by Fiona Walker
Suddenly covering her mouth in horror, India went bright pink and shrugged, hastily rushing off to collect Vic.
But Stefan was too preoccupied with looking at Betty to notice her embarrassment.
Eyes rolling evilly, Snob passed the second official vets’ inspection later that morning – again on the Tarmac strip in the gravel sweep in front of the house – striding out as though doing a strut down a catwalk and battling hard to take a piece out of Hugo the entire way. There was more deliberation over the lolloping, angular Fashion Victim, who had his legs thoroughly peered at and his wind listened to but, to huge sighs of relief from the Lime Tree Farm contingent, he also passed. Only poor Kirsty missed out on the luck as, tired and lack-lustre from her exertions the day before, Betty shambled up and down the Tarmac line with a very limp gait, like a good-time girl who’d lost the heel from one stiletto. When the senior steward announced over his megaphone that she had failed there was the inevitable groan from the knowledgeable spectators who had turned up early to watch the final inspection, but Kirsty gave a rueful shrug and, letting Ted lead her big mare away, melted into Stefan’s long arms and demanded a thorough kissing to make up for her disappointment. They headed back to the yard with Stefan’s stern parents following on disapprovingly, not knowing the English to ask her to lay off their young son.
‘Those two must have got it together last night,’ Gus told Hugo. ‘Kirsty didn’t come back to the box until three. I’d got up for an insomniac snack – bloody nerves playing up. Tash was still cornered in the lavatory throwing up, poor darling. I’ve never known her get as hammered as she did last night.’
‘She’s obviously in training so that she can keep up with Niall once they’re married,’ said Hugo.
‘I can hardly believe that wedding is still going ahead.’ Gus shook his head. ‘It’s ridiculous – even her family seem to want her to call the bloody thing off. She and Niall have hardly been speaking since they got back from France.’
‘Perhaps they’ve called a temporary trousseau,’ Hugo muttered, and stalked off to give an interview to a roaming Daily Telegraph sports reporter.
There was a long, long wait between the vets’ examination and the final nail-biting show-jumping rounds that afternoon. At lunchtime, all the competitors still left in the championship were due to parade formally in the main arena, but before that it was the lower-placed riders – those who were lying below twentieth place – who coaxed their tired horses over the coloured, rain-flecked poles in the main ring. It meant that all the overnight leaders had a restless, nerve-racking wait.
Although the storms of the past few days had rumbled off to Sussex and Kent, it was still spitting down outside, and Tash ended up in the lorry playing poker with India and Ted. She was so hungover that she could barely focus. She looked like death boiled dry and her eyes – when she recovered sufficiently to examine them in a mirror – were like a major industrial town on a scale road map, interlaced with red A roads.
Demons of embarrassment were clawing at her shoulders as she tried to remember the previous night, but apart from the vague recollection of a bowl of crème brûlée coming up to meet her, the evening remained an obstinate blank.
‘You should have played that, Tash!’ Ted groaned, looking at her hand. ‘Why did you cop out? You’ve got three sevens.’
‘Have I?’ Tash had forgotten she was even holding a hand of cards in the first place.
‘Oh, it’s pointless playing with you!’ India laughed. ‘Go and watch TV or something, then at least Ted and I can strip if we lose. I thought you’d be happier after last night.’ She gave her a huge wink.
‘What?’ Tash looked at her exquisite, leggy groom and wished she was fourteen again. She’d never looked that good, but loving Hugo had been a hell of a lot more simple then.
‘Mum said Niall was going to ring you.’ India gave another wink, almost popping one huge, pale blue eye out of its socket. ‘About the wedding.’ She glanced sideways at Ted who was too engrossed in shuffling the cards to bother listening to trivial girlie-talk.
Tash was gaping at her in horror. ‘You mean, you know?’
‘Mum and I had a long chat about it last weekend – when she first thought the idea up. She wasn’t even going to suggest it to Niall then, but Rufus and I persuaded her that you seriously wouldn’t mind.’
‘You did?’
‘She’s been leaving messages all week, so I guessed Niall had agreed. I called her at the hotel.’
‘What hotel?’ Tash was getting more and more confused.
‘Oh, Tash, you really are preoccupied, aren’t you?’ India laughed. ‘That’s so typical. I suppose you have me to thank for everything working out really, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’
‘Well, it was me who made you send him a Valentine’s card, remember?’ India looked rather put out.
Tash gazed at her in bewildered frustration. She wanted Ted to push off so that she could demand to know what India was talking about.
Ted was looking at his hand with almost equal frustration as it was obviously good enough to make India flush if she showed her pair, now that they were playing for strips rather than chips.
‘I thought you were going to watch the box, Tash.’ He gave her a beady look, eager for her to push off too.
Doing as she was told, Tash slumped back on a bunk and watched an episode of Little House On the Prairie on the portable, which bucked her up slightly, as it was all about Laura having the hots for a young farm-hand who also had the hots for her. They were both too shy to let their secrets out until they made friends over a pet rabbit. Reclining weakly in her bunk, Tash hoped it was an omen. She wondered vaguely if she should make Beetroot a pair of long floppy ears to entice Hugo into a tête-à-tête, but decided against it.
What Niall had said last night had shattered her confidence completely, riddling her with doubts. Yesterday, she had been so convinced that Hugo was as mad for her as she was for him, yet it appeared that he was only after her horse all along. And, when she thought about it, he had practically ignored her all week. It was only yesterday that he’d suddenly seemed keen again. If he’d made some sort of deal with Lisette on Friday night as Niall said, then it was no wonder. It was in his interest to try and seduce her into calling off the wedding at the last minute. That way, he’d get the horse for good, not just for Badminton.
Deciding that she needed some air, she took Beetroot for a walk, but it was still spitting with rain and she felt so fragile that every drop on her head was like a thump from a mallet.
She felt ridiculously tearful as she remembered that Hugo had told her she needed a waterproof hat this week. Heading groggily through the trade stands, she bought herself a jaunty yellow sou-wester before wandering back to the yard to check how things were progressing.
There was no one around from the Lime Tree Farm mob. Snob, already groomed and plaited from his morning inspection, was swathed in a quilted blanket and head-bobbing sulkily like a shadow boxer. He flatly refused to acknowledge her. Equally uninterested, Fashion Victim was snoozing with his eyes half open. Tash trailed along to Hunk’s stall and fed him an entire packet of Polos, eager to secure an ally.
Back out in the yard several eventers were clustered together exchanging gossip from the previous night’s raucous ball. They all shut up when Tash shuffled past. Then there was a muted titter, followed by a few stifled guffaws, followed by a gale of giggles spreading as quickly through the group as yawns through a bored class of schoolchildren.
It was Brian Sedgewick who started the chant, his battered face split with laughter.
‘Where did you get that hat, where did you get that hat!’
Pulling the despised hat over her ears, Tash shot them all as brave and indignant a smile as she could muster before trudging out with Beetroot across the park, mulling over her fate. The prospect of standing at the altar with Niall in seven days’ time awaiting her cue to stage a dramatic exit appalled her, but she could
now see no other way out. He clearly wasn’t prepared to square up to Lisette and she had flunked what would probably be her last chance to confess what a mess they were in to her family. With just a week to cancel, she almost thought Niall’s idea would be easier for them to take. At least it would go down in the annals of family history as the annulled wedding to remember. A tearful last-minute change of heart would be far easier for them to forgive than the reality of a web of lies to prevent Niall from becoming an alcoholic bankrupt.
Several competitors were out for a short, leg-loosening hack before their show-jumping rounds, well wrapped up against the viperish wind and spitting rain, their horses swathed in waterproof exercise sheets and leg-protectors so it was hard to identify exactly who was who.
Rendered anonymous by the new head-gear, Tash trudged around yesterday’s cross-country course uninterrupted, letting Beetroot sniff, dig and chase vermin to her heart’s content. She was in no hurry; she’d got a lot of thinking to do. She kept thinking about her fantasy – the ridiculous dream she had clung to where Hugo would leap up at the wedding and announce just about every impediment he could think of. Suddenly it didn’t seem quite so ridiculous after all.
Tash walked for such a long time that she missed the lunchtime parade of the top twenty competitors and only just settled in beside Penny in the stands as Lucy Field, who was lying twelfth, rode into the ring on her nervy youngster, Treasury Spokesman.
‘How are they all doing?’ she asked.
‘Well, the course isn’t exactly taxing, but yesterday’s weather’s really taken it out of a lot of them and poles are flying like a windy day in Warsaw. That hat is truly awful, Tash.’
Still stewing over her decision, she watched Lucy more or less demolish the course for twenty-five penalties and a fast descent to eighteenth place.
Subsequent competitors did not fare much better. The purpose of the final show-jumping day in a three-day event was not to tax the horse by demanding that he tackle a grand-prix height course of the sort undertaken by professional show-jumpers – the fences were deliberately inviting and placed on clear, basic lines. The twisting, well-spaced course was to see whether a horse was still supple on both reins, fit and obedient enough to jump the day after such a draining test on his stamina. It was also to judge whether the horse would respect flimsy fences that could be knocked down with a tap of the hoof as much as it did the large, solid obstacles across country. Snob was notorious for not respecting them at all.
‘Hugo took him out to the practice ring an hour ago and he ploughed through everything like a ram-raider in a hurry – the parade thoroughly overexcited him,’ Penny told her. ‘Hugo was searching for you everywhere for advice. Where have you been?’
‘I took Beetroot for a walk.’ Her stomach lurched as though the stands were experiencing airborne turbulence. ‘Was he really looking for me?’
‘For a bit.’ Penny shrugged vaguely as she watched Glen Bain come out of the ring with five penalties, to tremendous applause. ‘He’s taken Snob out into the park to try and calm him down now. Hugs says he’s going to aim to get to the collecting ring just before they’re due in.’
Disappointed, Tash snuggled deeper into her seat as she spotted the MD of Mogo waving at her from one of the VIP seats. He was being very civil to her while Hugo was still in the lead on a Mogo-sponsored horse, but Tash had a feeling that he would change his tune faster than a pianist playing a medley if Hugo ballsed up the jumping. At least she was wearing the right jacket today. She pulled up her lapels so that the distinctive Mogo labels were shown off fully and tried to grin at him encouragingly.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ Penny watched her in horror.
‘Fine. Much better in fact. Why?’
‘You looked as though you were about to be sick.’
‘I was smiling.’
‘Oh. Will you hold my hand when Gus comes in?’
Tash winced at the prospect. She still had no feeling in her little finger from Gus’s cross-country round.
‘You feeling better, Tash?’ Stefan asked nastily as he and Kirsty moved in on either side of her and Penny twenty minutes later. They both looked rumpled and Kirsty had appalling stubble rash. Matched with her red hair, she looked like a very minxy Yosemite Sam.
‘Enjoy last night, did you, hen?’ she asked with equal venom.
Tash wanted to hide under her seat with shame.
‘It just about compares to the night I tried to slit my wrists with a Bic disposable razor at the age of ten because I finally realised David Cassidy would never fancy me,’ she muttered, not taking her eyes off Roger Monk clearing every jump on the lovely, rock-solid Sex Symbol for seventh place.
‘That’s only because you should have told David Cassidy exactly how you felt about him,’ Kirsty said darkly, settling in beside Penny who was getting more and more nervous as Gus’s round approached, her berry eyes staring madly, her face lab-coat white and pinched with mounting tension. She immediately gripped Kirsty’s hand.
Tash was fixedly watching a German ride into the ring. ‘Actually I wrote three letters and sent him a Terry’s Chocolate Orange that cost me a week’s pocket money.’
‘He can’t have been much of a romantic if that didn’t get you a date.’ Stefan shrugged. ‘Still, he probably realised you’d run off and marry someone else in the end.’
‘No, I wouldn’t!’ She shifted in her seat.
‘Are you wearing that hat for a bet?’ Kirsty asked.
Tash couldn’t bear it any longer.
Transferring Penny’s vice-like grip to Stefan’s far bigger and more robust hand, she slipped out of the stands and went to the collecting ring in time to see the last four horses out, so that she could wait with Gus and Fashion Victim, offering them support. She looked around for Hugo, but he and Snob were steering clear until the last moment. Julia Ditton and her roving TV team were again hovering like market researchers in a busy high street, eager to snaffle victims. Tash pulled down her hat brim and darted past.
Vic was looking very undignified in his plaits, like a lurcher given a Yorkshire terrier cut in a pooch salon. Because he was a big, gangly and rather battered old horse, he always looked ridiculous when turned out properly. He rolled his eyes as Tash approached, searching for a solacing carrot.
‘You nervous?’ She smiled at Gus, glad that her eyes were at last opening enough to look up. It had taken most of the day.
‘Bricking it,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Hugo’s done a bunk and the officials are doing their nut – they think the competition leader won’t be here to bloody compete. That hat is diabolical by the way.’
‘I thought he was taking Snob around the park until the last minute?’ Tash asked worriedly. Again her stomach lurched. She felt like one of Pavlov’s dogs – except she needed the word ‘Hugo’ rather than a bell.
Standing by Vic’s head with a bucket of equipment, Ted laughed. ‘Look to your left, darling.’
Doing as she was told, Tash saw Snob – also plaited up and looking far more glamorous than poor old Vic – being walked around on a long rein, his rugs still slung over his rump for warmth. On board, chewing at a Mars bar and chatting to one of the dishier young male eventers, was India. Hugo was nowhere to be seen.
‘So where is he?’ she asked, but Ted and Gus were both intently watching Brian Sedgewick, who was halfway around the course and still clear, if painstakingly slow.
‘If he goes clear but gets more than two time faults, then I have a fence in hand.’ Gus turned Vic away and walked him around, unable to watch.
Brian had almost four time faults, but he had one of the first clear jumping rounds of the day and kept hold of his fourth place to cheers of delight from his supporters in the collecting ring. As he rode out, his wife practically pulled him off his horse as she leaped up to hug him.
Tash dragged the rug from Vic’s behind and handed it to Ted as Gus rode into the ring, his red coat three shades paler than Brian’s because i
t was so old and faded.
‘Good luck!’ she called anxiously.
‘Where’s Penny?’ Ted asked as they moved to the arena entrance to watch.
‘Staying in the stands because she can’t let go of Kirsty and Stefan’s hands,’ Tash said nervously as Gus dipped his head to salute the judges, his ancient black hat silk flapping in the wind where it was ripped at the peak. ‘They were talking about getting a doctor to surgically remove her.’
‘Must have done already,’ Ted pointed out. ‘Here they are.’
Arms hooked around one another despite an eighteen-inch height difference, Stefan and Kirsty joined the nervous huddle to watch from the entrance as the buzzer rang out in the ring.
‘She’s hiding behind the stand smoking a cigarette,’ Kirsty muttered, her arm reaching so high in the air to encompass Stefan’s shoulder that she looked like she was answering a question in class.
‘She doesn’t smoke.’ Ted chewed a thumb-nail as he continued watching Gus.
‘She’s on Rothmans.’ Stefan whistled in admiration. ‘The farm’s future’s riding on that ugly bastard out there.’
‘Vic isn’t ugly!’ Tash wailed. ‘He’s heroic-looking.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the horse.’
Vic lumbered through the start in his usual cart-horse way, hind hooves seeming to drag along the ground like a surly teenager scuffing his feet. He was a terrifically ungainly horse and several spectators started to laugh, but once he began jumping, they applauded instead. It seemed unfeasible that something as unaerodynamic and bored-looking as Vic could be such an accurate show-jumper, but it had always been one of his best phases and he didn’t let them down, galumphing easily around the ring and heaving himself over the fences with the minimum of effort, like a skipping boxer who barely seems to leave the ground yet clears the rope every time. There was an almighty groan from the crowd as he kicked out one of the planks, and Tash was certain he’d done it out of spite, just to show that he could. One of his half-closed eyes almost seemed to wink towards the Lime Tree Farm mob as he lolloped towards the final line.
