Indigo flashed her cool, threatening smile.
Sylva smiled back warmly, her eyes drifting to Pete who was mouthing ‘I want to fuck you’ behind his wife’s back. Coming from
anybody else, it would be revolting. From Pete Rafferty, it was a rite of passage, yet Sylva couldn’t help looking into Indigo’s ice-chip eyes, their tinted contact lenses the same colour as her made-up name.
Smile dropping, she turned to watch the jumping, which was about to restart, reminding herself that she was here today with Dillon – wearing their rings and getting photographed from every angle – because of Indigo. The woman had come up trumps and Sylva rewarded her by lusting after husband. It had to stop.
‘I tried to buy one of these horses a few months ago, but they wouldn’t sell it to me,’ she told the collective Raffertys.
‘Which one’d you try to buy, love?’ Pete asked casually.
‘He’s not here, I think.’ Sylva was looking at the programme, then glanced up as Lough rode into the ring. ‘But I like this one. It’s a very pretty colour. I asked Tash for a palomino!’
The New Zealand horse was in fact the palest sorrel chestnut, but in the bright sunlight with his flaxen mane and tail gleaming like spun gold, it resembled a fairytale steed, its rider the noblest of avenging knights.
‘This is Koura – the one you bet on.’ Indigo was consulting the programme too.
Taking a deep drag on his cigar, Pete smiled to himself as Lough jumped his second clear round of the day.
By the time the top ten jumped, Lough’s two rounds were the only clears. With other riders averaging double-figure penalties around the trappy course, he was breathing down the neck of those still to go, both of his horses now miraculously well placed to rival the leaders.
In the arena, the top ten crumbled one by one. Poles fell as willingly as pine needles from an ageing Christmas tree, planks were brushed off their shallow cups and time penalties clocked up. Lough rose up the leaderboard, past Lucy Field who knocked out the narrow stile, past veteran Australian Mick James, and young British hopes Colly Trewin and Miranda Hayter. Soon, to everyone’s amazement, and especially his own, only two rounds lay between him and victory.
Then a handsome figure rode into the arena like Young Lochinvar, mounted on a world-famous horse. All the confidence from a four-star win a week earlier and an easy passage to Badminton’s top three
lifted him and the crowd to mutual devotion. Rory was the exciting young British hope, tipped for a place on the team for the European Championships later in the year, handsome and heroic, up in the top ten while valiant also-ran Hugo wasn’t even going to finish this year. The crowd had a new favourite.
His confidence – hyped up to the point of cocky indifference and gratified by MC’s devotion – paid dividends, but only just. To the delight of his connections, Rory and The Fox jumped clear. The more knowledgeable watching could see that he took ludicrous risks and showed off appallingly, and had his horse been stiffer and flatter from the previous day’s cross-country he would have paid the price.
But he scraped his clear and punched the air, rather unsportingly pointing at Sonja Ricker as she cantered in to jump for victory and calling out ‘Beat that!’ The partisan crowd turned a blind eye and carried on cheering him all the way out.
Having watched from the sidelines, Faith rushed forwards as Rory jumped off Cub, eager to cheer his clear, but then she stopped short as MC swooped in to clasp him in her talons and join his entourage in watching the final round, carefully keeping out of camera shot as the collecting-ring television crew focused tightly on his excited face. Disheartened, Faith took the horse and patted him heartily before discreetly taking up position behind them. There was a slow puncture starting to deflate her hopes and her love.
When Sonja knocked down the penultimate fence, assuring victory for Rory, the patriotic crowd went wild. The ringside television cameras caught every moment of the young British champion celebrating with red-blooded gusto, kissing all the girls – and women, most particularly veteran French Olympian Marie-Clair and longsuffering Julia Ditton, who yet again braced herself for a quick interview that involved Rory saying nothing but ‘Bloody brilliant!’ over and over again. Thankfully the television audience were compensated by the arrival of owner Dillon Rafferty at his jockey’s side. Despite the scraggy beard and Gay Pride T-shirt which had been covered up by a vast on-screen strapline showing his name, his smile worked its magic and Rory’s victory was sprinkled with the fairy dust of celebrity. When Sylva Frost appeared at Dillon’s side and held his hand, subtly lifting his garish ring into view, the cameras went into overdrive.
‘Is it true that we have a celebrity wedding to look forward to?’ Julia asked reluctantly, prompted by screaming demands in her earpiece.
Sylva blushed and said nothing, but her look to camera melted hearts in sitting rooms around the country. The nation’s favourite single mum had got her dream man, a modest rock star and farmer who would surely make her happy at last.
The traditional post-Badminton party at Haydown, shared with the Moncrieffs, was not as joyous as in previous years. Wrought with undercurrents from the start, all eyes were on Hugo and Lough as the tension between them threatened to combust within just an hour.
Wholly overlooked despite his epic victory, Rory appropriated a bottle of champagne and jumped gleefully and victoriously from the wagon for the night. MC had already flown back to France, leaving him in quandary. Eager for a little partisan company, he located Faith in the garden talking to Gus and Alicia.
Her companions were both puffing away on Rothmans. All three were having a heated debate about the state of eventing in Britain, voices raised and hackles up, even though they were all essentially on the same side.
‘It’s being dumbed down!’ Gus stormed. ‘When I was Faith’s age we rode everything by the seat of out pants.’
‘Exactly!’ Alicia raised her hipflask of gin. ‘Young things like Faith here need to feel the danger.’
‘There is no danger if you ride well enough,’ Faith said, turning to watch Rory stumble through the rose bushes towards her, champagne bottle in hand. He was tilting sideways, but the fact that he had sought her out at all made her heart soar.
He joined them and immediately bummed a cigarette from Alicia.
‘You don’t smoke!’ Faith protested.
‘Feel the danger,’ he whispered in her ear, elbowing her cheerfully. ‘All this passive smoking is white-knuckle stuff.’
‘Actually, I’m a passive-aggressive smoker. If you light that near me, I’ll hit you. ’
It was too smart-arse for Rory, but he did at least toss the cigarette away.
He was leaning quite heavily against her, offering a swig from his champagne bottle.
Oh, the bliss of drinking from the cool glass his lips had just encircled.
‘Let’s take a walk among the lavender borders,’ he suggested, lurching off.
The lavender borders smelled intoxicatingly heady.
Rory was already intoxicated enough. He was slurring so much that only one in three words was distinguishable as he rambled again about his victory, and achieving two of the three Rolex Grand Slam legs.
‘I’ll win it for you, Faith my darling!’ He tripped over a step. ‘I am the best!
We
are the best! Spent your winnings yet?’
‘No.’
‘Pleash don’t have any more plashtic surgery. Itsh shuch a waste.’
Faith felt bleak. He obviously meant that surgery was wasted on her, as such a lost cause. Her flat chest shrank back from her biggest chicken fillets and she felt so stung that it didn’t even register with her that he still thought she’d had her full boob and body makeover.
They had reached the raised seating at the far end of the rose garden, which had been constructed to take advantage of the view out across the parkland to the west. The last streaks of sunset bleached an otherwise inky sky ahead of them, the distant woods rasping with roosting rooks.
‘I need your help, Faith – here.’ He handed the bottle to her again because he needed both hands to help steady his way to sitting down on a bench. ‘Faith-full,’ he went on, struggling over the pun. ‘My old faithful, young faithful. My mate. Too talented to waste her life as some working pupil with old war-dogs like the Moncrieffs.’
‘I’m happy there.’
‘But you’re rich now. You don’t have to work for them.’
She said nothing, her defences rising because she suddenly feared that he was only interested in her money. When he took the ride on Rio, they had never made a formal deal. She had never been able to afford to pay livery, but at the time he’d taken the horse on he’d
never dreamed of the league Rio would now be competing in. And now he had four horses at that level, perhaps he was after his cut of the winnings?
He had taken her hand in his and was swinging it companionably against his cheek, a strange, unnatural gesture because he was being brotherly but she wanted to lift his hand to her lips and kiss his every calloused knuckle.
‘Time to take a leap of Faith.’ He sounded as though he was talking to himself.
‘Meaning?’
‘Marie-Clair has asked me to go to France and compete on the Continental circuit. She thinks I need to be away from Haydown while the shit hits the fan.’
‘What?’ She froze.
Rory shook his head. ‘Hugo’s a shit and Lough’s not his greatest fan. Thing is, I need your help here, Faith.’
He didn’t need to elaborate. She immediately guessed what the deal was. He needed her money – and horse – in Europe. Long accustomed to unrequited love, to battling to keep close to him, the thought of him leaving her again was almost too much to bear.
‘Marie-Clair is very demanding,’ he sighed.
‘Do you love her?’ She snatched her hand away, causing him to sway sideways.
But he didn’t appear to be listening. ‘She says I still have a long way to go, but she thinks I have potential. She says my cock is compact and powerful, like a Norman Cob.’
Faith bristled. ‘So she wants you to ride around Europe with your Norman Cob on stand-by for when her husband’s away on business?’
‘Something like that.’ He sighed again, reaching up to remove a leaf from the top of her head, his eyes crossing so he inadvertently pulled out a few strands of Faith’s hair, which really hurt.
She jerked her head away, appalled by how much she wanted to beg him not to go away again. She couldn’t stop thinking about his Norman Cob now. She stood up nervously and turned to face him. ‘And you need
me
why, exactly?’
Rory looked up at her. It was his golden opportunity, his moment to put into words those unfamiliar feelings which had been pulling hidden pockets of his soul inside out since Kentucky, probably longer. For the first time that night, Rory wished he was sober.
He’d spent much of this evening psyching himself up for this, and imbibed so much Dutch courage that he struggled to speak at all. Marie-Clair’s offer was once-in-a-lifetime stuff, but it meant nothing without Faith on side. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go to France at all. MC terrified him. She had him by the balls, but Faith had his heart and he had no idea if she wanted it.
‘Faith, I—’
‘Yes?’
Rory faltered, knowing he had to get this right. It was a pretty shabby heart, he felt, covered with so many dents and cracks after years of rough riding that he now kept it protected as he did his spine, plating both in protective armour to stop them feeling any pain when he took more knocks. Yet he was prepared to lay it open tonight. He’d go down on one knee if necessary.
He patted the bench beside him.
Faith perched on it again, as far away from him as she could, the whites of her eyes flashing mistrustfully.
He swivelled to face her, slid an arm behind her to rest it on the back of the bench and – realising too late that the bench had no backrest – fell backwards into the rose border, his legs in the air.
Faith looked down at him, only mildly concerned. She’d seen him drunk enough times to be immune to his clumsiness. ‘Why do you need me?’
There were roses to the left of him, roses to the right. In his mind, he plucked one and held it up to her, saying something killingly romantic.
In reality, he lay with his mouth open for a stupidly long time, staring up at her, then said, ‘Face it, Faith, we’re stuck together.’
He knew exactly what he meant, and the devotion it implied.
Faith didn’t.
‘Are you asking me to come to France as your groom?’ For a moment she was quite excited at the thought, but then the reality of letting down the Moncrieffs and enduring Rory and MC together quickly arrested her enthusiasm.
‘No! MC has grooms laid on,’ Rory was saying, drunkenly starting to ramble to make up for the fact he’d just literally fallen head over heels protesting undying love, or so he believed, and was hugely embarrassed. He tugged at his signet ring, trying to wrench it off his little finger. ‘Her yard there is amazing, the highest spec. It’s a world
apart from you and me working together with just the basics at Overlodes, a world apart …’ He let out a nostalgic sigh.
Faith took this to mean he couldn’t wait to get to the high-tech yard in France. She stood up, unwilling to hear more in case it hurt too much.
‘I was thinking more of me being the groom!’ He struggled upright, lacerating his arms and hands on thorns.
Oh God, he was going to
marry
MC, Faith realised. She’d divorce her husband, get a seven-figure settlement and marry Rory. He would finally have his dream come true with a Sophia Loren looka-like that could ride, and she’d have a dream work jockey.
‘We’ve never talked anything through.’ He was clambering over the bench now. ‘Never laid any ground rules about … Rio … us … what you wanted to happen when you gave me the ride …’
If he married MC he would want to keep Rio in France.
Her
horse, who she had given to him along with her heart and everything else.
‘I need to know what you want, Faith.’ He managed to settle on the bench again, still tugging at his signet ring. ‘What you really want.’