“You’re like a damn genie in a bottle,” Samantha grumbled as they sat in her office. “Here one minute then poof, gone the next. Do I get brownie points for guessing where you were?”
Trisha chuckled. “No, you don’t. And stop complaining. If I’m not here half the time it’s your fault for having connived to get Cameron to take me trail riding.”
“Ah, the god in blue jeans. How is he?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“You’re still not going to tell me anything?”
“Nope.”
“You are so mean.” Samantha set down a stack of manila folders on her desk. “I’m aquiver with anticipation over your love life because mine sucks. Although, I must say you look very much better than the pale and pasty waif I picked up at the airport. I think you’ve put on a pound or two as well.”
“Really? Where?” Trisha looked down at her still slim figure. “And for the record, you didn’t pick me up. Dee did.”
“Oh, well,” Samantha hesitated with a frown on her face. “I meant to.”
“She said you were having trouble with some girl over a contract.”
“I’m always having trouble with contracts. Look at these.”
Trisha picked up the top folder from the pile Samantha pushed towards her and leafed through it, surprised at the number of crossings out and hand-written side notes on the forms.
“Everyone and his dog has a lawyer these days,” Samantha continued. “Lord knows I’m a very patient person but this is enough to drive a saint crazy.”
“Patient? You?” Trisha raised an eyebrow. “Even on your best day, patience is not one of your virtues.”
She continued to flip through the folders. Some of the demands were not unreasonable, others outrageous. A soft whirring sound made her look up in time to see sunscreens rolling down the windows.
“Sensors,” Samantha explained. “They’re a god-send. Saves me a lot of time adjusting the blinds.”
“All of six seconds I’m sure,” Trisha teased.
Samantha made a face at her then looked up as Marguerite DeVries walked in.
“You called, I came.” Marguerite waved an imperious hand as she sank into a chair. “Oh, and I brought more photos of our models. I thought they might help Trisha pick her winner although I must say they all give me hot flashes and I’m not even menopausal.”
She fanned her face as if to cool it off with a large, bulky envelope.
Samantha took it from her and laid it on the desk. “What we have to tell you might give you a hot flash of another variety.”
Marguerite raised an eyebrow as she looked at Samantha, than swivelled her chair and glanced at Trisha.
“What’s going on here? Should I be worried?”
“Possibly.” Samantha fidgeted with the edge of the envelope. “I may have been a bit hasty in putting Trisha’s name forward as your judge.”
“It wouldn’t have been hasty had she told me exactly what she’d let me in for,” Trisha began hesitantly, still angry with Samantha but not wanting to start a blame game. “I’m sorry, Marguerite, had I known what was involved I’d have refused the offer because I’m best known for taking photos of horses, not people.”
“I noticed you with a little group on Friday night. Samantha said they were friends of yours.” Marguerite gave her a calculating glare. “Was that guy you were with trying to influence you to pick his friend for first place?”
“No, he wasn’t.” Trisha rubbed her clammy palms down her thighs, drying them on her jeans. She had to avert any suspicious thoughts Marguerite might have about Cameron. “But someone else is.”
“Who?” Marguerite demanded.
“Brent Heywood,” she admitted. “Believe me, it would be far better if I simply fade out of the picture. You can say I was sick or something. I know it’s far from professional but you don’t want Brent Heywood mouthing off about me. It would create bad press and question the validity of your event.”
“Whoa. Just a minute, lady.” Marguerite pushed her chair back, got to her feet and strode to the window and back. “That’s a lot to hit me with the now the event is underway. What gives?”
Somewhere in the recesses of her mind and quite illogically Trisha registered an eight-second time frame for Marguerite to walk to and from the window. Maybe those automatic sunscreens were worth it after all.
“What’s Brent Heywood got on you?” Marguerite angled her head to one side, her eyes gleaming with sharp interest as she looked at Trisha.
Tears pricked Trisha’s eyes. However much she wanted to put her past behind her, here it was yet again staring in her in the face. For how much longer could she run from the truth of a day she wished she could forget? She put her hand over her mouth to choke a sob. She was so sick and tired of feeling weak and afraid yet still could not find the words to explain herself.
“Something happened to me a couple of years ago. Something I’m still trying to get past. I’m sorry but I really don’t want to talk about it.” Trisha turned away, misery pulling her mouth down.
“And it’s plain eating her up, that’s why she’s so skinny,” Samantha cut in. “But if a smarm like Brent Heywood could uncover information about you, Trisha, then so could anyone with a computer and half a brain.”
“If he’s really being that much of a pest we’ll just find grounds to disqualify him,” Marguerite snorted.
“You can’t do that, Marguerite,” Trisha warned. “Forgive the analogy but he’s got a loaded gun here. Either I give him what he wants, which is to win the prize pot, the cover shoot and the contract deal, or he will bad mouth me to everyone who will listen. It would be totally unfair to the other competitors for me to give in to his demands and Samantha’s and your integrity will be compromised if I do. Both of you have too much to lose for me to allow that to happen.”
“But if you back out now, what’s to stop him talking anyway? He could put his own spin on it just to get back at you. I can see it now.” Samantha held her hands up as if framing a tabloid headline. “‘Judge walks out on top publishing house’. You think the fallout from that wouldn’t have some effect?”
“Has he tried to contact you again?” Marguerite asked.
“No, thank goodness,” Trisha admitted. “But this is only Sunday. We’ve still got six days to go before the winner is announced. I can’t think of anything we could do to make this right.”
“I can.” Marguerite grinned suddenly. “Honey, if you’re up for this we can absolutely turn it around. But it might mean an uncomfortable week for you.”
Fear of what Brent Heywood might do and what solution Marguerite may have vied in Trisha’s mind.
“What could you do?” she asked finally.
In answer Marguerite reached into her voluminous designer bag, sifted through its contents and retrieved a piece of paper. “This is our Pick-a-Dinner-Date draw form. This is what we were going to run with in the first place, and then Samantha thought we’d get more exposure with you judging the finals. You do have the credentials, you know. I checked that much.”
Trisha took the draw form and quickly scanned it. The only information asked for was the entrant’s name, email address and with which model they would most like to have dinner.
“So you really didn’t need me anyway.” Trisha glared at Samantha.
“You give the event that professional edge we needed.” Samantha did not look at all repentant. “All the draw forms will have to be processed anyway. Marguerite has a team of Purple Plain readers ready to start work on them, if they haven’t already.”
“That begins tomorrow morning at nine,” Marguerite added. “We didn’t know what the response would be like but it’s already astronomical. I guess everyone wants a date with a winning male model, and a few of them are real cowboys. Now we have our work cut out to get everything counted by four o’clock on Saturday afternoon ready for the evening announcement. Our part of the exhibition is over at midnight Friday when our photo display comes down.”
Trisha waved the draw form under Marguerite’s nose. “There will be thousands of these. How can you possibly process them all in less than a week?”
“Never underestimate the power of our readers,” Marguerite chuckled. “If you don’t have plans tomorrow, meet me at my office and I’ll show you what I mean.”
Intrigued in spite of her initial doubt, Trisha agreed. “So what should I do about Brent?”
“He’s not stalking you, is he?” Marguerite asked with friendly concern. “He hasn’t actually threatened you with physical harm?”
“No.” Trisha shivered at the thought. His bumping into her at the Stampede grounds was nothing more than a coincidence. It couldn’t be anything else, could it?
“If he approaches you again just let him think he’s convinced you to pick him. What do you think, Samantha?”
Samantha tapped a nail against her cheek as she considered. “I think we need to find out more about him. I’ll have Dee look into his background. She has ways and means I don’t even want to think about.”
“The stage manager from Friday night didn’t have a very good opinion of him either,” Trisha said. “I’ll see if I can track him down and ask him what he meant. I was too upset to think straight then. I just wanted to leave.”
“I can understand that.” Samantha threw her arm around Trisha’s shoulders and gave her a quick, comforting squeeze. “I’ll have Dee call him first; she liaised with him for the reception and awards night at the Palliser so she’ll have his number.”
Trisha covered her face with her hands and shook her head. “I thought coming here would be a bit of a vacation along with my assignment. Instead, my past is catching up with me almost faster than I can breathe.”
“What could have been so bad?” Marguerite wanted to know.
“Stampede and horses go together. Cowboys and horses go together. Your judge and a dead horse don’t, but that’s what will come out of this if I don’t give in to Brent Heywood’s demands.”
“I think you should tell us what happened,” Marguerite advised. “Whatever it is, let us help you deal with it.”
Trisha looked at both women but heard her counselor’s voice.
There will come a time, Trisha, when you become so tired of the burden of guilt you’ve chosen to carry. Then your only options will be to either sink under its weight or swim away from it. Sink or swim. It’s up to you.
Trisha straightened her back and shoulders, lifted her chin. She’d carried that guilt for two years. She’d lain down with it at night, an uncomfortable and unforgiving bed-fellow and gotten up with it in the morning after dream-disturbed sleep. It sapped her energy and drained all emotion leaving her living a half-life.
Sink or swim. More of what she had suffered in the last two years? No.
Trisha looked at Samantha and Marguerite, saw the tension in their faces and the questions in their eyes. Where should she begin? With her parents who had her on a horse before she could walk? With Delacourt, the horse bred by her mother and trained by her father? With her own soul-deep passion for horses? Simply with herself? It all seemed too much. She sank into the nearest chair.
“Before I became Trisha Watts, photographer, I was Patricia Somerville, three-day event rider. In our last event in the run up for the European championships, my horse stumbled and I ignored it and pushed him on over a jump. He was dead when he hit the ground and we finished up crashing into another fence. I hit my head and was in a coma for eight weeks.” Trisha reached up and pushed back her bangs, revealing the scar on her forehead.
“Ouch,” muttered Samantha.
“Ouch is right, on so many levels,” Trisha continued. “When the hospital finally discharged me and I went home, I found I’d not only lost my sense of balance and some depth perception, but also my nerve. I couldn’t get on a horse without breaking out in a cold sweat and having nightmares afterwards. My parents thought I just needed to persist but it simply got worse until I had a huge argument with my father and left home to stay with a friend. I couldn’t get on a horse but I could still photograph them so made photography my career.”
On the edge of tears, Trisha’s voice quavered and she stopped.
“Did you know any of this?” Marguerite asked Samantha.
“Some of it,” Samantha admitted, “but I thought it best for Trish to tell you herself.”
“All Samantha knew of me when we met in Toronto,” Trisha continued, “was that a designer had asked me to be one of his models. He knew that I rode in top level competition and thought my name might help advertise his riding inspired fashions. When I refused to model he asked me to shoot at fashion week instead because he’d also seen an exhibition of my photographs in a London art gallery.”
“So the name Watts is a pseudonym?” Marguerite wanted to know.
“No, that’s my mother’s maiden name.”
“Well, your story could be a novel all on its own,” Marguerite mused.
“So now you know the truth, do you really want to risk all that coming out in the press right now?” Trisha worried at her lower lip.
“Actually, yes.” Samantha suddenly smiled and held up her hand as Trisha began to protest. “I know several journalists and one in particular would be very sympathetic. Trisha, think about it. It gives you an opportunity to show how brave you are in admitting the problem you had and why you turned to photography. How many other people might be out there suffering the way you do? Your story might help them and stop Brent Heywood in his tracks too.”
“That could work.” Marguerite looked thoughtful while she considered Samantha’s proposal. “What do you think, Trisha? Are you up for it?”
Trisha looked at the women who were for now her closest colleagues. Having gone this far, it would be impossible for her to not help make their event a success. And did she really want the man who made her skin crawl just to think of him gain the upper hand? She slowly nodded her assent.
“Okay, set up the interview. Let’s get it over with.”