Kiss and Tell (37 page)
Returning to the horsebox in a foul temper, Rory found Beccy watching a DVD of last year’s Blenheim, snuggling up to Karma and loyally sewing the seams of Hugo’s best cross-country breeches.
‘Who rained on your parade?’ she asked.
Rory was too glum to answer. Gathering Twitch to his chest, he clambered up into his bunk and pulled the covers over his head.
Tactfully switching off the DVD, Beccy picked up her phone and took Karma outside for a final run, daring herself to check if there were any messages.
She switched the phone on and jumped sky high when it beeped an alert, but it was just listing missed calls. One, predictably, was from her mother. Two were from Lough. She checked the log details, calculating that he had called in the early hours of the morning New Zealand time, which was odd because she knew his flight times and he should have been airborne.
She leaned back against the horsebox, tilting her head up to look at the stars and shivering as the cold wind bit at her skin. She could hear chattering and laughter in the lorries around her that glowed like a miniature city set up in a windblown Oxfordshire field. She suddenly felt horribly excluded from it all, a stranger forced to watch life from the outside, much as she had felt all her life.
Save me again
, she texted Lough.
When Beccy’s phone finally beeped with a reply, Rory woke up and started grumbling at her to switch the bloody thing off.
I’m the one who needs saving now.
Feeling very cold and very panicky, Beccy switched her phone to silent mode. An hour later another message came.
I’ve screwed up. Totally screwed up
.
Blenheim was lashed by rain and high winds on the second day of competition. As a result, the dressage suffered from low spectator numbers and high penalties. Last in the arena, Hugo’s horse Sir Galahad was just as unforgiving as his previous ride and failed to reward Hugo’s loyal, sodden followers with anything spectacular as he squelched around the rectangle like a reluctant teenager dragging his feet through Peter Jones for a school uniform fitting. When a burger container flew between his front legs as he cantered up the centre line, Sir Galahad swerved, bucked and then planted himself on the spot. Hugo’s score was even worse than on Vixen the day before and left him too far out of contention for any honours unless he could pull off a cross-country miracle, by riding clear inside the time while everyone else took the scenic route.
The last thing he wanted to face as he emerged from the riders’ tent with his dismal test sheet was a barrage of photographers and a film crew, but such was his fate when Sylva Frost shimmied up to him, trout pout curling into a devilish smile that rained scented air-kisses around him.
‘Uuugo,’ she laid on the Bond Girl accent, employed as always when faced with an attractive but disinterested man. ‘You have been avoiding me! I think you don’t vant to sell me a horse.’
With a baby blue cowboy hat crammed on her platinum extensions, and wearing a matching baby blue Puffa, fake tan darker than a teak woodstain, and brown leather jeans so tight and shiny that her slender legs disappearing into Ugg boots resembled sapling trunks planted in terracotta pots, she cut a ludicrous figure amid the mud, rain and wind-whipped canvas. Hugo had neither the time nor the inclination to get involved, particularly with a man waving a vast, insect-like camera at him from one shoulder like a grumpy extra from a
Star Wars
battle scene.
Hugo couldn’t take Sylva seriously and was certain that any nonsense she was spouting about buying an event horse was purely for publicity, but he was far too well brought up – not to mention aware of recent blights to his public image – to be rude to her face, particularly in front of her camera crews.
‘Indeed, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Why not walk
with me, and we’ll talk …’ He strode ahead and she was forced into hot pursuit, shapely Rear of the Year captured from every angle as it raced after him.
Hugo wanted to have a quick word with Ben and Sophia, who had brought family and friends to come along to support their horse, believing Sir Galahad was really in with a chance. He felt it only right that he commiserate and give a thorough explanation before he got wrapped up with other commitments, but the Merediths were nowhere to be seen and Tash had his phone.
He’d reluctantly agreed to make an appearance and a short speech at a drinks reception being hosted by his sponsors, followed by a rather tedious photocall at Mogo’s trade stand. His natural instinct was to find Tash and walk the cross-country course with her once more, putting his lousy dressage behind him, but with any renewal of the sponsorship deal so precariously poised he knew that he had to keep the clothing label sweet, particularly as Rory was proving a rather wayward member of the Mogo team. He was the first person Hugo spotted in their sponsor’s hospitality tent, flirting with the managing director’s wife. He could see Tash making a valiant attempt to distract the attention of the managing directors away from the overexcited Rory, but with both children and the Czechs in tow, she wasn’t doing the Beauchampions any favours. Sensing an uphill struggle ahead, Hugo braced himself.
What he hadn’t anticipated was his sponsors’ delight when Sylva Frost arrived after him; it was rather like Camilla arriving as guest of honour at a charity fundraiser, only to be followed in by The Queen.
Immediately swamped by Mogo VIPS and unable to get close to Tash, who not only had his heart in his pocket, but also his lifeline in the form of his mobile phone, Hugo was forced to introduce Sylva to the throng. He did this with a polite, stiff-jawed respect, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to be associated with her. A few, especially the snobbish older eventing fraternity, concurred with a cold handshake, but when the flavour of the month arrives to sweeten a rather embittered little mix, it’s a mouth-watering moment guaranteed to get tongues wagging.
Across the tent Tash tried, and failed, to stop jealousy slice through her when she saw who was prowling around her husband as excitedly as a kitten rubbing its whiskers on catmint. Sylva was so
sylph-like and petite that you could fit the whole of her into one leg of Tash’s jeans.
Hearing Hugo’s phone beep in her pocket, she resisted the urge to dive behind a lifesize cutout of her husband reciving his Olympic team gold and check if the text was from V. Hugo’s new handset was far too tricky to navigate quickly, besides which she had promised herself that she wouldn’t dwell on the V texts or Waitrose flowers, which were undoubtedly perfectly innocent. This week was all about offering unconditional family support and she was determined to tame her suspicion radar.
Beside Tash, and oblivious to the small media storm at the entrance, Vasilly and Veruschka were devoting all their attentions to the children and the buffet respectively. Both had quickly tired of the delights of three day eventing. Veruschka complained that their bed was too soft, the breakfast in the B and B was too greasy, and that the weather was too cold. Vasilly, a more laid-back character from what Tash could surmise, was apparently suffering from chronic fatigue brought about by lack of nutrition. He seemed to be busy remedying that right now as he laid into the buffet common to all these events: vast silver foil trays crammed with sandwich triangles, still sweaty and flat from too-tight cling-film and canapés that looked suspiciously like something a Nolan sister and Christopher Biggins would advertise in
Coronation Street
ad breaks.
‘He will be ill, I tell him,’ Veruschka said to Tash with a jerk of her head towards her boyfriend. As she did so she laid Amery out on a stretch of white tablecloth, changing bag at the ready. ‘He ees greedy peeg.’
‘What are you doing?’ Tash asked in alarm as she suddenly realised that her au pair was stripping her baby in full view of her sponsors’ most valued clients, family and friends.
‘He haff dirty nappy.’
‘Not here, Veruschka!’ Tash hissed.
‘I weel not change baby in plastic lavatory box!’
‘Of course not. We can go back to the horsebox.’
‘He is miles away.’
‘Then I’m sure the waiters can find us somewhere more discreet behind—’
Too late. Amery was naked from the waist down and a nappy
containing something resembling piccalilli was thrust at Tash while Veruschka delved in the bag for wipes and Sudocrem.
She found herself holding the laden nappy out in front of her as Vasilly turned to her, big cheeks bulging and half a dozen chicken skewers between his fingers like unlit sparklers.
‘Ees good!’ he spluttered approvingly.
For one ludicrous moment Tash thought that he was going to dunk a skewer in the offending nappy, but he simply beamed at her.
Cora let out an approving shriek from knee height as she wobbled around pulling at the tablecloths and peering beneath the trestles.
Hugo finally closed in on her, the baby-blue Barbie at his side. ‘Tash! At last. You haven’t met Sylva yet, have you?’ He immediately peeled off towards the buffet, having not eaten all day.
‘No – we missed each other yesterday – hello there!’ Tash held the nappy behind her back and looked down at the cowboy hat, beneath which she could see only a glossy pout. For a brief moment jealousy and low self esteem curdled in her belly, then Sylva disarmed her with a single blow.
‘These are your children? They are so beautiful!’
Sinking down on to her haunches she cooed at Cora, who was now playing peekaboo amid the overhanging tablecloths. Instantly identifying an audience, the little girl twirled, giggled and ducked behind the white damask, only to bob her head up a moment later with shrieks of delight. Sylva giggled along with equal enchantment. Even Amery, now with a fresh nappy and buttoned back into his pramsuit, was lifted upright in time to see the magical blue figure with the big white smile straighten up, home in on him and kiss his nose. He gurgled in appreciation.
Tash’s heart was won.
Not so Veruschka, who snatched the baby to her chest and glared at Sylva over his downy head.
Meanwhile, still in possession of a full nappy and an uncertain smile, Tash was making introductions.
‘This is Veruschka and this is Vasilly.’ She managed to attract the attention of the big Czech who was now guzzling his way through a tray of stuffed cherry tomatoes. Noticing Sylva for the first time, his eyes bulged and he started to choke.
‘You come from the same country, of course!’ Tash fumbled on
like a demented hostess, realising that her social skills were as out of practice as her supportive-wife ones.
‘You are from Slovakia?’ Sylva asked in English, rather pointedly, her native accent nowhere to be heard – she had a disconcerting ability to drop it at a moment’s notice.
‘
»eški
,’ Vasilly muttered, spitting tomato juice on to the brim of her cowboy hat.
‘Neighbours, then?’ Tash corrected her gaffe.
Saying nothing, Veruschka made a strange hissing noise that was part tut and part snarl, and turned away to gather the children and spirit them away for a walk.
When Sylva called something out in Czech – or Slovakian, for all Tash knew – there was a distinct waving of a finger over one yellow shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Tash bleated, then squeaked in pain as Vasilly blundered after his girlfriend, canapés flying, big feet crashing down on Tash’s as he passed by at speed. ‘They’re terribly nice, but they’ve only just arrived in this country and some things don’t translate, I think.’
‘It’s okay. I’m used to it.’ Sylva shrugged with surprisingly sanguine air. ‘In the Czech Republic, they think they’re better than us poor Slovakian neighbours.’ Then she nudged Tash with her elbow which, given their height difference, meant jabbing her in the hip. ‘Your husband does not fuck that nanny, I take it?’
Tash stood, momentarily open-mouthed, before gratefully spotting her sister approaching.
Dressed in an immaculately tailored long tweed coat with a nipped-in waist and a kick skirt, Sophia looked absolutely the part of the wealthy owner, from her fur collar to buttoned cuffs, and from the neat ponytail in her blue-black hair down to her brown leather Le Chameau boots.
The same could not be said for Tash. Mascara smudged and hair on end, her Mogo team coat covered in horse slobber and baby sick, she made an uncharacteristically loving lunge towards her sister. At the same moment, Hugo’s phone rang in her pocket – a newly assigned ringtone that she didn’t recognise. For a moment it sounded as though there was an angry troll in her jeans.
Thus Tash and Sophia embraced with a lot of strange grunts and roars emanating from below.
‘It’s a haka,’ Sophia told her as Tash groped for the rubber-cased phone that Hugo had acquired because it was waterproof and rugged.
‘A what?’ She stared at the phone, which was still grunting.
‘Maori chant. I recognise it from All Blacks matches. Ben watches enough bloody rugby for me to be able to recite it like the Lord’s Prayer.’
Finally Tash worked out how to answer the call, turning away to try to hear better and gesturing for her sister to introduce herself to Sylva.
Feeling magnanimous, Sophia stepped towards Sylva Frost with a smile.
‘We’ve met.’ She shook the little Slovak’s manicured hand while examining her cosmetic work in close detail. It was flawless. ‘Polo, I think.’
Sophia was in her element at Blenheim, although not particularly horsy herself. Having only ever been a hobby rider, and rather nervous, she’d gratefully hung up her boots after marriage, but she was now serving a long internship as a Pony-Club mum, and loved the country houses and tweed of the eventing scene. Having a sister and brother-in-law ranked so highly in the sport lent one a certain gravitas, along with owning a half share in a horse like Sir Galahad. He’d somewhat underperformed today, but any disappointment Sophia felt was counterbalanced by the fact that Miranda Rock had just greeted her like an old chum and asked her when they were going to host a horse trials at Holdham, making her truly feel one of the clique.