‘Don’t tell me you’ve mislaid another one?’
‘You know me.’ She scuttled around to the far side of the car to try to discreetly roll down her body-sock while he heaved his case in the boot. ‘Always making up for lost time.’
Tash was not good at Christmas shopping. Traditionally, she would visit Alexandra in Paris for a few days in late December and, with
her shopaholic mother’s help and guidance, buy everything that the family needed for the festive season in one Galeries Lafayette hit. But Alexandra was still away globetrotting and her daughter, reluctant to admit how disoriented and stressed this made her, was showing distinct signs of dysfunctional behaviour.
This year she’d decided to buy all her Christmas presents on eBay. Tash thought the auction site a marvellous invention, although thus far only a pair of earrings for Beccy and a golfing book for her father had arrived in the post. The gadgets she had bought for Hugo from Hong Kong and all the pretty Tang horses from China that had seemed such good value had yet to materialise, which was a bit worrying just two days from Christmas, but she was sure they’d make it.
Having gone unchecked while Hugo was away, Tash’s internet shopping habit was by now thoroughly out of control. Hugo was staggered to return home from the Antipodes to find a new tractor, along with a second-hand Mini for the Vs. It was one of the many things they were soon arguing about on a daily basis, along with her ongoing failure to start riding again and the fact she had let Rory take over so much of the running of yard, the au pairs take over the house and her family monopolise Christmas. She had invited them all this year, trying to make up for the gap her absent mother would leave at the table.
They also argued about Lough. That morning, Hugo had told Lemon that he and the horses must leave; Tash had told him to stay.
‘We can’t throw him out just before Christmas!’
‘He lied to us!’ Hugo raged.
‘I genuinely don’t think he knew much more than we did.’
‘Well Lough certainly lied.’
‘He didn’t lie; he just didn’t say anything at all. They’ve let him go without charge, so let’s all start with a clean sheet when he gets here.’
‘There are no clean sheets around Lough for long, trust me,’ Hugo had hissed, stomping off to take out his pent-up aggression on the new tractor, which was so much more powerful than the old one that he unintentionally knocked over the wall of the muck heap by reversing too fast, which hardly improved his temper.
Tonight, Tash wanted to put all the arguments behind them. She was determined to be positive and get in the Christmas spirit.
Hugo would soon be back from driving around the estate farms and cottages delivering the usual bottles of scotch, hampers of food and Christmas boxes. It was a tradition, dating back long before Hugo’s father’s stewardship, that all estate tenants and workers received a personal visit.
The Czechs had disappeared to a long church service, Jenny had flown off that afternoon to visit Dolf and his family in Germany, Rory was having supper with a cousin in Wantage, and Beccy and Lemon were out clubbing. The children were asleep and even the dogs, stupefied by stealing all Tash’s cooling, pastry-heavy mince pies from the kitchen table, were unusually subdued. Hugo and Tash had all of Haydown to themselves for once, and he was the only Christmas present Tash wanted to unwrap early.
‘We can run around naked all over the garden,’ she told him as soon as he got back.
‘Not in this weather, we can’t.’ He peeled off a sodden waxed jacket. ‘The Ding Dongs and the Singalongs send their love.’
‘I hope they didn’t mind that there were no mince pies this year,’ Tash fretted as he squelched to the Aga to warm up.
He shook his head so that water drops scattered everywhere. Then, looking up at her through wet eyelashes, he caught sight of her properly for the first time since he’d come in and whistled.
Tash’s internet shopping sprees had provided some rich spoils. The magic control underwear indeed cast a spell that had enchanted her. These figure tightening creations might be torture to pull on, but the effect was mesmerising, both for her confidence and Hugo’s appreciation. While the elastic bodyshaper was a non-starter, Gok Wan’s Basque in Glory combined with Trinny and Susannah’s Magic Knickers were miracle-workers. Most of her pre-pregnancy clothes fitted again.
Tonight, she had tracked down an incredibly figure-hugging, wasp-waisted little black dress that her mother had bought at ludicrous expense from a Paris catwalk collection over a decade earlier to mark her engagement to Hugo. It had seemed rather too old for her at the time, but now it looked sensational – Isabella Rossellini meets Juliette Binoche.
‘Wow.’ Hugo reached out and pulled her towards him. ‘You’re quite breathtaking.’
She smiled, her belly flipping and skipping beneath its hefty
support. She was finding it hard to take deep breaths, but it was worth it.
They stumbled along the back corridor towards the stairs, kissing all the way.
While Hugo loved all this new dressing up his wife was doing, he was less enamoured of the effort it look to undress her. The last time she had worn this dress – many, many years ago – he had simply had to reach beneath it to encounter the delicious sensation of stocking top, soft thigh and lace. Now he found industrial packaging. Hauling her out took both of them many minutes, but at least it was worth it.
They hadn’t made love this frenziedly since Amery was conceived. It was heaven, climaxing loudly and lovingly in short succession on the unmade mattress in a distant, barely used room, far enough away from the children not to be heard.
Yet, less than twenty minutes later, they were back in the kitchen and arguing once more because Sylva Frost had just tweeted Tash to say that she wanted to buy Oil Tanker, the Australian horse Hugo was importing. He had other ideas.
‘I’ve already sold two third-shares.’
‘Who to?’
‘Ben and Sophia, and a … secret investor.’ He pulled an apologetic face.
‘Why “secret”?’ Tash’s suspicion radar was instantly on full alert.
‘She doesn’t want her identity revealed,’ he shrugged.
‘Not even to me?’ So it was a ‘she’, she realised, feeling increasingly paranoid that it was the mysterious V.
He held up his palms. ‘What can I say? She insists that’s how it is.’
‘Well, I think that’s ridiculous.’ Tash had taken a microwave meal out of the fridge and was angrily stabbing its cellophane cover with a carving knife. ‘And why didn’t you tell me you’ve already syndicated the horse?’
‘I’m telling you now.’
Leaving the microwave heavy breathing as it heated luxury paella, she headed into the study and sent Sylva a private message.
Horse part sold. One third left.
Tash called up the happy face of eBay to cheer herself up. She’d won several bundles of winter clothes along with a Sheridan bridge table for Alicia.
‘What are you doing?’ Hugo appeared suddenly over her shoulder as she was checking her purchases, several of which were for him. She hit the minimise button in a hurry.
‘Buying the Vs’ Christmas presents. They still have no decent winter clothes, and how those trainers stay so white is beyond me.’
‘Verucca bleaches everything,’ Hugo said in a bored voice.
‘Don’t call her that.’
Just then, Sylva tweeted:
I want a whole horse. Find me a pretty one. A palomino! See you on Boxing Day. Cau. X
’. She was declared offline a moment later.
‘Well that’s a relief.’ Hugo read the message over her shoulder. ‘I don’t want her involved with Oil Tanker.’
‘She’s not going to
ride
him, Hugo.’
‘That’s what Dillon said about Heart and look what happened to him.’
Tash said nothing. She blamed herself for the fact Heart had just arrived back with them so lame in front that he was barely able to walk. Rocco Naylor was threatening to sue Hugo or Nell or both if the horse wasn’t one hundred per cent sound by the end of the lease.
‘You’re not going to ride Oil Tanker either,’ Hugo said idly as he carried on reading her Twitter page.
‘Why not?’ Tash thought he looked a straightforward horse.
‘Because you don’t ride.’ His tone was light but unmistakeably sarcastic.
‘I need more time.’
‘For Christ’s sake, it’s been four months since the boy was born.’
‘He has a name. Amery. Our son. I know you hardly see him, but that’s no excuse for not using his name.’
Hugo had stopped listening. He was reading Sylva’s message again. ‘What does she mean, “see you on Boxing Day”?’
‘We’ve invited her to the shoot,’ she reminded him.
‘That’s a family thing.’
‘Yes, and she’s bringing her family. So is Dillon Rafferty.’
‘Christ, why don’t you put a poster up welcoming all and be done with it?’
‘Don’t be like that, Hugo. They’re worth a lot of money to the sport.’
‘Well, I hope you all have a jolly day out. I’m going hunting.’
‘You can’t!’
‘I always go to the meet,’ he said witheringly, heading back to the kitchen where the microwave had pinged so long ago, the supper was entombed coldly in its plastic casket awaiting the afterlife.
‘So meet me half way.’ She followed him.
‘I never do anything by halves.’
‘Except half-passes.’
‘At least I’m still riding them.’
They shared the meal in silent discord, both desperate to make up but unwilling to budge off their high horses. Tash wasn’t even sure whether she was qualified to occupy a high horse any more. She knew Hugo’s antagonism came from a genuine worry that she wasn’t yet back in the saddle, and he was right to be concerned. She longed to talk to him about her paralysing nerves but she just didn’t know where to start. Instead, she waited for him to go outside to do night-check, then headed upstairs to change into her pyjamas for Amery’s late feed.
Hugo found her curled up in bed with their baby son, wearing just her pyjama bottoms. She looked beautiful in sleep.
He had been going to ask her advice about one of the pregnant mares that was causing him concern, but he couldn’t bear to wake her.
Instead, he went downstairs to call the vet, getting through to the after-hours service and then heading into the study to check his mail, virtual and snail, while he waited for the duty vet to ring him back. It had been a long time since he’d caught up. His laptop was covered with paint, he noticed, as he logged into the email account.
Tash may have come on in leaps and bounds on the internet but she still ignored email and so Hugo was greeted with a plethora of unread messages congratulating him for his eBay purchases. Sandwiched between these and the usual fan mail and marketing offers were an alarming number of poison pen letters.
You Beauchampions are so spoiled
, Hugo read a line from one. Another threatened:
Prepare to suffer
.
None were very original, but the sheer quantity rattled Hugo.
Watch your backs
, they taunted.
You are riding for a fall
…
I am watching you
…
Keep your doors locked at night. I’m right outside
…
I know your secrets
. All came from the same Gmail account that belonged to someone called Shadowfax. And the most recent was
unpleasantly close to the bone:
Your marriage is over
. Thinking back to the summer and the Olympics, Hugo felt a claw rip at his temples.
Deleting the lot, for once grateful that Tash was no IT girl, he determinedly dismissed the messages as junk and turned his attention to the vast pile of bills surrounding the laptop. They were all final demands. While he’d been away, the office had descended into chaos, part crèche, part artist’s studio with piles and piles of unopened post. Tash seemed to live in here, yet do nothing but dream and play. He lifted the dust sheet on the easel and found a portrait of a family there – a happy, laughing bunch he didn’t recognise. A commission, no doubt. He was pleased that she was at least painting again. She seemed to do precious little else while he was away teaching and competing non-stop.
Then he spotted a neat pile of canvases stacked against the wall and stooped to investigate.
There were over a dozen portraits. Horses, dogs, children, families, houses – they were all there, painted in Tash’s characteristic style, so vibrant and lifelike, so utterly truthful. They were stunning. She must have been working every hour she could to get so much done. All her commissions were completed, ready to be sent off as soon as she convinced herself that they were good enough. Tash always took for ever to decide her work was worthy, often hiding it somewhere obscure only to unearth it many weeks later and decide that it really was pretty good, much to her own and the client’s surprise and delight when it arrived at long last.
Drawn by a half-remembered likeness, Hugo lifted the sheet on the easel again.
It was
them
. It was himself and Tash and the children and all the dogs, looking happy and relaxed and content as they lounged beneath the cedar at the top of the old parkland pasture now known as Thirty Acres. The likenesses were uncannily, brilliantly there: the way his blue eyes seared into nowhere as they restlessly longed for distraction, the way she ducked her head but looked up with such honesty and intensity, Cora’s cock-headed humour, especially little Amery’s delicious gummy smile. Even the bloody dogs were spot on.
His eyes filled with tears. ‘Bloody fool.’
He needed a cigarette.
Gratefully remembering that the mare needed checking and the vet was coming, he went in search of his yard boots, coat and fag packet.
Outside, there was a frantic kicking coming from the rear yard. One of Lough’s horses had cast itself, trapped in a corner of its box after rolling and unable to free its legs to get up. Hugo hurried inside, dodging flying hooves as he shouldered its flanks and heaved to free it. At last the horse stood up, shaking, eyeing him warily from beneath a thick dusting of shavings. When Hugo stepped forward it almost mowed him down in fright, dancing this way and that against the rear wall and kicking out.