Kiss and Tell (91 page)
Hugo’s dressage test, just after the lunch break on Friday on the reliable if rather short-paced Oil Tanker, awarded him fractionally more penalties than Rory on Rio. They were second and third on the leaderboard going into cross-country, with the American veteran Stella Herchz in the lead. Both men had walked the course three times, but they still set out at first light on Saturday to go over it one last time, companionably striding out distances together, yet lost in their own thoughts as they walked their meticulously planned lines again, and made sure they had a plan B and sometimes C for the tough combinations where the slightest error could require quick thinking. Kentucky was a big, testing four-star course, particularly in the second half.
The weather had finally come good after two days of intermittent downpours, the sun melting away a milky dawn mist to bounce sparkles from the white Horse-Park rails like the gleaming teeth of an advertising smile.
Record crowds soon gathered around the most thrilling fences, particularly the famous Head of the Lake water complex: the vast grandstand to one side of it was soon packed with faces eager to see a splash.
Rio was a bold cross-country horse with a great mile-eating gallop, but he also needed to be ridden with great accuracy and commitment to keep his line into fences. As he and Rory set out from the start box to eager whoops from the British supporters, Faith rushed away to position herself by the video screen, knowing that the next eleven minutes would be lived with her soul split in two, half riding with Rory every inch of the way, half waiting in for his return with iced water and the biggest, proudest welcoming smile at her disposal.
That welcoming smile was bigger than even she could have imagined when he thundered through the finish, tears in his eyes.
He whooped as he slithered off, as usual forgetting to unbuckle the release cord of his inflatable body protector so that it puffed up, almost crushing his ribs. Not caring, he unzipped it, and gathered Faith into a hug and planted a big kiss on her mouth. ‘That was better than sex!’ he gasped afterwards.
For a heady moment, Faith thought he meant the kiss, which had certainly done it for her, but then she realised he meant the ride. A second later, a cloud of Rive Gauche almost asphyxiated her.
‘Zen you ’aven’t ’ad enough good sex lately,
non
?’ purred a smooth voice as MC stepped forward to congratulate him. ‘Zat was beautifully ridden. I am sorry we ’ave not spoken more zis week. You are a clever boy.’
Scowling, Faith unsaddled Rio and started to work at bringing his temperature down, sluicing him with cold water repeatedly in a procedure known as ‘aggressive cooling’, yet keeping him on the move to avoid cramped muscles or stiffened joints.
When Rory eventually joined her, reeking of Rive Gauche, she was too jealous and angry to speak.
‘He was fantastic!’ Rory raved, not noticing her set face. ‘Just so smooth – the line through the lake was a dream, and he made mincemeat of the log cabins and the steps, like they were prelim stuff. I was sure we’d get our knickers in a twist at the offset brushes, but he stayed absolutely straight.’ His ego had always been very quick to swell, along with that other reliable part of him that MC so adored.
‘Bravo.’
‘What a horse. I don’t mind saying, I rode him bloody well. Did you hear MC back there? She thinks I rock. She even whispered in my ear that she thinks I’m the best she’s ever met. In fact if I play my cards right, I—ugh!’ He leaped back as a great splash of cold water slopped against his groin. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’
‘Aggressive cooling,’ Faith hissed, leading Rio back towards the event stabling, to walk him in hand for another twenty minutes before bathing and rugging him, spending the next few hours checking his legs and wind for any signs of the big cross-country test having taken an undue toll.
She managed to get away for long enough to join the rest of the British supporters, including the Earl and Countess of Malvern, to see Hugo and Oil Tanker streak around the course, with just one wobbly moment tripping in the sunken road, when they didn’t look as though they had the space or momentum to get out. But Hugo never wavered and Oil Tanker was a clever self-preservationist who never looked as though he was making a great effort and never gave any fence more than a fraction of an inch to spare, yet got round so
efficiently and with minimum time-wasting that he beat the clock by almost five seconds despite his limited gallop.
That evening, with Hugo away having supper with the Earl and Countess of Malvern, and Rory sneaking off, presumably for a tryst with MC, Faith kept up the regular checks on Rio and commiserated with the Johanssens, who had suffered less fortunate rounds. Stefan had taken a nasty fall at the big Normandy bank when his horse turned over, leaving them both bruised and battered. He had been forced to withdraw his second ride. And Kirsty’s horse had run out twice, dropping her right to the back of the field.
The atmosphere around the Vegas encampment was therefore subdued. Faith was pleased that Hugo had left her with the golf buggy to save legwork back and forth to the stables, and found herself giving lifts to several other grooms, all Americans, whose positivity and upfront sassiness she appreciated.
‘I’m loving your breast augmentation,’ one girl said as they bounced along Nina Bonnie Boulevard for the third time. ‘Your Brit surgeons are the best.’
‘They’re chicken fillets,’ she confessed. ‘They come out at night.’
‘Like
ugh
,’ the girl was horror-struck. ‘That must be so unhygienic.’
About to explain that they weren’t made of real chicken, Faith changed her mind and said, ‘They
are
organic.’
It was the little things that cheered her up right now.
Later that evening, Rio trotted up sound and very pleased with himself, and Faith settled him down for the night with cool clay wraps on his legs and his magnetic blanket to draw out any last vestiges of heat and pain.
To her surprise, Rory was already tucked up in the trailer-nose bed when she got back.
‘Got to get a good night’s sleep,’ he said sheepishly, peering up from the covers as she fumbled about for her night things. ‘Thanks for looking after Rio so brilliantly.’
‘He’s my horse.’
‘Of course he is. I do appreciate him, you know. And you.’
Suddenly cheered, she dived into the privacy of the little loo cubicle to put on her pyjamas, keeping on her bra and her chicken fillets and cleaning her teeth until her gums hummed.
Rory was asleep on his platform mattress, snuffling contentedly,
when she emerged. Still feeling euphoric, Faith got into her cramped bench bed and lay awake for hours, listening to his breathing and wondering what it would be like to hear it every night while curled up right beside him.
At the final vet’s inspection, the crowds groaned and cat-called as the long-time leader, Stella Herchz, had her horse held back to be re-examined by the ground jury and veterinary delegate. The horse was undoubtedly stiff, its paces slightly irregular, but whether it was actually lame was debateable and the jury went into a little huddle.
Eventually, after much deliberation – and a lot of head-shaking from Marie-Clair Tucson in particular – the hands went down and the crowd wailed in horror as their greatest hope of victory shuffled back to the stable yard. A couple of days later, an x-ray would reveal a very small chip on one fetlock that could have seriously compromised the horse had he jumped. It was a decision that had almost certainly saved his career.
Rory and Hugo now faced an agonising wait as competitors jumped in reverse order from lunchtime. At least Hugo was briefly diverted by an Olympic medal-winners’ parade. Rory had no such distraction or camaraderie, and paced around the stables restlessly, driving Faith mad as she packed up Rio’s tack trunks, ready for a swift departure.
‘Oh, go and shag MC.’
‘Shh! Keep your voice down. Besides, she’s far too demanding.’
Faith didn’t want to know, but jittery, nerve-racked Rory needed to talk just to keep sane. ‘She says I have all sorts of bad habits and have never been taught properly, like a badly schooled horse, so she’s rebroken me.’
‘Good for her.’
‘It’s a real eye-opener. I never realised how incredibly sensitive certain parts of the female body are, and quite different from men.’
‘That a fact?’ She threw boots and bandages into a trunk.
‘I need someone like her. I’ve been too bloody selfish with women.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘I think I’m a much better lover now. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I’m bloody good in bed.’ He watched her closely for a reaction.
‘Speaking on behalf of the female population, we’re thrilled,’ she replied tersely.
‘I just need to find the right girl, settle down.’
She dropped the brushes that she was sorting through and looked up at him sharply. ‘Are you feeling okay?’
‘See!’ He laughed, pointing at her. ‘I knew that’d get your attention. God, I need a shag right now.’
‘Hmmph.’ She picked up the brushes again.
‘Are you up for a quick knee-trembler in one of the empty stalls?’
Hiding her reddening face in the grooming box, she told him to get lost. ‘You’ll definitely have to win the Grand Slam before
that
happens.’
‘Oh, I know. That’s why I plan to win it.’
Again she looked up in surprise, but he was gone.
Three hours later, after what felt like the longest wait of his life, Rory was the last rider to enter the huge open-air stadium. As with the dressage, Rio took exception to the arena, rearing and crabbing, trying to whip round when he saw the huge crowds and vast expanse of space jewelled with brightly coloured fences.
The sun was still out, but the wind was howling at near gale force, buffeting the flower arrangements around the jump wings and even dislodging the odd pole. The flags along the grandstand roof snapped and cracked furiously.
After the hooter blew, Rory remembered little of the following sixty seconds. He had less than a jump in hand over Hugo, who had put in a clear round on the economical Oil Tanker, rattling almost every pole but leaving them all up.
Rio had no such intention. His nerves fraying and attention wandering, he ballooned the first three fences.
Watching between her fingers from the collecting-ring funnel, Faith held her breath. Then she felt a strong arm around her shoulder and she realised that Hugo had jumped off Tank and was propping her up. That arm didn’t move until the moment that Rory sailed over the last fence and punched the air in victory, his first-ever four-star win secure.
Faith let out a scream of sheer, unbridled elation and Hugo pulled her into a hug, even as pats of commiseration rained down on his back.
‘Congratulations,’ he said proudly as they were jostled about. ‘You got him here. That’s one hell of a horse.’
‘He won!’ she shrieked.
‘And you have just become a very wealthy young woman.’
‘What?’ She couldn’t take much in.
‘The owner wins over sixty thousand dollars.’
‘I do?’
Hugo laughed in delight. ‘You really had no idea, did you?’
Faith shook her head, not really caring. She was crying too much to speak. As she clung tightly to Hugo and watched the love of her life gallop Rio around that amazing arena, waving his hat in the air, her heart was burning bright. But, curiously, all she found in her head was an echo of Rory’s voice, repeating over and over again, ‘I’m bloody good in bed.’
When Faith returned to Lime Tree Farm she received few congratulations for owning the winning horse at Kentucky, although Gus did ask to borrow some money: ‘I’ve got my eye on a fabulous five-year-old if you fancy investing. You won’t want to work here now you’re loaded. Typical! Badminton week and I lose my best member of staff.’
Penny swept her quickly to one side. ‘Take no notice – he always gets like this before Badminton. We need you more than ever.’ Her berry eyes were bright with good humour, but also anxious. ‘You’re not going to leave us, are you? Gus is right: you’re our best worker.’
Faith shook her head hastily. She could never leave while Rory was so close by, or forfeit being at Badminton to support him. For all her disappointment in Kentucky that he was so smitten with MC, she would never forget his face when he won. It had been pure joy. The cockiness and thoughtlessness was just an affectation, she was certain, an act to cover up the big part of him that thought he didn’t deserve success, just as she knew aggression was her cloak to cover so many inadequacies.
So she forgave Rory returning to England with a head as big as the ten-gallon hat he had bought as a souvenir. He needed that
confidence to take him through Badminton. He also needed unswerving support from his owners. She called Dillon.
‘What now?’ he answered. ‘I paid my horses’ bills like you asked. Is there a problem?’ Faith had never heard him so curt. She almost hung up, but the need to petition for Rory made her stick with it.
‘You are going to be there for Rory this week, aren’t you?’
‘Not you too,’ he complained. ‘Sylva’s on my case about this.’
Faith felt her lip curl at the thought of Sylva sniffing around Rory again, despite being grudgingly impressed that the nation’s favourite single mum had Badminton in her sights. Most glamour-girl celebrities favoured the safe allure of dressage or the quick fix of show-jumping; at least Sylva had stuck with the thrills and spills of the horse world’s greatest challenge.
‘Are you two really getting married?’ she couldn’t resist asking.
‘So the papers say,’ he hedged.
‘She’s very beautiful,’ she said politely, more because she wanted to be positive than because she rated her higher than any other pretty celebrity, although Faith had no doubt of her charms, and she sometimes still wondered if life would be better had she allowed Farouk Ali Khan to give her replica Sylva Frost boobs after all. The public clearly worshipped her, as did at least two of the loveliest men Faith knew. ‘Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll have a really … amazing life together.’ Her natural honesty made the tribute tough going.
