‘Have you heard Dad and Indigo have split?’ she asked. ‘He sent me a text saying
Easy come, Indi go
. Good old dad. Sensitive family man, still.’
Dillon checked his phone and realised his father hadn’t even bothered to text him at all. So much for the rapprochement. But he was relieved Indigo had gone. She’d never seemed to make Pete happy.
There were no messages from Sylva. He couldn’t face a confrontation, so he texted her:
Let’s be sensible and forget all the PRs. We’ll call it an amicable split.
She texted straight back:
You must take the blame.
Whatever’s easiest.
He no longer cared what his management said; he wanted out.
You’d better get laid then. Maybe lose the beard and have a bath first.
Intensely irritated, he deleted her number to cheer himself up.
Looking through his other messages, he saw several from Rory, who he’d only visited in hospital once on that dreadful day with Sylva in tow. He knew that he was back at Haydown again now. It was many months since Dillon had been there. It was a beautiful place. He suddenly decided to go and visit his horses.
But when he called Rory he was also away at a trials in Leicestershire, and staying there overnight. ‘Even Hugo’s mother’s here. Nobody at home but scary Franny,’ he apologised. ‘She won’t mind showing you the horses, though – most of yoursh will be in.’
Dillon didn’t like the sound of scary Franny. Scrolling through his phone book he found Faith’s number and called her. ‘Hello stranger.’
‘God, I’m being called by a rock star,’ she said dryly. ‘Quick, let me sit down.’ Even after months of no communication her reaction to him was always refreshingly the same.
He explained that he’d wanted to call in on Haydown.
‘Yes, they’re all at Knotton Manor. I wanted to take Whitey but there was no space on any of the lorries. We’ve completed two three-stars this year, you know. That rocks.’
‘Great!’ It meant nothing to Dillon. ‘Do I own him?’
‘No, he’s Rory’s old horse.’
‘What are you doing this afternoon?’
‘Working, duh! Some of us do, although for how much longer I have no idea.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Gus can’t afford to pay my wages any more. I’ve been living off Rio’s Kentucky winnings. They don’t really need me with Lough and Lem here, but now Tash and Hugo have split up there might be some extra work going at Haydown.’
‘Tash and Hugo have
what
?’ he spluttered, then added: ‘No, don’t answer that. I’m coming to take you out to supper.’
Angelo at the Olive Branch was beside himself at finding a pop star dining in his restaurant. He had already whipped out his digital camera from behind the bar and plonked himself down between Dillon and the scruffy girl from the Moncrieff’s yard to pose with his arms around them, beaming proprietorially while Denise took a snap for the wall to be framed alongside the pictures of a beaming Angelo with Niall O’Shaughnessy, John Francome and ‘that bloke
off Holby City’ as he was known, because nobody could remember his name.
‘You look terrible’ was the first thing Faith had said to Dillon.
Dillon thought exactly the same thing about her, but he was too polite to say it aloud.
‘God, I’m knackered.’ She rubbed her face in her hands and slumped back in her chair.
From all Dillon had heard through very occasional texts from Faith and more regular contact with her brother Magnus, she should have been thriving. She was loving the life, learning lots, competing regularly and practically within touching distance of her great love, Rory. Yet she looked drained and ill, the sunburn on her nose, cheeks and forearms emphasising the translucency of the pale skin on her thin upper arms and bony chest.
‘So take a holiday. You said yourself you’re not getting paid.’
‘It’s the middle of the season,’ she yawned. ‘Besides, I get bored on holiday.’
‘You’re too thin.’
‘You sound like my mother.’ She laughed, eyeing him with that clever gaze. ‘There’s never enough time to go shopping or cook or even eat. All the Moncrieffs are the same. You should see Gus – he’s a bag of bones. They live off catering-van bacon butties at events and beans on toast at home and I’m forced to do the same. I’m not anorexic or anything.’
Certainly the greedy relish with which she raced through her spaghetti carbonara seemed to back up her claim. And she had two puddings.
Talking with her mouth full, she told him about Tash leaving Hugo.
‘Franny saw it all from her cottage,’ she explained. ‘Lough turned up and begged Tash to run away with him. Then she tried to ram his horsebox. High drama.’
‘Jesus,’ Dillon whistled. ‘And I thought my life was melodramatic.’
‘How is “the nation’s favourite single mum”?’ She was trying very hard to modulate her voice to hide any sarcasm.
He gave her a withering look. ‘Popular.’
‘Is it true you’re getting married in a mountain-top Slovakian castle? Carly read it in
Cheers!
It said the fireworks alone are costing over a million.’
He changed the subject: ‘Rory’s back riding, I hear?’
As ever her face lit up at the mention of his name. ‘Yeah – the doctors gave him the all clear, although I’m not sure he’s right.’
‘How is he?’
‘Weird.’ She started to eat his neglected pudding across the table. ‘He’s being really nice to me.’
‘Well that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I guess. But it’s like he’s embarrassed to talk to me, although he is tricky to understand with the slurred speech. And he won’t look at me.’
‘Maybe he’s shy around you?’
‘This
is
Rory we’re talking about!’ she scoffed. ‘I’ve offered to work at Haydown for a bit. They really need the help. I did the same last year, but Rory won’t hear of it. Told me I’d put him off, like some irritating schoolgirl that hangs around. I never hang around. I work my
butt
off.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Not that I can keep up with Rory any more. He’s obsessed with getting fit again for Burghley. He and Hugo run ten miles a day as well as riding a dozen horses between them.’
‘Isn’t that good?’
She shook her head. ‘Rory shouldn’t really compete so soon after an injury like that, certainly not at four-star level. British Eventing wanted to refuse his Burghley entry but he appealed to the international body and Marie-Clair backed him.’ She let out a small sneer. ‘He’s in with a real shout of the grand slam, so it would be horribly controversial to ban him, but what if he gets hurt?’ Her eyes went suddenly teary.
‘I challenged him to that in the first place,’ Dillon groaned. ‘I should stop him.’
She shook her head. ‘Ask any event rider in his position what they’d do and they’d say “go for it”. It’s the Holy Grail. Rory wants it more than anything else in the world and he won’t let anything stand in his way – even the things that are trying to help him.’ She sighed, picking hay off her jumper, then looked up brightly as a thought struck her. ‘If he does win it I’m going to give him the biggest kiss of his life, whether he likes it or not.’
Dillon smiled, watching her animated face, and realising that she was so fantastically focused in life, she had none of his angst and
vacillation. He longed to have some of that drive. She had a really handsome and unusual face, he decided, like a young Meryl Streep.
‘Everything to your satisfaction, Mr Raggety?’ Angelo shimmied up with a tray of coffee.
‘Rafferty. Yes, thanks.’
Beaming, Angelo clicked his heels, re-laid his napkin over his arm, executed a half pirouette and shimmied away.
‘Why can’t he see me as a
woman
not a child?’ Faith was moaning, helping herself to sugar lumps.
‘Well you could try sitting up straight, putting your napkin on your lap rather than tucked in your collar, and not eating the sugar lumps.’
‘Huh?’
Dillon raised his eyebrows at her in return.
‘Rory. I’m talking about Rory,’ she clarified.
‘Ah, of course you are.’ He dropped a slice of lemon peel in his espresso. ‘That might take rather more work.’
‘Like what? Cosmetic surgery?’
‘No! God, no. Perhaps if you played the field a bit more, got a bit more experience …’
Faith huffed. ‘There’s no way I can ever try to compete with sex vixens like MC or Sylva—’ She covered her mouth as she realised what she’d just let slip.
‘Sylva?’ he beetled his brows at her. ‘And Rory?’
‘It was all in your ex girlfriend’s kiss and tell,’ she pointed out.
‘I never read that, funnily enough.’
‘She bigged it up
far
too much. It was nothing. Just a fling. Before Sylva’s gay fling. And her you fling – not that it’s a fling, what with getting married and all that.’
He rubbed his face in his hands. ‘God what a mess.’
A flash suddenly went off at the window and he looked up sharply. ‘Fuck.’
‘What is it?’
‘Paparazzi. Somebody must have tipped them off that I’m here.’ He glared at Angelo as he sidled past at a leisurely pace to draw the curtains beside their table, hoping they’d get some nice shots of the exterior while they were here.
Faith giggled at the novelty of it all. ‘I can see the headlines:
Sylva Love Rival – heartthrob pop star spotted with scruffy-looking teen in pub clinch
. Pucker up and we’ll draw back those curtains again and give them a show.’ She closed her eyes and pursed her lips theatrically.
He was about to throw a sugar lump at her, but he suddenly leaned forward and stared at her intently. ‘You know, you might have a point.’
She laughed. ‘It’s okay, I think we’re safe. Nobody is seriously going to believe I’m a rival to Sylva Frost.’
‘If they did, it would make Rory sit up and take notice of you, wouldn’t it?’
‘True.’ She was still laughing, not taking him seriously.
‘You say you wouldn’t be missed if you didn’t work for a week?’
She shrugged. ‘I have Whitey to look after.’
‘And if I paid for him to be looked after?’
She stopped laughing. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Come on holiday to the Caribbean.’
She gaped at him. ‘This is a joke, right?’
‘You need a holiday. I
definitely
need a holiday.’ He nodded towards the curtained window, behind which the shadow of the photographer was still loitering. ‘Let’s give them something to talk about.’
‘No funny business?’
‘I’ll phone your mother personally and assure her of my strong moral fibre.’ He smiled the killer Rafferty smile which, despite his beard and double chin, rocked Faith back on her chair.
‘There’s no need for that. I am almost nineteen and I do know you’re practically married. Will Sylva be there?’ She didn’t relish any close comparisons with Sylva’s petite perfection while sunbathing.
‘She’s not invited.’ He shook his head. ‘Are you okay with that?’
‘Absolutely!’ She grinned. ‘Won’t that upset Sylva, though?’
‘So I’m hoping.’ He regarded her cautiously, suddenly realising how young she was and worrying what he was letting her in for. But she was tough, fun company and madly in love with someone else. That made her a perfect holiday guest. ‘Have you got your passport with you?’
‘It’s in my room.’
‘Good. Because that’s all you’re going to need.’
Within four hours of paying the bill and leaving the Olive Branch by the back door to avoid any more pictures, Dillon and Faith were
on a private jet heading west. He refused to let her pack more than a toothbrush: ‘Your clothes are awful. We’ll buy it all there. My treat.’
It wasn’t until they were airborne, her ears popping, that Faith finally took Dillon seriously and realised she was on her way to the Caribbean.
Spending time at Le Manoir was good for Tash, who could feel the tension draining out of her even after just twenty-four hours, like a beach drying out after a monsoon, as she baked in the Loire sun and listened to Alexandra and Pascal talking of their adventures.
The globetrotting pensioners were clearly thrilled to be home, however much they’d adored their grand tour. Champegny was their haven. They were amazingly close and loving, more so than Tash had seen them for years. Barely more than a few metres apart throughout the day, they were never short of conversation, debate and shared humour. Often they would render one another speechless with laughter, bent double and tears falling from their eyes. Their pace of life had changed since Tash’s last visit. They sat for longer over breakfast, then moved on to a terrace in the sun to read the papers, parasols angled strategically while Alexandra sported a floppy sunhat and Pascal donned huge Roy Orbison dark glasses, later walking steadily in the garden arm in arm, dead-heading, weeding and lopping as they passed.
They were living at retirement pace, Tash realised. They had slowed right down and suddenly looked old. It came as a total shock to her as she studied them with a fresh perspective. They were both grey now; her mother’s once nut brown bob had been infused with palest silver for many years before turning white but Pascal’s thick, Byronic black tresses had only recently become pewter, highlighting his darkly tanned skin and dramatic beetling brows, still raven black and now far thicker than before, with hairs that seemed to grow upward to sweeping peaks like a forest blackened by fire. He was ten years Alexandra’s junior, yet early retirement and travelling had killed off his competitive streak and
he was happy to focus on the woman he loved, his country retreat, his vineyard and his food.
Food was the centre of life, an axis around which the day solely revolved. The couple slowly prepared and then lingered with leisurely delight over lunch before taking a long siesta and rising just in time to start cooking and drinking and eating again. Meals at Le Manoir had always been lengthy affairs, but they now took for ever – far too long for Cora and Amery, who fidgeted and wailed after just half an hour. Trying to keep them entertained, aware that her mother and Pascal were nose to nose whispering sweet nothings, Tash was reminded all to vividly of the closeness that she and Hugo had shared before children, of the symbiotic life they had led working and competing together, talking all the time, supporting and sharing and becoming mutually exclusive.