Читать книгу Stable Mates - Zara Stoneley, Zara Stoneley - Страница 13

‘You can’t go like that.’

Rory shrugged, the boyish grin spreading over his features. ‘Why not? It’s my best jacket.’ Infectious, but oh so wrong.

‘It’s a hunting jacket, and we’re going to a funeral. Remember?’ Lottie, who had been under strict instructions (via her invite, if you called it an invite where funerals where concerned) not to wear black, and had been on the verge of rebelling out of a sense of decorum, had found it hard enough to find something suitable for herself. But Rory was going too far. And they were running out of time. And she was about to start giggling, which was so wrong. ‘It’s a bit disrespectful, I know the invite said not to wear black, but…’ She bit down on her lip, to stop the smile that Rory was doing his best to draw out of her.

‘It’s what he wanted, look.’ Rory dug his own card out from the pile of papers on the table and waved it roughly in her direction.

‘I don’t want to look. I know what it says, but it feels wrong.’ One of the dogs, which had taken Rory’s dig through the paperwork as an invite to jump on the table, put her paws up on Lottie’s chest and grinned a terrier grin, tongue lolling. ‘Don’t you dare lick me.’ It sank down on its haunches, paws leaving a snagged trail down her best satin shirt as sharp nails dragged from her boobs down to her stomach. ‘Oh, Christ.’ She already felt a mess. The dog yapped and she was very tempted to pick it up, sit on the sofa and bury herself, not Marcus, for the rest of the day. She rubbed absentmindedly at the scratch mark instead, hoping it would go away. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Maybe he’s having a last laugh at the country yokels. Well, it will be a laugh with your dad as pall-bearer at one end of his bloody coffin, and me and Dom at the other. He’ll be sliding from one end of the other coffin to the other.’ The grin had broadened. ‘Knock some bloody sense into him.’

Lottie shut her eyes against the image of the lopsided coffin and bit the inside of her cheek harder, to stop the hysteria bubbling out. It was true. Rory and Dom had to be at least eight inches taller apiece than Billy. ‘Maybe it was a joke, I mean he didn’t expect to drop dead did he? He must have written it when he was drunk and meant to change it when he was expecting—’

‘To die? He must have been well pissed, well it’s his own bloody fault then. And if this is his last request, well, who are we to deny the man?’

‘You’re enjoying this.’

‘I bloody am. Look, why should we all be in black and miserable as sin just because he’s pegged it?’

‘Well, Dad is.’ She suddenly remembered just what Marcus’s death could mean, did mean. ‘Miserable I mean.’ The equestrian centre had never been like a real family home to her, no more than the place she rented now (which she was never in long enough to add any homely touches to). She had no particular attachment to either place, but it was her father’s livelihood. And it was more. After her mother had died, he’d initially moved out of the farmhouse, which had only been rented, and moved in to the impersonal environment of the groom’s quarters above the stables at Folly Lake equestrian centre, which suited him perfectly. During his waking hours he could shut out the pain and immerse himself in his horses, with every need on tap. But as the nightmares had softened he’d realised that his daughter needed more. They had moved back in to the house that bordered the yard, but his work obsession hadn’t eased. And so Lottie’s early childhood had been spent surrounded by horses and riders, grooms who could keep an eye on her, and on-off nannies who loved horses and dogs. And riders. Not that she had ever thought it unconventional, or herself hard done by. But nor had it given her any roots. Which, Elizabeth was sure, was why she still had the urge to wander. To find what she was missing.

Now, if the centre was sold, Billy could find the refuge he had buried himself in following Alexa’s death dragged from his grasp. And Lottie was old and wise enough to be scared. For both of them. If he lost that, what was left?

‘At least one of us will keep a straight face then. I rely on you, darling.’ Rory blew her a kiss, and raised an eyebrow in his best devil-may-care manner. ‘Do you reckon he’d want me to take the hunting horn?’ He picked up the horn, which she hadn’t spotted, and gave an experimental blow, which sent the terrier, startled, into her arms, scrabbling long red weals down her chest.

‘Shit.’ The muscled-up body of the little dog went over her shoulder and hit the floor running. ‘Don’t you dare, Rory Steel. Go away Tilly, in your bed.’ Instead, the little dog started haring around the kitchen like a minor whirlwind, barking excitedly, sending papers flying from the table in her flight over and under everything that was sat in her way. Lottie knew better than to move. ‘The invite definitely didn’t mention hunting horns.’

‘It did say hunting jacket though, so, like it or not, that’s what I’m wearing.’

‘Without the breeches?’ She looked at his legs pointedly, and wondered, not for the first time, why even the sexiest legs in the world had knobbly knees in the middle.

‘Bugger. It’s your fault for knocking when I was half dressed.’ Rory strode out of the kitchen, all three dogs at his heels, shirt tails sadly covering his well-muscled, but decidedly naked, thighs. ‘Just polish my boots, will you?’

Lottie stared at the boots, still decorated with mud from his last ride out. The smell of leather pricked at her nostrils as she picked one up and wondered whether it would be quicker to drop it in the sink, or scrub it with a brush.

***

It was colder inside the church than out. Lottie wondered if that was a tactical thing to make you feel sad and remorseful. Or just a lack of money. Or stinginess. The church, like her gran, had been around a long time and knew how to spend its pennies on what it wanted and not what the rest of the world might appreciate.

Elizabeth had embraced the theme of the funeral in her normal fashion. Wearing black, because it was what she considered right and proper, and to hell with what the bereaved or deceased might want. ‘Great Expectations’ was the first thought that hit Lottie, followed quickly by ‘Addams Family’ when she saw the dramatic make-up and newly manicured nails. It just wasn’t fair how her gran, who let’s face it didn’t need perfect nails, could have them that length and unchipped when her own looked exactly how nails tended to look when you spent most of your time mucking out stables and moving jump poles.

***

Amanda sat bolt upright, because otherwise she was sure she’d crumple in a heap, and felt strangely detached as she stared at the coffin. So, this was it. It hadn’t been a nightmare when she’d woken up to find his arm pressed cold against her. And it seemed surreal, and somehow wrong, to be sharing his last moments with the group of people he’d wanted here. In life they’d been such different people, and in death they were too. They’d grown apart because they were so different, but stayed together because maybe they were the same, deep down.

For one ghastly moment she imagined the coffin lid coming up and his great guffaw of a laugh ringing out into the silent cavernous exterior of the church. But it didn’t. Just like he hadn’t turned around one day and asked forgiveness for all the women he’d laid and promised to be faithful until the end of his days. No, some things were as improbable as landing on Mars and discovering it actually was inhabited by a race that understood every word you said to them.

The last time she’d sat in a church had been their wedding. Which was bad, maybe she didn’t deserve to be happy? All the trimmings, a horse and carriage, a satin white gown, enough flowers to finish off a hay fever sufferer. The façade of a fairy tale, turning her into the princess he wanted to live with. Well, maybe not live with, the person he wanted to put on a pedestal and use as a symbol of what you could achieve if you worked hard. Which was a bit ironic, as Amanda had worked bloody hard to turn herself into that type of person. From the geeky, unfashionable teenager brought up in the suburbs she’d made a career out of self-improvement. Self being the operative word. If she hadn’t bothered, maybe she’d have found a man who truly loved her, and who was faithful. Maybe not.

‘I’ll be good to you, Mandy. You’ll never want for anything, I promise.’ And he had been, and she hadn’t been left wanting. Whatever everybody thought. Which would have been fine if she’d been a pampered pet poodle.

She’d forgiven his affairs at first, but then she’d realised that he had to shag everything that had a pulse and she knew if she’d thought the tip of the iceberg had been bad enough, the rest that was hidden underwater would end up drowning her. And it was the fact that everyone knew, that was what really hurt her.

He’d been in her bed the night he died for a reason. He’d wanted to explain all the reasons she didn’t want a divorce. Quietly, patiently, like you’d explain to a five-year-old with learning difficulties. Marcus was good, was believable, and was lovable in his own way. He knew how to persuade her, knew every weak spot, and knew that she didn’t really want to go through with it. He wanted to find a compromise that would suit both of them, and she was so close to saying yes to him. So close, because it was next to impossible for her to deny him, whatever he did. But the one thing that any compromise could never give her was what she needed most. Freedom. Freedom and her self-respect back.

The stained-glass window blurred, so she glanced down at the coffin, then down further to her cold hands clasped so tight in her lap that the fingertips had gone from pinkish to white and were heading for blue.

And she fucking missed the stupid bastard. A drop of water splashed down onto her thumb. Shit, she couldn’t cry. She just mustn’t. But tensing her jaw didn’t seem to work, nor did biting her bottom lip. A second, third tear found their way out. Although someone had to mourn his passing, he was, had been, a good man, deep down. That was why she’d married him. He’d spent a whole life changing himself, like she had, into a symbol of success. But she’d recognised that kernel of the original man that still remained, like he’d winkled out the bits of her that hung on from the past. And that was what tied them together. Until the reality of who they’d become had been too heavy to ignore. Why the hell did things have to change? What was wrong with just being happy?

She wiped across her cheek with the back of her hand surreptitiously and glanced around the packed pews. How many of these people knew Marcus? Really knew who he was. Had been. At a guess, none of them knew, and none of them cared. They’d come because he was a success, and even in death some of that might rub off onto them.

If she could just march out now, and tell them all to go to hell, she would. The old Amanda might have done, his Mandy. But she couldn’t. Marcus would have wanted it this way, he had wanted it this way. The circus, that didn’t respect him at all, but did celebrate his achievements. The attendance alone did that. You couldn’t count love by numbers, but you could count respect. Or envy. Now all she needed was the whole fiasco to pass as quickly as possible and then she could go to bed with a bottle of wine and flannelette pyjamas and mourn her own way. He’d have laughed at that, ditching the satin nightwear to mourn him. And he’d have hugged her. Shit, she was going to start blubbing again if she wasn’t careful. She just had to concentrate. On the crowd, on being polite. On forgetting why they were there, like everyone else would soon do. God, she’d kill for a drink right now.

***

‘There was water in the bottom of my boot.’ Rory slid into the pew next to Lottie and hissed in her ear. The warmth of his thigh welcome in more ways than the normal ones.

‘Don’t wriggle dear, sit still.’

Lottie had thought she’d only shifted a small, unnoticeable, amount, and in Rory’s direction. But eagle-eyed Elizabeth had noticed it.

‘I know. Accident with the tap.’ She’d gone for the sink option and the tap had spurted cold water out uncontrollably when she’d turned it the wrong way. ‘It isn’t much.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’ He squeezed her own thigh, how the hell was she supposed not to wriggle when he did that? ‘He didn’t roll about too much, think old Billy must have put risers in his heels.’

‘I thought he looked taller.’ Elizabeth’s tone was dry.

And how did her gran hear whispered words, when she played deaf most of the time? Obviously, she decided, there must be a gap between her ears and the words had gone straight through.

***

Mercifully the service was short, sweet and not too sycophantic. And the congregation sighed a collective sigh of relief when they got out of the cold, dark gloom of the ancient church and into the soft warmth of the spring sunshine.

Marcus had opted for cremation, which meant that although he didn’t go out with a bang, nor did he go with a thud. As Pip put it, ‘A ball of fire just has to be better than a clod of earth, doesn’t it?’

‘Sex on fire is even better.’

Lottie would have been pleased if she could have hung onto the urge to stamp on Mick’s foot, or put his own sex on fire, when the Irish burr cut into the conversation. But, annoyingly, the need went quickly when she looked up, straight into those dancing Irish eyes. She just wanted to gaze at him, like an adoring Spaniel might. And wag her tail, except now she was going from the ridiculous to the faintly obscene. ‘You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’ The toe-curling smile made her want to spin the banter out, but Elizabeth was hot on her heels.

‘You and Rupert can come with me.’

‘Rory. You know he’s called Rory, Gran.’

‘Sorry, what was that Roger?’

‘I’ve got my own car here, thanks.’

‘If you have to.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘But don’t park it too close to the others. And do remind me to have a word with your father about that later, dear.’

Lottie followed her line of sight to the array of cars parked on the verge outside the church. An eclectic mix of Rolls Royces, Mercedes and top of the range BMWs, with the odd Porsche thrown in for good measure.

People were heading off towards the crematorium, to say their final goodbyes before Marcus was reduced to ashes, but Lottie, Rory, and in fact most of the residents of Tippermere had been spared the ordeal. The crem simply hadn’t the capacity for that many people, so luckily, from their point of view, family and close friends took precedence and they could head straight to the wake.

The once lush grass verges were cut through with dark slashes of freshly turned mud. Deep grooves, with churned edges that filled Lottie’s mind with endless images of dark damp earth, the final resting place for most people. For her mother.

From what she knew of Alexa, today’s ceremony would have amused her. The lopsided coffin making its way inside, the pall-bearers dressed in their red hunting jackets, incongruous in the dark, dismal, cold confines of the ancient church.

Marcus had been a man who knew what he wanted. Who liked the power that money gave him. Who thrived on the certainty that people would jump to his bidding. Lottie suspected he hadn’t been bothered about being liked. Being important was the thing. And in death he had surpassed himself.

On one side of the aisle, the pews had been filled with a crowd alien to this country environment. Brash designer suits, large handbags, a flash of gold at every turn and enough make-up, perfume and pungent aftershave to make the occupants of the other pews reel in their wake. The church would never smell the same again. On that, the residents of the village and its old vicar agreed.

The Very Reverend Walterson had raised his eyebrows at the crowd at the start of the service, and raised his uncommonly heavy collection tray with disbelief (and trembling hands) at the end. No doubt he would be praising the Lord for sheep in wolves’ clothing, or some such nonsense, as he sipped his sherry that evening, thought Pip, as she turned her attention back to Mick.

‘You going to give me a lift? I came with Amanda, but she’s off to watch her old life burn and be scattered.’

‘Where are they scattering him?’

‘In the indoor arena at the Equestrian Centre.’ Pip had her innocent face fixed into position, which the rest of them understood a second later.

‘He can do a running fuck.’

Rory spun round and somehow managed to keep a straight face as he looked at Billy. ‘I don’t think he’s doing anything anymore to be honest, Billy.’ And for a horrible fleeting moment, Lottie saw a ghastly resemblance between her sometime lover and her father. They both had the curls, the grin, the ‘game for a laugh’ attitude, Rory was just younger, slimmer and taller. And dark haired rather than gingery. A cloud scudded over the sun and she decided she’d imagined it. No way. ‘Maybe it was a running fuck that finished him off, wasn’t exactly sprinting material was he?’ The grin broke out.

‘If they scatter the bugger over the rubber then I’ll never get the bloody horses in there again.’

‘But it was his dying wish.’

Lottie squinted at Pip, who winked back, then turned her angelic face back in Billy’s direction.

‘I think his dying wish was probably, fuck I wish she’d hurry up and come.’

A chorus of ‘Dad’ and ‘Billy’ rang out, and he chuckled.

‘They weren’t? Were they?’ The angel that had briefly invaded Pip had been replaced with the normal mischief-maker.

‘Ejaculation can put quite a strain on a man’s heart, dear.’

Lottie waited for divine intervention, or the ground to swallow her up. Neither of which happened. None of them had heard Elizabeth creep back in their direction. People rarely did, which was why she was so successful at gathering information.

Billy shrugged his ample shoulders. ‘Well they were in bed together, weren’t they Pippa?’

‘That’s what she said when she rang.’

‘Come on, let’s get to this bloody party, crack the champers open, I say a bottle of single malt to the first person who finds out if he was.’ Billy smacked his hands together. ‘Agreed?’

‘But I don’t like single malt, Dad.’

‘We’ll drink it for you, Lots, won’t we Mick?’ Rory wrapped an arm round her shoulders just as she glanced up, straight into the dark eyes of the Irishman. ‘Not that you’re going to be the winner, my bet is on Elizabeth.’