‘I’ve invited Rory to supper,’ Hugo told her.
‘I see.’ She tried not to feel cheated out of the romantic dinner she’d planned. ‘And Lough?’
‘What about him?’
‘You can hardly invite Rory and not Lough,’ she said quietly, eager not to disturb Amery, who was dropping off again.
‘Of course I can.’ His face was still in shadow, but his tone was unconcerned.
Tash could imagine how aggravated Lough would be by the snub.
‘They’re both our work riders,’ she protested in a whisper, coming out and pulling the door ajar behind her. ‘They’re living in the same cottage.’
‘Lough probably already has plans.’ He turned away, sauntering back into their bedroom. ‘Surely he’s out cavorting with half the Young Riders’ team every night after all your social introductions?’
Tash followed him. ‘I can at least call him and ask.’
‘Don’t bother.’ The towel dropped again. ‘Let’s screw instead.’
Tash did an about turn as Amery started to bawl at full pitch once more, secretly grateful that she had just avoided the moment. She felt they both deserved a more seductive build-up than that.
But Hugo’s nose was clearly out of joint, and it was a tricky supper, despite the presence of Rory, as upbeat and oblivious to cross-currents as ever. Tash tried to divide two sea bass between three as inconspicuously as possible, still worrying that Lough would feel offended because he hadn’t been invited too. Not that he would appreciate the conversation if he had been there.
‘Lough’s so bloody uncommunicative,’ Rory complained. ‘It’s like sharing a cottage with a Trappist monk.’
‘He’d better have been behaving like one,’ Hugo muttered, looking at Tash.
‘He’s been very well behaved,’ she said carefully, longing to talk to him about Lough’s confessions, but it was impossible with Hugo in such an edgy mood and Rory there.
‘I can’t believe Lem and Beccy are an item!’ Rory gossiped. The news seemed to have made his day. ‘What
do
they see in him?’
‘They?’ Tash looked at him curiously.
‘Women.’ His cheeks coloured.
‘Don’t they have some sort of threesome going on with the lanky girl who works for the Moncrieffs?’ Hugo drawled.
Tash noticed Rory’s tightly masked face. ‘Of course not. They’re just friends. They share a lot of secrets.’
Hugo’s fingers were drumming on the table. ‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Nanny used to say it.’ He reached forwards to answer his ever-ringing mobile.
Tash swallowed anxiously, wondering how many secrets Hugo had that she didn’t know about. While he was away in America she’d imagined her husband’s pre-departure talk of regrets and lies was all about Lough and his troubled past in New Zealand, secrets she now shared, but suddenly she wasn’t so sure. The safe haven Hugo had offered Lough still harboured half-truths and stormy seas.
Hugo’s mood was strange and edgy that evening in the few moments he was off the phone. Tash found herself drinking too much wine.
By the time a sober Rory thanked her for supper and took his leave to return to ‘the monastery’ as he called the lodge, Tash was decidedly drunk.
‘He obviously loved America.’ She began squiffily loading the dishwasher with a clanking disregard for the Beauchamp family Spode.
‘He worked incredibly hard and rode brilliantly, but he’s been a bloody pain,’ Hugo replied. ‘Always sloping off to meet MC in motels or moping about miserably when her husband was around.’
‘MC and Rory?’
He nodded, laughing. ‘You’d think she’d eat him alive, but she’s terribly fond of him. And Rory knows he’s on to a good thing, squiring the first lady of eventing. He’s learned a lot in and out of bed, I’ll bet. She’s incorrigible, and as gorgeous as ever.’
Tash crashed the pudding bowls together. ‘And what does MC’s husband think of all this?’
‘From what I’ve seen he’s just as bad. I suppose infidelity cancels itself out if you’re both doing it, like being a drunk. Frightfully bad form if you’re the only one at it in a marriage.’
It was a typically flippant Hugo comment, but nonetheless Tash worried that he was suggesting they both become alcoholic adulterers. She finished loading the dishwasher, vowing not to plunder the wine so much in future. The easy understanding between them had become even more dislocated while he was away; it desperately needed coupling again. She knew she must rekindle that lost romance.
When they finally went to bed Tash rushed into the bathroom to soften and scent herself, anticipating a wild night of passion, but Hugo was already asleep by the time she came out, still jet-lagged and now doubly exhausted from hitting the ground running. His phone was still clutched in his hand, mid-text.
She prised it out and checked that he hadn’t been messaging V. The recipient box was still blank and he had only got as far as writing
If I hear that you’ve touched
before stopping.
Tash placed the phone on the bedside table and climbed into bed beside him, curling her body alongside his warmth and lying awake plotting her seduction strategy. Just as she was falling asleep, she felt him turn around and slide a hand between her thighs. For a moment a hot spark ignited her senses but then, just as suddenly, it fizzled and died as she felt overwhelmed by tiredness. To her shame, she kept her eyes tight shut and pretended to be asleep, even throwing in a couple of snores when his fingers started tracing her nipples. He soon gave up and fell asleep again, arms growing heavy on her skin.
She needed a big scene to kick-start her libido. She wanted to feel desired, worshipped, wanton and rampant, not just readily available.
The following evening, Tash revisited the idea of sexy underwear. She had just that week discovered the lingerie section of Asda, to which she had swapped her allegiance because Waitrose made her think of Hugo’s secret flower purchases. George was her new fashion guru. Despite the early morning frosts that glazed the fields outside, the rails of the Basingford superstore were already full of pretty summer dresses and strappy shoes, and the undies were to die for. Frothy little combinations in jewel-bright colours, costing less than a free-range chicken, had found their way to her bedroom which, thanks to Veruschka’s continued military sweep of the house, was looking fresh and seductive with its polished floors and antique furniture shining like burnished metal, fresh daffodils creaking open
in an old Delft jug on the dressing table, the old bedspread replaced with a fabulous claret fake-fur throw that had been a wedding present from an owner.
That afternoon, Hugo and Rory had taken two horses for a pipe-opener at Kelvin’s all-weather gallops, staying on to have a drink and catch up afterwards. Lascivious livery Venetia had insisted on going too. Meanwhile, Tash was eager to pull out all the stops and she planned to drape herself on the fake fur throw for Hugo’s return, clashing joyfully in a bright yellow basque and cami-knickers trimmed with orange ribbon. As soon as the children were in bed she bathed and oiled herself in readiness and donned her outfit.
When the horsebox failed to reappear by seven o’clock she started to worry. She was cold and hungry; Amery, still cutting his tooth, had taken ages to settle. She couldn’t shake the image of Hugo and Venetia entwined together, ecstatic to be reunited after his trip.
Wrapping herself in the wispy chiffon robe that had come as a part of the set, she headed downstairs to snaffle some crisps and open a bottle of wine, deciding to drape herself in front of the fire in the snug instead, although it stubbornly kept going out.
By eight o’clock she was really starting to fret. Hugo’s mobile went straight to voicemail and there had been no calls to the house. She’d now had time to work out a complete adulterous scenario for him: the Moët would be flowing at Kelvin’s house, and he and Rory would be drunk (Rory was no doubt still easier to push off the wagon than a baddie in a spaghetti western). Able to sneak away undetected, Hugo and Venetia were canoodling ecstatically in Kelvin’s state-of-the-art hot tub and sucking champagne off one another’s slithery bodies.
Her cheap underwear itched uncomfortably at the thought.
She pulled on a long coat and her boots, hung the baby monitor around her neck and stomped outside. The yard was in darkness, the old work lorry still missing. Lights glowed from the stables flat and the archway apartment, and she could hear the Czechs’ television as usual.
‘Everything okay?’ asked a voice in the gloom, making her jump.
Lough walked out from an unlit stable a few feet away.
‘Hugo’s not back. He and Rory left hours ago. Have they called the yard at all?’
‘Not while I’ve been out here.’
She hurried into the office to check the machine. There were plenty of new messages, but none from Hugo.
Lough had followed her in and was looking in the veterinary cupboard. Tash tried not to eyeball him too obviously to see if he was pocketing restricted substances. Her suspicious mind was in over-drive tonight. But he pulled out the bottle of brandy stored there for human emergencies and went in search of two mugs.
‘I don’t want any thanks.’ She shook her head, knowing that she’d already had too much wine.
Lough poured himself three fingers and knocked back most of it in one go, wincing as it burned his throat.
Tash watched him guardedly. ‘I’ve hardly seen you this week.’
‘Figured I should keep my distance. Don’t want Hugo thinking I’m monopolising his wife.’
‘Very noble of you,’ she replied, thinking anxiously about her adultery scenario and helping herself to some brandy after all. ‘I wish Venetia was so well mannered. I think she’s finally cracked and tied him to the haynet rings in the back of the box to ravish him.’
He raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Does she have a history of that sort of behaviour?’
‘She certainly has a reputation for shagging other women’s husbands, which is ironic for a divorce lawyer. They call her Marriage Misguidance on the hunting field.’ The brandy was going straight to her head. ‘Last year she bought a horse for Hugo to compete and named it Brief Encounter, which says a lot, don’t you think?’
He looked at her with those ferociously honest eyes, as direct and brutal as Hugo could be flippant and oblique. ‘Are you saying they’re having an affair?’
‘I bloody hope not.’ To her horror, tears caught in her throat. ‘But he’s keeping something from me, that’s for certain.’
The baby monitor suddenly crackled into life with a single plaintive wail that made Tash’s heart squeeze tight. She clutched it to her chest, already hurrying for the door, but something pulled her back. For a crazy moment she thought it was Lough grabbing her coat and swung around to tell him to let go. Then she saw him still standing at the opposite end of the office, and realised that her hem had caught on the edge of a filing cabinet and tugged her to a halt, popping off the button. Much worse, it was now gaping open to reveal a full frontal of George at Asda’s finest. Feeling her face flame, she
whipped it closed again and gulped that she had to check on Amery before dashing back to the safety of the house.
Finally, at half-past nine, Tash heard an unfamiliar engine turning into the yard and hurried back outside, Beetroot at her heels. A small horsebox with ‘Racehorses’ emblazoned over its cab was discharging the two Haydown horses, with Rory supervising.
‘Hugo’s still with your lorry, waiting for the recovery truck,’ he explained to Tash as she helped him settle two very startled horses. ‘Brakes went on the way down Lamford Hill. We were bloody nearly all mincemeat – went over the ledge on the dogleg, ended up on our side in a field of sheep.’ He looked shaken, and had cuts on his forehead and chin.
‘Is Hugo injured?’
‘Fine. Honestly, not a scratch.’
‘And the horses are really okay?’ She had checked them both over; they seemed amazingly unscathed.
‘Pretty much in one piece, but it took over an hour to persuade them to get on this little wagon to come home, and who can blame them?’
Lough had appeared on the yard, his hair wet from the shower. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Why did nobody call here?’ Tash demanded.
‘Hugo’s mobile got hammered in the smash and mine has no charge,’ Rory grimaced apologetically. ‘But Venetia said she’d let you know what happened.’
‘Well, she bloody didn’t,’ Tash snapped, anger and panic suddenly bubbling again. ‘Is she still with Hugo?’
Rory shook his head. ‘She went back to Kelvin’s yard. I think they were both quite chuffed to have an excuse, frankly. They can’t keep their hands off each other these days.’
‘Kelvin?’ Tash balked, finding it hard to imagine Venetia in a clinch with the much-married trainer who was about five foot three, had no teeth and looked like a warthog.
‘Been going on for months.’ Rory seemed surprised she didn’t know. ‘Since before we went to the States, but he’s going through an expensive divorce and doesn’t want to give the ex any more opportunity to make off with the chattels.’
It felt as though a pitchfork had been pulled from her side, but
she didn’t dare look at Lough. Instead she watched distractedly as Beetroot flirted with Twitch, still believing herself a hot act despite near blindness and advancing decrepitude.
‘Darling, you look frozen through.’ Rory noticed her teeth chattering. The long coat she’d chosen this time had a full complement of buttons, but was barely thicker than a shower curtain. ‘Leave the yard to Lough and me. Hugo will be back soon, I promise.’
Back inside the house, Tash covered the kinky yellow undies with leggings and a sweater dress before preparing a vat of spaghetti bolognese, guessing Hugo would be ravenous when he finally got home. She turned off Radio Four, which was running a particularly depressing series about the disintegration of marriage in modern Britain, and selected a CD instead. Soon the mellow tones of Dillon Rafferty filled the room, telling her that he’d never loved anyone as much as he’d loved her, even though she could never be his.
Venetia was in love with Kelvin the trainer, she thought delightedly. Venetia, for all her transparent lust for Hugo over the years, was not ‘V’.