in time to the fly bucks and heel kicks, whilst Rory sat strangely calm on top of Flash, resigned to his fate, like he was hacking out the quiet nag she’d appeared in the stable. They really excelled when they came to the flying change, for a moment they seemed suspended in the air as Flash decided whether to paddle desperately in an attempt to fly into hyperspace, or give up and come back to terra firma.
Lottie covered her eyes and peered through her fingers, half expecting them to come crashing down in a heap of tangled legs, and then, miraculously, as the mare’s hooves hit the ground she seemed to calm down. Maybe it was because she’d had that sensation of jumping, and it had switched her mad chestnut brain on to automatic, but something happened. She flew through the next few movements, finished the test with the kind of perfection that instilled silent awe, and then carried on flying – straight out of the ring, narrowly missing the judge’s car and scattering the onlookers who’d come for a quiet day out to watch the horse world’s answer to ballet.
Rory grinned and dropped the reins as the steward jumped out of the way, clipboard flying straight at the judge’s secretary whose hat went one way and cup of coffee the other, splashing a passing Great Dane, who, with a yelp of surprise, headed off in the opposite direction, towing his surprised teenage owner, baseball cap askew, with him.
Lottie started giggling, then glanced up to find Dom had ridden over and was in front of her, staring disapprovingly down his elegant long nose. Even his horse looked like it took a dim view of the situation. ‘That man really doesn’t do the dressage world any favours at all.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Airs above the ground aren’t normally performed at this level, which even a numbskull eventer like Rory should know.’ He tutted, the horse gave a discreet snort. She tried to keep the laughter in, she really did, but it hurt. Her ribs hurt, her eyes started streaming and suddenly she couldn’t help herself anymore. She let it all out, howling with laughter until she was doubled up and could hardly breathe.
She paused. Aware that Dom and his mount were still stood motionless in front of her. Tiny equine hooves oiled and polished so she could see a whisper of her reflection in them. Took a calming breath and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘He’s not that bad, and you know it.’
Dom shook his head slowly. ‘I think you better go and catch them, don’t you?’
‘They’ll be at the horsebox; Flash always heads for home when she’s upset.’ She blew her nose, which helped a little at calming the hysterics that had been bubbling around in her chest. ‘Christ, I hope she hasn’t actually headed for the main gate, she might really want to get home this time.’
Dom raised an eyebrow even further.
‘Kidding. Honest. They’ll be fine. Oh, good luck.’
‘Thank you, Charlotte.’ She half expected him to add, but there is no luck involved, but he didn’t. He just nodded, although she could have sworn there was a glimmer of a smile chasing across his perfect features as he nudged his horse into a walk. ‘Oh, Charlie,’ he turned in the saddle, almost as an afterthought. ‘Don’t let him break your heart, will you? Men like him are never worth it, believe me.’ Then he gathered his reins and trotted back across the arena.
‘No heart left to break, Uncle Dom.’
***
Flash was, as Lottie had expected, by the horsebox when she got there. Tied to a piece of twine and tugging lazily at a hay net. Happy as an old-age pensioner on a day trip to Brighton.
Rory was sat on the ramp, smoking a cigarette. His jacket had been discarded beside him, the cravat on top of it, his dark curls damp and flattened from the hat. He grinned. ‘What kept you?’
‘Couldn’t keep up.’ She sank down beside him, took a draw on his cigarette and handed it back. ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure, but I’d say you were probably eliminated.’
‘I don’t believe in doing things by halves.’
‘Nope. Balls still intact then?’
‘I might have to check on that one, unless you want to do it for me?’
‘It’s a bit public here.’
‘True.’ He took another long draw on the cigarette, blew a smoke ring. ‘I’d sell that horse if she wasn’t such a bloody good jumper.’
‘Maybe next time you should warm her up in the show-jumping ring?’
‘Hmm.’ He stood up, ground out the cigarette butt with his boot and picked up his jacket.
‘Or maybe you should just use her as a showjumper?’
‘And let some idiot like your dad get his heavy-handed mitts on her?’
‘Or maybe you should ask Dom to have a look at her?’
He gave her a look, which she guessed equated to something like, when hell freezes over. Then paused. ‘You can, if you want.’ Which was the closest he was going to get to a yes. He liked the horse, she knew he did. She could be the best on his yard, if she’d do even an average test. And she would be wasted just doing show-jumping. Cross-country was her forte. And the way she’d flown today, even Lottie could see she had paces to die for. Though ‘to die for’ probably weren’t the right words to use where she was concerned.
‘You want to check out these balls then?’
She grinned. ‘Could do, I’m good at medical things like that.’
‘Right, you sort out the Menopausal Madonna and I’ll give the dogs a run before we head back for a full inspection.’
He stepped off the ramp, then held out a hand and hauled her to her feet.
‘Yes sir, Mr Bossy Boots.’
‘Do as you’re told for once.’
‘Hey, don’t forget this.’ She picked up the bright pink mobile phone, which he’d dropped on the ramp next to his packet of fags. ‘You never said, what was Amanda calling about this morning?’
Rory dropped the phone into his pocket, his brow wrinkled as he tried to remember and she fought the impulse to stroke the lines away. ‘Oh, she said he was dead.’ He stared into the distance, still deep in thought. ‘I presume she was talking about Marcus.’
‘Marcus, dead?’
He shrugged, threw open the door of the box and stood back as the three terriers tumbled out.
‘She said Marcus was dead?’
‘Dunno, don’t worry about it, I probably misheard. Be back in a bit, darling. Come on gang.’ And he whistled the dogs up and headed off, surrounded by a whirlwind of white and brown yappiness, leaving a gobsmacked Lottie staring after him, mouth open.
Philippa Keelan put the brush down and watched as the wagon pulled into the yard. Rory, as male chauvinistic as ever, was behind the steering wheel; Lottie had her long legs stretched out on the dashboard with a terrier balance precariously on her thighs.
