White Christmas (8 page)

‘How was today, anyway?’ asked Mimi. ‘You keep whinging
about how terrible this room is, but you haven’t actually told me about the
race. I wish I’d been there to cheer you on.’

‘I forgive you,’ laughed Suzie. ‘You’ve got a pretty good
excuse. Bit busy with your own stuff, weren’t you? But come on, pass me your
laptop and I’ll show you how I did.’

Mimi gave up trying to write her email and dutifully handed
her computer over. Sitting cross-legged on top of the garish blue and pink
London 2012 duvet cover, Suzie scrolled through the BBC website and quickly
found what she was looking for. Mimi peered over her shoulder and smiled. Watching
her best friend race like the wind round the amazing Pringle-shaped Velodrome
made her glow with pride.
 

‘That’s a sensational time, Suzie,’ she said once the video
was over. ‘You must be in with a chance - of a medal, I mean.’

‘Hmmm, I’m not sure. There’s such a long way to go yet and
the Australian girls are brilliant cyclists. They make it seem so easy. Anyway,
look who’s talking? A clear round on the first day… how good is that? You could
easily take the gold.’

Mimi’s cheeks flushed bright pink. ‘You reckon? But no
British rider’s ever won an individual gold. We might stand a chance in the
team event – but the Americans will be a tough act to beat.’

Suzie rolled her eyes in exasperation. Mimi was fiercely
competitive, but so damned modest with it. She needed more fighting talk. It
was the one thing holding her back.

‘How many more rounds are there? Showjumping’s so
complicated. I can never get my head round how it works.’

‘We’ve done one today so there are four more to go,’ said
Mimi, who knew the schedule inside out. ‘The first two rounds decide the team
medals and then they combine all five rounds for the individual event. And I
don’t know why, but they don’t call it showjumping at the Olympics. It’s just
jumping.’

Suzie looked none the wiser. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’
she said. ‘My kit’s much better than yours. I absolutely love it, even if it
looks like it’s been sprayed on. I’m giving up chocolate, biscuits and cake
till the Games are over. And you know how hard that’s going to be.’

Suzie was famed for her sweet tooth. She was obsessed with
Mars Bars, so staying away from them for the duration of the Olympics was going
to be a challenge. If Mimi hadn’t known her so well, she’d have found it hard
to believe the quantity of chocolate Suzie was capable of putting away. Suzie
was tiny. Her glossy, shoulder-length hair and clear skin made it look as
though she existed on a diet of grapes and cucumber – when in fact the opposite
was true. She was right about her Olympic kit though. There wasn’t any contest
between the equestrian team’s ultra-traditional jacket and breeches and Suzie’s
showstopper of an outfit. A body-hugging all-in-one designed by Stella
McCartney, it had a navy Union Jack festooned across the front and patriotic
red piping round the collar. It certainly wasn’t an outfit for shrinking
violets - which luckily Suzie wasn’t.

‘Speaking of food,’ said Suzie. ‘I’m starving. Shall we go
and get something to eat? And do you promise you won’t let me near any cake?
Just pasta. I need all the carbs I can get.’

Ten minutes later, once Suzie had expertly applied her
make-up and Mimi had sent her e-mail, the two girls took the lift down to the
ground floor. They strolled companionably through the crowded lobby, past a
giant TV showing the day’s Olympic highlights and into the vast communal dining
hall. Suzie nodded to a couple of BMX bikers but Mimi didn’t recognise anyone.
The other riders in the GB team were staying with friends, and anyway, they
were so much older than her. She always felt like the odd one out. Like the
Olympic eventers and dressage riders, they came from horsey families, with
stables and horse boxes and strings of well-bred mounts at their disposal.

When Mimi got the Team GB call-up in July, the press had
assumed she came from a wealthy background. Until, that is, they realised Mimi
was short for Mimosa (after her mother’s favourite tree) and that her dad
worked on a farm. While the other riders had been riding almost before they
could walk, Mimi hadn’t started till she was eight. She’d loved it from the
outset but it wasn’t until she won a red rosette at her first three day event
that her instructor realised how naturally gifted she was. To the horror of her
teachers, she’d left school at sixteen and got a job as a stable girl at a yard
in Gresham, fifty miles away in the Yorkshire Dales. It was tough living away
from home, but she’d learned more about horses in those two years than she’d
learned before or since. And best of all, John Bright, one of the top managers
in the country, had spotted her showjumping talent. He’d encouraged her to
apply for a place on the British Equestrian Federation’s world class training
programme, with the aim of making it into the GB team one day.

Now, six years on, she still had to pinch herself to believe
all this had really happened. Not only had she achieved her dream of
representing her country at the Olympics but the press were predicting she’d
bring home a medal. And that wasn’t all. Sponsors, captivated by her stunning
blonde looks and her rags to riches tale, had queued up to back her. She now
had a 4x4 plastered with her photograph, her own horsebox and a posh shampoo
named after her. She had three horses to ride too. Not that she owned them, of
course, but considering how much time they spent together, it felt like she
did. Stryker B was a seven-year-old chestnut stallion, whose owner had had him
since he was a foal, while her two back-ups, Doris Day and Pendleton, were grey
mares. Every time she saw them stick their heads above their stable doors, she
was overcome with pride. They were everything she’d ever wanted.

As Mimi queued up to pay for a bowl of pasta and two apples,
the man in front of her absentmindedly stepped back to grab a glass of orange
juice from the counter. He didn’t check to see if there was anyone behind him
and crashed straight into Mimi, sending her bright red tray hurtling to the
floor. Her plate smashed into smithereens and long strands of tagliatelle flew
in all directions. Everyone in the queue turned and stared at Mimi, who turned
scarlet at the commotion.

In the midst of the furore, Mimi was so busy wiping
bolognaise from her once pristine white shirt that she didn’t bother to look at
the man who’d caused all the trouble. Tall, dark-haired and clad in a US tracksuit,
he was doing his best to pick up fragments of broken china.

Infuriated by his clumsiness, Mimi glanced up from the
floor. ‘You could have looked what you were doing,’ she muttered crossly. But
the words died away in her throat as she got her first proper glimpse of the
man’s face. Blue eyes, tanned skin and impossibly good-looking, he was just
about the last person in the world she wanted to see right now. ‘Sorry,’ she
mumbled. ‘I need to get cleaned up.’ And she turned and walked away.