended to send me?’ he asked carefully.

  Tash nodded blankly.

  ‘So I take it the kinky self-portraits I received through the post this morning were intended for his eyes only?’

  Carrying on nodding, Tash started to cry.

  Hugo continued to watch her, not making a movement of sympathy or retreat. His handkerchief remained firmly in his pocket, his feet planted on the ground. He simply watched as Beetroot shuffled across to Tash’s ankles and gazed up at her caringly.

  ‘I suppose you laughed at me?’ she hiccuped through her tears.

  Hugo bit his curling lower lip and looked faintly mocking, but said nothing.

  ‘He’s taken a film part,’ Tash found herself blurting, ‘because Lisette is producing it.’

  ‘Lisette the ex?’ Hugo’s eyebrows shot up with interest.

  Tash nodded. It was something of a forte now.

  ‘Well, well.’ He took a slow draw of wine and glanced at his watch. ‘Listen, I’m meeting someone at eight. I really popped round to give you this.’ He started fishing in his pockets.

  ‘Do you have that card on you?’ Tash bleated desperately.

  ‘Not on me, no.’ Hugo extracted something from an inner pocket and, waggling it for a second in front of Tash’s swimming eyes, placed it on a work surface.

  ‘Can I have it back?’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find it tomorrow, but I can’t promise anything,’ he said dismissively. ‘Listen, thanks for the drink. And the steak. I really must go.’ He headed for the door.

  Tash, aware that she was standing in her howlingly draughty sitting room wearing a ludicrously tight red dress, Medusa hair and wonky eye make-up, having just sent her bête noire near-nude photographs of herself, started to shiver uncontrollably with mortification.

  ‘Oh – by the way.’ Hugo turned at the door, stooping to give Beetroot a pat. ‘I’ll see what I can find out about Lisette for you, shall I?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tash managed to splutter with a mouth-cracking smile, blindly aimed in the general direction of the door.

  As soon as he was gone, she threw herself on to the sofa for another howl which was instantly curtailed as the sofa took on her momentum and crashed into the television which
toppled over and then imploded dramatically.

  Tash lay for several seconds, too numb for tears, wondering why on earth she was planning to marry a man she hadn’t seen since the New Year. Then she cringed and wriggled and winced with shame as she realised that Hugo had that morning been gaping with snooty astonishment at photographs of her seductively draped over the same sofa she was now cowering in.

  On her way to bed, she picked up the card Hugo had left and regarded it listlessly. It was an invitation to his birthday party. On the front, he had simply written ‘Tash’. She tore it to shreds, fed the rest of the steak to Beetroot and went to bed, setting her alarm for half-midnight.

  Between half-midnight and three in the morning, she lay awake waiting for Niall to call back, but he failed to oblige.

  At two, she tried his mobile. It was switched off. She then called the third assistant director’s mobile who – complete with loud partying background noise – told her that Niall had headed back to the hotel to call his girlfriend.

  Tash stayed awake a little longer, nodding asleep and then jerking awake as though hanged by the neck from a rope until dead tired.

  At three, she called his hotel. The phone rang for ages before a very tired-sounding Scottish man picked up the call and, grumbling under his breath, tried Niall’s room for her.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no answer there,’ he came back to her. ‘Would you like me to leave a message?’

  ‘Can you just check if his key’s been taken?’ she asked.

  ‘No – it’s still here, my dear.’ The man came back a few seconds later, giving a pert sniff which said a lot about his attitude to ‘these film types’.

  ‘Thanks – just say Tash called.’ She rang off and, hugging her loneliness and tonight’s shame to her, conked out to dream that she was riding directly after Hugo in the cross-country section of a one-day-event, stark naked and catching up with him fast as Snob bolted over the fences, totally out of control.

  ‘Leave me alone, you desperate little freak!’ Hugo yelled over his shoulder. ‘You’ve always had a crush on me!’

  Tash sat bolt upright, suddenly awake, sober and reeling with shock. As far as Hugo now knew, she realised with dismay, she had sent him a Valentine’s card this year. It wasn’t the card he had actually received, but it was a card nonetheless. From her. Sad, desperate Tash, who had always had a crush on him – even though she was now getting married to someone else. And, not only that, he still had the evidence – the card that she had intended only for Niall’s lovely big brown eyes.

  She sank back into the pillows and listened to her heart thud the milliseconds until it was time to head to the farm for work.

  The next morning Kirsty was even more superior. In fact, she positively queened it over Tash. Being Kirsty, she was so nice about it that it could have been a big cuddle of a compliment, but Tash knew different.

  ‘Tash – I bet you’re feeling great today. Did Niall and yous talk until the wee hours, huh?’ she asked as they cleaned tack – one of the dullest jobs in the world that everyone in the yard avoided.

  ‘He couldn’t make it back,’ Tash muttered through gritted teeth as she soaped the same piece of rein over and over again.

  ‘Och, that’s a shame.’ Kirsty’s voice was as soothing as honey on a sore throat. ‘Still, I bet you sent him a wonderful Valentine’s card, eh?’

  Ted, who was measuring out the feeds in a far corner, scoffed happily. ‘Write him a kinky fantasy, did you, Tash?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Lots of sexy stuff about what you’re going to do with him when you get your mitts on that famous arse?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Kirsty giggled. ‘I bet she sent him some revealing shots of herself. Reminded him of what he’s missing.’

  Tash bristled but said nothing, determinedly concentrating on the reins.

  ‘Christ!’ Ted sounded excited. ‘Next time you’re taking some of those, can I have the negs, yeah?’

  ‘Sally, Sally – it’s me, darling. Is he around?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Damn. Listen – such exciting news! Niall has agreed to play Daniel in Four Poster, so we’re going ahead.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’

  ‘And even better – I’ve arranged for Cheers! magazine to have exclusive coverage of Niall and Tash’s wedding. They’re paying literally tens of thousands, honey, which will cover Niall’s fee. His agent, Bob, helped me set it up. That man is so shit-hot.’

  ‘Cheers! magazine?’ Sally gasped. ‘I thought every married couple who appeared in that was jinxed? Didn’t they do a huge spread on Liz and Larry Fortenski at home just a fortnight before the split?’

  ‘Don’t talk shit, darling – it’s fucking fantastic publicity for the film. They’re going to tie it all into the first location shoot if I’m lucky. Now I’ve just got to find the pissing location. We’re currently dis-located.’

  Sally giggled. ‘When do you start?’

  ‘May. Listen, d’you fancy helping me out? I could really use a good assistant on this one.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I damn’ well do.’

  ‘But I have no experience.’

  ‘But you know me, know Niall, and could be a wonderful help if I need a mediator, which I’m sure I will. Please, Sally?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Okay – I’ll ask no more for now. But I will demand one thing – come to Hugo Beauchamp’s thirtieth as my guest?’

  ‘You’ve been invited?’

  ‘Very surprising, I know, but yes, he’s just called, practically begging me to attend. Most odd, but also most damned well welcome. Lord, is that man divine! Will you come with me?’

  ‘Christ, Lisette.’ Her voice went hushed as she realised she’d uttered the forbidden L word within Matty’s hearing, but he didn’t appear to notice as she went on, ‘You-know-who loathes that man.’

  ‘Well, I took it as read that he wouldn’t be invited, but I dearly want you to come with me.’

  ‘Can’t you take a dishy man?’

  ‘Oh God, Sally! All the dishy men I know are either gay, or married, or both. I’d far rather take a good friend to giggle with.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try.’ Her voice dropped even lower. ‘But I’ll have to lie.’

  ‘You know what the Bible says, honey,’ Lisette laughed before ringing off: ‘“And thou shalt definitely lie with thine husband.”’

  Nine

  * * *

  LUNCH WITH HENRIETTA WAS not a success.

  Tash was still at Lime Tree Farm when Henrietta poled up to the forge at twelve-thirty sharp. Having totally forgotten about the assignation, Tash was coaxing one of the novices – a very nervous but talented mare called Groupie – around a few low jumping grids when Henrietta telephoned the farm. The noise of the outside klaxon hailing the call sent Groupie over the menage perimeter fence in a huge, tight, catjump that unbalanced Tash, spinning her through the air to land bang on a pole, almost knocking her teeth out with her knee.

  It set the tone for the afternoon. Because Tash had forgotten to book, Marco Angelo at the Olive Branch could not squeeze them into the restaurant however hard he tried to pressurise three businessmen into paying their bill and leaving. Instead, they were forced to perch at a draughty table by the door and eat in the main bar. Several local farm hands were drinking pints, swearing like troopers and smoking rollies nearby; all of them greeted Tash as an old chum, which terrified Henrietta. She tried hard to be polite and hide her disappointment, but it was obvious that she was quite put out by Niall’s non-appearance.

  ‘He truly couldn’t make it,’ Tash apologised on his behalf. ‘He was really miserable to let you down – but they were shooting through the night yesterday and he was totally trapped up there. He sends you his love and promises to make up for it next time.’

  Henrietta, having dressed up in his honour in a rather risqué Laura Ashley trouser suit in plum cord that plunged at the front, fought valiantly not to hang
her head during their cheek-bulging lunch of warm goat’s cheese salad and mackerel poached in cider cream, but she was not on top form. Tash, bug-eyed with a hangover and bruised from two days’ falling off, was far from her best too.

  They barely mentioned the wedding, except to agree on a few points that it was obvious neither of them cared about.

  ‘Your father agrees that you should marry somewhere close to here – a local hotel with a licence or something?’

  ‘Fine – I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Your mother called to suggest GTC or Peter Jones for the wedding list. I thought the latter, as I always shop there and know a few of the assistants by name.’

  ‘Fine – whatever.’

  ‘I have a chum who’s a terrific florist. She did the Earl of—’

  ‘Fine – tell her to go ahead.’

  ‘Have you been for any dress fittings yet?’

  ‘Mummy sent me a list – I’ll call around next week.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get a move on. Let me know as soon as you’ve decided – we have to tone in bridesmaids and pages. Have you decided those yet?’

  Tash was staring blankly at her uneaten mackerel, empathising with its glazed eyes and gaping mouth. It was precisely how she had looked for hours on end the night before.

  ‘Tash?’

  She looked up and, realising the topic of bridesmaids had been raised, spoke off the top of her head.

  ‘Whichever of Sally’s and Sophia’s can walk – I suppose that’s Tom, Tor, Lotty and possibly Josh. Plus Niall’s sister’s brood – that’s three girls under ten, I think. And his brother’s two boys – they’re three and seven. And Polly, of course. That should do it.’

  Henrietta looked slightly pale. ‘Adult bridesmaids?’

  Tash shook her head. ‘No way. I went through that at Sophia’s wedding. Too awful. I’ll inflict it on no one. But I want Zoe to be my matron of honour – although she must wear what she wants. Absolutely no cerise taffeta or anything. And she can sit down during the ceremony if she gets bored.’

  Henrietta looked appalled, but stifled her objections. ‘Best man?’