Читать книгу Stable Mates - Zara Stoneley, Zara Stoneley - Страница 11

Elizabeth Stanthorpe had been born in Tipping House, and fully intended on dying there. After she’d ensured that her family would continue running the estate in the way it deserved to be.

‘I imagine that young Rory thinks Dominic is gay.’ She raised an eyebrow as Lottie spluttered a shower of gin and tonic over one of the black Labradors and then hastily tried to rub it in with the back of her hand.

‘I’m not sure that’s why they don’t like each other, not that I think Uncle Dom is gay, of course.’

‘Well, I did.’ She took another swig of her own drink.

‘Gran, you can’t say that.’

‘Well he can be so bloody prissy at times, not a bit like his father was. If it hadn’t been a home birth I would have thought there had been a mix up at some point. No one would have ever have accused your grandfather of batting for the other side, although those private schools can bring out the worst in boys.’ She focussed back on her only granddaughter, only grandchild, who was going a funny shade of pink. ‘Well, you did bring it up, darling. Pour me another drink whilst you’re up, there’s a good girl.’

Lottie had been about to say she wasn’t actually up, but knew it was useless to argue with her grandmother, who had what she referred to as ‘backbone’.

As she sloshed a good measure of Bombay Sapphire gin into the chipped crystal, she decided that it was a good job they didn’t make them like that anymore. Although the matriarch could be more fun than the rest of the family put together when it suited her. Nothing stopped Elizabeth when she got the bit between her teeth, and Lottie secretly thought that her grandmother wasn’t as batty, forgetful and deaf as she liked to make out.

‘All I said,’ she passed the drink to Elizabeth who sniffed it as though she suspected it might be laced with something, or more likely not strong enough, ‘was that Rory thought it was strange when Uncle Dom turned up at the dressage. Did you have anything to do with that?’

‘I may have mentioned it.’ She tapped a long nail against the side of the glass, piercing blue eyes fixed on Lottie. ‘You could do a lot better than that man, Charlotte.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘You are so like your mother in some ways.’

When Elizabeth had borne two children for Charles Stanthorpe, she had, in her usual manner, carried out her duties exactly as could have been expected. Their eldest child, Dominic, was a fair-haired, blue-eyed, easy-going child who was always keen to please, courteous, but precise to the point of obsession. More than once, Elizabeth had been filled with an irrational desire to rearrange his meticulously organised toys, and then Alexandra had arrived and done it for her.

Alexa was as beautiful and wild as Dom was pretty and controlled. Her dark eyes would glint with mischievousness and her long curls bob as she dashed around the large house, causing chaos. With the family Labs in her wake, Alexa would tear like a mini tornado, leaving a trail of destruction behind her. But with her ready grin, infectious giggle and affable nature, remonstrating with her was something that was easier left to others. So everybody did. Everyone forgave and forgot, with the result that, by the time she hit her teens, the fun-loving little girl had turned into an irresistible challenge that scared the living daylights out of many of her chosen suitors.

So Elizabeth found, as her children hit puberty, that she was hit with an unexpected problem. Her son showed no apparent interest in the female form, funnelling all his efforts into the pursuit of equine excellence, and her hitherto perfect daughter Alexa showed too much interest in horsemen. At twenty-two she was smitten with the very dashing, but totally unsuitable William Brinkley, at twenty-three she was pregnant with his child. The day after her twenty-fifth birthday she died in a tragic accident.

Lottie knew with the ‘just like your mother comment’ exactly where this conversation was going and did her best to head it off with the skill of someone who’d had to do it many times before. Her mother, Alexandra, had been destined to marry someone befitting her breeding, until she fell for Billy Brinkley. A sportsman who was as competent in the sack as saddle, if the headlines and stable tittle-tattle was to be believed. Lottie had never known her mother; losing her when she was just a toddler had meant she had never felt the real pang of loving and losing, but as she grew up she felt like there was an element of her life missing. The bossy, but well-meaning, Elizabeth had considered it her duty to support her only granddaughter and give her all the information she could ever need, drip-feeding it to her from the day she was old enough to understand.

‘Grandma, I don’t need watching.’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t call me Grandma, it makes me sound ancient.’

‘And I like Rory. He’s fun.’

‘Hmm, I bet he is.’ The sharp eyes gave her an uncomfortable once-over. ‘Life isn’t just about fun though, is it? I mean it is fine for men to sow their wild oats, but even these days it isn’t good form for a lady. And nor are those plimsolls.’ The slight twitch could have been a supressed smile, Lottie reckoned, or a warning there was more to come.

She groaned inwardly. ‘Converses, Gran.’ She knew she couldn’t win any kind of discussion with Elizabeth. And why were ‘plimsolls’, as she termed them, any worse than the green wellies that her grandmother stomped out in, whatever the weather, along with the ancient, waxed Barbour jacket that must be nearly as old as she was?

‘So, are you going to tell me about that young man?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Oh, Bertie, you really shouldn’t.’ Lottie cringed as her grandmother tugged determinedly at her knickers which, for some strange reason, were visible at the waistband of her tweed skirt, then heaved a sigh of relief as Elizabeth triumphantly pulled out a handkerchief which she wafted in front of her nose. Bertie had stood up at the sound of his name and was now swishing his tail around like only a fat Labrador can, his big brown eyes fixed unerringly on his owner. ‘These bloody dogs know exactly how to get what they want. I’m sure he can pass wind at will. Worse than children. Come on you smelly bugger.’ Lottie shifted back so that the whip-like tail didn’t catch her on the shins. She’d got enough bruises and scratches from Rory’s terriers, any more and she’d be looking like a badly patched quilt in shades of purple.

Whatever Elizabeth said though, there was a definite family resemblance between Dominic and his mother. They were both slim, upright and had the type of striking long noses and piercing gazes that left you feeling like you were being told off by a particularly stern schoolteacher. Lottie hadn’t a clue how old her grandmother actually was, but she didn’t act or look it. And she didn’t move at all like a geriatric when she wanted something. She was already marching out of the room, her words echoing in the cavernous, wood-panelled hallway, Bertie and his half-brother, Holmes, hurtling after her, nails tip-tapping on the hard floor in her wake, as Lottie put her drink down and scrambled after them. She was still trying to catch her breath as a welcome rush of fresh air hit her.

Elizabeth didn’t believe in central heating, it was just for softies who liked to burn money, which meant the house was freezing all year round. Even in summer.

‘You were telling me about this man?’

‘Was I?’

Elizabeth tut-tutted and waved the dogs on in front. ‘You were out with Philippa?’

‘Ah, that man.’ It suddenly simultaneously dawned on her who she was being interrogated about and worried her as to why. Elizabeth never made casual enquiries, there had to be a reason. ‘Tom.’

Her grandmother was waiting for more.

‘Tom Strachan. He’s a model.’ She absentmindedly picked up the stick that Bertie had dropped at her feet and flung it as far as she could across the manicured lawn, which wasn’t far. The bounding Bertie soon came back, his head held high, Labrador smile across his happy face as he stopped in front of them. Dropped his prize, his whole body wagging in wobbly ecstasy.

‘Pretty boy, isn’t he? Bertie NO.’

Just in time, before she grabbed it, Lottie realised that Bertie has deposited a decomposed rabbit at her feet this time, not a stick. She wiped her hand down the front of her top, even though she hadn’t actually touched it.

‘Er, yes.’

‘Charles always did say one should never trust a man with long hair. He’s either an artist and waster or a scoundrel.’

‘He’s a model, Gran, and it’s not that long, his hair.’ Lottie tried to remember exactly how long his hair was, but however much she screwed up her eyes and mouth the image didn’t come.

‘Don’t do that, darling, it will give you frown lines.’

‘Anyway, Gramps only said that because he was in the army. He thought anything that wasn’t a short back and sides was long.’

Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. ‘I suppose he will at least dress well, if he’s a model.’

‘I don’t know really. He models underwear, y-fronts, you know, pants.’ Were pristine pants the equivalent of dressing well?

‘I do know what pants are Charlotte, and I know you mean pants not trousers. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’ve lost my marbles. But what’s his proper job? Standing around in your pants isn’t a job for a real man.’ Modelling obviously wasn’t going to cut it.

‘I think.’ Oh, God, why hadn’t she been concentrating on what Pip had said? She should have known the all-seeing Elizabeth would want answers. It suddenly came to her, and she almost shouted it out triumphantly. ‘He runs a rescue home for dogs as well.’ Or something like that. Bertie barked, impatient at the delay, and Elizabeth made a huffing noise.

‘And there’s obviously a huge demand for that type of thing here.’ Elizabeth’s tone was laden heavy with sarcasm.

Okay, dog rescue wasn’t going to cut it either. ‘I think he came here because his wife left him, and his daughter likes horses, so…’ She shrugged and threw the stick, which hit the sunbathing Holmes squarely on the rump, followed closely by the full weight of Bertie who was going too fast to stop and didn’t believe in swerving. Holmes leapt up with a snarl, as his seniority demanded in times of attack.

‘Boys, stop that.’ Even Lottie jumped as the full force of Elizabeth’s bellow stopped them dead. ‘And do you think he’s gay?’

‘Gay? I never said I thought he was gay. Well no I mean he’s married, and then his daughter—’

‘No, not Thomas, Dominic.’

‘Well, I—’

‘He’s not dear.’ Elizabeth patted her arm. ‘I must admit I did wonder, but I’d say he’s just very careful. Right, hadn’t you better be off?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m supposed to be playing golf this afternoon, although why on earth that woman can’t get up early like normal people do and get a round in before breakfast is a mystery. Come along dear, you can give me a lift to Christine’s and I will get Dominic to pick me up later.’

Elizabeth turned on her heel and set off back towards the house, Lottie and the dogs getting tangled up in the scramble to follow her.

***

It was only when Lottie got to her car, luckily in advance of Elizabeth, that it dawned on her that it was even more of a mess than it normally was. Which was down to too much time spent trying to fit visits to Rory in, in between running round after her father.

Lottie sighed as she opened the passenger door of her car and a crisp packet drifted out. She stared at the mess. Brushing the car seat with the old pair of jodhpurs she found in the back of the car didn’t seem to help matters at all, in fact it left a very nasty brown smear on the seat, which just had to be chocolate. And when she opened the glove compartment to shove the empty drink can and sandwich box in, several empty minstrel packets, along with a snickers packet (empty) and a mars wrapper (full), tumbled out. She took a bite of the chocolate bar and then started to stuff things under the seat with her spare hand. Elizabeth had no qualms about climbing into a Land Rover full of muddy boots and dog hair, but plastic wrappers of any kind were worthy of a sniff. One just didn’t buy things in wrappers, well at least Elizabeth didn’t. The housekeeper did, then she unwrapped everything, burned the paper and pretended that everything was cooked from raw ingredients that she’d more or less grown with her own hands. The operative word being less.

Driving her grandmother the handful of miles to her friend’s house was the normal ordeal. Lottie honestly didn’t know anyone who made her quite so nervous. She was more than capable of handling a horsebox, and had been driving her father’s tractor since her legs had been long enough for her feet to reach the pedals, but with Elizabeth in the passenger seat her nerves were shot to bits. It was always the same, she started with a routine inspection of the interior, then she moved onto comments about speed (‘doesn’t this car go any faster?’), cornering (‘do you really need to brake every time?’), overtaking (‘just because the stupid man wants to go at that speed doesn’t mean we all need to dear, in my day he’d have been run off the road’) and ended with parking (where she just opened the door and stared pointedly at the kerb, ‘shall I call a cab dear?’ being the normal comment, if she bothered with one).

‘Maybe your father needs to get you a better car. That might help,’ was always her parting comment before she slammed the door hard enough to check for rust damage, and after dusting herself down, she headed off.

It took most of the drive back, with the window down and the radio turned up full blast, sending the echoes of a defiant Pink into the countryside, before Lottie had relaxed her jaw enough to stop her teeth aching. By the time she drew up outside Rory’s cottage, she could almost, almost see the funny side.

***

Lottie walked on to Rory’s yard just as a man she’d never seen before stripped his t-shirt over his head and displayed a very attractive six-pack. She counted. It was definitely a six-pack. And she was pretty sure that if she had seen it before she would have remembered. Bodies like that tended to make a lasting impression.

Driving back from Tipping House, she’d had two things on her mind. One, what was her grandmother up to? Because she was definitely up to something as far as Tom and Uncle Dom went. And two, why was Tom here, in Tippermere? Why here exactly? There was something he wasn’t saying, and she had a horrible feeling there was something Elizabeth knew. Or why would she have been so interested?

Both thoughts were swiftly delegated to the back of her mind though as the beautiful naked torso, or was that naked beautiful torso, grabbed every inch of her attention. As he had his top fixed firmly over his head, and so couldn’t see, there didn’t seem to be a problem in taking advantage and staring. So she did. Until she realised he’d thrown the clothing to one side and she was staring open-mouthed at a guy who was staring straight back at her. He wasn’t open-mouthed though, he looked slightly concerned, like she might be a deranged mad woman escaped from the nearest loony bin. She shut her mouth.

‘Sorry.’ And went red. ‘I, er, have you seen Rory, or er Pip?’

‘You must be Lottie.’ Now that was the type of deep, dark, sexy voice she thought only existed in her imagination. She’d always had a thing for a nice accent, and Irish just shot straight to the top of the hit parade. Lottie resisted the fleeting urge to shut her eyes and ask him to keep talking. Then it registered that he knew her name. And she didn’t know his; she really would have remembered if she’d met him before. With or without clothes. Definitely.

Rory had a lot of friends, no one she would have ever called close, but lots of drinking buddies, eventing buddies, hunting buddies. Ever since they’d fallen into dating, he’d been surrounded by people, and at every party you could find the entertaining Rory in the thick of things. Which at times could be bloody annoying, like most of the times when she’d had a few drinks and was starting to feel either mildly randy and in need of attention, or well-oiled enough for her chatterbox mode to have kicked in and she just needed to talk. To him. But, even though they’d spent a lot of drunken evenings together (and drunken nights), she was pretty sure she would have spotted this guy, even if she did only have eyes for Rory.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine.’ Lottie squeaked, cleared her throat and tried again. She had been quite happy ogling him, now the tables were turned she felt more than a little bit uncomfortable. Like an eavesdropper who’d been caught out with a glass to the wall, not that she’d stoop to that kind of thing.

Mick O’Neal repressed the smile, put his hands on his hips and took the time to drink in the vision that had materialised before his eyes. She wasn’t at all how he’d expected her from the sketchy descriptions Rory had laced into their conversations. For one, he’d translated the ‘plenty to grab hold of’ as fat, whereas Charlotte was as shapely as she was toned.

‘Are they in?’

‘They are indeed. Last I heard, Rory was trying to blame Pip for not entering his horse in some event, and she was giving him a bollocking back. She threw his phone at him, along with a few other things from the sound of it. I’m Mick by the way.’

He held out a hand and she stared at it with suspicion. Then regretted it when he placed it back on his hip. And then decided that the safest place to be was as far away from him as possible. Contact might be a mistake.

‘Great, thanks, so you are.’ Feeling mildly stupid, which was nothing new, Lottie made a dash for the safety of the kitchen and Rory, only to find a battlefield. The small kitchen table was normally piled high with entry forms, schedules, directions, vets bills and every other conceivable bit of information that an eventer might ever need. Today they’d been scattered in all directions. She teased one out of the corner of a terrier’s mouth and then gave it back to the dog when she realised it was only a phone bill. A second terrier lay forlornly in her small basket, sheets of paper still slowly floating down, her chin on her paws and her eyes darting anxiously between her master and the arm-flailing Pip.

‘I pay you to send in the fucking entries on time.’

‘You don’t bloody pay me, and even if you did, what am I supposed to be? A bloody mind reader?’

‘I do pay you.’

‘Not to be your bloody cleaner, housemaid or secretary. I,’ she waved her arms towards the still open door, ‘work out there, you moron. You said you wanted a bloody groom, not a nanny.’

Rory, who was sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, dumped his muddy boots on the chair opposite and crossed his arms rebelliously. Which Lottie was sure was because he just knew his attitude would wind Pip up even more.

‘What are you two arguing about now?’ She pulled out a spare chair and sank back onto it, a dog landing on her lap for reassurance almost before her bum was settled on the seat. When Lottie had suggested Pip come and work for Rory, it had never occurred to her how the sparks might fly. Lottie and Rory thought along the same lines, they were both slightly disorganised, both more interested in play than work and neither of them took much seriously, apart from, of course, horses. Pip was different. Pip took everything seriously and ran her life with military precision when she was on duty. And when she was at the yard, it was business not pleasure. And Rory drove her round the bend. Neither of them would give an inch, one because of his male pride, the other because she was never, ever wrong and wasn’t prepared to pretend she was. The fact that she was quite happy to throw things if it got her point across made life interesting. She’d only been here a matter of months, but already Rory had found out that if he was wrong he was damned well going to be told. Repeatedly. Until he admitted it. The only problem was, Rory was never, in his eyes, wrong.

‘He’s lost his entry for next weekend.’ Pip glanced at her briefly, then fixed an accusing glare back on Rory.

‘I’ve lost?’ He ran his hand through his curls, eyes wide with the injustice of it all.

‘You’ve lost. You did not ask me to send that entry in, Rory Steel, and we both know it.’

‘It’s not the one in the wagon is it? For Rio?’ Lottie tried to sound casual and hide the note of guilt in her voice. She distinctly remembered Rory picking up his post on the way out last weekend, and reading it in the cab as they took Flash to the dressage. And when he’d left it on the seat, she’d glanced briefly then stuffed it all in the glove compartment to stop the terriers chewing it to shreds. Then forgotten all about it. Until now. She kept her gaze fixed on the terrier and rubbed the silky ear between thumb and finger.

‘You are kidding?’ Pip had reached the hands-on-hips stage.

The terrier yelped as she rubbed a bit too hard. Rory frowned. ‘Oh, yeah I remember now. I did enter, that was the confirmation.’ He grinned. ‘Brilliant. Glad we got that sorted.’

‘Sorted? You call that sorted? You bastard, I just knew it was nothing to do with me.’ Pip was almost stamping her foot.

‘So,’ Lottie coughed to get their attention as they were back to a stand-off, ‘who is that guy on the yard?’

‘Oh, shit, I was supposed to be helping him, he said he’d sort Kis for me.’

Rory laughed as Pip shot out of the kitchen. ‘Come here gorgeous, I need some TLC after that battering.’

‘It’s your own fault.’ Lottie stood up, tipping the terrier onto the floor, and moved over to sit on his knee, shivering as his fingers rubbed exactly the right spot between her shoulder blades. ‘You know she’s not going to take it lying down if you blame her for things that aren’t her fault.’

‘Will you take it lying down?’

‘You’re being rude again aren’t you? Anyway, who is he?’

‘Why, do you fancy him?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and unceremoniously dumped her off his knee. ‘Come on, I thought you knew him. Or maybe he arrived when you were off on your world tour.’

For a moment Lottie thought she heard a note of censure in his voice, then dismissed it. He didn’t care that she’d gone off in search of freedom and wide open spaces, he hadn’t even seemed that pleased when she’d got back. After a brief period of awkward side-stepping and enquiries about each other’s health and welfare, they’d just fallen back into step and carried on where they’d left off.

Mick was holding a hoof between his firm, denim-clad thighs and pointing at bits to Pippa, their heads close together, her blonde shiny bob and his unruly dark hair a stark contrast. To Lottie it just looked like a hoof, how could anyone be that interested?

‘He’s into this barefoot trimming crap.’ Rory lit up a cigarette and leaned against the stable door to watch him. ‘Aren’t you, mate?’

Mick ignored him and flicked a large bit of hoof off with his trimming knife, which the smallest and nippiest of the terriers leapt on and carried off like a trophy. When he looked up, his dark gaze met Lottie’s and she didn’t know whether to squirm or melt. Or just feel guilty. ‘You’re a farrier?’ And state the obvious.

‘I am. And for my sins I’m staying here, with that heathen.’ He dropped the hoof, straightened up and waved the knife in Rory’s direction. ‘I had to go back to Ireland for a bit to sort some business, so I missed the homecoming,’ he smiled straight at her, ‘I got back last night.’

Mick had been brought up by a traditional Irish farrier, and was trimming feet by the time he could hold a knife. The fact that it wasn’t safe or probably legal was by the by. He only hit a problem when he started experimenting with something other than traditional shoeing and his father termed him an ‘eejit who should know better’. But it had left one of his terminally lame horses sound enough to compete again, which was good enough to make him consider that maybe his father didn’t know everything. Mick was wise enough though to keep the fact to himself, continue to shoe in the way he’d been taught and to spread the word only to the few that sought him out. He rubbed out the kinks in his spine and watched as Pip trotted the horse up the yard for him.

His move to Cheshire had been totally unplanned. But had stopped him dissolving into a bottle of whiskey and self-pity after Niamh had waved an airline ticket in his face and told him the time for ‘fecking about’ was over, he could put a ring on her finger and fly with her, or rot in Ireland on his own. He’d chosen Ireland and his horses. And then, after a week of drinking too much, and a day out hunting with Rory, he’d booked a one-way ticket of his own and taken the boat over to Liverpool. He’d been fond of his girlfriend, in a way he’d never been fond of anyone before. But ultimatums didn’t do it for him. And the thrill of setting foot on foreign soil could never beat the adrenalin rush of galloping across country on nearly half a ton of barely controlled horseflesh. And Rory had some very attractive horseflesh on his yard.

Mick tore his gaze back from the easy-to-look-at Lottie onto the challenge that was Pip. The girl was attractive enough, except she never stopped asking questions long enough for you to appreciate it, and she was the bossiest female he’d come across in his life, with the possible expectation of his very Irish, very interfering mother. Now she was staring at him expectantly and all but tapping her foot.

‘I’d stop that, unless you want me to nail it to the floor, treasure. She trotted up fine, but no haring about the countryside or we’ll be back to square one. And don’t you go taking her to the last drag hunt meeting of the season.’

‘I don’t believe in hunting. It’s an archaic tradition.’

‘It’s not hunting, it’s drag hunting.’ His tone was mild, as though talking to a child, but Lottie suspected that any minute now Pip was going to launch into a tirade. ‘And it’s a test of courage.’

Pip narrowed her eyes and glared at him, obviously torn between the desire to say something and the need to keep on his good side. She might not have been around horses much, but she already knew that good farriers were few and far between, and good farriers who could be bothered to turn up on time were even rarer. She bit down on her bottom lip and scowled, which brought a lazy, and to Lottie’s eye, very sexy smile to his face.

‘I bet you enjoy a rough ride across country, don’t you Lottie?’ He winked.

Lottie opened and closed her mouth, not wanting the thoughts that he’d conjured up in her head to come tumbling out. She didn’t quite know how to take this sex god that had been dropped in their midst. Did he have some weird kind of Irish sense of humour that she didn’t quite understand?

‘She does, the rougher the better, don’t you?’ Rory pulled her into a bear hug of possession. Observing Mick from a position of safety, Lottie decided he was probably dangerous. He was making her nervous without even doing anything, and he was intent on winding Pip up, as though he needed some kind of stimulation, danger. Which figured, if he was a drag hunt enthusiast. A game player, and it would really have been better if she hadn’t been dying to find out more about him.

‘So, you’ll both be riding out on Sunday then?’ He was swinging the heavy metal file from side to side and the youngest of the terriers stood transfixed, her eyes following its route. A route to being brained if she wasn’t careful. Then abruptly he stopped the motion with a swift toss in the air before he caught it and dropped it in the heavy wooden tool box at his feet. ‘Both of you?’

Lottie nodded nervously and looked up at Rory, wondering why she was asking him. She never did normally. ‘I think so.’

‘Yup, if you’ve not lamed all the horses with your fancy new ideas. Isn’t it beer time yet?’

Lottie glanced at her watch. She’d already had G&T time with her gran, whose idea of a weak drink was a double gin with a waft of tonic, and was feeling slightly off centre. Carrying on drinking, mid-afternoon, with no food in her was probably a bad idea.

‘Well…’ There was a sudden outbreak of ‘Your Sex is on Fire’ from somewhere in the region of Lottie’s knickers, and Mick gave her a smouldering look that nearly ignited other parts of her, or that could just have been because part of her brain had taken off on a fantasy she couldn’t control. ‘Shit, oh, hang on.’ The burn hit her face, he must think she was so immature…or up for it with absolutely anyone. Maybe he thought it was an open invite? ‘It’s my phone.’ State the obvious. Which was firmly stuck deep in a pocket that didn’t really have room for a hand, let alone a phone. Lottie could feel herself slowly incinerating as she fought against the fabric. The phone stopped ringing. Then started again, ‘Sex on Fire’ gradually increasing in volume to match face on fire.

‘Dad?’ She was shocked to see his number; Billy seldom, if ever, rang her.

‘You need to get over here. Now.’ Billy was normally as easy-going as they came, but if he was ever going to be short-tempered it was with his daughter. And he was bossy, and said exactly what was on his mind.

‘But I’m—’

‘It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. You sent them here, so you can damned well come and entertain them. What do you think I am, a children’s entertainer?’ He was hissing, his voice low as though he didn’t want to be overheard.

‘Sorry? Dad I—’ But Lottie had been left with a ringtone in her ear, which was less embarrassing than ‘Sex on Fire’. Marginally. They were all staring at her.

‘So, that was Daddy, was it? I take it you’re not allowed out to play?’

God, that Irish burr was having a funny effect on her. She clung on to Rory’s arms, which were still draped round her, with one hand, and her phone with the other.

‘He’s hung up.’ What was it with people hanging up on her while she was in the middle of saying stuff? Was she really getting that boring?

‘So what did old Billy the goat want then?’ Rory rested his chin on her head.

‘I haven’t a clue, he was jabbering on about kids and my fault, and stuff.’ She paused and looked at Pip. ‘Do you think he’s lost it? You know, the whole Amanda thing? I mean, he must be stressed even if he’s not saying anything.’

‘Billy boy, stressed?’ Rory was smiling, she could hear it in his voice. ‘Now that’ll be the day. About as likely as Dom getting his leg over with one of the WAGs from Kitterly, I’d say.’

‘Nah.’ Pip grinned back. ‘He’s made of sterner stuff than that. So what’s with calling him a goat?’

‘Billy goat gruff?’ Mick seemed amused, but still managed to sound like he was issuing an invite to bed.

‘Nothing that deep. Eats anything, shags anything and jumps anything.’ Rory was definitely grinning now, well, pretty much chortling.

‘Don’t talk about my dad like that.’ He knew she didn’t like it. She’d had too many years of jokes about her dad to find them funny, shame everyone else did.

‘So, this Amanda is his latest shag?’

Pip burst out laughing, and Kis, her horse, threw her head up, nearly dragging her arm from its socket. ‘Shit, stop that you stupid mare.’

‘She’s not stupid, that one.’ Mick cast his eye over the horse. He’d seen the mare out with Rory in the past, she was talented but lame more often than she was sound. So she’d been out at grass when Pip had arrived and announced that she would look after her. Looking after her was one thing, but everyone, including Pip, knew that she was seriously outclassed by the horse and was as likely to take her to a drag hunt as she was to take a vow of celibacy.

‘And nor is Amanda. We’ve decided she needs a new man, but I’m not sure she’ll fancy Billy, she thinks horses smell, and Billy spends most of his life on one.’ Kismet bit her shoulder, and Pip, who believed in a non-punishment regime, tried her best not to retaliate.

‘Sex on Fire’ set off again and Lottie stared at it resignedly before jabbing at the answer call button.

‘If you’re not here in five minutes, girl, Marcus won’t be the only one they’ll be burying next week.’