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WHAT WITH TED’S VISIT, Alexander hadn’t had time to dwell on his row with Ruby. In fact, it wasn’t until she got back to work that he remembered they’d fallen out, and, worse, that he hadn’t spoken to her since. He hadn’t planned it that way. Ted’s problems had distracted him. All the same, his step faltered when he saw her. Shit. No wonder she got pissed off with him. If this was his best effort at building a normal relationship, he was making a god-awful hash of it. ‘Hey, you. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Heavy weekend with my brother.’
Ruby inclined her head and folded her arms. ‘Is that right?’
‘Not heavy like that.’ He wasn’t sure he could share the reason for Ted’s visit. ‘Anyway, how was your weekend? Can I make it up to you, take you out to dinner?’
‘I’m on shift tonight.’
An elderly couple came in, both leaning on walking sticks, and sharing the weight of a cat basket between them. Alexander went to help, carried the cat to the desk and waited while Ruby checked them in. He smiled at the old lady, and she proceeded to tell him the details of Whiskey’s ailments. He carried the basket through to the waiting area for them, came back to the desk and waited while Ruby checked another customer in. He avoided looking at his watch.
He watched the old couple, their chairs close together. The husband leant in so that his wife could talk into his hearing aid. The old boy wore his flat-cap tilted at a mischievous angle. Alexander wondered if that was deliberate, a nod to his youth. He liked to believe it was. His wife would surely have straightened it out for him otherwise. She was patting his leg now, laying her crumpled hand over his. They must be in their eighties, and they’d made it, somehow.
Ruby’s hissed whisper cut through his thoughts. ‘You think a dinner will make everything alright?’
‘No, I don’t. But it would be a start.’
‘It had better be somewhere bloody fancy then.’
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REDFERN LIVERY CANTERED through November in a chaos of plans and changes.
Builders gave quotes for refurbishing, architects drew designs for new toilets, showers, a lecture room and more stables. Hettie mucked out with one hand, using the other to hold her phone to her ear, and Tiff’s questions were never ending. It was exciting to have someone to plan with and a relief to pass on some of the frustrating admin, like the Facebook page, which had inexplicably taken down all her photographs.
Redfern Livery became Redfern Equestrian. A little pretentious, Hettie thought, but Tiff assured her it was better, given everything the yard would now offer. And it was Tiff who updated the website and created the new Facebook page. Hettie felt freed. She could concentrate on her horses again.
The horsebox was booked in at the paint shop, to be re-sprayed with the legend ‘Redfern Equestrian and Gregor Francis Dressage’. When Hettie suggested to Tiff that they lose the mauve, she’d meant it as a joke.
‘Good idea. What do you want the yard colours to be? Do you want a logo? Should we use the horse’s head your mother drew? It’s good and simple. Maybe I should talk to Imo about our brand image.’
Hettie raised her eyebrows. ‘Good plan.’ She hurried off to do some clipping before the next candidate turned up to interview for the groom job.
With her first paycheque, Hettie got the Landy through its MOT and returned her mother’s car. Then she carted Moggy to the vet to prevent the arrival of any more kittens. The appointment was booked through reception and the surgery carried out by Tom. Hettie saw it as a sign of a change in her stars that throughout the process she’d managed to avoid bumping into Alexander or Ruby. There was even money left over to pay Bert an instalment against the heating oil.
‘Ah, sure, it was a gift.’
Hettie wasn’t having any of that, and she took umbrage when the builders began moving in on the bungalow as well. ‘The yard, yes. The house, no. I’m a business, not a charity case, and I do want Gregor to get a return on his money sometime this century.’
Tiff didn’t argue.
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THE RAG-TAG BUNCH OF interviewees she saw was disappointing. Gregor seemed to be attracting a whole new world of applicants, and the girl who arrived today was one of them, in full make-up and high heels, for God’s sake. She smiled as she said goodbye and wished she could poach her old team from Draymere. As if her thoughts had inspired some kind of telepathic link, Hettie’s mobile rang and Siobhan’s name came up. ‘Grace said I should ring you. I’ve had a young ’un call me.’
She picked at the straw on her coat, and waited for enlightenment.
‘Looking for a job.’
‘Ah! Any good?’
‘Yes, but young. Only sixteen—’
‘Oh. I think that’s just too young. What a shame. But thanks for thinking of me.’
Siobhan carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘—but a good kid. Knows her horses, works hard. Lives in the village. Used to work at... your place. Before.’
Distracted by a wonkily hung bridle, she fiddled with the reins as she listened. Siobhan’s last sentence stopped her. ‘For Julian?’ The familiar turn of her stomach, a creep on the back of her neck.
‘Yes. One of his volunteers.’
‘Not the one—’
‘Yes, that’s her. The one’s whose pa beat him up.’
Sixteen was too young. There would be all sorts of problems, like a lack of skills and reliability. Her conscience nudged her. She hadn’t been too young. How could she not give this girl a chance, when she’d been one of Julian’s ‘volunteers’ too, as Siobhan had so neatly put it?
‘I’ll talk to her on the phone. But I can’t promise anything.’
‘Good. You won’t regret it. I’d have her here, but we’ve no vacancy at the moment. I’ll tell her to give you a call.’
Zoe, the ‘young ’un’, was on the phone minutes later. She stumbled through an eager pitch, listing all the reasons why she wanted the job. It was enough to persuade Hettie to invite her for an interview. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
She arrived in twenty minutes, on her bike, red in the face.
She did look young in worn jodhpurs and mucker boots, her hair in a ponytail.
Hettie listened, and Zoe told her about all the other people’s horses she’d ridden, the birthday riding lessons, the mucking-out traded for the chance to sit on a pony. And she knew she was going to take a gamble on Zoe. It wasn’t a choice. The girl was infectious, and her story reminded Hettie very much of her own childhood, right down to the bits she didn’t want to remember. ‘I can offer a three-month trial. We’d have to take it from there. When could you start?’
‘Tomorrow!’
Hettie didn’t regret her decision. Zoe’s methods were slapdash, but her gusto made up for it. She arrived early for work, with a smile on her face, and mucked out like a miniature hurricane (scattering straw and tools in her wake, but she could work on that). They booked in more lessons and horses for schooling, and by Zoe’s third week on the yard, Hettie felt confident enough to take an afternoon off. Unsure what to do with her glorious free time, she ran a bubble bath, got distracted into scraping mould from the pitted grout around the bathroom tiles, gave up and curled on the sofa in her dressing gown.
Kitten jumped onto her lap, and Pig barked at Kitten. Hettie rubbed a fingertip over the silky fur on the cat’s chin and reached for her phone.
Anju sounded weary. ‘Hi, Hettie.’
‘Hey, Anj, have I caught you at a bad time?’
‘Every time is a bad time right now.’
‘Oh dear, what’s up?’ Kitten nudged her hand, which had idled from stroking.
‘You’re telling me you don’t know? I’ve already had a message from Alexander this morning. I’m assuming this call is the next stage of his manipulation, but I’m not taking Ted back—’
‘What? Shit! Oh, Anju, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I saw Ted a while back but not to speak to. Alexander and I, well we don’t talk.’
‘Good plan. Fucking Melton men. It must be in the breeding.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, the usual. Girl from the office, one-night stand. Blah, blah, blah.’
‘Shit. I never saw that coming, not from Ted.’
‘That’s what everyone says. But apparently I wasn’t enough to stop him dipping his dick elsewhere.’
‘I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do? The engagement and everything...’
‘No, there’s nothing anyone can do right now. I’m glorying in my misery. I don’t think they know at the Hall, by the way, and I’m not telling you that to protect him. I just wouldn’t want Celia to find out through unofficial channels. Or Grace, come to that. She must be the only one that family hasn’t done the dirty on.’
‘You do know it was me who messed things up with Alexander. It’s my fault we’re not together, not his.’
‘You? You cheated on Alexander?’
Hettie’s cheeks burnt, even in the isolation of the bungalow. ‘Well, no. Yes. Almost.’
‘Good gracious. Is there something in the air down there? I don’t understand any of this. I thought you came back from South Africa to be with him.’
‘I did. But I’m crap at relationships, and it’s not as if we were engaged or anything.’ She heard the excuses whine from her mouth and hated the sound of them. ‘Sorry, Anju, scrap that comment. I fucked up, simple as that. One thing I can tell you, although you probably don’t want to hear it, is that you can love someone and still fuck up.’
‘No, I don’t want to hear it. Tired words that mean jack-shit.’
She turned the TV on after she’d hung up. Poor Anju. Poor Ted. The words might be tired, but they didn’t mean jack-shit. Everyone fucked up.
She found a bottle of nail varnish and painted her toenails, batting Kitten away with her other hand. Already it was dark outside. The year was plodding towards its close. So Alexander was calling Anju to try to persuade her to take Ted back. Jesus, was there no end to the man’s hypocrisy? She flexed her pink-tipped toes, pleased with the result; the colour choice was bold. Next year, she decided, would be her best year yet. The year she finally got her act together.