Well Groomed (19 page)

‘She’s so seriously unspoilt.’ He was swiping idly at overhead branches with his crop as they made slow progress through one of the pitted bridleways that interlaced the undulating Fosbourne lanes.

‘I think she’s bloody wise for her years.’ Tash was trying to stop Snob going into orbit as twigs assailed him in Ted’s wake. ‘She makes me feel about ten sometimes – and I can give her over a decade.’

‘Yeah, wise – true.’ Ted looked round at her. ‘But wickedly innocent. I mean, you’re kind of smutty, Tash – no offence. She’s seriously sexy, but totally unaware of it. You’re more deliberate.’

‘Thanks.’ Tash was deeply shocked at this statement. Admittedly, she had taken the odd kinky shot of herself with a Polaroid for Niall recently – which she now rather regretted – but she was far from a wanton. ‘I thought you went for Franny’s rubber fetish look?’ she called after him, trotting forwards to catch up.

‘I’m a man of extremes.’

‘Extremely bad taste, I’d say.’ Kirsty, following behind on Gus’s top-grade horse, Sex Symbol, was only too happy to put Tash’s mind at rest. ‘And you’re quite wrong about Tash’s sex appeal, Ted,’ she added, shouting loudly along the lane to be heard above the din of the horses’ clattering hooves. ‘She’s not at all deliberate. I mean, she never dresses up to look sexy – not even for Niall. And she’s no’ even a wee bit smutty, are you, Tash? You’re quite prudish really, aren’t you?’

‘Er – well. Maybe a bit. Sometimes.’ Tash felt even more offended at this. She knew she was no sex siren, but she liked to think she was one up from Sister Wendy in the letting-it-hang-loose stakes.

‘No, I don’t mean Tash is provocative,’ Ted argued cheerfully. ‘She just tries harder than India, who doesn’t need to try at all, she’s so damned sexy. You need to make more effort, Tash – in a sweet way.’

‘I see.’ Tash was starting to redden with anger, but Snob chose this moment to try to rear up and exit the scene through a hazel bush, which prevented further discussion.

She sloped back to the forge at lunchtime, primarily under the pretence of tidying up for Niall’s impending arrival, but in truth dying to get her mits on her post.

The Reader’s Digest congratulated her on the fact that she had made it through the first round of their Prize Draw, and offered her a no-obligation opportunity to peruse their
Encyclopaedia of Offshore Marine Wildlife
. The local oil company reminded her that her tank would be almost empty now, and would she like to take advantage of their ten percent Freebie Feb offer to have a refill? Her mother had posted her a list of dress-designers in London she
must
get in contact with a.s.a.p., and Henrietta had sent her a postcard of Windsor Castle with a polite confirmation of their lunch on Saturday, written in her bold, round hand.

There was no Valentine’s card, and no invitation to Hugo’s party.

Tash was loth to admit it even to herself, but she was far more hurt by the latter. Niall always forgot Valentine’s Day. He had forgotten last year, and had made up for it with profuse apologies and two tickets to see the latest Maggie Smith play, followed by dinner at the Arts Cafe and a sleazy night in a London hotel afterwards because they couldn’t be bothered to make the taxi journey to his Chalk Farm flat to be alone and near a bed. Niall perennially forgot everything – her birthday, his birthday, his phone number, his pin number, Bob’s secretary’s name, his mother’s maiden name when he lost his bank cards. It was part of his nature to forget things and somehow Tash loved him all the more for it. Hugo had a better memory than Nelly the Elephant and had deliberately left her off his guest list to hurt her. She wanted to throttle him. Better still, she wanted to have one of his poxy invites so that she could send him a curt little RSVP rejection letter thanking him for his kind offer but saying, although he desperately needed friends to join him in celebrating entering his ancient thirties – still single and unloved – she would be otherwise engaged, coupled up and very much beloved, in the arms of her gorgeous lover. The fact that the lover was six years older than Hugo could be glossed over for the purposes of Tash’s malevolent intention.

She didn’t feel like going back to the yard to work after such a shattering postal let-down, but she knew that Gus would not condone her self-pitying behaviour much longer. She had been taking a lot of afternoons – or more specifically, mornings – off recently to moon over photograph albums and miss Niall. That had been tolerated and forgiven in mid-winter when the season was a long way off and the horses were enjoying a well-earned rest. The working pupils were in theory supposed to be working just as hard at this time, helping to host clinics with other riders, doing some indoor show-jumping competitions with the novices, hunting the youngsters and sometimes helping Gus out with fact-checking or proof-reading on one of the occasional eventing manuals he wrote. Playing hooky on these things was chastisable, but forgivable. Damaging the horses’ chances in the events to come by slacking on the all-important fittening process was nothing less than idiotic and self-destructive. And Gus was so strapped for cash at the moment that Tash was extremely expendable.

She spent a murderous afternoon trying to get Mickey Rourke to show some vestige of flat-work obedience in front of a critical Gus on the all-weather menage.

‘I told you the horse was a clumsy tearaway!’ he yelled in exasperation after just half an hour of Tash’s fighting to make Mickey’s star-gazing, feet-tripping paces look graceful. ‘He may jump like a mutant flea, but he shakes his head as though he’s got the buggers in his ears and he lollops about like a smashed young farmer at a disco.

He’ll never upgrade – he’s going in
Horse and Hound
next week.’

‘He’s just young and over-eager,’ Tash protested, but Gus had already stomped off.

Later, she tried to do some jumping work on a couple of Penny’s intermediates, both of whom were overexcited after their winter break and had her off so many times that she was as bruised as a windfall by the time she limped inside for tea.

Having wolfed a pizza with India and Rufus (both in possession of a clutch more red cards from their school pigeon holes), she carried Beetroot the few hundred yards home along the pitch-black lane, almost having a heart attack when she walked into an overhead branch and mistook it for a rapist’s baseball bat. Then, remembering that Niall would be with her in just a few hours’ time, her heart started to lift like a hot air balloon given a jet of burning gas.

The forge was cold, damp and unwelcoming when she let herself in. The only light came from the flashing red dot on the phone telling her that she had some messages.

Tash took off three or four layers and leaned against the range for a few moments to warm up before elbowing on a few lights. She found her bag, extracted the two bottles of claret that Zoe had pressed on her for Niall’s homecoming, then guiltily remembered that she had promised to book a lunch table for Henrietta the next day.

Wandering over to the phone to make a quick call to Den at the Olive Branch, she remembered the messages and pressed the Replay button before she tried to call out.

‘Hi, Tash, sweetheart – it’s just me.’ It was Alexandra. ‘Did you get my letter, darling? Will you promise to set up an initial meeting soon with someone about the dress? It doesn’t have to be anyone I suggest. Please call me this weekend – we’re in Paris, by the way. It’s
ages
since we’ve spoken and we’ve lots to discuss. I gather Hen’s seeing you tomorrow, so I’ll gossip to both of you afterwards. Oh – and I’m coming over for Henry’s christening – I promised Sophia and Ben – although Pascal can’t make it. We’ll both get our heads together there. Your father is apparently keen for you to get married in that awful little flea-pit, St Ja—’

The machine, programmed to give callers thirty seconds in which to say their piece, cut her off mid-stream and bleeped perfunctorily before giving way to a stern, deep drawl that made Tash jump.

‘Tash – Hugo,’ he announced in his abbreviated, unfriendly way. ‘I think we need to talk about this – er – extraordinary card thing. Call me, will you?’

He sounded both amused and faintly pissed off. Tash cursed as she realised that he’d seemingly rumbled her style despite all her careful attempts to cover it up. Damn! Well, she was going to tell all. There was no way she was going to let him think for a moment that she had voluntarily posted him a Valentine’s card.

Her reasoning was brought to an abrupt halt as she realised that Niall was talking on the machine.

‘—can’t be helped,’ he was saying in his sad, melodious voice. ‘I’m so disappointed about this, angel, I simply can’t tell you. Listen, I’ve got to go and do this bloody thing now – we’re shooting all night so far as I know – and tomorrow’s pencilled in even though it’s a Saturday. Christ, is this thing over-budget! Still – it’s not my problem, I suppose. I mean, not seeing you is my problem. Big problem. I’ll call later – or try me at my hotel at around two or three if you’re still up. I’ll stay awake for you. I love—’

The machine cut him off too.

Tash kicked off her boots, fed the eager Beetroot, threw some celery out to Giblets, switched on the television and poured herself a vast glass of wine.

‘Niall’s not coming!’ she wailed into the empty room. A tidy, empty room – with its vase of snowdrops in his honour, its fresh candles in anticipation of seduction, and small stack of carefully selected CDs ready to be thrown casually into the machine the moment he entered. She had bought two vast, juicy steaks and a vat of cream the night before at Sainsbury’s (terrified that she would bump into a fellow Flab-buster at the express check-out, straining under their half-basket of bean shoots and cottage cheese). She had even washed the sheets, and dry-cleaned her sexy red dress which she could now just about zip up once more.

Tash took another slug of wine and let self-pity give way to furious indignation.

‘Bastard!’ She stood up slightly shakily and, zapping Family Fortunes with the remote, rammed a CD into the stereo. Moments later Enigma filled the room with a throbbing, sensual beat laid seductively over a hypnotic Gregorian chant. ‘Bastard, neglectful Irish sod! After all my bloody efforts.’

Dancing funkily in time to Enigma, she headed upstairs and drained the rest of her glass of wine before wandering slightly woozily into the small, chilly bathroom and taking a long, chilly shower. At least the cool water chased the puffiness from around her eyes and faded the pink tinge of her nose somewhat. Afterwards, she drenched herself in Fire of Desire and struggled into the red dress, which was really far too tight. Still, it didn’t matter as he wasn’t coming. She was doing this purely for herself.

Rather too slewed to aim straight, she slapped on some off-centre eye make-up, which simply served to give her a strange squinty expression, although her eyes looked slightly smokier as well. She then trotted back downstairs and started to fry both steaks in almost half a pound of butter, continually tripping over Beetroot, who stood drooling beneath her. She tripped over to the stereo to change the music before grooving her way back to her heavenly-smelling comfort food.

‘Neglectful Celtic dilettante!’ she wailed along to the music. ‘Stayaway crap boyfriend.’

She had just added almost an entire badly crushed head of garlic, half a glass of claret and several peppercorns to her sizzling mix when Beetroot shot over to the cat-flap and started her ecstatic wriggling routine.

Tash, when sober, would have been alerted to danger at this point. Half a bottle of claret the better and singing tunelessly along to the Pretenders, she was completely oblivious of the quick-fire rap on the door that preceded entry.

A moment later, there was a rush of cool air and Hugo strode inside, already stooping down to welcome his delighted reception committee.

Completely oblivious, Tash was waggling her frying pan, her bottom and her vocal chords as she got to grips with the sexier part of ‘Sassy’. She flipped over the fat steaks and threw in a little more wine for good measure before lowering the heat in anticipation of hacking a few vegetables to boil-friendly proportions.

‘Tash?’

‘Mmm?’ Nose deep in the fridge, she didn’t bother to look around.

‘Tash, are you feeling quite all right?’

Three new potatoes went flying into the cheese box as she slowly registered the presence, and the chill, in the room. Whether it was from outside, or from the occupant – or indeed from the fridge, in which she had been buried for some moments – was hard to tell. But the chill was nonetheless very chilling and entirely sobering.

Slowly, Tash straightened up. Then she carefully straightened her skirt, which had risen up alarmingly. Finally, she straightened her hair which, pinned up when wet, had now fallen over her nose like a condemned man’s hood.

‘Hugo – how unexpected!’ She reeled around slightly too fast, so that her head seemed to spin on her neck for several more circuits before she pulled herself together. ‘What brings you here?’ She was aware that she was looking more than slightly slewed, but there was nothing for it but to brazen this one out.

Hugo was regarding her with something close to disgust. Dressed in his working garb – hay-flecked fleece jacket, black suede chaps and heavy dealer boots – he looked gloriously dishevelled, his eyes ringed with tiredness.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ He looked over her shoulder at the two sizzling steaks.

‘Oh – no, just a quiet night in, you know.’ Tash shrugged uncomfortably. Then she suddenly remembered the brief message he had left before the devastating one from Niall which had eradicated all those that had gone before.

‘Listen, about that card. It was just a daft idea of India’s really—’

‘Well, yes,’ Hugo butted in almost boredly, giving the room his usual look of disapproval. ‘That was partly why I called round.’

‘Like I say – it was a commission really.’ Tash could feel herself start to babble as she always did when wildly embarrassed. ‘I mean, it’s not from me personally – Lord, no! I don’t fancy you myself or anything. Uck! Quite the reverse, in fact. That is – not that you’re not very attractive to certain people. I’m sure lots of people are falling over themselves to go to bed with you and suchlike. Well, the odd one. Just not me. Definitely not me. No. Um. Oh.’