Country Lovers

by Fiona Walker

  Emerging from the dusty mildew of vintage horseware and breathing fresh air gratefully, she noticed her mother’s car missing and felt a tick of guilt.

  Lester.

  Pax hadn’t been to visit him yet. Somehow the intimacy of living among his possessions made it hard to face the reality of seeing him out of context, the layers of neat order, leather and tweed stripped down to cotton pyjamas and reading glasses. It was easier to imagine things as they had been years ago, when he’d been fast on his feet, always in control, and as reassuring to have around as Dr Who or Robin Hood. He was the wise elder she had outgrown.

  In turn, Lester saw in her a legacy she could never match up to. He saw her mother flying around Badminton, her father leading hounds and riding hell for leather around the Wolf Moon Lap. He still saw what she could have been, not who she was.

  Knott shadowed her heels with his grey ears inside out as they crossed through the brightly sunlit stable yard and beneath the arch. The wind had picked up with bitter breath and Pax cursed the lack of a hairclip, red tresses buffeting like seaweed. It badly needed a wash. If she was quick, she’d have time for a shower.

  A horn beeped, a familiar horsebox making its way up the drive. Her heart plunged like a pond pump into cold, muddy waters, simultaneously sinking and pounding. Her mother’s lover, Blair Robertson had borrowed it, she remembered. Now he was returning it, and she was the only one around. She could hear the quad bike in the far distance; Luca delivering hay to the field feeders.

  Pax hardly knew the Australian rider, apart from watching him hold up medals and trophies on television, but his legendary volatility made fielding him alone an unwelcome prospect, especially given that the only previous occasion they had met – apart from the fleeting, bad-tempered greeting on the day she’d arrived with Luca – was at her grandfather’s funeral. Quick to defend Ronnie against her children’s hostility, he’d ended up hurling insults at them over the coffin.

  Handsome as a polo player, Blair had been Lizzie’s eventing pin-up when they’d competed as juniors together. Pax, a devotee of Blair’s great rival Hugo Beauchamp at the time, had spent long hours arguing her man was the better rider. How fiercely they’d defended their idols, claiming ownership of these married older men. Given her mother’s track record, Pax should have guessed Ronnie would end up bedding at least one of them.

  Not that Blair was showing any signs of leaving his wealthy wife. For all Alice’s dark warnings that he was eyeing up the stud as a base, Pax knew their mother’s on-off lover was a business ally they couldn’t afford to lose.

  Smoothing her mad hair, Pax waited while Blair parked in the yard with a hiss of brakes, the smell of cigarette smoke curling from the cab as the door opened and he jumped out, all swagger and animated brows, a craggy cliché of brawn, the wide smile disarmingly friendly.

  ‘How y’doing?’ He kissed her cheeks, stubble cuffing her skin, her red curls whipping his face. ‘Brought your mum’s wagon back. She here?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  His lips drew back with a click of regret. ‘Just my luck.’

  ‘She’s visiting Lester in hospital.’

  ‘Old boy’s doing great, I hear.’

  No doubt her mother updated him in seductively furtive calls.

  ‘He’s on the mend.’ She glanced down at her watch, hoping Blair had arranged transport home.

  ‘I would have called, but…’ The sentence was briefly suspended in a smile no less white than Luca’s charm defensive, but considerably more lopsided and ironic. ‘I like the element of surprise.’

  ‘Is a folding bicycle your next one?’

  ‘Come again?’

  Pax’s hair was all over her face again as she struggled to hold it down, inadvertently spitting out strands as she spoke. ‘I’m running late and can’t give you a lift anywhere, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And there was me expecting bed for the night and home-cooked grub.’ Gravel-voiced with sarcastic amusement, he reached back into the cab for a brace of wine bottles. ‘Here – peace offering; I was warned you’re a chippy cow.’

  ‘By whom?’ she bristled, crossing her arms and trying to shake the hair off her face.

  ‘The chippy cow you inherited it off.’ The big grin flashed up again; he and Luca should really have a smile-off. ‘It’s all right, I’m not hanging about. I’m needed in Wiltshire at four. Do you want a tail bandage?’

  Her hair was up her nose now and fanning around her head like helicopter blades. Damn this wind. She edged towards the cottage. He followed, still holding out the wine bottles like two guns.

  ‘Luca might drive you to the station if we can find him,’ she offered, glancing over her shoulder in time to see the smile harden.

  ‘I’ve a lift coming, thanks.’ He squinted into the wind. ‘Your neighbour’s just bought a Percy horse off me.’

  Surprised, Pax pulled her hair back with her hands. ‘Why not buy direct from us?’

  ‘This little mare’s one of the four-year-olds I took home last autumn,’ he said, placing the wine on the cottage doorstep like milk bottles, dropping the lorry keys alongside. ‘He says his wife fell in love with her in the field. Amazing place they’ve got. Huge bloody arena.’ His eyes trailed past the crumbling Cotswold walls to the stud’s soggy paddocks and round pen. ‘Sort of place your Irish horsebreaker fella’s more used to, I reckon.’

  His tan, deep even in midwinter, emphasised the whites of his eyes, dark lashes as long as his temper was short, irises the same deep pewter grey as Knott who he now stooped to greet. He was just Ronnie’s type, ultra-masculine and uncompromising.

  Alice dismissed Blair as a gruff chancer living off the patronage of rich older women but Pax, who had witnessed his heroic talent as a sportsman closer-up over many more years, wanted to like him for Ronnie’s sake.

  He straightened up, grey eyes crinkling against the sun and wind. ‘Tell Ronnie thank you,’ he paused for a beat, ‘and that I’m sorry to miss her, yeah?’

  As throwaway and gruff as the words were, Pax sensed their weight, her heart thudding. To love with such self-restraint must be terribly hard. Who was she to judge infidelity? She’d wished herself in love again a thousand times since marrying.

  ‘Of course.’ She reached for the door handle, torn between the polite obligation to invite him in to wait for his lift and the overwhelming desire to be alone with her thoughts. Over the wind, they could just hear the quad bike in the distance.

  ‘Is that the new guy?’ Blair’s head turned to listen.

  ‘Why not go and say hello while you’re here?’ she suggested overeagerly. ‘He’d love that!’

  Blair’s expression darkened, the smile a degree colder. ‘Yeah, why not?’

  He trudged off.

  Turning quickly back to the cottage, she stopped short as she saw the bottles of wine on the step. Two grenades attached to the trip-wire between her, a shower and much-needed hairbrush.

  Just leave them out here, she told herself firmly. If you take them in, you’ll be tempted.

  But the thought of a glass of wine, right now, just one small glass, kept her rooted to the spot, staring straight at the enemy. Sweet fruit. Temptation.

  ‘Tell me what to do?’ she whispered, seeking her grandparents, her father, Lester, Tim, Blair, anybody’s voice that knew what she had to do.

  Still she stared, felt her tongue soften and curl as it imagined the red wine’s kiss, her quickfire heart sinking deeper in its cold water, devoid of guilt. One quick drink to steady the nerves. She started to reach down to pick them up, and then it came to her, like a chorus in her head, as certain as a favourite piece of music. She knew precisely what she must do.

  Turning tail, she fled back under the arch. Blair was already at the far end of the second yard, not noticing her diving away to the right and sprinting across the cobbles.

  Lester’s cob looked up in surprise when she pulled open his door. Much neglected in the past week, he whickered with pleasure at t
he company. His neck was just as she remembered it: hard, soft, stubbly, velvety, warm, sweet, salty, solid, everything familiar. The comfort of horses. Feelings overwhelmed her, choked her, stole all sense from her except one. She was safe here. She was safe right here.

  *

  Luca was heaving a bale onto the quad bike rack when he heard the engine stop. He looked up to find Blair Robertson leaning against the seat, the whites of his eyes and teeth bared in his handsome leathery face, nose broken by fist fights as often as horse falls..

  ‘How you doing, mate?’ He thrust out a hand, voice like a lion growl. ‘Sorry we didn’t get to meet properly when you arrived.’

  Smiling warily, Luca shook it firmly but found his fingers crushed, the Claddagh taking another dent.

  ‘Settling in okay?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘Yeah, I know you’re good.’ He laughed gruffly. ‘We have plenty of people in common, you and me. You’ve got a lot of admirers, mate.’

  Still smiling, Luca sensed an exception.

  ‘I had a ring round when Ron said you were coming here. She’s always lousy at chasing up references.’

  ‘Fine by me.’ He waited.

  ‘You sure as hell have pissed off the Flying Maple Leaf.’ Blair clicked his tongue, drawing in a pointed breath.

  ‘Seems so.’ His old boss in Canada had even called the stud here to say that he’d shoot him if he ever came back.

  ‘Says you let him down badly, that you were like a son to him then threw it all back in his face.’

  ‘I worked my full contract. Didn’t miss a day.’

  ‘Christ alone knows how you stuck it out, mate. The man’s a fucking sadist.’

  Luca looked at the craggy face in surprise.

  ‘You had an affair with Maple Leaf’s daughter, yeah?’

  Luca sucked his teeth. More than that. A decade more than that. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Mate, I wouldn’t ride one of that man’s horses without his written permission, let alone a member of his family. How come you’re even still alive?’

  ‘I ride too well to kill.’

  With a soft laugh, Blair clicked his tongue again, his eyes hardening. ‘Not if you let Ronnie down, you don’t.’ He thrust his hand out again.

  ‘Understood.’ The Claddagh took another pasting.

  ‘I’m glad we’ve talked.’ Blair turned away, squinting at the blackening horizon, gaze scanning the fields. ‘I didn’t think I’d like you, mate, but I’ve never heard old Maple Leaf so mad. Made my day. Worked for the crazy bastard myself when I was just starting out. Takes a brave man to defy him.’

  Luca smiled despite himself.

  ‘You still hung up on the girl, mate?’

  The truth was still somewhere in between, hung out to dry, a slow crucifixion.

  ‘You could say that.’ It was as close to it as he could venture. And it satisfied Blair, who slapped him on the back then set off towards a wind-scudded field in which a group of woolly youngsters were huddled together by the feeder, one golden deserter charging up and down the far fence showing off to the older horses in the neighbouring field.

  ‘Now come and tell me how I get Ronnie to sell me a leg of this little colt!’

  *

  ‘I don’t even remember your name,’ Pax whispered gratefully, a moustache nuzzling her neck, ‘but I think I love you. Thank you. I must go.’

  Lester’s cob stood stoically for a farewell hug, far too well-mannered to search her pockets for treats, although unable to resist ramming his cheekbones against her arms for a thorough face rub, hay slobber scatter-gunning.

  Hurrying out, Knott stumbling sleepy-eyed after her from his straw nest, Pax knew she’d be late if she didn’t leap straight in her car like Daisy Duke. She’d just have to brazen out the mad-haired, hay-scattered, red-eyed look as part of the act. As she sprinted across the yard, the two stallions trumpeted her along in stereo, and she felt infinitely cheered. The comfort of horses. It was almost better than vodka. Almost.

  She could hear another engine approaching along the stud’s long drive, too throatily diesel to be her mother’s. Please let it just be the postman, she prayed as she ran underneath the arch, hit by the full force of the wind. Let loose again, her red curls spiralled up, whipping round overhead like a lasso which she scraped sideways to watch a Land Rover Defender snarling its way into the arrival yard far too fast, Bay Austen at the wheel.

  The comfort of horses bolted away. It was too late to run inside and hide. Engine cutting, he jumped out, all expensive tweed and turned-up collars. ‘Pax!’

  Why did her stomach hollow so instantly? ‘Hello, Bay.’

  Unlike Blair’s affably grating greeting, Bay was a smiling, smooth-shaven charm assassin, armed with a welcoming kiss that could stop a weaker heart. Placing a manicured hand on her arm, his mouth swooped straight to her cheek, far too close to her lips, claiming back a decade in a breath. He smelled of expensive aftershave and predatory freedom. She curled away, belly folding itself inside out.

  ‘Who is this darling creature?’ He stooped to greet Knott who was shivering against her shins.

  ‘If you’re here to see Ronnie, she’s out.’

  ‘Hardly.’ He was up again. ‘That bloody woman’s been guarding this place like Rapunzel’s mother all week, stopping me coming to see you.’ He tilted his head, looking at her flying tresses, reaching out to touch them. ‘I used to love climbing up that hair.’

  ‘I’ve got to be somewhere.’ Pax jerked away and gathered it into a bunch to twist tightly under her collar again, feeling a rare rush of gratitude to her mother for keeping him away. ‘If you’ll excuse my rudeness.’ She set off towards the cottage.

  ‘No, I won’t,’ he said, following. ‘You’re being rude. At least offer me a drink.’ He stooped to pick up the wine from the doorstep. ‘Blair brought these, no doubt. Gnarly Dudes. How apt. Where is old Mr Tight-arse?’

  ‘Sit Tight,’ she corrected.

  ‘Bloody fleeced me.’

  ‘You’re the one who bought the horse?’ She was astonished.

  ‘Had to be quite the detective to track her down.’

  ‘I’m surprised Monique fell for anything of ours.’ She knew Bay’s wife only by icy reputation. ‘Isn’t she a dressage purist?’

  ‘Purist being a polite way of saying total snob.’ Bay laughed unapologetically. ‘Eventing is her groom’s thing, whose boyfriend insists that mare is the next Headley Britannia. Monique’s mentoring them both.’

  ‘And you’re their sponsor?’

  ‘Only way to stop her staff from walking out is to buy them presents every time she makes them cry. Now invite me in and we’ll find some wine glasses.’ He looked at her, the blue conceit of his eyes taking her aback. Their youthful virtue was long gone, sold to the devil for acreage and adultery.

  Oh, for the warm, slaking juice of good red wine. The taste was already a ghost in her mouth, its energy coursing through her, galvanising her to tell Bay exactly what she still thought of him, that he would never hurt her again, that he was dead to her. She longed to grab the bottle from him, twist the lid off and neck it right back on the step.

  ‘Pax.’ Misreading the fevered look in her eyes, he stepped towards her, gaze unwavering. Her hair was out of control again, finding its own wind funnel to whip his collars and shoulders like Medusa’s snakes. And then he was in amongst the red serpents, his face almost against hers, his voice in her ear. ‘I have never stopped regretting what I did to you, you do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Let’s please forget it ever happened.’

  ‘How can I? It was entirely my fault, and I ruined everything.’

  ‘It’s forgotten.’

  ‘Forgiven?’

  She pulled away, heart thumping in her throat. Her gaze fell to the bottles in his hands. His signet ring glittered on his little finger. She’d worn it on a gold neck chain that long summer they’d been together, running it across her lips each night in bed, a
small engraved game bird and an inscription of the Austen family motto inside.

  ‘Dum Spiro Spero,’ she said, remembering.

  ‘ “While I Breathe, I Hope”.’ His gaze didn’t leave hers. ‘I’ve never given up hope you’ll come back to me, Pax.’

  She wanted to hear him say it again. Every word again and again and again. Only better. Louder. Shouty and broken. With tears and sobs and snot and real, deep pain like she’d felt fourteen unlucky years ago. The sort of on-your-knees pain that sent a life racketing in the wrong direction like an Exocet missile. The sort of pain that still hurt today when she looked at him.

  ‘Dum Spiro Spero,’ he repeated.

  ‘You’ll be holding your breath in hell,’ she said gently.

  ‘Rather a contradiction in terms, don’t you think?’

  ‘Don’t bloody patronise me!’ She pushed him away. The puppy, cowering, started to bark underfoot.

  ‘I always loved that temper of yours.’

  ‘Get lost!’

  ‘We’d have fucked sensationally after every row.’

  ‘Something you’ll never know.’

  ‘Oh, I think we will.’

  ‘You are so fucking shallow!’ Her hand flew out with all the instinctive, venomous rage of her teenage self, her slap deflected easily by his arm, her rings scratching across the glass of the bottle he was still holding.

  He caught her fingers against its neck, admiring the big sapphire overlapping its neighbouring gold band, both now too loose. ‘Still wearing Mack’s ice and a slice, I see.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Snatching her hand away, she folded its fingers into a fist, the rings a little knuckleduster ready to knock a tooth or two of his smile out.

  ‘I want to see you happy, Pax.’ The arrogance had vanished. ‘Back in the day, we discovered love together, and that means a lot.’

  ‘Cut that out.’

  ‘I did.’ He patted his knuckles against his chest, wine bottle swinging. ‘I cut it straight out of here to give to you, but you’d gone.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You always were a self-dramatist.’

  ‘And you still care…’ He moved closer again, voice low. ‘Which is why you’re angry.’