Gabi suppressed a sigh. She didn’t like borrowing gear.
“Thanks, Uncle Jimmy. Please tell Chris he owes me,” she said.
Together they loaded her saddle, bridle, riding boots and hat into the left-hand compartment of the horsebox. Gabi liked having her stuff neat and organized – she took after her mom in that way.
“What about food, Gabi? Should we load some?” asked Uncle Jimmy. “Or does the stabling in Plett include food?”
Gabi looked at Ben, who shrugged.
“I don’t have a clue. Our guest house is self-catering, but I have no idea if their stables feed the animals as well …”
“Well, there’s enough space in the trailer, so let’s take some from here. I don’t want to take the chance and end up with a starving horse,” said Gabi.
Gabi and Uncle Jimmy fetched a few bales of lucerne and Brigadier’s special oat mixture from the feed room. Hesitatingly, Ben began to help them load the feed into the horsebox just as Alex appeared beside the horsebox, a glint in her eye.
She’d got changed in the car, and had swapped her jeans for black leggings with designer slashes in them and a tight-fitting denim miniskirt that was frayed at the seams. Her school drama-club T-shirt had been reduced to a crumpled heap on the Land Rover’s roof, and the bright-purple Guns N’ Roses T-shirt she now wore was cropped short, showing off her belly button. Her tackies had been replaced with knee-length black-leather boots with shiny silver toecaps.
“Wow, Alex, those boots could kick down a door,” teased Uncle Jimmy.
Alex laughed, revealing her dimples. “They’re Aldo boots, Uncle Jimmy.” Her bad mood seemed to have cleared like mist before the sun.
“Nice. Turns out I have a bit of a soft spot for Alda boots,” said Uncle Jimmy.
“Aldo, Uncle Jimmy. And at least you have taste, which is more than I can say for my mother. She’s so stingy, she calls designer clothes ‘economic commodities’! I had to pay for these myself.”
“Your mom’s always been good with money. That’s her job, after all,” said Ben mildly.
“Maybe, but is it really necessary to treat your own children like bank clients?” Alex asked sourly. “I had to save for months to buy these.” She spun proudly on her heels.
“Legend top there, Alex. Axl Rose, Appetite For Destruction, 1987?” Ben asked.
Alex was impressed. “It is. But Chinese Democracy, 2008, is actually my favourite.”
“Cool. Hang on while I get my camera – I gotto get a few pictures of the start of my holiday with my girls!” said Ben.
Alex was delighted as she turned to her sister. “See, I told you! He’s nothing like Mom – he even knows Axl Rose!”
“You’d better make sure Mom never sees these photographs …” whispered Gabi.
Ben returned with a camera and a long zoom lens.
“Now that’s a camera!” said Uncle Jimmy admiringly. “Looks like you know your business,” he added as Ben started clicking away. He’d noticed the logo on the side of the Land Rover: Multimedia Photography.
“My dad’s travelled all over the world. He’s been working as a photographer in England for the last ten years, but now he’s back in South Africa,” Alex explained, posing with a tilted head and hands on her hips.
“You were named after Axl Rose, Alex, you know?” Ben said from behind the lens.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Luckily it was also the name of some Russian princess, so your mom and I didn’t have to argue about it. But I knew the real story …” Ben grinned.
“Cool! I never knew that. Did you fight over Gabi’s name as well?”
“Gabi is named after your mom’s mother – your grandma Gabriella – so no, I was happy with that. Nice lady.”
Gabi had always known who she was named after, but it was news to her that Alex had been named after Axl Rose. What took her even more by surprise was that Ben actually knew the stories behind their names – when it came to her and Alex, Gabi had always had the impression that her mom had made all the decisions.
3
The plan
The rhythmic clatter of the Land Rover’s diesel engine was soothing. The N2 highway stretched out in front of them in the easterly direction of the Garden Route. With her earphones in and her iPod on, Gabi leant at a bit of an angle against the car door, which allowed her to keep an eye on Briggs in the trailer.
Alex was tapping away on her cellphone, as usual. The thick black eyeliner she’d applied made her look older, and made her blue eyes bigger. Sunlight reflected off the fake diamond stud she’d stuck to the side of her nose – she was still devising a plan for getting a real piercing, because she had to get it past her mom.
Gabi sighed and ran her fingers through her long brown ponytail. Her eyes were tired from staring at the horsebox. She’d been very nervous about seeing Ben again, and hadn’t slept well the night before. To her, he’d always been a bit like Father Christmas – someone vague and unreal, occasionally taking shape on postcards and in photographs. Christmas presents and pretty birthday cards in the post had always been enough for her. Ten years ago, just after the divorce had gone through, he’d got a job offer in London. Since she was four, she’d only seen him once a year when he’d come home and they’d had a meal together at the Spur. That had been the sum total of their relationship. Until now.
Brigadier was peering out from the side of the horsebox. He pricked up his ears every now and then, but otherwise he seemed quite relaxed. Gabi sighed again, wondering how Alex was feeling. At least she looked happier than she had that morning.
“Mom left Bio-daddy because he wasn’t all neat and organised like her,” Alex had told Gabi behind the closed door of her bedroom a few weeks earlier.
Wanting to escape from yet another fight between her mom and sister about the state of Alex’s room, Gabi had been listening to music on her earphones and reading a book about American mustangs when her sister had snuck in.
“I mean, can you actually believe someone would leave their husband because he’s not Mr Tidy?! Seriously?! He told me in his last email. I mean, he didn’t actually say that, but it’s what he implied.”
Alex had flopped down onto the carpet next to Gabi’s bed, her face tortured. Dramatically, she’d pushed her hands to her chest like someone having an asthma attack – Alex hadn’t been awarded school colours for drama two years in a row for nothing.
“And I’d love to know what Mom said in divorce court.” Alex had stretched out her arms, the palms of her hands turned upward in a pleading gesture. “Your Honour, this man’s clothes are always on the floor.” She’d made her voice quiver with emotion. “Would you believe, Your Honour, that he doesn’t wash the bath, and that he leaves his towel in a damp heap. Yes,
