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GREGOR CARRIED HIS saddle into the tack room where Hettie was cleaning tack. ‘Tiff and I are worried about you, Hettie.’
‘Worried about me? I can’t think why. Leave that saddle out, Gregor. I’ll clean it next.’
‘All work and no play, that’s why! Tiff tells me you’ve refused another invitation to one of my fabulous parties. I have been spurned for horses!’
She laughed. The radio crackled in the background, and an aroma of leather and saddle soap filled the room. She looked at the neat row of saddles and bridles, buffed to a dull gleam, reins hung in uniform lengths, stirrup leathers folded. And then she looked at the ones she hadn’t got to yet: mud splattered, smudged with dirt and sweat, a pile of grubby girths and saddlecloths to be washed. ‘I teach on Saturday evenings. You know that.’
‘Weak excuse. The party never takes off before midnight.’
‘And ends later than I start work.’
‘Exactly! Seven days a week! Fifteen hours a day! I’m a big kahuna, darling, and I don’t work as many hours as you. Where’s the fun and the naughtiness? You’re young and stupidly gorgeous. It’s a tragedy, Hettie.’
‘Fun and naughtiness don’t pay the bills. And anyway, I love what I do.’
Gregor tutted at her and dragged the reins of his bridle across the floor as he put it back on the hook, leaving it wonkily, haphazardly thrown up.
Hettie frowned, then scolded herself for minding. She had no bloody right to get arsey with him over a wonky bridle, considering everything he’d done for her. It wasn’t his job to hang it neatly. That was what he paid her for.
She dipped her cloth in the tepid water and twisted it tightly between her hands. She didn’t know what the fuck was the matter with her lately, but she didn’t feel young, and she didn’t feel gorgeous either. A cloud of horsehair and dust flew up when Gregor shook his saddlecloth, settling on the leather she’d just washed. Fucking hell. Hettie clenched her teeth and rubbed at the saddle again.
She managed a thin smile as Gregor walked out with a parting comment. ‘Don’t think I’m letting this go!’
She turned the volume dial on the radio, hoping the up-beat DJ and pop music would drag her out of the glooms, but his jollity grated. She switched the radio off, mimicking the DJ’s Happy Monday! with a sarcastic wag of her head.
Gregor was right – all work and no play. If he gave her a nickname what would it be? Boss? Yard-wife? Shrew? Hettie dropped the cloth into the water where it landed with a satisfying plop. She sat down heavily on a storage chest, next to the tortoiseshell kitten who was draped across the heap of washing and stretched lazily in response to her presence.
The Landy had failed its MOT, and the credit card bill had turned up. Another hay delivery was due. The kitten pushed into the hand she reached out. She stroked the fluffy head. ‘It’s alright for you, puss, lying here all day.’ The cat’s satisfied purr suggested agreement.
What she wouldn’t do for an afternoon off. Or even a couple of hours. Gregor wasn’t the only one feeling rejected. Her mates were fed up with listening to her excuses as well. Life would get easier again in the summer. But she hadn’t even made it to Christmas yet. She hauled herself back up, lifted the clean saddle onto its rack and put Gregor’s in its place. As for his party, the idea of going out at midnight and staying out until dawn couldn’t be less appealing.
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GREGOR RENEWED HIS efforts a few days later. ‘You tell her, Tiff. She simply has to let her hair down sometimes.’
Tiff grinned at Hettie. ‘Gregor is wounded that you’ve turned him down, when the It-crowd clamour to be at every party.’
‘I really am sorry, Gregor. I didn’t mean to offend you, but I do have to work.’
‘Troll’s coming, aren’t you, Troll?’ Gregor picked up as Fiona entered the lean-to.
Hettie snorted. ‘Is that meant to be an incentive?’
Fiona roared with laughter. ‘The midget turns! You must be recovering from your broken heart.’
Gregor and Tiff both swung their heads towards Hettie. Gregor’s eyes twinkled with intrigue. ‘A lover’s heartbreak story! How do I not know about this, Troll? You must be off your game. Hettie, I declare, you’re the dark horse in the stable. And I thought you were simply a dreary workaholic.’
Hettie hunched her shoulders and turned her back on them. She flicked through the pages of the diary, blind to what was written there. Dreary? Really? ‘I am a workaholic.’ The sting of his comment was mixed with surprise that Troll hadn’t already told Gregor the whole sorry story.
Tiff interrupted her thoughts. ‘Why don’t you come to the party for an hour after work? Just to shut him up.’
Hettie turned quickly to face them and counted off points on her fingers, her voice becoming louder as she spoke. ‘Because one, I don’t want to. Two, I have nothing to wear. Three, I have fuck-all money to buy anything to wear. Because four, the Landy’s broken so I couldn’t get there if I wanted to. And finally, number whatever-the-hell-it-is, after fifteen hours on the yard I fall into my pit like the dreary girl I am!’ For an awful moment, she thought she was going to burst into tears.
Fiona broke the heavy pause that followed Hettie’s outburst. ‘You might be taking the turning overboard now, dear.’
Hettie picked up her coat from the back of the chair and her tobacco from the table. ‘I’m sorry, guys, end-of-tether moment.’ The flare-up had left her feeling deflated. ‘Gregor, forgive me. When I get my sorry act together, I’d love to come to one of your parties.’
‘You may not get another invite.’ He winked as he said it.
Hettie rolled a cigarette as she walked to Lockie’s field and perched on the rail to smoke it. Lockie wandered over to stand beside her, his dark eyes soft and interested. She rubbed the white star on his forehead for luck. ‘What should we do, Lockstar?’ The black horse nudged a smile from her. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on ignoring the fact that it was all becoming too much, working every hour and earning almost nothing.
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FIONA RANG HER FATHER. ‘Daddy, I think Hettie is struggling with money. Is there anything we can do?’
‘Well, no is the short answer, pet. We’re not charging her anything yet, not until the new year. And if I offered to extend that, I doubt she’d take it. She’s cut my livery charges since you’ve been riding out, and I didn’t ask her to.’
‘How about drumming up a few more liveries from your hunting cronies?’
‘Seems to me she’s already run off her feet. I’m proud of you though, petal, for wanting to help your mate. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you taking an interest.’
Fiona scowled at the telephone. ‘Nonsense. The girl is hopeless at running a business. I have to keep an eye on her. We should remember that it’s our property she’s failing to manage.’
Despite her words, Fiona smiled when she came off the phone.
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HETTIE FELT BRIGHTER the next day, as if her minor meltdown had made things clearer. The yard had to work, and if that meant asking for help then that was what she would do. She would take Bert up on his offer to loan her the money for heating oil, because being constantly cold was making her miserable. She would get her accounts up to date. Her sister, Nat, and Simon were visiting Mum at the weekend and Simon was an accountant. He’d already offered to help, so she could ask him to look at the numbers for her. Then she would make a plan.
Hettie hummed as she pushed her wheelbarrow. Bert had invited them all to lunch on Sunday. Her, and her mum, and Natalie and Simon. That hadn’t happened before, and she didn’t think Bert was much of a cook, but she was looking forward to it. A thank you to her mum, she guessed, for helping him out after his operation, although Bert had more than paid that back with the help he’d given her. Sweet. She did love him.
She would get a few hours away from the yard. The horses would get by; the work would wait. Her step was almost jaunty.
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HETTIE WAS DISTRACTED when she left Bert’s cottage. More than distracted, she was stunned, knocked sideways by the news that had been served up with the lamb chops and mashed potato. Her mum and Bert were moving in together; they were going to get married! Hettie couldn’t work out quite how she felt about this world-tilting news, but her cheeks still ached from smiling.
Her mum was, well, her mum. And Bert was her mate. When in God’s name had all this happened? And then, to top it off, Natalie and Simon had announced that they were expecting! Pregnant, a baby on the way. It had been like a family game of Top Trumps, which everyone was winning. She hadn’t shown her accounts to Simon because they clearly would have been a losing card and like throwing a bucket of ice over the flow of good tidings.
Her sister was going to be a mum. She would be an auntie. Aunt Hettie. Step-granddad Bert? She laughed, and almost walked straight into Celia.
She felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment. ‘Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ She couldn’t think of a single other thing to say, so she made do with painting the smile back on.
‘How are you, Hettie? I was sorry to hear about your leg. All better now, I hope? And your stables are doing well?’
Hettie’s heart was already brimming. She was right on the edge of emotional overspill. First warmed by the wine and by Bert’s valiant efforts at cooking a Sunday dinner, and now here was Celia being kind, just like she always had been.
She wasn’t sure she deserved Celia’s kindness. ‘I’m sorry about what happened with Alexander.’ The words were inappropriate, out before she could stop them. Her smile slipped a little.
Celia touched her arm and gave a rueful Gallic shrug. ‘Dearest girl, you don’t need to say sorry to me. These things happen, as I know to my cost.’
She felt an unexpected urge to hug Celia, but she resisted it. ‘Wouldn’t life be simple if we could go backwards to mend all the things we regret?’
‘No, no, Hettie, that wouldn’t do! We’d fritter our tomorrows, mopping up our yesterdays!’
‘Well, I would, anyway.’
Celia’s eyes sparkled mischief. ‘Don’t give up, that’s what I’ve learnt. Regret is just a waste of imagination.’ She squeezed Hettie’s arm this time. ‘And don’t you let anybody tame that inner tiger!’
She headed on to the footpath that would lead her back to Hardacre. It was a good hike. The air struck cool after the warmth of Bert’s cottage. She pushed her hands into her coat pockets, where the sheet of paper with her accounts printed on it was still neatly folded. Her mum was getting married; her sister was having a baby. She hadn’t realised she wanted to be an auntie, but she knew now that she did. With a baby in the family and her mum so happy, it would be a new start for them all.
Her step was positive, but she hunched her shoulders against the cold wind that bit into her face. Had Celia meant that she shouldn’t give up on Alexander? Sweet as the woman was, she did have a habit of talking in riddles. Maybe that was her Frenchness. Fifteen years that Alexander had refused to speak to his mother! She frowned. That was how long he could hold a grudge. She wasn’t sure she wanted to waste anymore of her tomorrows thinking about him.
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JULIAN GREAVES WAS looking at Hettie Redfern’s Facebook page. There were new pictures: a covered arena, and another of her teaching some bloke on a fancy horse, looking fresh in her skin-tight jodhpurs. His yard. His fucking yard.
That arena must have been built with Melton money, the gold-digging slut. That was what she did. Took what she could and moved on. She’d brought him to this. He’d been there once, successful and respected. Now she had the fucking nerve to show up on his yard as if he had been a minor rung on her journey, a nobody.
He’d made that brat, taught her everything she knew, right down to the skill of parting her legs to get something for nothing. Conniving cow thought she could forget him now she had the Meltons. Well, she could fucking well think again.
Drunk but methodical, he worked his way through every post on Hettie’s Facebook page, reporting each one as offensive. His cursor hovered over the final picture of Hettie laughing at the camera as she led two horses in from the field. The wind had blown a strand of copper hair across her face, and her eyes were half closed as she laughed. Her arms outstretched to the horse on each side, pulling her T-shirt taut across her breasts. Julian enlarged the picture until Hettie’s face filled his screen, lips apart, eyes mocking; seductive, tempting.
Laughing at him.
His right hand fumbled inside his jeans, and he grasped his flaccid penis. He glared at the picture and pumped ineffectively. ‘I’ll fucking show you, bitch.’ He spat at the screen and was rewarded with some hardening of his cock.
Telling her to her face exactly what he was going to do to her, Julian masturbated angrily. Relief, when it came, was dry and harsh.