His eyes darted towards the lifts, as though longing to step in to one and avoid the topic.
‘You have to trust me, Hugo.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘We have children together.’ Her voice broke with emotion. ‘We have built so much, our family life, our livelihood, our love’ – she battled back sobs – ‘and we’ve built trust, even if some of that has been lost. It’s all about trust. We can build it up again. We just have to talk.’
He let out a long sigh. ‘You really think that can mend this?’
‘Surely it’s worth a try?’ She held open the door, heart punching up into her throat with such hope and fear that it felt as though it would dislocate her jaw.
He walked inside.
Shaking with relief as she followed behind, Tash closed the door and leant against it. ‘I love you so much. It’s been such a hellish year. We have to lay our hearts on the table here about – everything.’ Her voice shook as she thought about the V texts.
But Hugo was not a man brought up to talk, let alone lay his heart or any other part of his anatomy on a table. He’d heard enough for now. Turning to look at her in a storm of silent, misunderstood confusion, he did the only thing he knew to work.
Moments later the borrowed dress slid to the floor and Tash’s well-spring of eternal optimism bubbled up again as Hugo scooped her up and carried her to the bed.
The Beauchamps missed the wedding celebrations that night.
Up in their wooden, bedtime-story room, with its twisty hand-carved furniture and shutters, Tash and Hugo celebrated togetherness in body if not in mind.
It had been less than a week, but Hugo could already feel more bone jutting through his wife’s skin, which had previously yielded softly to his touch, and she had a new listlessness that concerned him. He was amazed by how deeply she slept afterwards and worried that she was ill, but at least her unconscious state meant he could go on to the balcony to smoke and plot ways of murdering Lough.
Sitting outside, he found Tash’s draft text to him paper-weighted by a potted alpine on the table. He read it in the half-light, eyebrows raised.
Then he set light to it and watched its ashes flutter away towards the treetops.
Reaching for his phone, he texted V.
Not over yet.
Be brave, darling one
, she replied with gratifying speed, as always.
The following morning Tash skipped the big gossipy breakfast and enjoyed a long soak while Hugo laid siege to the buffet downstairs, his appetite predictably enormous.
After her bath, she wrapped herself in a towelling robe and peered at her reflection. The black eye that Cub had given her at the first trot-up in Luhmühlen had now faded to a patchy yellow, lending her face an unflatteringly jaundiced tinge, but there was no denying the way in which the hollows beneath her cheeks heightened her bone structure and made her eyes look huge. Her face bore little resemblence to that of the plump-cheeked, happy wife who beamed out from so many photograph frames at Haydown, hugging Hugo and their children. This morning, she let herself hope that happiness was within reach again; they were both turning over new leaves as eagerly as two gardeners preparing their Chelsea stand.
Then she wandered out onto the balcony to breathe in the Black Forest air and found Hugo’s phone on the table.
‘Don’t look at it,’ she told herself firmly, turning away.
She turned back. For a few moments, Tash turned to and fro on the high ledge like a figure on the Trumpton clock before she gave into temptation and grabbed it.
Soon the little rubber-armoured mobile was flying through the air, high over the pine trees, where its manufacturer’s indestructibility guarantee would be tested to the limit.
Still swathed in her robe and her wet hair up in a turban, she
marched downstairs, tracking Hugo down to a table of very hungover eventers, including the Moncrieffs.
‘Who is V?’
He stared at her blankly for a moment.
‘Is she your mistress?’
The restaurant had fallen eerily silent, apart from the odd scrape of a chair being moved back to allow a better view of the confrontation.
‘Ah, V.’ He slowly set down his coffee cup on its saucer, adjusting the spoon to sit neatly in the rim. ‘V means no more to me than Lough does to you. Trust me.’ His eyes met hers challengingly. ‘It’s all about trust.’
At that moment the newlyweds walked in to a raucous round of applause. Jenny made a beeline for Tash and Hugo.
‘I’m so glad you two have made up your differences.’ She hugged them both happily. ‘It’s a double celebration now. I told you this place is wildly romantic. Good to see you’ve been using the spa, Tash. Now promise me you’ll both come on the forest walk today? We’re going to have a huge picnic and play volleyball.’
Tash couldn’t look at Hugo. She hoped they might find his phone out there somewhere, even if trust was still far out of reach.
‘No!’ A universal cry of horror went up in the Moncrieffs’ tatty sitting room as Hugo and Oil Tanker ran out at a straightforward corner on the Aachen cross-country course. Only Lough remained silent, his face giving nothing away as he stood apart, arms crossed in front of him, at the back of the room.
The Lime Tree Farm mob had gathered on the threadbare sofas and chairs with dogs on their laps and mugs of tea in their hands. All were wearing breeches, having ‘just popped in for five minutes’ tea break’ to look in on the European Championships action. Now, with the British trail-blazer in trouble, they couldn’t drag themselves away.
‘That was so unlucky,’ said Penny.
‘Oh, c’mon, he’s riding like a dork,’ Lemon pointed out cheerfully as Hugo turned a circle and took the alternative before kicking on away from the fence while dispirited Union flags were waved by a couple of eager Brits in the crowd. ‘He’s probably been up all night with his pretty new groom. Leopards never change their spots.’
Perched on a footstool by the bookcases, Faith shot a warning look across to the armchair in which the little Kiwi was sprawled, keeping up his constant critical commentary. His barbed and personal remarks kept edging dangerously close to revealing Hugo’s drunken New Year’s Eve tryst, a secret he’d sworn to keep for Beccy’s sake, as Faith had. She was certain the Moncrieffs would pick up on the insinuation that Hugo was bedding Penny’s niece, but they were totally absorbed by the on-screen action.
The British team were expected to win at Aachen, and led by a big margin after the dressage. They had the strongest team in years – Olympic gold medallist Hugo, defending European champion Lucy Field, world championship runner-up Colly Trewin and the Kentucky and Badminton winner Rory. How could they lose? But now their pathfinder, who had already failed to show his usual panache in the dressage, was clocking up penalty points faster than a speeding Ferrari on the M25. Chef d’Equipe Brian Sedgewick had deliberately changed tactics this year, thinking his team so invincible that it would pay to rattle the opposition from the start. Thus Hugo had found himself cast as trailblazer. Accustomed to anchoring Britain’s hopes as last team member on the course, riding first was a novelty that he was not enjoying. He’d been expected to post a lightning-fast clear to throw down the gauntlet to the other European teams. Instead, he seemed to be riding in mittens.
To more groans in West Berkshire they overshot another corner in the main stadium. Hugo’s face was ashen, knowing he’d let down his country.
‘Oh Hugo!’ Penny covered her eyes.
‘His mind’s not on the job!’ barked Gus, who was still smarting that he hadn’t been selected for the team.
Penny peeked at him through her fingers. ‘I told you at Jenny and Dolf’s wedding this would happen. He’s all over the place.’
‘Man shouldn’t let the shaky state of his marriage affect his riding,’ Gus grumbled.
‘Well you certainly never do,’ his wife sniped back.
Faith and Lemon exchanged a look. Behind them, Lough didn’t blink as Hugo cantered dispiritedly through the finish, where Tash was waiting.
‘She looks dreadful,’ Penny sighed. Tash was deathly pale and looked painfully thin. The cameras panned from Hugo jumping off and running up his stirrups, barely acknowledging his wife’s presence, to their children in the arms of the Czech au pairs behind the near by barriers, all loyally wearing Team Mogo polo shirts. It made for a photogenic tableau, but to insiders like the Moncrieffs it was clear that the Beauchampions were barely on speaking terms and that their marriage was hanging together by a thread.
Lough headed to the door, calling for Lemon to follow. ‘We have horses to work.’
‘But I want to stay and watch,’ Lemon whined. ‘Surely you can’t leave now?’
‘I’ve seen all I want to see,’ Lough muttered, stalking out. Sighing, Lem tipped a dog off his lap and trotted after his boss.
‘Are you
sure
Lough and Tash were all over each other at Luhmühlen?’ Penny whispered to Gus after they’d gone.
‘So everyone says.’
‘India didn’t seem to think so.’
‘Believe me, they were rolling in the hay every time Hugo’s back was turned,’ Gus assured her, his hypocrisy escaping him. ‘He was bloody brave to keep going.’
‘I know that feeling,’ Penny snarled.
In the corner of the room, Faith tried to blend into the bookshelves.
The Moncrieffs’ marriage might be stitched together with somewhat better thread than the Beauchamps’, but it was still looking as frayed as their soft furnishings.
The second British team member out on course was Lucy Field. Her horses had been plagued with injury all season so that she was piloting her third string but the public favourite, the little coloured gelding Love To Bits, who was owned by a royal and so meant the added burden of publicity.
Faith noticed the eager way in which Gus leaned forwards as she set out, his breath shortening, making low encouraging noises over each fence and his eyes gleaming with pride. So did Penny, who gripped Dolly the collie’s collar so tightly she yelped.
When Lucy tipped up over the second part of the Camel Humps and parted company with the diminutive skewbald, Gus howled in anguish. His stricken face gave him away; it was a complete over-reaction. Lucy’s fall was enviably elegant – she landed almost balletically on her feet, keeping a hold of her reins, but it still meant automatic elimination and put British hopes under incredible strain. Penny’s hopes strained even more.
‘I’m just so disappointed for the team,’ Gus blustered when she glared at him.
‘I’ll put out the lunchtime feeds,’ she spat, stomping out. Gus lingered briefly, watching in silence as Lucy remounted to hack home, her pretty face desolate. Then he, too, wandered out of the room.
Moments later, Faith could hear the beep-beeps of him writing a text in the corridor.
She stayed glued to the screen, knowing that the last two riders had to make their rounds stick.
Third to go Colly Trewin managed after a fashion, but her big Irish Sport Horse, Mighty Mouse, found it hard to cope in the heat and ran out of steam three-quarters of the way round, racking up expensive time penalties as a result.
It would be left to Rory to defend team honour.
Faith rested her elbows on her knees and chewed her thumbnails, as nervous as she would be if she were riding the course herself. She quickly pulled her phone from her pocket to text him good luck, but the battery was dead.
About to head up to her attic room to find the charger, she realised Stefan was setting out across country representing Sweden, and sat back down to watch him.
Riding out on the sun-baked downs, Beccy was in a black mood because she’d wanted to stay in the Haydown tack room watching the European Championships on the old portable all day, but Franny had insisted that she must ride her allotted horses that afternoon instead of putting them in the automatic walker.
Now Beccy was cantering rather too fast along one of the chalk tracks on top of the downs, eager to get back in time to watch Rory’s round. As she cut across the pasture and took a short cut to drop back down the hill towards the village, she realised too late that she’d chosen a slope that was far too steep and was travelling far too fast
to pull up. Her only choice was to lean right back and pray as the horse put his hindlegs right under him and almost slid down on his bottom as though tackling the Derby bank at Hickstead.
A lone rider was trotting along the track directly below and had to stop sharply as Beccy’s horse almost landed on top of him. ‘What the hell …?’
‘Sorry about that,’ she said cheerfully as she brushed dust from her knee and gathered up the reins, beaming with relief that she hadn’t fallen off. Then, to her horror, she realised the other rider was Lough.
Blushing with customary ferocity, she kicked her startled horse in the ribs and began to trot in the opposite direction, grateful that it was pointing her towards home.
‘Wait!’ he called, turning his own horse around.
Beccy checked back to a walk and gazed down at her hands, tight on the reins. As Lough drew alongside she couldn’t look him in the face, but in her peripheral vision she saw his long legs and dusty black riding boots three feet away.
They rode side by side in silence, Beccy nervously pushing into a trot again, out on to the village road, hooves striking as rhythmically as her hammer-on-anvil-heart.
They were almost at the fork where Maccombe’s single-track lane peeled away from the bigger Fosbourne one when Lough eventually spoke, his deep voice sending the hammer into overdrive.
‘Thank you for the texts.’
She could melt the tarmac with her face now. ‘Yes – hum – sorry. I’ve stopped doing that.’
They dropped back to a walk, the turning just yards ahead of them.
‘Please don’t. I miss them.’
‘You do?’ She looked across at him. His huge, mocha eyes were so intense, she had to look away again. ‘I’ve been focusing everything I have on riding better.’
‘It’s paying off.’
She shook her head, staring fixedly at her horse’s ears. ‘I was disqualified for taking the wrong course at Stonar yesterday.’