‘His girth’s broken!’ someone gasped. ‘The bloody girth’s broken!’
The girth was flapping loose beneath The Fox’s belly, slapping his legs as he galloped.
‘He’ll pull up,’ they all agreed.
He didn’t.
Like most eventers, Hugo always rode with an over-girth around the saddle for safety, but it was little more than an elastic belt to stop the saddle slipping; it was never intended to hold it in place and certainly not over the most taxing fences in the world with his earlier nemesis, the Lake, still to come.
Hearing what was going on, riders and their crews had started pouring into the tent to watch on the big screen.
‘The stewards will red flag him in a minute!’
They didn’t.
Having cleared the Colt Pond and, miraculously, the sweeping corners at the Farmyard complex, Hugo reached down to unbuckle the loose girth and throw it aside.
He’d managed to find his balance on the shifting sands of the saddle, riding with a forward seat like a jump jockey, letting his knees do the work, his lower leg staying absolutely firm to balance his long upper body over the fences.
‘They’ll stop him on course,’ Alicia predicted grumpily. ‘Not allowed to ride heroically these days. Health and safety and all that. All bloody cowards now.’
But while the officials frantically leafed through the Rulebook to see whether they should stop him, Hugo rode on, thrilling the crowds and the BBC commentary team, who couldn’t find enough superlatives to describe what they were seeing.
‘Not since Toddy rode Bertie Blunt around this course with one stirrup have we seen horsemanship of this magnitude,’ Mike Tucker told red-button viewers.
‘You are seeing history in the making, my friends!’ Matt Ryan agreed excitedly.
Julia Ditton was more pragmatic: ‘That must hurt. He’s taking all his weight through his knees. Most of us would have pulled up by now.’
In and out of the Sunken Road they hopped, taking the perfect line despite the fact that the saddle was very obviously moving backwards now, straining against the breastplate. As they flew the Barn Table the saddle went back almost to the horse’s loins before shifting forwards again. The Cub was getting stronger and stronger, recognising that, for once, he had the chance to dictate the pace.
‘It must be like sitting on a see-saw,’ a rider exclaimed. ‘He’ll never get through the Lake.’
‘Oh God.’ Tash covered her eyes as Hugo and The Cub, chins up, determined but starting to fight each other, hurtled towards the Mitsubishi pick-ups in front of the famous Badminton Lake.
‘Going too fast!’ Alicia groaned.
Tash cowered as she heard gasps and groans and then whoops. When she opened her eyes Hugo was through the lake and galloping out across the park.
‘Oh God, I missed it,’ she howled.
‘’s all right. You’ll see it again,’ Alicia assured her. She was right; it would be played again and again in sporting hero moments for years to come, as would his incredible ride through Hunstman’s Close, finding the angle that so many had missed with all their tack firmly in place; then on to the Quarry, where the huge drop on the way in moved his saddle right up the horse’s neck, but Hugo clung on, up and out into the final gallop home, even checking his stopwatch to the crowd’s delight. And to their even greater delight, he was on target.
Within sight of the finish, the Rolex Turn almost claimed him. Flying through the keyhole cut in a giant brush and angling left for a skinny, the saddle slipped so far that Hugo couldn’t centre it again before the next element and The Cub made an almighty cat-leap, knocking the flag from the fence as he twisted in mid-air. Yet somehow Hugo stayed on, nobody quite knew how, and they galloped into the arena with the saddle hanging off to one side, Hugo riding bareback.
Afterwards he admitted that he had planned to call it a day at that point. The situation was too dangerous and the horse too valuable to risk. But he had always been an adrenalin junkie, as had little Cub, whose heart was as big as his famous father’s, and hearing the roar
of the crowd, who had followed their progress around the course with mounting excitement, realised they couldn’t possibly pull up so close to home.
They scrambled over the Mitsubishi Garden, dangling stirrups pulling up flowers, and raced through the finish. They were, to the crowd’s raucous approval, exactly on the optimum time.
Jenny grabbed The Cub as soon as Hugo jumped off, pulling off the dangling saddle and leading him to the vet to be checked over while she and Lemon, there with Lough once again, started to cool him down as quickly as they could, knowing the extra exertion would have put incredible pressure on his body.
Julia Ditton had already come up to Hugo with a microphone: ‘That was some round!’
Hugo rarely ran out of puff: he was one of those annoyingly fit people who could eat and drink and smoke as much as he liked, yet still run ten miles without getting out of breath. But that round had knocked all the wind from him. All he could do was nod. He nodded like a dog on a parcel shelf for an interminable amount of time before he finally managed to splutter, ‘Tash.’
She was already almost there, running across the arena towards him, face alight with fear and pride as, barely pausing for thought, she engaged her Meg Ryan leap. Spotting his wife sailing through the air towards him, Hugo’s expression changed from breathless joy to total astonishment. The moment that Tash jumped into his arms was remembered for years as unbelievably romantic, not least because Hugo literally fell over backwards, leaving the two of them lying in the hoof-marked turf.
Riding past as he headed towards the start box, Lough didn’t even glance down.
Hugo looked at Tash. ‘Let’s draw a line,’ he breathed, reaching up to cup her face. The adrenalin rush hadn’t left him. He looked as high as a kite.
‘Where?’ she asked fearfully, not understanding the insinuation. Lines meant crossing out, putting an end to things and saying no more.
‘A line under all this,’ he explained. ‘Let’s draw a line under all this.’
She nodded with tearful relief, looking into his blue eyes, determined not to think about V.
As they stood up, Lough was being counted down in the start box.
His huge, dark-rimmed eyes didn’t move as he stared out between his horse’s grey ears, waiting to hear ‘Go.’
Hugo’s hand tightened around hers. ‘May the best man win.’
Tash prickled all over with discomfort.
‘… three … two … one … go! Good luck!’ The bowler hat was raised and Lough thundered away.
Hugo turned to Tash. ‘Let’s go back to the horsebox and make whoopee.’
She couldn’t possibly tell him how much she wanted to watch Lough’s round. ‘But we have to help Jenny with Cub. And you need physio, or you’ll stiffen up.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ he grinned.
The lorry-park gossips were even more animated when the Beauchampions appeared arm in arm and locked themselves in their lorry. Moments later the curtains were drawn in the pop-out pod. They didn’t emerge for over an hour, by which time multiple texts had been sent and tweets posted, and the leaderboard chalked up. Rory was lying second behind Sonja Runiker, Germany’s top woman rider, with Hugo back in fifth. Lough was still in contention with Koura, but he had slipped right down with Rangitoto, having trashed his second round. Those still spectating commented that watching him ride his own top horse so badly, compared to the borrowed horse he had piloted so brilliantly that morning, was like watching two completely different men.
When a helicopter landed in the Calcot Manor grounds in a haze of scattering blossom, Sylva joined the onlookers gathering by the windows and was delighted to see Dillon Rafferty jump out and run towards the house. It was a pure Milk-Tray moment, only slightly marred by his bad temper and the Gay Pride T-shirt.
‘Dad kidnapped me,’ he grumbled as she hurriedly shrugged on her jacket.
‘Pete’s here?’ Sylva tried to stay calm.
‘He’s piloting the chopper.’ He yawned tiredly, having stayed up most of the previous night working in the studio.
He didn’t even notice the newly white-blonde hair snaking over Sylva’s tweeded shoulders, or the outfit that had been hand-picked to ignite his lust faster than a match in a jerry can. At first glance she looked like a standard-issue Badminton spectator, but the plunging cleavage of her crisp shirt revealed a transparent baby blue basque from which her magnificent breasts rose like a double sunset over a lake, and the skinniest of skinny designer Japanese bikini jeans that exposed her glossy, toned hips. Dillon hardly gave her a second glance as he headed back to the helicopter.
Nonetheless determined to make the most of this coup, Sylva kissed Mama excitedly. ‘You and the children will follow on in cars. Tell Zuzi that Pom will be there.’
‘Here.’ Mama had reached into her cavernous bag and pulled out a velvet drawstring bag that she now thrust into her daughter’s palm. ‘You must use these, before it is too late.’ She sounded like one of the Kaiser’s men briefing Mata Hari.
With an obedient nod, Sylva pocketed the bag and raced after Dillon.
On board the helicopter, Indigo was sitting blank-faced and beautiful beside Pete, who liked nothing more than taking the controls of his little Robinson Raven on a family day trip.
‘Hello Trouble.’ His predatory smile flashed from beneath the darkest of aviator sunglasses as Sylva climbed into the cramped space behind them. ‘Almost didn’t recognise you with that barnet. Thought Dillon had got himself a new bird and the wedding was off for a minute.’
Clambering in behind Sylva and struggling to buckle his safety harness because of the weight he’d put on, Dillon shot his father a filthy look.
Glancing over her shoulder, Indigo gave Sylva a ghost of a wink.
The final day of Badminton was another scorcher, and the weathermen were confidently predicting the start of a mini heatwave.
Having been up to check on the horses first thing, the Haydown team encountered mixed fortunes. The Fox was springing off the ground so freshly he might never have galloped four
miles the previous day, but his brother was as stiff as an old man, the slipping saddle having taken its toll. Despite a treatment from the Beauchamps’ equine physio, Cub was too uncomfortable to be put up for presentation at the veterinary inspection and so Hugo was forced to withdraw his one remaining ride. It was the first time in five years that he hadn’t posted a top-ten finish, and the first time in a decade that he had failed to complete the event. His only consolation, on the sponsorship front at least, was that his great rival looked equally unlikely to feature at the prize-giving. Both of Lough’s rides lay outside the top ten, giving him little chance of making an impression at his first big event in the Northern Hemisphere.
Then, in the late-morning sunshine, the New Zealander piloted his great ally Rangitoto around a show-jumping track that was plagued with bogey fences and a very tight time limit for one of the only clear rounds. Again and again pairs crashed through the planks going away from the collecting ring, the treble combination on an awkward stride, or the narrow stile that had to be taken at an angle so as not to lose too much time. By the lunch break Lough had risen from thirty-fifth to twenty-first on Toto, with his second ride still to come in the top twenty combinations that would jump after lunch.
Great excitement greeted the arrival of a helicopter bearing The Fox’s famous owner and his equally famous consort. To the crowd’s delight, they were accompanied by the Rockfather himself, with Indigo at his side. The press went berserk, especially as Dillon and Sylva were sporting ostentatious matching rings.
‘Just love tokens,’ Sylva flicked her extensions and waved away any talk of engagement rings as the little group were hastily escorted to VIP quarters in a sponsor’s marquee to watch the jumping.
Dillon, whose ring had stuck fast when Sylva crammed it on to his ring finger during the flight ‘just for fun, to see how it looks’, said nothing. His finger, now an alarming shade of blue, throbbed painfully.
‘Where can I lay a bet?’ Pete asked, lighting a fat cigar and reaching for a pair of field glasses.
‘Dad, I don’t think this is the—’
‘Who would you like to lay sir?’ An artful member of the catering staff asked smoothly as he delivered free champagne.
‘Sylva.’ Pete smiled at him, pulling a wad of fifties from his breast pocket. ‘Can that be arranged?’
Sitting close enough to hear, Sylva smirked delightedly.
‘I’m sure it can.’ The waiter melted away, but was back again within five minutes. ‘I’m afraid there’s no horse in the trials called Silver,’ he reported. ‘There is a Koura, which I’m reliably informed is Maori for gold. That’s as close as I can find.’
‘What are the odds?’
‘Twenty-five to one.’
‘Can we go each way?’ He shot a brief sideways look at Sylva who sent a lingering look back.
‘I’m sure we can.’ The waiter slipped away again just as the band display finally finished and the parade of competitors began.
‘I suppose we should really have bet on Dillon’s horse,’ Sylva mused, settling back to admire Rory on his flashy chestnut – quite the most handsome horseman in the field in the absence of Hugo. She couldn’t see what all the fuss was about Lough, whose thick-set features and glowering menace she found quite off-putting, plus his tattoos, which hardly fitted in with the upper-class eventing scene. Dillon also had rather a lot of tattoos, which kept changing shape as he gained weight. There was a little deer on his inner thigh – logic told her that it had got to be a homage to Fawn, but ego told her that it was just a love of the countryside thing – that kept shedding its antlers back to stubby buds and then growing them again.
He so obviously didn’t want to be there with her today. His fingers, legs and jaw muscles twitched out a constant rhythm, and his eyes danced around, avoiding hers yet unable to settle.
The only thing that seemed to earth him was the children, arriving with Hana, Mama and Dong half an hour later, allowing him to get down on his knees in their hospitality tent and pretend to be a show-jump while Pom, Berry, Zuzi and even Hana and Dong jumped over him in fits of giggles. Left with the boys and a clutch of small adoptees to guard, Mama sent out distress signals to Sylva who smoothly ignored them and turned to Indigo, beautifully placed between herself and Pete, like a striking statue between two cocktail-party flirts on a balcony.