Race Girl (30 page)

As the weeks passed it did get easier to forget, but only marginally.

The clouds grew darker and the sky rumbled every afternoon come early autumn, the humidity pushing the temperatures to such an intensity that morning track work was almost a chore. Tully had to remember to drink enough to replace the sweat that soaked her shirt and often felt dizzy with a pounding headache from dehydration and exhaustion after riding her ten to twelve horses, helping to hose down and groom them, feed and muck out, before heading home. She actually slept in that Sunday morning for the first time she could remember and woke wet with sweat, seeing the promise of rain in the thick charcoal clouds.

She headed out to get stuck in to the day and was grooming Greg at his turnout paddock when their next door neighbour came tearing up their driveway in her rusted old hatchback and screeched to a halt opposite Tully, a cloud of dust engulfing the tiny red car.

‘Tully Athens!' The woman bellowed out the window, her long, curly grey hair flying about like Medusa's.

Greg jumped back from the rail. Tully reached into her grooming bucket for a few treats, scattered them on the ground to keep him busy, then let him loose and ducked under the fence to go see what the fuss was about.

‘That bloody
hoon
of a postie put this in my letter box instead of yours,' the neighbour said. ‘Come get it, will ya!'

Tully ran over to the car. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Hoxton.' She accepted the satin envelope from the woman's outstretched hand. ‘So sorry for the hassle.'

Mrs. Hoxton opened her tight, lined mouth, hesitated, then wound up her window and revved the engine, spinning around in a wide, haphazard circle, nearly taking out one of the jacarandas.

Tully did her best not to giggle she watched the car bomb back down the driveway, squinting to read the stickers plastered across the back windscreen: ‘NO! To Animal Testing' and ‘Animals First!' were among those Tully could make out. Mrs. Hoxton was known around town as the ‘crazy anti-everything lady' and could often be spotted picketing out the front of the racecourse or chatting to a local journo, along with her mate, Mr. Geortzen – Tully's ‘llama neighbour' on the opposite side of the range – with their ‘Racing is a Bleeding Crime' and ‘Save the Horses!' placards.

Mrs. Hoxton's tyres screeched as she swung left onto the lane, then sped the few hundred metres down to her tiny cottage on an overgrown five acres bordering the Athens' land.

Tully cast her eyes to the envelope in her hands. Her name had been hand-written across the front but there was no address, or return address on the back . . .

Before she could hesitate, Tully ripped open the envelope, her eyes going wide and heart skipping a beat as she took in the formal invitation bearing the Weston's crest in their black and red colours:

You are invited . . .

~

Weston Park 1st Annual Easter Ball

Master Brandon Weston invites you to celebrate Weston Park's 100th year, and to help raise funds for local charity.

Date: Saturday, April 4th / Time: From 6.00pm onwards / Location: Weston Park Main House

Please RSVP to Trinity at 0400 861 550 by March 10th

~

What the heck is going on with this guy?!
Tully's mind reeled and she fell back against the top rail of the fence, holding the invitation as far away from her body as she could without dropping it. Greg trotted up and nudged her for more treats and she ran her hand absentmindedly down his forelock, over his soft ears. Her whole body shook with shock, confusion, anger and longing, her legs weak beneath her. She stared blinking at the invitation, wishing she was happy to have received it – but it felt like a trick, a cruel trick to lure her in, only to shatter her heart once more.
He's not going to do
this
to me,
Tully decided,
not again . . .

She shoved the invitation into the back pocket of her shorts, wrapped her arms around Greg's strong, warm neck, speaking to him softly, ‘I'll go to his ball, Greg,' Tully said, a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘But he won't see me coming . . .'

25

A Royal Invitation

The sky cleared the following week, leaving the earth as dry and languishing as ever. Tully wanted to cry after the tease and torment and promise of rain, but she
did
have something to look forward to, at least. A chance to do some teasing and tormenting of her own, and better yet, to a Weston.

Tully nearly fainted from shock when she received a text from Brandon that Friday, saying ‘Hi' and asking if she'd received his invitation. A Facebook message followed a few days later, but Tully didn't reply. None of the dressing down she had in mind for him would have the desired impact over the phone. Besides, spoilt and entitled as he was, he
deserved
to be kept waiting. She wanted to make him squirm.

The following Saturday evening, Tully told her father she had a work ‘do' on, packed her bag and fled to Tam's. Tully had met Tam at the op-shop that Thursday afternoon after spotting a gown in the window on her way to track work. She'd never desired such a dress before, but once she'd slipped the long, silky folds over her head and exited the change room to an eruption of ‘oohs' and ‘ahhs' from everyone in the shop, Tully had known this was the one –
the
dress that would reveal to Brandon Weston the young lady he had lost. She couldn't wait to see the look on his stupid, handsome face.

Clearly the excitement the girls felt was infectious, because Judy exceeded the speed limit for the first time Tully had ever known her to as they drove out of town. Tully's heart really started to race as Judy passed Avalon, then turned in between the stone pillars and the wrought-iron main gates of Weston Park.

‘Hooley, dooley,' Tam said from the back, letting out a low whistle. ‘I can see why they keep these gates locked.'

‘Yep . . .' Bands of anxiety spun into a heavy ball in Tully's stomach. She tightened her grip on her invitation and the silver sequined clutch Tam had lent her, praying she wouldn't spew.

The RAV-4 purred up the crest of the drive, under the light of lanterns sprinkled in towering hoop pines, sending an artificial white glow across the wide, paved driveway.

Tully sat up tall in her seat to see over the white post and rail fence and the low hedge in front of it where pregnant mares grazed on green, irrigated grass, surreal in the twilight.
It's just like Pearce,
Tully thought, her stomach tightening even further with a twinge of anger.
To leave the mares out for his guests' benefit . . .
The exposed paddocks were no place for mares or foals at night, especially with the increase in wild dogs in the area. They looked magical, but Tully hoped someone would be catching them up soon to take them into the safety of the barn.

‘Must be up here,' Judy said when they'd reached a fork in the road. She switched her indicator on, then laughed at herself and switched it off, before taking the right turn up the hill.

Tully's eyes widened at the biggest mansion she'd ever seen, but she found her interest caught by the mammoth, sprawling horse set up down a bitumen road to the left of the house. Tully marvelled at the racecourse-sized parade ring, set in prime position opposite the house and just up from the stables and turnout paddocks, with its grandstand under the shade of a towering, ancient fig tree. A sand track led up to it, which connected to a paved road down to the barns and the hot walkers and what looked like a rectangular Olympic pool for horses on one side, and the never-ending, sand-footed, white-railed exercise track on the other. The track ran the full rim of the property, dipping and rising with the ridges of land that swept down off the mountain range, and around the lake-sized, man-built dam, spreading across the far western corner of the property.

‘What a place,' Judy said, drawing Tully's attention back to the mansion in front of them. The house itself was more like a palace, or a grand chateau – a far cry from the traditional Queenslanders Tully had always loved. With its commanding white walls and black-shuttered windows, turrets above patios and the endless sweep of its rooflines, the house looked like it had been transported from a French or American movie.

From what Tully could see, none of the original Weston Park still stood. Pearce hadn't even bothered to renovate or retain a single feature of the main house – a spectacular old homestead Tully's mother had showed her pictures of, which Pearce's father had built with his own two hands. All of the infrastructure, from the feed buildings to machinery sheds to the secondary houses for staff, were built in white and black to match the main house, with immaculate watered gardens and paved drives. Tully felt a pang of sadness and anger as she imagined the original house and outbuildings being demolished to make way for these cold, modern palaces. The history, the heart of the place had been stripped, leaving a glossy, hollow showpiece that reeked of Pearce Weston's stamp.

Judy pulled up behind a line of luxury cars queuing to drop their glamorous passengers off under the cover of the main entrance. Tully peered out at the vast courtyard and gardens of the house, huge enough to accommodate what looked like about a hundred shiny vehicles. She spotted Brandon's white ute, parked haphazardly off the side of a ten-car garage. Another helicopter was landing on the pad.

Tully took a deep breath, then glanced back at Tam, who gave her a hug from the back and a thumbs up. ‘You give it to him, girl,' Tam said with a wink.

Judy shot Tam a chastising look. ‘I hope you don't mean what I think you mean, Missy . . .'

‘Oh!' Tully covered her face with a hand. ‘She
totally
doesn't, Mrs. T. She means; give him a piece of my mind.'

‘Oh, ah,' Judy said, raising an eyebrow at Tully. ‘Good, well, be careful in there, sweetheart—have fun, but be careful.'

Tully reached across, pecked Judy on the cheek. ‘Thanks so much for the lift.'

‘Just ring me when you'd like me back to pick you up, okay?'

‘Thank you.' Tully flashed a smile, reaching for the door handle. ‘Will do.' She glanced back at Tam, winked, gave her a high five.

Crisp wind swept through the valley, blowing the turquoise silk of Tully's gown against her skin as she eased out of the car, then stepped back to wave goodbye. She watched the taillights of the RAV disappear down the driveway, then stood, taking in the astonishing valley. Mist drifted down from the peaks of the mountain range and the slate grey sky. Tully could just make out the rusted roofline of her house, hazy in the distance.

Goosebumps raced over her flesh and she turned to the mansion, to the noises of laughter and clinking of glasses. The smell of rich food and strong alcohol drifted out of the castle-like front doors and off the patios leading out into a maze of gardens, filled with stone statues of Grecian women and pergolas and benches.

I'm way, way out of my league here,
Tully thought, her body begging her to flee.
But I'm doing this . . .

She
forced herself up onto the footpath, where a red carpet had been rolled out all the way to the base of the stone front steps.

Her stilettos sank into the soft pile of the red carpet – her arms flung to the sides, her heart hitting the limiter. She'd have to find equilibrium on the towering silver heels, like she would on the back of the horse, Tully realised.
This party business is a lot harder than riding a racehorse,
Tully thought as she teetered across the carpet, up the stone front steps to the cavernous front entrance.

Classical music like her aunt's favourites swept from inside and a butler greeted her, offering a tray of drinks. Tully accepted an orange juice, then handed her invitation to a rigid woman in black, perched behind a silver lectern just inside the front door.

‘Miss Athens,' the woman read off the envelope, then slipped out the invitation, scanning the clipboard in front of her. She eyed Tully with cool glacier-blue eyes, ran a finger down her list, then back up, before flipping it over to where only a few names were handwritten. ‘Oh, of course,' she said, offering a thin, hollow smile. ‘One of Master Weston's guests.' Then she snatched Tully's invitation spiked it onto a pile growing up a metal rod on the shelf of her lectern. ‘Enjoy.'