Well Groomed (24 page)

‘Just for five minutes,’ she promised Niall as she led him towards the car.

Grumbling, he hung back and, so delighted to see Tash again that he was given to over-the-top gestures, blew Ben’s mother a kiss. Lady Malvern, as she liked to be known at all times (even, it was reputed, in Woolworth’s where she bought her horses’ mints), almost fainted with shock. Her tightly crinkled, baby bloodhound eyelids opened fully for the first time in years to reveal two very bloodshot blue eyes.

Niall paddled Tash’s hand and followed her past Hugo’s boy-racer – ‘Now there’s a wonderful fucking car, Tash darling, I could do with one of those’ – as far as her borrowed heap of rust, which was thankfully concealed from most of the gathered throng by a large four-wheel drive.

‘What to Christ is this?’ He gaped at the sagging metal death-trap.

‘It’s Ted’s.’ Tash turned the key and simultaneously kneed the driver’s door in the place that Ted had demonstrated that morning. It obediently swung open.

‘Lord, but we have to buy you a car.’ Niall watched her fold herself with some difficulty into the driver’s seat, her yellow bottom resting on a dog lead, a back copy of
Eventing
magazine, and an old packet of Marlboro Lights. ‘Do you fancy one like Hugo’s – or would you prefer something racier?’

‘You’re not buying me a car, Niall.’ Tash let him in through the passenger’s door by jabbing the handle with a de-icer scraper as Ted had taught her.

The reception was predictably grand and slickly managed. It was, Tash supposed, inevitable that someone who used to be as kill-for-it fashionable as Sophia (it was rumoured that she had once hired a fleet of taxi drivers in New York just to track down a scarce bottle of Chanel Rouge Noir nail varnish) would now hire chefs for a christening to produce the same almost inedible raw lamb, chilli-rich nibbles that were stinging the tongues of the clientèle of every fashionable media haunt in London. Ben’s family wore the long-suffering, green-gilled expressions of boarding-school children in a refectory as they looked down on tray after tray of uncooked fish, marinated lime-leaves and lemongrass and kumquat marmalade tartlets.

Yet even though the food was more fashionable than Bjork, Tash had judged it totally wrong by wearing high-trash clothes to the christening; she would have made a better impression arriving in her usual work gear of Barbour and jods as much of Ben’s family, it appeared, had chosen to do.

The reception was held in the oppressively ornate Holdham Hall long gallery. It was one of the few rooms in the Merediths’ ancient family seat that was open to the public (‘The Gawpers’ as the Countess kindly referred to them) and was seldom used by the family at all. Although the security ropes and plastic walkways had been removed for winter, the tour-guide placards and plastic ‘Exit’ signs had been left in place, lending the reception the strange atmosphere of one held in a hired venue. Racing up and down the long, polished floors like speed skaters, all the under-tens – including Tor and Tom – were letting out great echoing shrieks. Tash was reminded of a bowling alley and was amazed that Sophia hadn’t gone to greater lengths to tart the room up.

‘
Huge
row with Mother about holding the party here,’ Ben explained in an undertone when he brought her over a glass of champagne that was so cold it stuck to her hand. ‘We were going to have it in the orangery, but Ma announced this morning that she’d hired it out to the local dog-training class for the afternoon and we’d have to come in here. Sophia is livid – there are dozens of Alsatian pups learning to sit and stay by bloody expensive flower arrangements as I speak.’

Tash stifled a giggle as Ben waggled a second glass around until it lost most of its contents. ‘Brought this for Niall.’ He seemed at a loss to know what to do with it.

‘I’ll take it for him,’ she offered, privately wondering whether she could steer Niall towards orange juice when he returned from the loo.

At the far end of the room, Sophia was doing her usual sublime hostess act, introducing the right people to the far-right people and ignoring Sally and Matty who were looking very left out and very left-wing. Lying in state beneath a great awning of ivory silk by the door, Henry was wailing his lungs inside out and being largely ignored. Only the red-faced French au pair took any notice of him as she struggled to hold a five-foot teddy bear over the cot and wave it around. It was almost as portly as she was and Tash watched in amazement as she nearly flattened Henry, cot and all, with it before pitching off towards the drinks table, thoroughly off balance. Henry just screamed twice as loudly.

‘The baby’s crying, Bernadette!’ Sophia shouted over her shoulder from within a social cluster. ‘For God’s sake, show him his new teddy like I told you!’

Tash took a brief respite from her killing heels by perching on a tatty old leather chair.

‘Don’t sit on that, dear,’ Lady Meredith said curtly as she charged past to refill her glass. ‘It’s tenth-century – absolutely priceless.’ Without another word, she headed for the red wine.

Tash sprang upright again and wandered towards Matty and Sally, then noticed at the last moment that they were chatting to Hugo. Backing away, she was forced to resort to Henrietta and the girls, who were looking worried and bored respectively.

Feeling she had to make up some ground after the sticky lunch and the daft vitriol in the church, Tash gave them all kisses on the cheek, noticing to her embarrassment that they all seemed as reluctant to accept her endearment as Jesus feeling Judas plant a wet one on his beard.

‘Are you all well?’ she asked cheerfully.

‘Fine,’ Henrietta said bleakly, not looking at all friendly.

Tash had never known her to be pointedly uncivil, and realised that she had hurt her far more than she’d intended by being so unhelpful the previous week. Henrietta was normally so timid and in desperate need of approval that she was overly polite to anyone and everyone. For a while when she had first married their father, Sophia, Matty and Tash had referred to her as the Nodding Dog. It was a childish slur that Tash now regretted, realising how tough it had been for Henrietta, always regarded just as Daddy’s Secretary, to adjust to the role of Daddy’s New Wife. James French’s three headstrong, unruly children must have made it very hard indeed for her and her young daughters to fit in.

Desperate to make up ground, she made the mistake of tapping Henrietta right where the wound was rawest.

‘I hear you want to work in films?’ she asked Emily, unaware that Henrietta was flinching beside her.

‘That’s right.’ Emily looked at her with lazy, narrowed blue eyes which seemed to be weighed down with half a bottle of black liner. The look didn’t suit her. Beneath all the muck and hair dye, Tash knew she had the most glorious English rose looks which would propel her into a low-paid dogsbody assistant’s job on a film in next to no time – production managers, especially male ones, couldn’t resist having a fleet of Mollys, Pollys and general Sloaney jollies around the sets clutching clip-boards, gushing pointlessly and hanging on their every word – even if it was just a request for skimmed milk and two Hermasetas in their tea. But dressed as she was – in a shapeless, oversized and faded tea dress, Doc Martens, laddered tights and the old covert coat James wore to walk the dogs – she stood a better chance of getting a small extra role in the crowd scene of a Ken Loach film.

‘Have you asked Niall then?’ she asked Tash belligerently, her eyes squinting.

Tash bristled at the expectancy of her tone. Sometimes she was treated – especially by the more loosely connected members of her family – as though Niall was a Lottery jackpot she should dole out equal shares of whenever asked.

‘He’s around here somewhere.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

She knew she sounded tight-lipped and schoolmarmy, but didn’t like the way that Emily was up-and-downing her outfit as though she was wearing a body bag.

‘And you’re still eventing, of course.’ She turned to Beccy, knowing she was on safer ground. ‘I saw you at the Ruttleford trials last October. You did very well – I loved that youngster you were riding, the bay. Are you going to compete her this year?’

‘No.’ Beccy’s face started to crumple.

‘Your father sold her,’ Henrietta said nastily. ‘To one of your friends, I believe. A Swedish chap.’ She patted Beccy on the back, looking around in embarrassment in case anyone was witnessing her daughter’s emotional display.

‘Stefan?’ Tash looked at Beccy sympathetically.

She nodded, clearly not trusting herself to speak as she fought bravely not to cry.

‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Tash touched her arm. ‘That’s so awful – losing a horse you really think is starting to go right for you. It’s happened to me with Gus’s horses so many times and it never gets any easier. It’s such a mercenary business.’

Beccy sniffed miserably and shrugged, clearly not believing Tash had experienced anything close to her level of loss.

‘If it’s any comfort, Stefan is a bloody good rider – and very kind to his horses. And he’s working at Hugo’s yard this year, so she’ll want for nothing.’

‘Is he?’ Beccy suddenly looked interested. ‘Stefan Johanssen is staying at Haydown?’

Tash nodded. She had seen the lanky Swede only two days ago, when he had driven down to Lime Tree Farm from Maccombe to say hi, almost flattening Wally when he parked his motorbike in the yard and left most of its tyre rubber on the cobbles. Not yet twenty, he was competing for only his second year in England, but already was extremely popular with the other riders who fell for his lofty, blond looks, his enviable ability to ride competitively when hungover to the back of his immaculately straight teeth, and his strange, loopy vowel sounds. He had the huge-eyed, gauche look of a cartoon character which made everyone think he was a gullible pushover, yet he was as shrewd as a horse-dealing gypsy. Coupled with Hugo, who was one of the bravest and most accurate riders in the business, it was generally believed that he would really shape up this year, if he didn’t die of alcohol poisoning first.

‘Mummy’s going to ask Hugo if he’ll take me on as a working pupil,’ Beccy said cheerfully, her near-tears forgotten.

Henrietta, who – despite admiring Hugo immensely – was secretly terrified of him, cleared her throat nervously.

‘That would mean I’d be living near you, wouldn’t it?’ Beccy seemed to have forgiven Tash.

‘Just four or five miles away. And there’s lots of other eventing yards nearby.’

‘Are Gus and Penny Moncrieff really going bust?’ Beccy asked blithely.

Tash gaped at her. ‘Where did you hear that?’

Again, Henrietta cleared her throat. She was beginning to sound as though she had a large batch of hatching frog’s spawn in there.

Beccy quickly changed the subject. ‘Have you really had horses sold on that you wanted to ride?’

‘God – tens of them,’ Tash sighed. ‘It’s always so heartbreaking, but you have to accept that it’s a business as well as a sport and the only way the yard can run is by selling on some of the best horses.’

Beccy nodded, but her eyes kept darting to Hugo, who was standing just a few yards behind Tash, having an animated conversation with one of Ben’s crusty, horse-loving relatives. He has the most beautiful profile I’ve ever seen, she realised dreamily. She tried hard to listen to Tash, but her concentration was desperately torn.

‘My method now,’ Tash was saying, ‘is to concentrate on the tough nut horses who have just as much potential as the easy-going ones, but don’t show it as fully at first – there’s one at the moment I’m eager to keep on. He’ll be simply fantastic soon.’

‘Is he like Snob?’ Beccy was almost as madly in love with Tash’s big, potty chestnut as she was with Michael Hutchence, Johnny Depp, Niall, and – very secretly – Hugo Beauchamp. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that he was standing closer now, knocking back orange juice and looking divinely aloof.

‘Mickey?’ Tash thought about it. ‘I guess he has the same stubbornness, and he gets bored easily too. But he’s not as bright and wily as Snob. He’s more eager to please, but he doesn’t know how to do it yet and gets too excited to learn. He’s got phenomenal raw ability, though. I know Gus sees pound signs every time I improve him – it’s hell really.’

‘Why?’ Beccy had started to notice that Hugo’s eyes darted towards Tash every so often, almost as though it was a habit – the same way she would look at her best friend at a party to check she was still enjoying herself. It struck her as odd.

‘Because,’ Tash explained, slightly thrown that Beccy kept looking past her ear, ‘the better horses get, the more likely they are to be sold. It’s catch twenty-two times table – you work your guts out on them because you want them to show you their true colours, and the moment they do, you lose them.’

‘Christ!’ Emily yawned loudly. ‘I can’t believe that grown women can be so excited about horseflesh.’ She eyed Hugo thoughtfully as he made his way past them to refill his glass. ‘Although I suppose it has its compensations.’

Beccy followed her sister’s gaze and took a deep breath. ‘Now’s your chance, Mummy!’ she hissed, watching as Hugo paused right in front of Tash to peer down the very flat cleavage of one of Sophia’s modelling friends.

Tash clenched her teeth with tense foreboding as she remembered that she was under strict instructions from India to do some more matchmaking that day, mentioning Zoe’s wonderful nature every time Hugo came within breathing distance, and telling him how lovely it would be if he popped into the farm more often. India had even suggested that she tell Hugo he was a fool to be dabbling with Kirsty when what he really needed was a good wife, but she could just imagine his reaction to that and it involved a large quantity of orange juice dripping from her own face.

Watching him listen intently to Henrietta’s quiet, embarrassed approach, she was amazed to see that, instead of brushing her off like an unwanted fly on his jacket sleeve, he apologised profusely for not being able to help this year and then took out a pen from his breast pocket to scribble down the names of some friends who might be able to accommodate Beccy in their yards during her school holidays.