Читать книгу Stable Mates - Zara Stoneley, Zara Stoneley - Страница 9

Philippa Keelan put the brush down and watched as the wagon pulled into the yard. Rory, as male chauvinistic as ever, was behind the steering wheel; Lottie had her long legs stretched out on the dashboard with a terrier balance precariously on her thighs. The second, older terrier was sat sensibly between driver and passenger, and the third one was galloping back and forth along the back of the seat trying to peer out of the windows and barking with excitement at being home.

Pip felt the broad smile spread across her face and knew, deep in her heart, that coming here had been good for her. She’d never thought of herself as a country girl. By the age of fifteen she’d been screaming to get out of the small Welsh village where she’d been unceremoniously ‘dragged up’. But after years of city life, here she was, stuck deep in the Cheshire countryside with a mix of horsey heroes, grumpy farmers and a smattering of WAGs.

From the first day her mother had shoved pencils and crayons in her direction, to keep her out of mischief, she’d been hooked. From the moment she’d learned that the hieroglyphics spread before her made up words, and the words made up a magical mystery story, she’d become an addict. Words and make-believe were far more interesting than the rolling Welsh hills and dirty sheep. Her wellies had been tossed aside in favour of a good book or, as she hit her teens, a girlie magazine. Pip was born to be a journalist, and a damned good one she’d become.

Her move to study in London had been the start of a new life, and apart from returning to Wales for the occasional daughterly duties of birthdays and Christmas, she’d never looked, or stepped, back.

Success had not come cheaply, social life was an enigma as she’d kept her head down and chased every lead and story she’d been offered until she hit the top, her dream job. Interviewing the stars, travelling the world. Pip didn’t want a desk job, an editor’s position, she wanted to write. And write she did. Until she met Lottie on a Spanish beach.

She’d finished an assignment and was spending a couple of days ‘chilling’ as her editor had suggested, well, told her to. But it was a foreign concept and after three hours she’d been champing at the bit to get back to what she thought of as real life, until she’d hooked up with Lottie and her boyfriend. Until she’d listened to the self-deprecating stories that Lottie told about her famous father and her frequent spills from the saddles of his top horses. All of a sudden Pip felt jaded, lost in a sea of words. She needed a reality check. A kick up the arse. Some real people, rather than the endless stream of sycophants and stars.

And so, with the promise that Lottie would find her some work ‘no probs as long as you don’t mind some shit shovelling’, she told her editor she was taking a sabbatical. She agreed to work freelance. And now she was here. With a curly-haired loveable rogue called Rory, the madcap, irresponsible Lottie, who she was sure was desperately seeking security, and a bunch of horses that were more than one step up the ladder from the Welsh ponies she’d been brought up on. Although, as she well knew from past bruises, a Section D cob could be just as hot-headed as a thoroughbred, when it could be bothered to put the effort in.

‘Well, is it true?’ Lottie was out of the cab, pushing the gates shut before the lorry had halted, with the dogs tumbling out after her and fanning across the yard like an army patrol on search duty.

‘Hi, to you too.’ Pip waggled the bottom of her polo shirt to let some air in and wished she had shorts on like Lottie, minus the red-wealed thighs from a wobbling terrier. It had been cool when she’d started work, but now it was surprisingly close for an April day.

She cut a striking figure, but didn’t quite realise the impact she’d had on the men or the place since landing in Tippermere a few months previously. Her neat bob of blonde hair was almost permanently pulled back into a severe ponytail, but it showed off her fine cheekbones and bright blue eyes, and to the onlooker she was the picture of London sophistication, not a Welsh country girl. Which was exactly the image she’d set out to project. Pip always achieved what she wanted, even if her soft tone and seemingly laid-back approach belied it. She had an iron will and the determination of one of Rory’s terriers. Which was how she’d got to the top of her career path and how she kept her trim figure and perfect complexion. Pip worked hard at whatever she did. Quietly. Which scared men off. Completely. Until she’d come here and found that the horsemen that Lottie shared her life with were a hundred miles from the city slickers she’d been sharing her bed and brain with for the last God knows how many years. She hadn’t decided yet if that was a good thing or bad. Here, taking a gentle hint was an alien concept, ‘no’ had to be said very loudly, accompanied by something bordering on GBH. And when they got it, they just laughed and moved on. No fragile egos and over-sensitivity here.

‘Pip, you can be so bloody annoying when you want to be.’ Lottie started to lower the ramp of the lorry with the ease of someone who’d done it a billion times.

‘Says the girl who stood me up last night so she could lorry hop.’

Lottie coloured up. ‘I only went with him because you said you couldn’t. You’re the one who grooms for him, not me.’

‘Touché. Yes, then.’

‘Yes, what?’

Pip jumped as Rory grabbed her from behind and landed a loud smacker of a kiss on her bare neck. ‘Yuk. That is so gross, can’t you keep him under control, Lottie?’ Lottie shrugged, with a grin flickering briefly across her worried features. Control wasn’t something she was overly bothered about. Out of control was much more fun. But Pip took a much more serious and regulated view of life. ‘How did the little firecracker go then?’

‘You got it in one.’ He made a gesture like an explosion and grinned. ‘I need consoling, proof that my manhood has not been tarnished.’

‘I don’t do consolation, betcha Lottie does though.’

‘I thought you could both try?’ He tipped his head on one side and Pip laughed.

‘In your dreams, you dirty boy.’

‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’

‘PIP.’

They both stared at the explosion from Lottie, who obviously couldn’t wait any longer for an answer to her question.

‘Looks like she’s getting impatient, bit like me.’ Rory pulled her closer, until the sandpaper roughness of his unshaved cheek brushed lightly against hers and the teasing tawny eyes offered an invitation that she’d been tempted by more than once.

Pip nudged him away. ‘You two deserve each other. Anyhow, what were you doing with my bloody phone again?’

‘It was you that picked up mine. Again.’

‘No, Rory. You were the one who left the yard in such a hurry last night to go off on your magical mystery tour with Lottie and the ginger wonder. I mean, how can anyone confuse this,’ she waggled the bright pink phone in front of him, ‘with this?’ And handed over his black one. ‘I’m surprised you even managed to load the right horse.’

He grinned and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘I never mix up my horses. Or my women.’

‘For fuck’s sake, will you two stop talking bollocks and tell me if someone has fucking died?’

Pip sighed. ‘What on earth has got in to you?’

‘Please, just answer the question.’

‘Marcus. Amanda woke up in the early hours to find him stone-cold dead next to her. Well I’m not sure if he was actually cold, but—’

‘Pip.’

‘Okay, okay. She panicked and rang the first person she could think of, which was me. Or, in this case, you, Rory.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I take it you weren’t exactly helpful or consolatory.’

‘She woke me up.’

‘Sure.’

‘And then I lost the phone when I sat up and hit my head, and all I could find were Lottie’s boobs.’

‘Stop. You’re not helping your case.’

‘Marcus is dead? He died?’ Lottie was trying not to jump from one foot to the other in agitation.

‘Yes, Lottie. He’s dead, died, the two tend to be linked.’

‘Christ, Dad will go apeshit.’ Lottie sank down on the ramp of the lorry and cradled her head in her hands. Oblivious to the now stamping Flash who had been expecting release from the confines of the horsebox and to be let out to grass. She looked up, a glimmer of hope still stirring. ‘You’re absolutely sure he’s dead?’

‘Well the funeral is in a week, so someone has seriously cocked up if he isn’t.’ Pip strode up the ramp past the dazed Lottie and started to untie the mare who knew that the competition ordeal was over and she was home. ‘I don’t get what the issue is. Your dad didn’t even like him anyway, did he? None of them did, apart from Amanda of course. Shift over or you might get one of Flash’s specials.’

Lottie slid off the ramp and stood up slowly in front of the bemused Rory. ‘She’ll sell up, she hates horses.’

‘She might not actually hate them, poppet.’

‘You’re right, that’s worse. She doesn’t give a monkey’s.’

‘I don’t get you pair at all.’ With a clatter of hooves and an ear-shrieking whinny that threatened to burst Lottie’s eardrums, Flash came down the ramp and headed for her stable, coming to an abrupt halt when she reached the end of the lead rope, which still had Pip attached. A Pip who had stopped by the anguished-looking Lottie. ‘What’s the problem? Neither of you liked him, did you?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘I mean, you hardly knew him.’

‘I did know him. I saw him at the centre all the time, I used to bloody live there, remember?’ Lottie peered through her fingers. Liking him wasn’t the issue.

‘Well, to be fair, I don’t remember, because I wasn’t here then. But you weren’t pals, were you? You hardly even know Amanda, do you? But you look like one of your nearest and dearest has popped their clogs.’

‘But what if she sells up?’

‘So?’ Pip shrugged, and hauled back on the rope as the mare made a new dash for freedom. ‘Someone will buy it, I mean how many places like that come on the market? That equestrian centre must be worth an absolute fortune.’

‘Exactly. To a property developer.’ Rory caught hold of Flash’s headcollar to avoid her spinning round and knocking the already wavering Lottie to the floor. He understood the look on Lottie’s face, even if Pip hadn’t caught on. ‘If she sells to the first person who knocks on the door, then Billy has lost his yard and facilities, the pony club lose their venue, and the winter dressage and show-jumping competitions are gone forever. The place will be bulldozed and turned into a chavvy housing estate or a country theme park.’

‘Very succinct appraisal. You’re such a snob, Rory.’

‘But what about Dad?’ Lottie’s wail got lost as Rory’s defensive streak kicked in. To Tippermere, the Equestrian Centre was the heart of the village, to Billy it was something far more important. It was his life, and always had been, as far as Lottie could gather, since the death of the one person that had mattered most to him. Her mother.

‘This is Cheshire not bloody Essex, we wouldn’t even be able to hack down the lanes because they’d be snarled up with petrol fumes from 4x4s that are only used for the school run, and The Bulls Head would be renamed The Rampant Cow and serve mojitos and turkey twizzlers to the masses.’

Pip laughed. ‘Don’t exaggerate, you sound a right nobby nimby. Anyhow, I’m sure Amanda wouldn’t do anything like that. And aren’t you being a bit selfish? Neither of you have asked how she is, or anything.’

‘How is she?’ Lottie looked up from the piece of hay she’d been frantically tying in knots, her mind still on Billy and what he’d do when he found out. If he hadn’t already.

‘That sounds so insincere Lots, she’s in bits, I mean how would you take it if you woke up and found the love of your life stiff at the side of you? And I mean stiff all over, not just where it matters.’

‘You’re calling me for being insincere and say something like that?’ Lottie dropped the wisp of hay and stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Do you think he was the love of her life?’

‘Well she was very fond of him, it wasn’t just his wallet, though I’m sure that helped. It was a massive heart attack apparently.’

‘They weren’t? I mean, you know, at it? Do you remember that film where they were and the guy had a heart attack?’

‘I’m off if you’re going to talk films. Here, I’ll take her.’ Rory tugged the lead rope from Pip’s hand.

‘Goldie Hawn wasn’t it?’ Pip grinned. ‘On your way to comfort the grieving widow are you Rory, offer your services?’

‘Well neither of you are interested.’ He gave her ponytail a tug. ‘Maybe she needs a manly shoulder to cry on.’

‘You better shower first, you stink of eau de horse.’

‘Oh, God, you don’t think every man in the village will be making up to her now, do you?’ Lottie was gnawing at the inside of her cheek and looking even more worried than ever, her gaze fixed on Rory, who laughed. ‘It’s not bloody funny.’

‘As neither of you think she likes horses, then I think falling for a man who permanently stinks of manure, is covered in horse or dog hair and spends every waking hour either talking about the four-legged wonders or riding them is not on her bucket list. She’d probably prefer a nice, rich city wanker. Sorry to have to say this, but I think every man that I’ve met in this place falls into that smelly category. Well, every single man within a twenty, no make that thirty, mile radius.’ Pip looked from one to the other and wondered what really worried Lottie more, the fact that Rory might go off to woo the stricken widow, or that her dad could find himself without stables and a yard. But, as seriously sexy and fit as Rory was, she couldn’t imagine the immaculate Amanda falling for his charms.

‘Thank you for the ego boost, darling Pippa.’ Rory gave her a smacker straight on the lips. ‘We can rely on you to bring us down to earth. Love the artistic muck heap by the way.’

‘You noticed.’ Despite herself, Pip grinned. It had taken her half the afternoon to coax the spilling muck heap into some kind of order. And climbing on top of it had left her stinking from sweat as well as horseshit.

‘I thought you were going to see your mum?’ Lottie was staring at her, suspicion lacing the normally clear gaze. ‘Which is why you couldn’t go to the dressage with Rory.’

‘Well…’ She paused. ‘She rang to tell me she was too busy and could I make it next week.’ Which was half true, she had been invited next week, but not instead of today. Today she’d wanted to check out the new arrivals in the village, partly for work and partly because she was curious. And it had been worth missing the sight of Rory being carted unceremoniously through a novice dressage test. Just.

‘So, how did it go?’ She looked at Lottie.

‘You know that Morecambe and Wise sketch—’

‘I’m not that old.’

‘Nor am I, but there are repeats. Every Christmas. The one with the piano, where he says he’s playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order? It was like that. Every step, every transition, but not necessarily in the right order. And some of them combined.’ Lottie was fighting to keep her face straight, but gave up the battle when Pip started to giggle. ‘That horse has paces to die for apparently, and Rory nearly did.’ A full giggle attack hit. ‘Honestly, I nearly wet myself, especially when Uncle Dom came up to pass comment.’

‘Shit, wow.’ Pip glanced at Rory and the look on his face set her off again.

‘You pair are so immature, such giggly girls, aren’t you?’

‘Yup.’

He headed across the yard, the docile Flash keeping step as the terriers circled them at a safe distance.

‘Oh, Christ, it wasn’t really that bad was it? Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’ Lottie sobered up. ‘She was a complete cow for the first half, did a brilliant second part and then spotted a hat she didn’t like and left the arena without using the marked exit. Just missed the judge’s car, but nearly annihilated the secretary.’

‘He’s taken it reasonably well though, hasn’t he?’

‘Reasonably, but no way was I going to argue with him over who drove the lorry back. Good job dad didn’t spot him as we drove through the village.’ Lottie grimaced and tried not to think about the fact that they’d had a very close encounter with a large group of ramblers (which Billy wouldn’t have cared about, as he viewed them in a similar light as he did rabbits: destructive and a waste of space), and an even closer shave with a Lycra-clad trio of cyclists who had made a grab for the wing mirror in retaliation (which he would have been bothered about, as it resulted in a swerve that nearly put a scrape down the other side of the lorry).

‘Talking about to die for, I have just got to tell you who I saw today. I mean after I tidied the yard, exercised all the horses and sorted the muck heap, you know in the ten minutes left.’ Lottie just looked at her. ‘Well ask then.’

‘Amaze me, who did you see, Pip?’

‘Tom Strachan.’

‘Tom Strachan?’

‘You know, you do, you have to. Gosh Lottie you really are buried in this place aren’t you? It’s like being on another planet. Tom. He’s a model, and I don’t mean some airy-fairy gay boy, he is hot. Seriously hot. To die for, even by my standards.’

‘And?’

‘He’s moved in, he’s the guy who has rented Blake House. Thomas Strachan is your new neighbour, Lottie, and,’ she put a hand on Lottie’s arm, ‘he’s just got divorced. I’m telling you, while the guys are consoling Amanda, the girls are going to be hot-footing it over to console the man distraught after his wife cleared him out and cleared off. Get your sexy knickers on girl, because we are going to go on a Tom hunt.’

‘But if his wife left him, then he can’t be that hot, can he? Pip?’

But Pip was already heading off across the yard towards her bright pink moped, which was nearly as striking as her mobile phone cover, and with a sigh, Lottie lifted the ramp of the box back up and with a backwards wave clambered up into the cab.