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ALEXANDER SWITCHED on the car radio. He flicked through the channels and turned the volume up. His thoughts harried like crows. He had been lying, she was right about that, but for her sake too, not just for his own.
He could admit that he was scared by the power of his feelings, terrified at the prospect of needing her. But what was the point of confessing to that? He wasn’t going to let it happen. It would be cruel to let her believe it might. Look what they’d done to each other in the last eighteen months.
He couldn’t go back there, wouldn’t lose himself to the passion that made him less of a man, less than she deserved. No one deserved a lifetime of him. And judging by the way she’d looked at him, she’d finally seen that now. That must be for the best. It would be easier for both of them if she hated him, because he couldn’t hate her, no matter how hard he tried.
It was time to put a few hundred miles between himself and Draymere again.
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HETTIE TURNED THE TV on and patted her lap to beckon the dogs to the sofa.
Fuck him. She was done now. Everything else in her life was good, so why was she wasting her time? He could go to hell for all she cared. She had the riding-club show to look forward to, a busy week ahead. They were going to ride their quadrille at the show, which should be enough to keep her distracted. She scratched Doris’s head. Lockie deserved her attention this week. She might even enter him for the show jumping. Hadn’t she always known she was better off steering clear of men and sticking with her horses?
She’d let herself slip for a moment, was all.
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DESPITE THEIR INTENTIONS to move swiftly on, both Hettie and Alexander’s minds were set to replay for the next few days. It was impossible to switch off.
Alexander ran and ran some more. He called the landlord at Porth Wen and reserved the cottage.
Hettie drove herself, the staff and Lockie to ever more exacting levels of perfection with which to present the yard and the horses at the riding-club show. The competition would celebrate the unveiling of the brand new indoor arena. The lecture room and showers had been completed. The stables overlooked the spring-fresh paddocks where the showing classes would be held. The second stable block was still under construction, but Hettie had given the builders their orders to leave all areas swept and tidied before the show.
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REDFERN EQUESTRIAN was a bustle of activity. Volunteers from the riding club strung tape to mark out collecting rings for classes. Hettie helped to build courses of jumps in both arenas, the indoor school for the adult classes, the outdoor for the kids who would compete for bright rosettes won by clearing the colourful mini fences.
Bert and Anna returned from Spain, sun-kissed and riding a honeymoon high. Bert rushed straight to the yard to rehearse his quadrille moves.
Tiff photographed everything to keep her mind off the scary fact that she had, in a moment of apparent insanity, entered Apache for the veteran showing class. Gregor was going to be her groom for the day.
Fiona delivered some leaflets for her summer ball, all proceeds to the Harding Trust in support of local children’s charities. She strode through the yard, impressive in her six-inch Louboutins and cutting Burberry suit. ‘Give them out to everyone!’
The forecast was set to favour the bank holiday weekend, and Hettie’s hopes were high. She was excited to be competing again, even at grassroots level. On the evening before the show, she decided to escape for a quiet hack on Lockie. A peaceful reward for the horse, away from all the frenetic activity and ahead of his big day tomorrow.
Mist had settled in the valley below Hardacre. Hettie took a left fork on the bridle path, which led to the top of Monk’s Hill. On a clear day the ride gave a stunning view across the land, taking in Draymere, Hardacre and the village, but today parts of the scene were shrouded in mist that hugged the course of the river. Broccoli treetops poked through it, miniature in the distance.
They cantered on the crest of the hill, her boy’s long stride easy and thrilling beneath her. She patted Lockie’s neck as they settled back to walk, turning left on the winding track, hedged either side by blackthorn heavy with white blossom, which led back to Hardacre. Cows ruminated beyond the green hedgerow, and rabbits hopped for cover. Hettie held the reins loosely, and as Lockie’s relaxed stride carried them home, she congratulated herself on keeping her mind free of Alexander.
His absence from her life was less dramatic this time. One visit a week for the last few months was hardly a relationship, and Lockie and the show had kept her occupied. One visit a week for the last few months.
Hettie jerked her head upright. Every week?
Lockie jogged and shifted under the sudden tension in his rider’s seat.
Every week for how long? Think, Hettie, think! This couldn’t be right. There must have been a week, at least one, when she hadn’t invited him in. When the fuck had she last had a period?
Hettie rummaged through her memory, frantic for anything to pin down the timing of her last monthly, but she couldn’t find the answer.
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‘TAKE LOCKIE FOR ME. I’ll be back out in a minute.’ She jumped off the horse and threw the reins to Zoe.
She hurried into the bungalow, wrenched her calendar off the wall and tore through the pages, looking for the date she’d been to the surgery to pick up more pills. She remembered that and that she’d restarted on the single strip of pills she already had soon after Alexander’s first visit. The day of the funeral then. Or had it been after his second visit? There it was, the asterisk that dated her last period.
Ten weeks ago.
It would be the pill, messing her up. Or all the hassle with Julian, and Doris breaking her leg. Stress did that, didn’t it, stopped your periods? There could be so many reasons for it.
Please, any reason but that.
Hettie’s mind darted from excuse to explanation, but all the while she knew agonising was pointless. The nausea, the turn-off from booze and cigarettes. In the centre of her being, it settled on her that she was almost certainly pregnant.
She drank a glass of water and paced the kitchen floor. She wouldn’t think about this until after the show. That was only a day away. ‘We’re well and truly up shit-creek this time, guys.’
She scootched down onto the tiles beside Doris and Pig. Kitten jumped down from the table and pressed herself against Hettie’s leg. She laid her hand flat on her abdomen. ‘Hi,’ she whispered.
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JULIAN HUNCHED IN THE glow from his laptop, squinting at the image. Grey ash fell from the end of his cigarette and landed on the keyboard. He knew that fucking horse.
His leg throbbed. The scar burnt red and angry, and the pain had broken his sleep in the dark predawn, festering and infected. Beads of clammy sweat stippled his forehead. Redfern, Zoe Medcalf and that fucking black nag. Together, on his yard.
He leant back, pinching the cigarette between his fingers. His lips narrowed as he dragged on it. Nah. Couldn’t be. A prickle of paranoia crawled on the back of his neck. Redfern, Medcalf and that bastard horse. The fucking nerve of Melton, coming after him.
Things were going to get nasty now.
Colourless light seeped through the gap in the curtains. He pushed his fag end into the empty can on the bedside table. It hissed as it landed in the dregs of lager. He could sign on the sick now, let the government fork out for his suffering, and he was going to sue the fuckers who’d done this to his leg by making him live with a fucking combustible sofa. He’d get out of this shitty box room and find a place of his own. Somewhere that stupid sister of his couldn’t keep track of his movements.
A racket from downstairs jerked him from his reverie. What the fuck was that row? Had that cunt come back? With the rapid beat of Lucy’s tread on the stairs, Julian flung himself from his bed and staggered to his feet. He heard shouting, a commotion, then the shrill of Lucy’s voice. Thundering feet pounded up the stairs, and the door to his room crashed open.
Coppers. Fucking coppers! He lowered his head and charged.
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CAROLINE THANET LOOKED around the room. The sister was still sobbing downstairs. They would take her in for questioning too. She watched as her colleagues bagged the laptop, binoculars and photographs. No counting of unhatched chickens, but from what she could see, Greaves had been careless about covering his tracks. Careless or arrogant.
She would be neither.
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TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF questioning didn’t break Julian’s bullishness, but that wouldn’t save him now. They had evidence and witnesses keen to spill: multiple counts of grooming, coercion and the rape of a minor; stalking and threats to property and life; the malicious wounding of an animal. Bail was refused on the grounds that Greaves’s victims remained in the locality. It took four policemen to manhandle him out of the courtroom. All the while he bellowed he was the real victim.
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THE HORSEBOXES STARTED rolling in to Hardacre paddock before eight o’clock in the morning. Smart, flashy multi-horseboxes pulled up alongside faded and aged models. Inexpertly towed trailers manoeuvred back and forth on the challenging incline. A stream of white-shirted riders, joggers covering their competition jodhpurs, meandered through the yard in search of coffee and toilets.
Tiff and Gregor created chaos throughout the mucking-out by giving Apache his second bath of the morning bang centre-stage of the action. Zoe and Hettie navigated their wheelbarrows under the pony’s chin. He tolerated the soapy water and the fly-past barrows with a laid-back calmness that contrasted with his owner’s frazzled nerves.
‘It will all be fine, Tiff.’ Hettie sang, every time she passed. She had woken that morning with a surreal, quiet acceptance of her situation. It was as it was. Nothing to be done.
This laissez-faire mood couldn’t be expected to last, but Hettie welcomed it and resolved to enjoy it while it did. Even the chaotic disruption to her morning failed to rattle her. Lockie gleamed, and the yard looked fantastic with the bright horseboxes and white marquees in the background. The Snack-Stop catering van was winding out its awning.
She scooped the last of her sweepings into her barrow. ‘Bacon rolls on me, in celebration of the brilliant display we’re about to perform!’
‘Your mother’s already fed me.’ Bert patted his stomach. ‘But I can’t say no to a bacon buttie.’
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THE SHOW WAS A SUCCESS. The sun beamed down on glossy horses, and tots tumbled from the backs of naughty ponies and climbed up to try again. Hettie was at the fence to watch every one of her pupils, shouting encouragement whatever the outcome. Loudspeakers crackled indecipherable messages, and riders and visitors queued at the Snack-Stop. Spectators spread across the grass and competitors wore their rosettes proudly back to waiting lorries. The Redfern quadrille was a triumph, despite one of Gregor’s horses farting rhythmically throughout the performance.
Gregor called his support as he signed yet another autograph. ‘Go Monty!’
Tiff took second place in the veteran showing class and cried when the judge gave her a rosette. She hugged Apache before she led him back to his stable.
‘Hey, Lockstar.’ Hettie greeted him as she carried his bridle and saddle into his stable for the second time that day. ‘Exciting day for you. You’re on again.’ She tacked him up and pulled his ears affectionately as she reassured him with soft chatter. ‘Only a bit of fun. Just do what you do.’
Lockie dropped his head and nudged her.
The black horse looked at the unfamiliar jumps in the arena with suspicion. He tried a half-hearted spook as they trotted past a garish sharks-teeth filler, but Hettie’s legs were there, holding him straight, and her hands were firm on his reins. ‘Just do what you do, Lockstar.’
She pointed him straight to every fence, and Lockie did the rest, tucking his front legs beneath him, soaring over each obstacle with style and panache, shortening and lengthening his stride at the lightest request from his rider. She thrilled at the bunch of his muscles beneath her, the attentive bounce of his stride, the burst of power that lifted them over the fences. It was as if they were one. She thought, and Lockie responded by putting her thought into action. She was impossibly proud of him. As they cleared the last fence and cantered over the line, her face was wet with tears.
‘Good God. Is bawling compulsory today?’ Fiona’s loud comment reached her as they trotted out of the ring. It didn’t come close to denting the moment for her. She slid from Lockie and planted a kiss on his neck.
‘Lovely round. Lovely horse,’ the collecting ring steward said. ‘You’re through to the jump off. Only three clear and four to go, so you should be in the placings. I think they’ll be jumping off in about thirty minutes.’
‘That’s great, but I’ll withdraw now, thanks. I couldn’t ask more of this boy today. He’s been a hero.’
The comedown was exhausting. The last of the horseboxes rumbled out of the field to a cacophony of shouted farewells as marquees were dismantled and jumps were loaded onto the backs of trailers. The Hardacre riders who had competed hung around their horses, comparing notes and rosettes. Bert was sent off duty, having put in stalwart service throughout the long day. Monica, Zoe and Hettie wrapped up evening stables as the yard gradually quieted.
‘Successful day. Bloody marvellous day. Thank you, team. You were brilliant. Get off home, Zoe, you’ve done enough. Monica, you go and nab first bath. I’ll finish off out here.’
Hettie was left alone. Peace on the yard, just the horses chomping their hay nets, the sun dipping low behind the treeline and the scent of hawthorn on the evening breeze. She locked up the tack room and made her customary check of the yard. Stable doors bolted. Water buckets full. Horses happy. Lights off. In the gathering gloom she snuck into Lockie’s stable, and leant against the stable wall next to his head. ‘You’re a superstar. Thanks, Lockie.’
Lockie ignored her and carried on eating his hay.
‘All in a day’s work, eh?’ She smiled at him and ran her hand the length of his silky black neck before slipping out again.