Keeping the Peace (9 page)

‘Only ninety-seven more to go then.’

Pippa groaned. Cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder, she pulled off her luminous marigold gloves then grimaced as the smell of her sweaty, rubbery hands wafted up her nose.

‘How are things with you?’ she asked.

‘Same ol’, same ol’. Nothing much changes here. I made Liam, from Design, blush on Friday.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, he came over to my desk while I was scratching a boob. Took me completely by surprise. Asked me which layout I liked breast.’

Pippa giggled. Tash might have a high-powered job in advertising, but that didn’t stop her from being human.

‘You’re terrible, you know?’

‘I am, I am. I know. I bought those lovely Jimmy Choos the other day, by the way. They go so well with my layered Indian skirt. When can I go racing to show them off?’

‘Well, Jack says Peace Offering will be ready to race in a couple of weeks so I guess round about then.’

‘Before Christmas then?’

‘Yeah. What are you up to at Christmas? Going to stay with your mum and dad?’

‘Yeah. Mum wouldn’t forgive me if I skipped this year as well. I just so needed to have roast turkey outside in the sunshine for once last year. South Africa was like paradise. What about you?’

‘No, my folks are off cruising. I don’t think they’re back until halfway through January.’

‘My God. Excuse me for asking this, Pip, but how do your parents afford this? They spend half the year away.’

Pippa shrugged, looking at herself in the reflection of the kitchen window. There was a streak of grime across her forehead. She wiped it with a weary hand.

‘Savings. They’re both retired now. The house is paid off.’

‘Couldn’t they lend you some to get Dave’s place sorted out?’

‘No,’ she replied firmly. ‘This is something I’m going to do on my own. Besides, Dave wasn’t hugely popular in my household. He was a gambler and a risk-taker, and well, you know what my parents are like.’

‘God, yes. Buying Crunchy Nut instead of corn flakes is seen as taking a risk with your parents.’

The two friends giggled. Pippa didn’t mind Tash ripping off her parents. She was almost their surrogate daughter so she was allowed to. Suddenly, an eardrum-rupturing alarm went off in the background.

‘Oh, hell!’ cried Tash. ‘I forgot the lasagne in the oven. Got to dash, Pip. Speak to you soon!’

‘Bye, Tash,’ Pippa said to the dead line.

The new week brought with it a wet cold spell and Pippa had to scrape ice off her windscreen for the first time with her debit card. She took it easy driving to work, more in admiration of the countryside than in caution. On either side of the road the leafless branches of the trees were tinged silver and the grass glistened jade.

‘I could probably get that using a slate grey and forest green. Maybe a hint of periwinkle,’ she murmured. She had grabbed a couple of hours to start on
Hazyvale Dawn
over the weekend and, now that she had picked up her brushes again, it was like eating Pringles. You couldn’t just have one, you had to stuff yourself until the whole tube was finished. Her inspiration was coming back in tidal waves.

The deep growl of a tractor coming in the opposite direction refocused Pippa’s attention and happily she waved back at its driver. People didn’t do that on her street in London, she thought as a flood of well-being gushed through her. All they did was hoot and crouch over their steering wheels, in too much of a hurry to take any notice of those around them.

She carried on to work, humming along to the crackling radio, satisfied with the mental photograph she had taken of her surroundings which would hopefully reappear on canvas later.

‘Jack?’ Pippa poked her head round his door.

Jack glared at her, his temper simmering beneath the surface.

‘What?’

Pippa closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. There was no point in both of them being in bad moods. Jack was still standing beneath the black heavy cloud that had emerged after Black Russian’s defeat on Saturday in the Fighting Fifth Hurdle. The fact that Pippa was blissfully unaware of the crucial and unexplained result hadn’t helped when she had cheerily asked how Aspen Valley had performed over the weekend. She decided in future that she was better off watching the races on TV herself so that she would be prepared for Jack’s foul moods. The numerous calls from the media just seemed to feed the flames.

‘Dan Cameron just rang to say he’s got to rearrange your appointment today,’ she said, naming one of Aspen Valley’s premier owners. ‘He can’t do lunch so he said that you should meet him in Bath at half eleven.’

‘What! You told him that was okay?’

‘No, of course not. He didn’t give me much choice though. He said that he wants to speak to you about Black Russian, as you know, and that half eleven was the only time he can see you.’

‘Bloody ridiculous,’ Jack muttered. He looked at his watch. ‘Shit. I better get going then.’ He downed the last of his coffee and snatched up his jacket. He strode towards Pippa. ‘Here are today’s entries. I haven’t finished them. Put Leopard Rock in the two thirty-five at Huntingdon, Spurwing Island in the three ten, Carribea Bay in the four fifteen at Wincanton and Asian Dancer in the two fifteen at Chepstow. Can you remember that?’

‘Don’t worry – oh, Jack!’ Pippa called as he disappeared out of the office. She dashed over to his desk. ‘Keys!’ Jack turned and caught them as she tossed them to him.

‘See you later,’ he said, giving the keys a twirl and shutting the door behind him.

Pippa grinned then ran to answer the phone.

‘Right,’ she said, five minutes later. ‘Time for entries.’

‘
P
ippa. Can you come in here, please.’

Jack’s command was barely audible, which was almost more unnerving than when he was yelling. Pippa rose on unsteady legs. Was this how it was always going to be? Would she live her days in fear of being told off? It wasn’t much of a life. And Jack had been making hers hell for the past few days, with what seemed completely unnecessary provocation. She hadn’t actually done anything wrong so far! Sighing, she left the safety of her desk and entered Jack’s office. He was holding a piece of paper which he held up for Pippa to see.

‘Do you know what this is?’

Pippa groaned inwardly. She hated trick questions.

‘Entries ready to be declared,’ she said cautiously.

‘Can you tell me why Bajan Dancer is entered in the two fifteen at Chepstow tomorrow?’

A wave of uncertainty broke over her.

‘Because that’s what you told me.’

‘No,’ Jack said slowly. ‘I told you to enter
Asian
Dancer in the two fifteen at Chepstow.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘I don’t think you realise the impact this has, Pippa,’ he went on in a quiet voice. ‘All my horses are primed for their particular races. I train them to hit their peak on the day of their race. Not the day before. Not the day after. Asian Dancer would be at his peak tomorrow. Next weekend he won’t be as ready as he is now. Bajan Dancer would be at his peak in about six days providing his work goes to plan. Not tomorrow.’

Pippa gulped. Okay, maybe apologising wasn’t enough to make things better.

‘Oh.’

‘This can’t happen again, Pippa, do you hear?’

She felt like she’d been caught not doing her homework at school.

‘It was a mistake, Jack.’ She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t make mistakes on purpose.’

‘You have to do better than that.’

‘Mistakes happen, especially if you start yelling entries at me as you rush out of the door.’ Indignation crept into her voice.

‘I wouldn’t have had to rush out of the door if you’d arranged a better time for me to see Dan Cameron!’

‘That wasn’t my fault, Jack. How can I help it if one of your owners decides the only time he can meet you doesn’t suit your schedule, but says that it’s of vital importance that he sees you?’

‘You make a different plan!’

Pippa was about to retort when there was a knock at the main office door. She glared at Jack for a moment more, her chest hurting from the deep breaths she was taking.

Back in the reception, Finn O’Donaghue was waiting on the doorstep.

‘Safe to come in?’ he said in a stage whisper.

Pippa managed a smile, her spirits lifting at his arrival like a reflex action.

‘Come in, Finn. What can I do for you?’

She liked Finn, the young wiry Irishman with equally wiry blond hair and crooked nose. Everyone liked him, despite, or perhaps even especially, because he always played second fiddle to Rhys Bradford. Rhys was apparently a better jockey; that was generally acknowledged – although Pippa couldn’t comment on this – and he knew it, strutting around like a cat who’d just been spoon-fed a pint of cream.

‘Just dropped in to see which nags we have runnin’ tomorrow.’

Pippa gave a mirthless snort.

‘Not Asian Dancer for one.’

Later that afternoon, Pippa relaxed in her chair, leaning back and gazing at the ceiling. Jack was out racing and it seemed the rest of the world had decided to give her ten minutes of peace and quiet. She looked around with displeasure. The room was drab. Boring. There was no colour, only bare white walls except for the framed photographs of Virtuoso’s Gold Cup win and Black Russian’s Champion Hurdle win.

She needed to get this horrible feeling of depression off her chest. She opened a new email window.

Hi Tash,

How’s you? You’re not giving poor Liam a hard time I hope? I’m going to apologise now because I need to have a good rant and you’re my only ally at the moment. Jack Carmichael is an absolute shit! He’s bossy, miserable and shouts too much. Can you believe I’ve been here over a week and he hasn’t said one nice thing to me? It’s exhausting to have abuse thrown at you the entire time.

I cocked up on the entries this morning, which I feel bad about – really, I do – but Jack acted like it was either going to start a world war or someone was going to die because of it.

What have I done? Is Peace Offering really worth all this trouble? Life in London wasn’t exactly rosy and I’m trying to enjoy the cottage even though it’s hard work, but is this some sort of punishment for wanting to enjoy my life? I’m not surprised Jack’s old secretary upped and left him in the lurch. I’d be inclined to do the same if it wasn’t for Peace Offering. God knows he hasn’t done anything to deserve any less.

“Jack fucking Carmichael is proven to be an extremely crazed bastard without question”
. That seems more appropriate than
“Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs”
.

Right, I feel better now. Thank you for listening to me. I’m now going to see out the rest of the afternoon in peace since thankfully, Jack is at the races. Speak to you soon.

Love ya,

Pip

xxx

Pippa dropped her brush into the water-filled jar beside her easel. She rolled her shoulders and stretched, letting the last bars of Puccino’s
O Mio Babbino Caro
seep through her aching muscles. Without glancing at the picture in front of her, she turned away to hunt her cigarettes down in the kitchen.

As she huddled beneath the front door’s overhang in the dark she chewed her bottom lip, her thoughts still consumed by her day at work.

Was Peace Offering really worth it, she asked herself for the twentieth time? She sighed and tapped the ash from her cigarette, because, for the twentieth time, she couldn’t come up with a definitive answer.

To say no would be to turn away from the magic she had seen in the racehorse’s eyes and to turn her back on Dave’s dream to run him in the Grand National.

To say yes, he was worth it, was to consider this new life an improvement on the one she had led in London. To say yes was to believe that Peace Offering could fulfil his late owner’s dream.

Pippa took a deep drag, hearing the soft crackle of burning tobacco, such was the quiet of her surroundings, and she acknowledged that to say yes, meant the dream had to be her own as well as her uncle’s. With a defeated shake of her head, she stubbed her cigarette out in an empty flowerpot beside the door and went back inside into the warm.

When she returned to the spare bedroom to look at her completed painting for the first time, she smiled with satisfaction.
Hazyvale Dawn
burst out of the canvas just as it had burst through the window on her first morning. The long sweeping watercolour strokes of peach and apricot mist swirled across the page; the sun was a soft gold orb as opposed to a hard amber ball as the moisture in the air blurred its outline.

‘Perfect.’

Satisfied, Pippa picked up a fine-tipped brush and dabbed her signature in a red rosewood hue in the lower right hand corner. Holding the page with reverent care, she teased it away from the rest of the pad and laid it out on a table like a mother lowering her sleeping child into its cot. She sat back down on her stool in front of her easel, the urge to create still not quelled inside her. She twiddled the brush in her fingers, unsure what image could fulfil this craving.

She thought back to her first morning driving to work; how the frost had turned the countryside silver, of the tractor driver waving at her, but the pictures in her head refused to transfer to her hand holding the brush. Instead, she found herself dabbing delicate lines of a man leaning down to feel a horse’s leg in the middle of a stable yard.

Pippa’s breath shortened as the inspiration flowed through her fingertips and onto the canvas. Roused by the harrowing tones of
Tosca
from her CD player in the corner of the room, she nurtured the scene to life. The smell of turned straw brought to life the loaded wheelbarrows parked in the stable doorways, the sound of shod hooves on concrete transformed itself into saddled racehorses being walked along the concourse, the scent of warm sweating bodies recreated by their steaming flanks. The chatter of riders and grooms filled her head as she painted their faces, a splash of colour from their red anoraks catching the eye.