Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (36 page)

Newbury Racecourse played host to Frankie’s attention the next afternoon. Rhys would be there with a full book of rides. For once, Tom wasn’t busy and Frankie sent a glare in Donnie’s direction.

‘You’re cutting it fine,’ Tom said as she passed.

‘Trying to spend as little time in this company as I can,’ she replied, keeping a guarded eye on Rhys.

‘You’re not the only one,’ Tom replied.

Frankie sent him a quizzical frown.

‘The boys haven’t really taken to my new image,’ he explained in a muted voice. ‘A few of them have dumped my valeting services.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Really? Let me guess. Donnie’s one of them.’

‘He was the first,’ he nodded. ‘Now a bunch of the other, younger guys have changed valets.’

‘Bunch of homophobes,’ growled Frankie.

Tom shrugged.

‘They’re just following Donnie’s lead. With him being one of the top jocks, they’re impressionable. I doubt whether most of them are actually homophobes.’

‘How has Rhys reacted to you coming out?’

‘In his usual way. He’s kept himself to himself. Hasn’t condemned me or the others. I guess he’s got other things on his mind.’

She longed to ask him if Rhys had asked about her, but knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t make everything about herself. The searching look Tom sent her made her drop her gaze for a brief moment.

‘You’re right,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘He’s riding in the Grand National in a couple of weeks’ time. He’s got plenty to think about.’

‘And so do you. Come on. Get your skates on, Frankie. I’ve just got to get this helmet to Rhys. He got a hoof through the last one in the first.’

Frankie pulled up sharp.

‘Is he okay?’

Tom raised an eyebrow.

‘He’s fine. Or rather he says he is. You can never really tell since he hardly says anything to anyone.’

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Frankie scoffed.

*

Out in the spring air, Jack waited for her and Rhys to join him. Frankie kept her head down and avoided Rhys’s eye. Instructions were brief and Jack legged her up onto Media Star. Jogging out onto the course, she was about to breathe a sigh of relief when Rhys appeared at her flank. She pushed her mount into canter and stood up in her stirrups.

‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ Rhys growled, keeping pace.

She pushed Media Star faster.

‘How long are you going to keep ignoring this?’ He stuck like a bramble to her side.

‘Go away, Rhys,’ she managed to mutter. ‘This is neither the time nor the place.’

‘Well, when is the time and where is the place?’

She turned swiftly in her saddle to glare at him.

‘I don’t know. Okay? All I know is that I don’t want to talk to you.’ Media Star quickened his pace.

‘But I want to talk to you,’ Rhys snarled.

Recognising the impatience in his tone, she shook her head.

‘What for, Rhys? What would be the point? You’ve admitted to using me to get Peace Offering. You’ve got what you wanted. Now bloody well leave me alone.’

‘You haven’t let me explain though!’

‘Explain?’ she spluttered. ‘Explain the finite details of how you slept with me, lied to me, made me look like a fool? Excuse me for not wanting to know.’

She kicked Media Star on, not caring that he was travelling faster than was sensible down to the
start. Rhys didn’t attempt to follow.

Frankie’s ear was still burning when she arrived at the veterinary surgery that evening.  Thanks to her tearaway warm-up prior to Media Star’s race, her mount had arrived at the start in a muck sweat, had fought her throughout the race and she’d pulled him up exhausted before the end.

Atticus Finch greeted her with loud indignant yowls through the cage door of his carrier.

‘How is he?’ she asked Mr Warnock, hope mingling with trepidation.

‘Well, the good news is that what was troubling him in the first place appears to have been just a case of constipation. He’s pooing just fine now.’

‘Oh, that’s a relief,’ she breathed.

‘The bad news, however,’ Mr Warnock said
, making her stomach muscles clench, ‘is that the blood tests showed up a bit of a problem with his thyroid.’

Frankie stared at him.

‘Wh–what does that mean?’

‘It means his thyroid isn’t working as well as it should be. It’s not uncommon in older cats and it might explain why he’s always so hungry yet doesn’t put on any weight.’

Frankie’s gaze flickered from the vet to Atticus who was vainly trying to claw his way out of the carrier.

‘I–
I thought he was just getting old and senile,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t think it was anything serious.’

‘Well, it doesn’t have to be serious. To look on the positive side, we seem to have caught it quite early. The negative is that he’ll need an operation.’

‘An operation? Oh, God. Can he still have an operation at his age?’

Mr Warnock smiled sympathetically.

‘There’s always a risk involved, especially with older animals, but it is the recommended treatment.’

‘Is there an alternative? Like medication or something?’

‘I’m afraid not. Operating is the only option we have. Otherwise he’s very healthy and there’s no reason, if everything goes smoothly, that he shouldn’t be around for a good few more years.’

Atticus meowed and Frankie poked her fingers through the carrier to scratch him under his chin.

‘Poor old boy. I guess if you think an operation is the way to go then we have to do it. When would he have to have it?’

‘As soon as possible.
I’d be inclined to keep him here and do it on Saturday. That’s the earliest we can schedule it for.’

Frankie gulped. She’d been so looking forward to taking him home tonight.

‘Okay, I guess.’

‘We’ll schedule it for Saturday morning then. You’ve made the right decision.’

‘Yes,’ she replied weakly. ‘I know.’

Atticus wailed as she walked away and she turned back. ‘I’m sorry, Atticus. We’ll make you better, I promise.’

*

The Golden Miller was quiet when Frankie walked in an hour later. Tom was sitting in his corner of the bar watching Joey serve customers. She wandered over to him and hoisted herself onto a neighbouring barstool.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey yourself.
How did it go at the vets?’

‘They’re keeping Atticus there. He needs an operation on his thyroid.’

‘Christ. Is he going to be okay?’ he said, wiping beer froth from his top lip.

‘Mr Warnock was pretty confident he would be. Fingers crossed anyway.’

Joey walked over, having finished serving his other customer.

‘Evenin’, Frankie,’ he said with a wide smile. ‘What can I get you?’

She was about to answer when the opening of the pub’s doors distracted her. Rhys stopped in his tracks in the entrance as he too saw her. Frankie’s heart stopped. Like a masochist, she couldn’t drag her eyes away from him. Drinking in his haunted dark eyes and masonic features, she was filled with the pain of the betrayed mixed in a heady cocktail of pleasure at his presence. Rhys’s lips tautened, his fists looked to tremble and he spun on his heel and strode out of the pub.

Frankie sucked in a lungful of beer-stale air. He’d walked away. Frankie’s heart sank even lower.
Before she’d had a vague sense of meaning something to him, even if it was just her forgiveness that he’d wanted. Yet now, it seemed he didn’t even want that. An empty pit inside her yearned to feel needed, to feel wanted by him. Even now. Even after all he’d done to her.

Joey clicked his fingers in front of her face and she blinked back to the present.

‘You want a drink, Frankie?’

She’d only been planning a single drink to take the sting out of Mr Warnock’s verdict, but now she felt the need for something more.

‘A double vodka and orange, please.’

‘Coming up.’
He deftly measured her drink and placed it on the bar for her. ‘Hey, Frankie. I’ve decided to see what this racing lark is all about. I’m going racing at Warwick this weekend. Got any tips?’

‘Don’t ask me, Joey. I couldn’t tip a wheelbarrow.’ She downed half the glass in one go.

‘Blimey, you look like you needed that,’ he said, resting a languid elbow on the counter.

Suddenly, getting completely shit-faced seemed a very attractive idea to Frankie. Just for one night, she could numb her brain from the complications in her life.

‘Can I start a tab?’

‘Sure you can.’

‘What are you doing, Frankie?’ Tom shook his head.

‘Dealing with things.’

‘With alcohol? Come on, it’s not going to solve anything.’

‘Hey,’ Joey said, teasing a finger at him. ‘My livelihood depends on her solving her problems through alcohol. Let her do it if she wants to.’

‘And if I start to make a fool of myself then I’ve got you two to stop me.’

Joey raised his hands and looked around.

‘Honey, there’s no one here for you to make a fool of yourself in front of.’

Taking another large gulp of her drink, she followed Joey’s gesture. In the ever so slightly tilting room, she noticed for the first time just how empty the pub was. She hadn’t seen it this sparse since before Christmas.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘We’ve got a mutiny going,’ Joey replied. ‘It’s the singing contest final next week and we’ve just had one disaster after another. First, your love
ly friend Cassa pulled out, now the one of the other three finalists has decided to go on holiday next week. We’re having to invite back that guy who Cassa beat last time round.’

‘That’s a bit shit.’

‘Tell me about it. If he sings another Chris de Burgh song, I’m going to hang myself. Loads of people turned up last time to see Cassa and I think they’re still a bit sore that she didn’t pitch. She was everyone’s favourite.’

‘What a shame. She really wanted to sing, it’s a pity she can’t come back for the final, but I guess that’s life.’

‘
C’est la vie
, as I always say,’ Joey said. ‘Can I get you another?’

She gave him a grateful s
mile and nodded.

‘What’s the story with Cassa, anyhow?’ Tom said.

Frankie shrugged. What did it matter now?

‘She wasn’t meant to be singing. She was underage.’

Tom choked on his beer.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yup, and her mother didn’t know she was competing.’

‘Jesus Christ, Frankie!’

Joey returned with a fresh double vodka and orange and looked curiously at Tom’s expression.

‘What have I missed?’

‘That girl, Cassa,’ Tom spluttered. ‘Frankie was sneaking her in. How old is she really?’

‘Thirteen.’ Unabashed, she twirled the liquid around her glass, marvelling at how much easier it was making things. Confession wasn’t half as difficult with a few units put away.

Joey tutted at her, still wearing a teasing smile. Frankie grinned.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It all got blown out of proportion a bit. But we don’t have to worry anymore. She’s out of the competition.’

Tom shook his head.

‘Frankie, you’re such a fraud.’

She paused, not drunk enough yet to have forgotten how she’d called Rhys a fraud. Wasn’t what she’d done no better than what he’d done? Of course not, she told herself. She hadn’t broken anyone’s heart, and all she’d done was to let Cassa follow her dream.

Frankie shifted on her seat, uncomfortable with her thoughts. Tiny slurring voices kept popping into her hea
d. She’d broken Cassa’s heart—but it hadn’t been her fault. If Mrs Preston hadn’t pitched up, they would still probably be in the competition. What Rhys had done to her was selfish and wrong.

But hadn’t
her and Cassa’s ploy also been that? Of course not, Cassa had sung for the right reasons.
You would think that though
, that annoying voice argued.
Rhys might be thinking the same thing
. Maybe the way he had gone about things hadn’t been particularly righteous, but wasn’t him riding Peace Offering in the Grand National the right decision? And given how desperate he was for the ride, how else could he have secured it other than by seducing her?

Frankie shook her head to clear it and glared at her half empty glass. Maybe she shouldn’t take up alcoholism as an escape. She had a full-scale debate going on inside her head of which she was just a spectator.

‘Cassa could still sing at the final,’ Joey piped up.

Frankie and Tom both looked at him in surprise. The barman leaned forward on his elbows.

‘As a special guest, like. That way people wouldn’t be disappointed and she wouldn’t be breaking any rules because she wouldn’t be competing.’

‘It’s a nice idea, but there’s her mother to think of,’ Tom pointed out. ‘She still doesn’t know that Cassa was in the competition.’

‘Oh, but we could so use the customers,’ Joey grimaced. ‘Can’t you sneak her in just one more time?’

Frankie thought of Cassa’s sullen demeanour these past few weeks. It would raise her spirits sky-high if Frankie told her the Golden Miller was asking for her to do a special performance. But of course, there were the risks involved. Mrs Preston would probably kill her if she found out. And that crazy
mental debate she’d just had—if she was so right and Rhys was so wrong then surely going along with Joey’s idea was just as fraudulent, if not worse?

‘She’s too young,’ she said.

‘Well, since the stage is in the restaurant area, which is also the family area, she wouldn’t be.’

‘But she’s too young for the competition.’

Joey’s smile sparkled.

‘But she’d be a special guest, not a contestant. Come on, Frankie. Where’s your sense of adventure?’

Frankie swayed, both mentally and literally.

‘She would really love to come back,’ she agreed.

‘Who? Your sense of adventure or Cassa?’

‘Both,’ she grinned.

‘I hate to put a dampener on your plan, but the final’s barely a week away,’ Tom said. ‘How are you going to let everyone know that Cassa’s going to be performing? All your usual customers are packed into The Plough so you can’t even tell them when they come in.’

Joey’s smile turned upside down and he
slumped his face into his palm.

‘Could we put it in the paper?’

‘No!’ Frankie cried. ‘God, Mrs Preston would definitely find out if we did that.’

‘Shall we sky-write it while Cassa’s mother is at work?’ Joey suggested.

Neither Tom nor Frankie bothered to answer.

‘I guess she’d just have to show up on the night and we could hope that word of mouth gets round,’ Tom said.

At Tom’s words, a light pinged inside Frankie’s brain. She pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket and dialled her mother’s number.

‘Who are you ringing?’ Tom said.

Frankie held up a finger as the call connected.

‘Hi Mum,’ she said, grinning at Tom’s confused expression. ‘Just a quick question, is Valerie Banks coming in on Sunday for her usual hair appointment?’