am I, but there are repeats. Every Christmas. The one with the piano, where he says he’s playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order? It was like that. Every step, every transition, but not necessarily in the right order. And some of them combined.’ Lottie was fighting to keep her face straight, but gave up the battle when Pip started to giggle. ‘That horse has paces to die for apparently, and Rory nearly did.’ A full giggle attack hit. ‘Honestly, I nearly wet myself, especially when Uncle Dom came up to pass comment.’
‘Shit, wow.’ Pip glanced at Rory and the look on his face set her off again.
‘You pair are so immature, such giggly girls, aren’t you?’
‘Yup.’
He headed across the yard, the docile Flash keeping step as the terriers circled them at a safe distance.
‘Oh, Christ, it wasn’t really that bad was it? Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’ Lottie sobered up. ‘She was a complete cow for the first half, did a brilliant second part and then spotted a hat she didn’t like and left the arena without using the marked exit. Just missed the judge’s car, but nearly annihilated the secretary.’
‘He’s taken it reasonably well though, hasn’t he?’
‘Reasonably, but no way was I going to argue with him over who drove the lorry back. Good job dad didn’t spot him as we drove through the village.’ Lottie grimaced and tried not to think about the fact that they’d had a very close encounter with a large group of ramblers (which Billy wouldn’t have cared about, as he viewed them in a similar light as he did rabbits: destructive and a waste of space), and an even closer shave with a Lycra-clad trio of cyclists who had made a grab for the wing mirror in retaliation (which he would have been bothered about, as it resulted in a swerve that nearly put a scrape down the other side of the lorry).
‘Talking about to die for, I have just got to tell you who I saw today. I mean after I tidied the yard, exercised all the horses and sorted the muck heap, you know in the ten minutes left.’ Lottie just looked at her. ‘Well ask then.’
‘Amaze me, who did you see, Pip?’
‘Tom Strachan.’
‘Tom Strachan?’
‘You know, you do, you have to. Gosh Lottie you really are buried in this place aren’t you? It’s like being on another planet. Tom. He’s a model, and I don’t mean some airy-fairy gay boy, he is hot. Seriously hot. To die for, even by my standards.’
‘And?’
‘He’s moved in, he’s the guy who has rented Blake House. Thomas Strachan is your new neighbour, Lottie, and,’ she put a hand on Lottie’s arm, ‘he’s just got divorced. I’m telling you, while the guys are consoling Amanda, the girls are going to be hot-footing it over to console the man distraught after his wife cleared him out and cleared off. Get your sexy knickers on girl, because we are going to go on a Tom hunt.’
‘But if his wife left him, then he can’t be that hot, can he? Pip?’
But Pip was already heading off across the yard towards her bright pink moped, which was nearly as striking as her mobile phone cover, and with a sigh, Lottie lifted the ramp of the box back up and with a backwards wave clambered up into the cab.
Lottie had decided, as she rifled through her drawers, scattering undergarments, that she hadn’t actually got any sexy knickers. There were the lacy white ones that had looked very sexy, in an untouched kind of way, when she’d bought them. But now they looked thoroughly touched, well, pawed, and a very unfetching shade of pale grey after being thrown in the wash with her jeans. Which left the mum pants or the bright red thong which she didn’t often wear as she was pretty sure you could see it through the clinging cream show jodhpurs that she’d had on for its last outing. Well, at least that was the theory after she’d had her bum ogled by more than the normal quota of randy riders.
Exactly why Pip had insisted she accompany her along on the ‘date’ she’d arranged with the ‘to die for’ Tom, she wasn’t quite sure, until she pushed open the door of the rustic bar/restaurant and spotted the willowy figure, bob of blonde hair now perfectly arranged around her elfin features, smiling beguilingly at a tall man and a teenage girl. Or rather, she was smiling at the man, and the teenager was scowling at both of them.
She really must get that appointment at the opticians for a sight test organised, Lottie thought as she squinted, trying to bring him into sharper focus. At this distance he just looked like a normal man, which was vaguely disappointing when she’d spent ten minutes wriggling about on the floor trying to get the two sides of the flies of her jeans to at least approach each other so she could force the zip up. She’d been promised a demi-god and been delivered a half decent human as far as she could see. And she’d spent another frustrating twenty minutes smothering her hair with anti-frizz products, and more time than she should have, trying to work out which of her tops was sexy but not too tarty. Which, by her reckoning, was an hour wasted that could have been spent on doing something else. Like working out whether it was worth joining in with the exercise DVD she’d been watching or whether it should be consigned to the maybe drawer, or shagging Rory in a proper bed. Shagging in the horsebox could be fun, if you were pissed, or desperate, or both. But after the sixth time of banging an elbow or knee it lost a bit of its shine. She must be getting old or boring, or both.
Pip was waving wildly at her, even with her suspect sight she could work that one out. She took a deep breath and headed over to them, holding her stomach in (just in case Tom was in fact better looking from touching distance) and trying to avoid the teenager’s gimlet stare.
Close up, Tom looked like he had from the door, nice but slightly disappointing after the build-up. And his daughter, Tabatha, sent out waves of disapproval and boredom as she studied Lottie’s hair, make-up and clothes and dismissed her as not worth another glance.
‘Tom, meet Lottie, she knows absolutely everything there is to know about horses. Her dad is Billy Brinkley, the famous showjumper.’
Teenage Tabatha had a slightly more interested look on her face now, which could have been down to the way Lottie was squirming with embarrassment, or the mention of her father. Who’d been known for jumping more than just poles. In fact she could vividly remember one particularly cringeworthy headline that had caused even the mild-mannered Tiggy to explode, and left him with the label Billy ‘the bonk’ Brinkley for quite a while after. ‘Star rider jumps Poles, Germans and Swedes in bid to win gold’ had met her at the breakfast table after someone had posted a picture on Twitter of three naked female riders, and Billy in the middle, celebrating success in a Jacuzzi, wearing nothing more than his birthday suit. And then there had, of course, been a rival rag which had tried to go one better with a ‘Bonko Billy’ cartoon which involved a medal round his neck and Stetson on his head as he straddled what Tiggy had termed (none too fondly) a ‘big boobed babe’.
During her painful adolescence her father’s name had hung heavy round her neck. He was everything you didn’t want in a parent, over the top, in the newspapers and available to any long-legged blonde who wanted a man to drape herself over. In other words, famous…or infamous. Billy believed in the work hard, play hard philosophy. Luckily, her stern grandmother, Elizabeth, had been a stabilising influence, assuring herself, and everyone else in earshot, that it was just a bit of fun
