by Fiona Walker
Tash reached into the tack bin to look for the spare stopwatch, and strapped it on in place of the dud, her eyes scouring the box for help. Her first priority was to decide whether or not to run Hunk, and she needed someone to make up her mind for her. Plenty of competitors were milling around, mostly preoccupied with their own impending starts, but it was too early in the day for most of the riders to be at the box – they were all concentrated at the yard.
The vet was already looking worried.
‘Near hind tendon a bit of a problem area, is it?’ he muttered, deferring to his partner for another opinion as he asked India to lead Hunk around for a moment so that they could check if he was level.
Suddenly Tash spotted Hugo standing close to the weighing tent, chatting to the great Australian eventer Mick James, who had been the first competitor around the course and was filling him in. Mick’s craggy, bushman’s face was splattered with dirt and his side darkened with mud where he had clearly taken a fall. Hugo wasn’t due to start for over an hour, so he was dressed in his work-gear chaps and t-shirt with a wax coat over the top. Several young girls were lurking near the fence behind them clutching autograph books. Tash dashed over to attract his attention.
‘I need your advice!’ she bleated. ‘I think Hunk’s too stiff behind to go, but I’m not certain.’
Saying nothing, Hugo followed her and within seconds was examining the sweating horse, a hand running expertly along the back of his near hind.
The vets were still in a huddle, deliberating. Tash knew they could only disqualify her if Hunk’s paces were uneven, which they weren’t, but she didn’t want to take any risks. Asking him every hard question across country – as Badminton inevitably did – in this sort of weather could strain his tendon again and put him out of work for months, potentially for ever. Equally she didn’t want to be branded a coward for making a decision too hastily, which would incur the wrath not only of Gus but also of her sponsors, who were already grumbling disconcertingly about her decision to let Hugo run Snob. The Mogo team had a trade stand at the event and were keen for her to boost their corporate image – the managing director had already called the lorry mobile twice that morning to wish her luck. If she pulled out before even riding across country, he would be furious. She was supposed to be signing photographs at the stand later – mud-splattered and brave. A wimpy withdrawal wouldn’t draw in the same crowds.
‘Walk him out.’ Hugo nodded at India who did as she was told, her face pinched with worry. Hunk appeared totally sound, his mouth snapping comically from the squirts of water and ion salts India had been administering, but as he turned at the end of his line, his near hind leg bowed and dipped very slightly. Hugo ran his hand down it once more, trying to feel for heat through the protective bandages that were stitched in place to stop them unravelling on the course.
He turned to Tash and touched her arm gently, shaking his head. ‘Not safe to run him in this weather.’ He glanced at the vets. ‘What d’you think?’
‘Technically he’s passed all the checks.’ The senior one shrugged. ‘There’s no swelling or lameness, and he’s certainly fit enough to run as he is. But he is very slightly stiff, which could be a warning sign. It’s up to you. You know the horse.’
Tash looked at Hunk, who was still all pricked ears and silly facial expressions. There had always been a residual weakness since his injury, and he tended to feel it more as a competition progressed without its affecting his performance. Yet this was no run-of-the-mill event and he wasn’t as fit as Snob. He was already sweating up badly from his exertions, and the hardest work was still to come. He was a gritty, trustworthy horse who would give her his all – but that needed to be more than he had right now and she knew it. In her heart of hearts she had known it before they had even started. She’d only kept going so far in the silly, deluded hope that she would win the competition and thus her kiss. Tash gave him a big, grateful pat and searched out an official.
‘We’re pulling out,’ she told him. ‘Sorry.’ She could feel the tears creeping out behind her eyes and bit her lip hard to stop them.
He nodded understandingly and patted her arm. ‘Very wise decision – save his big guns for next year,’ he told her, moving away to pass on the message through his walkie-talkie.
Tash walked back to give India a big hug.
‘I’m sorry.’ She tried to keep her voice from wobbling tearfully. ‘You did a great job. He’s just too precious to waste.’
‘That’s okay,’ India said philosophically, hugging her back. ‘My fingers are shredded from plaiting yesterday – I was going to resign tomorrow anyway.’ She was trying frantically to be brave.
Tash smiled gratefully. Sometimes India reminded her so vividly of Zoe – gentle, strong, easy-going – it was uncanny.
It seemed like seconds later that the news was coming out over the general address and there was a disappointed groan from the spectators around the box who had rolled up to wish Tash and Hunk well. Amongst them, Tash noticed in alarm, was the Cheers! photographer who had snapped her and Niall ‘at home’ the previous week. Nikon lens flashing, his spools were clattering faster than chattering teeth in a blizzard as he caught her brave disappointment for the wedding spread.
‘Hello there, love. Bad luck!’ he called, shutter still clicking like fingers in a busy restaurant.
She gave them all as big a smile as she could muster and apologised, but it was all she could do to stop herself breaking down with disappointment. Walking up to her, big Mick James shot her a wink and slapped her shoulder. ‘I’d’ve done the same,’ he sympathised. ‘Bad luck.’ It was the first time he had ever spoken to her.
Hugo was still standing quietly beside her and Tash jumped in surprise as his arm was slotted gently around her shoulders and he hugged her to him, calling to India over her head.
‘Walk him around for ten minutes more and then take him back to the yard and give him a good, long hosing on that hind leg before putting an Animalintex on it, will you? And, for Christ’s sake, cheer up – you can help Jenny with Snob this afternoon. She’s terrified of him. I’ll look after Tash.’
Saying little, he steered her out of the box and walked her to the lorry park so that she could recover her composure before going back to support the others. Tash listened to the television helicopter fluttering around overhead like a great, flapping moth and wished more than anything that it was capturing shots of her and Hunk kicking up the Badminton turf right now. Big, childish tears started to plop from her eyes.
‘I don’t want t-to s-see G-gus or P-penny like this,’ she wailed.
Heading right, Hugo took her to his horse-box instead of her own, where she would risk bumping into someone else from the Lime Tree Farm team. There, he made her a very strong, milky cup of tea and poured some brandy into it for good measure.
‘Your sponsors here?’
Tash nodded, trying to stem the inevitable tears with the cuffs of her cross-country shirt. ‘I was supposed to join their guests at the Mogo trade stand after my round.’
‘Mike Seith and Peter Lisson are understanding blokes – they know the sport. They’ll forgive you, and it’s not as though they paid the entry fees on this one.’
Tash sniffed. ‘I can’t face seeing them.’
‘Wait till after I’ve been round on Snob and we’ll go together,’ he suggested. ‘After all, I’m riding under their corporate flag today too. I’ll hold your hand – in fact, I might need you to hold mine if Snob dumps me in the Lake.’
The thought of Snob and his secret fate almost finished her off. Tash blew her nose noisily and tried to get a grip on herself. Hugo was about to ride one of the toughest rounds of his life, on her mentally deranged horse in appalling weather. She couldn’t throw a wobbly now.
‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready?’ She glanced at her watch. Realising that her spare stopwatch was still strapped to her wrist, she tugged it off and threw it on to the table.
‘I’ve got ages yet.
’ Hugo settled in the seat facing her. ‘Feeling a bit better?’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She couldn’t believe that he was being so kind.
‘It’s a hell of a wrench doing that.’ He started fiddling with her discarded watch. ‘Almost worse than failing the vets’ inspection tomorrow morning. Happened to me a few years ago – awful.’
Tash shrugged. ‘I didn’t have much chance anyway as I buggered up the steeplechase. My penalties must have been in triple figures.’
Hugo grinned. ‘After the appalling dressage test I managed, mine practically are already.’
‘The penalty is mightier than the sword. Snob’s phenomenal across country,’ she said. ‘If you go clear you could make up the deficit.’
‘No one’s going clear today, Tash – at least not within the time. It’s Torville and Dean stuff out there. Mick says he feared for his life a couple of times.’
Tash bit her lip. It was practically a replay of Lowerton – the weather was almost as bad, their draws as far apart. Only the course was far, far harder. If he rode Snob the way he had ridden Surfer then, the consequences could be catastrophic. Running the back of her hand across her nose, she battled hard not to think about it.
‘The going will get better once the ground’s been cut up a bit.’ She took the handkerchief Hugo was offering her and gratefully blew her nose. ‘Once it churns up there’ll be some grip to it.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
‘Where did Mick fall?’ she asked, blowing her nose again.
‘The Three Scythes.’
Tash blinked. ‘Did he try the straight route?’
He nodded. ‘And don’t tell me how to ride it,’ he said quickly, voice regaining some of its old arrogance. ‘I’m making up my own mind.’
‘If you head for the outer log on a left line, you can still bounce out through the last part of the direct route,’ Tash told him anyway. ‘I walked it last night – it’s not obvious, but the striding is perfect for Snob and it wouldn’t break his rhythm. You hardly lose any time by—’
‘Tash.’ Hugo reached across and covered her mouth with his hand. ‘Shut up.’
Aware that she had a damp, recently blown nose, she flinched.
He looked mildly irritated, but said nothing, standing up and fetching his body protector from a pile of clean clothing on his bed. Before Tash could take in what he was doing, he had stripped to his underpants and was shaking out a clean pair of jodhpurs.
Tash quickly peered out of the rain-flecked window to avoid staring at that beautiful body – the long, tanned legs like slim iron girders, the stomach dappled with muscles, and the even ribs which she longed to strum with her fingers like a harp. Despite the last traces of tears and self-pity, she was fighting down the familiar lust-in-the-bust feelings of old. He had just been so nice. She mustn’t ruin it now.
Hugo carried on chatting regardless, hoping that the rain would ease off, wondering whether Kirsty had completed yet, then telling her about Stefan’s parents, who were over from Sweden and spoke absolutely no English. Assuming that Badminton House was open to the public, they had wandered around it for hours that morning before being discovered in the Duke of Beaufort’s private chambers. He even started chatting about Zoe’s erotic novels, asking all sorts of odd questions that Tash supposed were intended to take her mind off things. The trouble was, he wasn’t putting her mind on to things that were any better for her erratic blood pressure.
‘They any good?’ he asked.
‘Um – yes, well. Mmm. Very well written.’
‘Not quite up to Tennyson?’ He shot her a look.
Tash squinted out of the window again, turning pink.
‘Will you wait at the box for my ten-minute break on Snob?’
‘Of course.’ She turned. ‘If you like.’
He was dressed in his breeches now, but still topless. Gazing at him, Tash was mesmerised by that smooth brown chest and the strong shoulders, toughened and widened from so many hours in the saddle. She blinked in awe, instantly blaming the brandy for giving her such a hot, zippy kick in the groin. Any minute now and she’d start panting St Bernard-style again, she realised; she simply had to get a grip. Talk about Alpining passes . . . she was pining, full stop. She polished off the tea greedily, deciding that she was developing rather a taste for brandy.
‘You okay?’ He gave her a curious look before disappearing inside a black polo neck.
‘Fine!’ She had one last gawp at his stomach before his head reappeared through the neck-hole and he started to tuck the sweater in.
‘Here – wear this, you’ll get soaked otherwise.’ He threw her a waterproof coat. It was made by Mogo’s arch rivals, she noticed worriedly, pulling it on anyway. She had no idea where she’d left hers – in the yard, probably.
When Hugo was ready, she had a final blow of her nose and stood up, feeling the warmth from the brandy lingering in her stomach like a hot meal, giving her strength. Unfortunately it was also adding like mad to her lustiness too; she wished she hadn’t been thinking quite so much about Zoe’s erotic novels. She shuffled hastily past Hugo, anxious to get out of the box and away from such claustrophobic proximity. But at the door, she stopped and turned back, realising how rude she must appear.
‘Thank you,’ she said quickly. ‘For looking after me just now – it was very kind.’
Picking up his crash hat from the sink drainer, he grinned. ‘I assure you, it was purely selfish.’
Tash smiled awkwardly, not understanding. ‘Good luck,’ she added as he moved beside her. ‘Give him a great ride for me.’
In the cramped space by the door they were inches apart. Tash’s hand was on the handle, but her fingers were refusing to obey her head as they just gripped and clung instead of pushed and swung.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Hugo promised, patiently waiting for her to open the door.
Still she lingered, daring herself to stretch up and kiss him on the cheek for luck. It was such a tiny gesture, one she performed practically every day of her life with the Lime Tree Farm mob, yet with him it took on enormous proportions. She took so long to galvanise her lips into action that Hugo, who had watched her mental struggle with amusement, was waiting with his cheek conveniently poised when she finally went for it. Then, at the last moment, he swung his face around so that she was planting the lightest of pecks on his lips, not his cheek.
‘Good luck.’ She was out of the door in a flash.
They walked to the yard in silence.
India was still hosing Hunk’s leg when Tash got there. The place was buzzing with activity as horses were prepared for the gruelling challenge ahead with boots and bandages and all manner of tack being strapped to their excited frames. Tash felt another twinge of regret that she had been denied the full excitement of the day.
Ted was walking Betty Blue around with a waterproof sheet over her sweat-rug to cool her off without letting the driving rain chill her too quickly.
‘How did Kirsty do?’ Tash asked him, trying to be as cheerful as she could.
‘Two refusals and a stack of time faults,’ he groaned. ‘And hers is one of the best rounds so far – she’s in the TV tent with Penny. Gus is out on phase A. Sorry to hear you had to pull out. Gus was trying to track you down earlier to commiserate. And the MD of Mogo has been prowling around.’
‘God!’ Tash groaned, wandering into the stalls to say hi to Jenny and Snob. He was looking spectacular, his red coat gleaming like old gold, muscles shifting and glimmering beneath his skin.
‘He looks wonderful,’ Tash congratulated Jenny.
She pulled a face. ‘He’s almost had my arm off twice – look.’ She showed a couple of blackening bruises. ‘And it’ll all go to rot the moment he’s out in the rain. Brian’s first ride, Babe Magnet, slid right into the Huntsman’s Hangover like a duck on a frozen pond. They think he’ll lose his eye – the vet’s with him now.’
‘No!’ Tash shuddered, suddenly feeli
ng uneasy. She watched as Snob smacked his lips and lunged at Jenny’s bottom while she struggled to screw in a stud. He was looking as bullish and cocksure as ever. She hoped to God Hugo could hold him.
He was still in the yard, talking seriously with Brian Sedgewick who was as white as a sheet beneath his thick splattering of mud. From their grim expressions, Tash guessed that the horse’s eye hadn’t been saved. She felt sick with nerves.
‘Bloody mess,’ Ted tutted, walking Betty past her. ‘It’s the worst wash-out on record. Julia Ditton says it’s even wetter and more perilous than ninety-two. The riders keep being stopped out on the course because of accidents. It’s a wonder there haven’t been any deaths.’
‘Don’t say that!’ Tash crossed her fingers tightly. ‘I’m going to find Penny.’
She couldn’t bear to be near brave, excited Snob any longer. It would be unthinkable to pull him out just because she was a coward, she realised, but she still felt like a mother leaving her Christian son at the gates of the Colosseum on lion-feeding day. Not saying a word to Hugo, she raced towards the TV tent. As she trotted past the packed trade stands – which were doing a roaring trade in wellies and waterproof wear – she was almost brought down as a small child grabbed her coat hem, shrieking excitedly.
Looking down, Tash saw an exquisitely pretty black-haired girl dressed from head to foot in the latest Barbour childwear.
‘Lotty!’ she cried delightedly, stooping down to pull her delighted, giggling niece into a hug.
‘Where is that revolting child?’ quacked an angry voice as Sophia emerged from a stand selling novelty umbrellas. ‘One looks away for a split – Tash!’
‘Hi.’ Tash let Lotty to the ground and noted that her sister was wearing an identical outfit to her daughter’s. Waddling on child-reins beside her was Josh, also decked in Identikit attire. Only Ben, who staggered out of the stand a moment later carrying a wailing Henry, was dressed in his usual tatty old drover’s coat and an unspeakably ancient Australian bush-hat that made him look like a village idiot.
