‘Not
just
bloody horses!’ Hugo turned on her with such a quick, white-hot flash of rage that she shrank back as though physically burnt. ‘Bod had the heart of a lion, and that chestnut bugger was the quickest over timber I ever knew. Your sister adored him. Tash and I want to be buried out there with them when we go, so that we can gallop around this place once again, haunting merry hell out of it.
No
body has permission to land on their graves – not a wood pigeon or a rock star.’
Such was his bloody-mindedness that he was willing to risk a million-pound deal for the memory of a favourite horse, Dillon realised.
He knew he shouldn’t approve of Hugo at all; he had that assured arrogance brought about by a privileged upbringing, and yet he liked him on instinct.
He phoned through to his pilot to get him to start the engine.
‘So The Fox isn’t as good as they were?’ Dillon asked as they walked outside together.
Hugo shook his head with a big, easy smile that lit up his eyes like flares. ‘He’s
far
better, I can assure you. Both those horses were incredibly difficult, opinionated and sometimes downright dangerous to be on. But I’ve always found white-knuckle rides much more fun than chauffeur-driven luxury. How about you?’
‘I’ll take the chauffeur-driven luxury,’ Dillon admitted, feeling his old leg break throb at the very thought of mad, bad, dangerous horses. ‘And Heart?’
‘Pure white-knuckle,’ Hugo laughed. ‘Want to change your mind?’
He shook his head, ‘As long as you agree to safeguard Rory.’
‘I’ve seen Rory ride across country,’ Hugo reminded him. ‘He’s like I was ten years ago. You can’t safeguard that. You just light it and stand well back.’ He paused by the gate to Flat Pad, turning to shake Dillon’s hand again. ‘But I can provide the controlled environment and guarantee that the right people will see the fireworks.’
*
Dillon rang Rory as soon as his pilot was cruising over the Berkshire Downs en route to Oddlode.
‘You are going to be based with Hugo Beauchamp for a year.’
‘Thanks, but I have a permanent base here,’ Rory laughed sleepily.
‘I’m bringing in a caretaker-manager to run your place,’ Dillon gazed down at the flinty, rippling dowland with its amazing undulations, crevices, sheer drops and stripes of dark woodland. A huge chalk horse was carved in the land below him like a tattoo on a green shoulder. It was great playing God, he realised, wondering why he hadn’t tried before. Running flocks of rare-breed sheep was nothing compared to having a team of horses in training. ‘You’ll get to compete The Fox. I own him now.’
Rory laughed even louder, totally disbelieving. ‘As of when?’
‘Today. Phone Hugo Beauchamp. He’s agreed to take you on and he thinks he can swing you a ride at Burghley if you’re quick.’
‘Not on The Fox, surely?’
‘No, another horse. You’ll like him.’ Dillon’s heart lifted at the thought of the handsome bay. ‘Talk to Hugo about it. Call me back afterwards.’
While Rory was off the line Dillon called his friend Jules, who was yet again in rehab. ‘When you come out, how would you like to run a sleepy little stable yard in the Cotswolds for a year, to help you stay out of trouble?’
‘It’s almost ten years since I worked with horses. My counsellors say I need to
avoid
stress, Dillon. And I’m broke.’
‘So rent out that big duplex of yours, take a sabbatical and come play with ponies. There’s a very pretty cottage thrown in and I can vouch for the neighbours.’
‘Well I’ve always said that where there’s mucking out there’s brass …’ Her throaty laugh rang out above the din of the blades.
By the time Rory called Dillon back, muted with awe that his onoff, hot-cold patron really
had
just bought him the best horse in the world, arranged a ride at Burghley and negotiated an apprenticeship with one of the best riders in the world, Jules had agreed to yard-sit in Upper Springlode. Dillon marvelled at the simplicity of it all. Playing God rocked.
‘Just what do you get out of this?’ Rory asked him unguardedly.
Now flying over the edge of the Cotswolds, Dillon looked down
at a little village nestled in a valley like a perfect golden toy on a green baize play table, waiting for his model railway track to be laid through it. He’d had a whole attic devoted to a model railway as a child – it was one of the few things about his son that Pete had taken an interest in, lavishing him with every Fleischmann and Hornby extra to span the vast room until it would rival Sodor for track, trains, signals, villages, trees, hills, little static people and farm animals.
‘I get to be the daddy,’ he said, ringing off.
Dillon looked out at the ridiculously ornate rectangle of Fox Oddfield Abbey set amid its formal renaissance gardens, the geometric box-lined beds, walkways and terraces looking like Celtic engravings set around the black opal rectangle of its huge sunken koi pond – as wide as a tennis court and twice as long – nestling in its centre, the plush velvet folds of parkland spreading outward from it. Nell and her twin brother had set little paper boats adrift across those lily-strewn waters as children; now it was one of his father’s many play pads.
He squinted down as they passed directly overhead, imagining his model N-gauge track criss-crossing those manicured hectares. He wondered whether his father had moved in yet. It was hard to spot signs of occupation from high above but there were no obvious clues, although the scores of builders and workmen’s cars and vans still parked to the rear hinted at ongoing preparations for rock legend habitation.
He settled back to watch his own beloved fields come into view, every hill and hedgerow as familiar as a lover’s body. Only it was sporting a new and very racy tattoo.
Knowing full well that he was coming home by helicopter, Nell had found just enough time to let her feelings be known. Having appropriated the ride-on mower from the machinery shed, she had carved a giant, swirly FUCK YOU into the wild flower meadow, with the second u in the adjoining sheep field because she had run out of space.
Laughing so much it hurt his ribs, he called her from his mobile as soon as they landed.
‘I’d rather fuck you,’ he told her the moment she answered.
‘This is Nell’s mother,’ a stiff Irish voice replied. ‘Nell is bathing Giselle. Will you call back later, please.’
When he did, Nell was unrepentant. ‘You bloody well deserved it. You’re such a wayward bastard. Not taking me to Paris is bad enough, but why’d you buy a horse without me there? I might not know much, but I
do
know horses. My family have dealt in horses for years, remember?’
‘It’s a good horse.’
‘Is he my present?’ she gasped.
Dillon had no intention of giving her The Fox. Earlier, Tash had mentioned a horror story about the late, great Snob once being part of a divorce settlement and almost being sold from under her as a result. He had no immediate plans to part from Nell, but he boxed carefully these days and this horse was too big an asset to risk. His lawyers were already talking about co-habitation agreements, should he ask her to live with him.
But he’d agreed to lease Cœur d’Or for a year for her to play at being an owner, which she obviously loved. He was planning to surprise her with it at Burghley. He thought they were a perfect match, two tempestuous souls in need of taming, and a dark corner of his mind had set a challenge. For a year he would make her custodian of this beautiful, talented horse to give her a focus, to prove her heart of gold. If it worked out as he hoped they would all stop playing and he would give her his Cœur d’Or as a wedding present.
‘The Fox is not your present,’ he told her carefully.
‘Oh yes, of course, it’s your
heart
,’ she sneered.
‘Don’t you want it then?’
She let out a gorgeously naughty giggle that tightened his groin even before she said, ‘I’d rather have your cock.’
‘Where?’
‘In my mouth.’
Something about Nell always got to him. Despite the constant arguments, her attention seeking and her craving for commitment, she was already deep under his skin. Her fieriness and anger fuelled and invigorated him in direct contrast to his ex-wife’s level-headed cool. Right now he needed fire, not ice.
‘Come here at once,’ he told her. ‘I love you, you crazy bird, and I want you so badly I can’t walk.’
Tash was nodding off in a salty bath when Hugo barged into the room, still wearing his white competition breeches, scotch in hand and hair on end.
‘Beccy’s driving me nuts down there. Everywhere I turn she’s there, singing some bloody awful Indian hippy chant to Amery. Poor lad’s going cross-eyed.’
‘He’s newborn; they’re all cross-eyed until they can focus.’
He perched on the rim of the bath and reached for the sponge to rub her back. ‘When does the maternity nurse arrive?’
‘We don’t need one, Hugo. It’s such silly money.’
‘We can pay. We just made a million.’
Neither of them could quite take it in yet.
‘I’ll be fine looking after the children,’ Tash insisted. ‘I have Beccy here to help, and we’ve got the Czech couple coming in a couple of weeks.’
‘Yes, but we have another baby on the way, remember?’ he replied, dropping a kiss on her silky, soapy shoulder.
She looked up at him in alarm.
‘Rory Midwinter.’ He sighed. ‘Our new work rider. Not quite Lough Strachan’s league, but perhaps that’s no bad thing.’
‘Oh, he called earlier,’ she remembered suddenly.
‘Rory? I know, I spoke with him.’
‘No, Lough.’
Hugo almost fell in the bath with her. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘Beccy only told me half an hour ago. She took the call while I was outside at lunchtime, apparently. She’s not absolutely sure it
was
him but I can’t think who else it could have been. She’s very vague.’
‘Did she say what he wanted?’ he demanded, his voice like rapid-fire gunshot.
Tash was surprised by how furious he looked. ‘Seems he
does
plan to be based here.’
‘Why didn’t he call me?’
‘He just did.’
He pulled his battered mobile phone from his pocket and started scrolling through missed calls. ‘No record of a call here.’ He then looked up Lough’s numbers and dialled each one in turn, each time
being sent straight to voicemail. ‘Well he’s left it too late. We’ve got Rory on board now, and I’ve just spoken with Mike Seith about including him in Team Mogo for the remainder of the season.’
‘We have room for both Rory and Lough to be based here,’ Tash pointed out, trying and failing to lean forwards enough to soap between her toes. Her stitches were really hurting now.
‘That’s a lot of ego on one yard.’ Hugo was shaking his head determinedly. ‘Too many chiefs and not enough Indians. I’ll put him off.’
Tash rubbed her face with foamy, bath-wrinkled fingers. ‘You’re the only big chief around here,’ she yawned. ‘They won’t be Apache on you.’
‘Too right.’ Kneeling by the bath he cast his phone on to the chair with clothes and towels strewn across it and sank his hands beneath the bubbles to rub her feet. ‘This is my bloody tepee and you’re my squaw.’
‘I am an equal in this relationship, I’ll have you know,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m
Ms
Chief.’
‘I thought you’d been behaving yourself lately.’
‘Oh bliss.’ Tash let out a contented moan as she felt his fingers rub away the aches. ‘Well Lough could arrive any day to lay claim to your appaloosas and pintos. According to Beccy, he’s booking flights as we speak.’
‘That soon?’
‘Ow!’ He had her toe in his grip like a piranha. ‘So Beccy says. She seems very taken with him after the call. Is he a bit of a flirt?’
‘He’s bloody-minded and ruthless.’ Hugo sprang upright, water splashing everywhere. ‘And she told him coming here was okay?’
‘Ask her.’
‘That’s just bloody ridiculous,’ he said as he stomped off, his voice trailing away. ‘He can’t roll up in the middle of the autumn season without talking to me first.’
Listening as he marched through the bedroom, tripping over the lamp flex as he always did, Tash closed her eyes and sank back into the soothing warmth, knowing it could be her only me time for a long, long stretch.
A series of cheerful beeps greeted her when she resurfaced.
Hugo’s mobile was flashing on the chair beside her.
Normally she would ignore it in the same way she ignored his small pack of Jack Russells when they yapped at her.
But, guessing it might be Lough Strachan, she leaned out from the bath and picked up the phone in her slippery hand, studying it over the ledge.
New Text Message
, it announced across a photograph of Cora being held up on one of her Meredith cousins’ ancient Shetland ponies at Holdham Hall earlier in the year.
Read?
Why not? Tash thought to herself.
The message was from a sender listed as just V:
How did you do, darling? Xxx
‘Hmmph.’ Tash threw the phone back on the towels.
She wasn’t immediately alarmed, although she strongly suspected V was Venetia Gundry, Haydown’s most lascivious livery – a thirtysomething childless divorcée who claimed to have forsaken men for horses and was always hanging around the yard in skinny jeans and tight little fur-collared gilets, chatting up Hugo. Tash was quite certain that she had designs on him. Whip thin, slinky and doe-eyed, if a little weathered, she had a flat voice and a saggy bum but a very determined streak – and judging from the fearless and suicidal way that she rode across country she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Hugo admired determination and courage in women, and Ven team-chased, point-to-pointed, evented and was a volunteer fire-fighter.
But was she worthy of Waitrose floristry, Tash wondered.
For some reason she suddenly couldn’t shake off the memory of Dillon Rafferty talking about technology. What was it he had said about predictive texts being the tools of adultery? ‘Perfect for arranging trysts.’