Keeping the Peace (21 page)

‘Which one?’ he asked, holding each against him in turn.

‘They’re both nice,’ Pippa said, tearing her attention away from the television. ‘I like the green one best. It really brings out the colour of your eyes.’

Ollie pulled a face as he deliberated.

‘Yeah, but the blue one would look better with my grey trousers. I’ll go with the blue. I wonder if I should wear a suit. What do you think?’

‘What?’ Pippa turned her head towards Ollie without taking her eyes off the screen.

‘I said
I wonder if I should wear –
Pippa, you’re not listening to me! What are you watching, anyway?’

‘The one fifty at Kempton. It’s the big Boxing Day meeting today. We’ve got the favourites in the two main races. Virtuoso in the King George VI Chase and Black Russian in the –’

‘Pippa!’ he interrupted her. ‘We’ve got to be at Rich’s place at six. You’re not even dressed yet! You don’t have time to watch the racing.’

‘I just want to see how Virtuoso and Black Russian do, then I’ll get ready,’ she said, attempting a placating smile. ‘We won’t be late, I promise.’

Ollie closed his eyes and shook his head. Marching back into the bedroom, Pippa could hear him muttering mournfully,

‘What has that bloody horse turned you into?’

She turned back to the television only to find the race had ended. With a sigh, she heaved herself off the sofa and went in pursuit of Ollie. She found him flicking through his wardrobe. She wound her arms around his waist from behind and planted a kiss on his tense neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Black Russian runs in the next and Virtuoso’s race will be over by three thirty. After that, you have my undivided attention and I promise not to speak another word about horses.’

Ollie turned around to face her, still looking annoyed, but with a trace of forgiveness visible.

‘Okay. Only if you wear that red number tonight that you wore on my birthday.’

Pippa camouflaged a grimace with a forced smile. The number he was referring to was more suited to summer-wear. It was a lovely dress, she was the first to admit, and very sexy, but she would freeze in it.

‘Deal.’ She kissed him to seal it before returning to the lounge.

The racing presenter was interviewing Jack and Dan Cameron, Black Russian’s owner, before the next race.

Fumbling for the remote, she turned up the volume to hear the conversation. It felt a little peculiar sitting in the London flat with her boss’ voice booming around it, debriefing the viewers on his horse’s chances.

‘Pippa,’ Ollie said, stomping back into the lounge, ‘must you have it on so loud – hey, is that Dan Cameron?’ His jaw dropped.

‘Yeah, do you know him?’

Ollie sat down beside her on the sofa, his eyes trained on the screen.

‘Only of him. What’s he doing there?’

‘He owns Black Russian, one of Aspen Valley’s horses.’

‘Do
you
know him?’ Ollie said in awe.

‘Well, we’ve spoken over the telephone. Why are you looking so amazed?’

‘Oh, my God. You don’t know who Dan Cameron is? He’s only one of the biggest directors in Britain!’ Ollie cried. ‘And you say he’s a racehorse owner?’

‘Want to watch the race with me?’ she grinned.

Ollie shifted in his seat, looking perturbed.

‘Well, it would be useful to know the result since he
is
in entertainment. It can be a topical conversation this evening, especially as you know him.’

The nine runners in the Christmas Hurdle milled around by the starter’s platform, waiting to be called into line. The camera zoomed in on a dark bay horse, his face half-hidden by the black blinkers he wore, looking almost sinister. His jockey, Rhys Bradford, looked equally formidable in his black and yellow silks and gaunt serious expression.

‘That’s Black Russian,’ Pippa informed Ollie, pointing excitedly at the pair. ‘Ooh, they’re about to start! Come on, Black Russian!’

She leaned forward in anticipation as the horses jogged towards the starting tape. The roar from the Kempton crowd drowned out the commentator’s ‘
They’re off!
’ and the horses thundered towards the first hurdle.

Rhys found a cosy position one off the rail behind the pacesetters and hardly moved in the saddle as they cleared the first. The field were still tightly grouped together as they rose over the second and rounded the turn to pass the grandstands for the first time. The cheering of the crowd followed them round the next bend, where Rhys eased Black Russian towards the inside rail. Against the cold and dank winter backdrop, the pair glided stealthily up to challenge the leading group like a pickpocket sliding through an oblivious crowd on the street.

Pippa started drumming her slippered feet on the floor as the Aspen Valley representative got his head in front.

The commentator’s voice rose a decibel.

‘Black Russian moves effortlessly to the front as they make the long run to the third. They’ve still a circuit to go, but Rhys Bradford is sitting pretty aboard the favourite. They’re over safely – Jeeves is a faller!’

Pippa gasped, but let out her breath when horse and rider clambered to their feet, muddied but none the worse. She clutched a cushion to her chest, willing Black Russian to keep going. Some of the other horses were being niggled along, their jockeys lowering their posture. Still Rhys sat motionless, his rear tilted arrogantly high in the face of their opponents. He sat back down with a bump as Black Russian made a mistake at one of the hurdles in the backstretch, paddling his forelegs through the jump.

‘Oh, come on, Rhys!’ Pippa cried. ‘Keep going!’

Black Russian appeared to lose his momentum somewhat and his two length lead was shortened to one by High Scribe in second. Rhys shook his reins at Black Russian. The two horses sailed over the fifth flight, one after the other, well clear of the chasing pack and began the frenzied drive around the turn into the home straight.

Pippa bounced in her seat and thumped the armrest, urging Black Russian to see off his challenger.

The running rail became a blur as the camera kept pace with the sprinting leader. The second last loomed. Rhys, crouching low in his saddle, fanned his whip alongside Black Russian’s eye and asked for a bold jump.

Pippa leaned forward with them. With a cry, she threw her weight back as Black Russian caught the top of the hurdle and nose-dived into the ground. His giant athletic body somersaulted over his head, half-buried in the hoof-pocked ground. Rhys was flung mercilessly from his back like a discarded banana peel into the path of High Scribe.

Pippa clung to her cushion, her lips trembling with shock.

‘Please get up,’ she whispered. Tears filled her unblinking eyes as both horse and rider remained on the ground. Not even the chasing field, making hasty manoeuvres to avoid the stricken pair, made them stir. ‘Maybe they’re just winded.’

Even to her own ears, her words sounded doubtful.

‘And you call yourself an animal-lover?’ Ollie scoffed.

She’d forgotten he was there. She looked at him with distaste.

‘Do you get altitude sickness?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘Eh?’

‘Sitting up there on your moral high ground.’

His mouth fell open at her blatant contempt, but she ignored it. She looked back at the television. She pulled a face as the camera pulled away from the fallers to follow the conclusion of the race. High Scribe won by a distance, but the result barely registered with Pippa. Down the bottom of the screen, she saw the distressed figure of Emmie, in her red Aspen Valley anorak, sprinting down the side of the course.

‘Oh, poor Emmie,’ Pippa asked, her chest constricting with anguish for the stable lass.

A head-on view of the winner showed, in the background, the foreboding erection of the tarpaulin screens around the seventh hurdle and a waiting ambulance parked beside it.

Pippa chewed the corner of her cushion, hardly able to breathe as she waited for the winner’s interview to finish and for them to update the viewers on the casualties. At last, the racing presenter who had interviewed Jack earlier on, appeared on the screen.

‘We’re very sorry to inform you that unfortunately Black Russian’s fall was fatal...’

Pippa’s breath caught in her throat and she gave a whimper. She dug her teeth into the cushion to stem the tears.

‘...I have Jack Carmichael, his trainer, with me now,’ the presenter continued. ‘Jack, please accept our condolences. Can you give us any more information?’

The camera swung right to focus on him and the expression on his face released Pippa’s tears. He looked a wreck. His face was pale, his hair dishevelled from running his hands through it. He addressed the camera with dry but dejected blue eyes.

‘We’re not sure of the extent of Rhys’ injuries, but we should know more in the next few hours. He’s being airlifted to hospital as we speak.’ He paused, his composure faltering ever so slightly. ‘And yes, I can confirm Black Russian’s fall was fatal. I’m very sorry that this has happened to such a talented and popular horse. Not only was he a firm favourite in the yard, but I know he had many fans out there. The only consolation I can offer is that he wouldn’t have suffered. His death was immediate, caused by a broken neck.’ He frowned and cleared his throat.

‘Poor Black Russian,’ Pippa said, her voice muffled from behind the tear-dampened cushion. ‘Poor Jack.’

‘I’d like to thank all his followers for their support over the years,’ Jack went on. ‘He has been a great horse to watch and a privilege to train –’ His voice caught and he cleared his throat again. ‘Excuse me.’

Jack turned and walked away from the camera.

‘And you call this a sport?’ Ollie tutted.

Pippa’s patience at Ollie’s unsympathetic nature ran out.

‘I have to go,’ she announced, standing up.

Ollie stared at her.

‘Go? Go where? We’ve got Rich’s party in a few hours.’

‘I have to go back to Aspen Valley,’ she threw over her shoulder as she marched into the bedroom. She heard Ollie scramble off the sofa and come running after her.

‘What?
Why
?’

‘Because, Ollie!’ she exclaimed, whirling around to face him. ‘Because they’re going to need me. Jack, Emmie, the entire yard are going to feel like shit! When horrible things happen in racing people like you simply sneer at those involved and accuse them of being murderers. You’ve no idea how much they love their horses. Their jobs are gruelling hard work in punishing weather – I know, I’ve seen it! Nobody does all that and
enjoys
it if they didn’t love horses. Now they’ve lost the thing dearest to them and you are just going to make it worse by throwing mud at them. They need me.’

Ollie’s face turned puce.

‘
I
need you, Pippa!’ he retaliated. ‘What about me? What is it about this job that has you dropping me and scurrying back during our Christmas holiday when a horse dies? What about the party tonight?’

‘Is that what you’re worried about – Rich Holden’s party?’ Looking at his desperate expression, she wasn’t sure whether to feel pity or contempt. ‘Ollie, you don’t need me for that,’ she said, shaking her head. She went to pull her suitcase out of the wardrobe. ‘The yard needs me a lot more than you do right now.’

Ollie stayed silent, watching her shove clothes into the open case.

When she glanced up at him to question his sudden lack of objection, she noticed a change in his demeanour. It was almost as if leaving now to support Aspen Valley in their hour of need held a deeper significance than usual. She felt like she was leaving her relationship with Ollie as well this time. Her priorities had changed somewhere along the line.

The look on his face mirrored her feelings.

But she didn’t have time to discuss where their relationship was going and she wasn’t about to give him the chance either. Tugging the zips closed, she heaved the case off the bed and headed for the door.

Ollie made no move to follow her. His deadpan expression registered no anger, no boyish sulk, just a detached observation of her movements.

‘I’ll call you,’ she said, pausing by the doorway.

He nodded once and Pippa exited the room.

W
hen finally she pulled up in Aspen Valley’s car park, Pippa was surprised to see some members of staff still wandering around the darkened yard. The cold drizzle which blanketed the night seemed to accentuate their hunched dejected attitudes. She recognised Billy standing beneath the tack room’s overhang, his fists deep in his pockets while he idly kicked the ground with his muddied boot.

‘Billy,’ Pippa called, hurrying over to him.

He looked up, shadows from the nearby security light making him look even more desolate.

‘All right, Pippa?’ he said without enthusiasm.

‘I saw the race. I’m sorry, Billy. Are you okay?’

He shrugged and kicked at the ground again.

‘Been better,’ he replied.

‘Is everyone back from the races? Where’s Emmie and Jack?’

‘The lorry got back about ten minutes ago. Jack’s gone off to the hospital in Bristol to see Rhys.’

‘How is he? How’s Emmie?’

‘Dunno about Rhys. Can’t be that bad if they brought him all the way back here. Emmie’s gone home. Nothing more for her to do here today.’

Pippa winced as she imagined the long journey home the stable lass must have had in a lorry without her horse.

‘How is she holding up?’

Billy shrugged again.

‘Said she wanted to be alone.’

‘Oh, Billy. She must be so upset.’ She paused to consider how she would feel in the circumstances, both in Emmie’s shoes and Jack’s. ‘You should go to her,’ she said.

‘She said she wanted to be alone.’

‘I know, but really she needs someone to comfort her.’

He looked at her, expression doubtful.

‘You think I could comfort her?’

Pippa rubbed his slouched shoulder.

‘You especially. Are you done here for the day?’

‘Yeah, was about to head off home.’ He bit his lip. ‘But what good would I be to her? I don’t feel so great right now either. Why don’t you go?’