Eventually, just as the arena officials were starting to mutter about trying to catch him – rather a humiliation, it was felt, for the Burghley victor and first winner of the Grand Slam in almost a decade to have to be cornered like a hard-to-catch pony in a field – Whitey slowed to a trot, blowing heavily but happily.
Then he came to a very decisive halt directly in front of the packed South Stand. Puffing excitedly, he let out a shrill whinny and bobbed his head.
There must have been a hundred faces staring back at Rory from just that one small section of seating, but he only had eyes for one.
The BBC producers, going mad that Julia was still waiting for her interview with this incredible triple crown winner and that the network coverage was now about to switch to the snooker, ordered her to run in to the arena to grab a word.
Julia and her cameraman were just yards away from Rory when he stood up in his stirrups and talked directly at the crowd.
‘I love you, Faith Brakespear!’ he called out. ‘You are the best thing that has ever, ever happened to me. I want to make you happy and look after you for the rest of our lives!’
The BBC producer who had been ordering his control room to cut to the snooker anyway suddenly hissed, ‘Stay with the horses! Stay
with
the horses!’
Faith had turned very, very red, from her hands to her cheeks, but her smile was just inescapable.
‘Come here!’ Rory called hoarsely, a medieval knight to his lady, farmhand to rancher’s daughter, Jim to Jessica.
Faith turned to her mother, astounded to see tears pouring down Anke’s usually impassive face.
‘Hurry up,
kæreste
!’ Anke told her, pressing a kiss to her fingertips and laying it on her daughter’s hot cheek.
To claps and cheers from the crowd, Faith clambered through the seating, over the sponsor’s banners and in to the ring, where Rory leaned down to kiss her just as Julia Ditton finally panted up with her microphone, eagerly telling the viewing public that Rory was about to reveal to them all who this very lovely girl was.
But as she thrust the microphone at him Rory slipped his hands under Faith’s arms and hooked her up towards the saddle in front of him, where she sat side-saddle like a gypsy girl at a fair. It was their moment, the scene from his favourite movie enacted in front of thousands. He kissed her again and she felt her heart grand slam against her chest.
‘Hang on tight,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘I have no steering.’
Acknowledging the delighted crowds with a wave, they galloped out of the arena.
A divot of earth now hanging in her immaculate blonde hair, Julia Ditton turned to her cameraman and said ‘Bollocks!’ live on air. A moment later the picture cut to Ronnie O’Sullivan potting a pink.
*
The paparazzi, who had yet again donned their green wellies to dodge horses, dogs and dung in their pursuit of the ongoing tabloid soap that was Sylva Frost and the Rafferty men’s love lives, were getting increasingly confused. No sooner had an unknown girl groom called Faith Brakespear been revealed as Dillon’s ‘mystery Caribbean blonde’ than she had jumped into a clinch with another man and galloped off into the sunset (well, into the main catering area to be accurate, where Whitey’s lack of steering had caused havoc among those sitting around the Pimm’s stand watching the action on the big screen). Then, minutes later, Dillon had been spotted loping up to congratulate his sporting protégé with his famous ex-wife on his arm and lots of overexcited children in tow, looking to all the world like a steady family man. At the same time, Pete had emerged from the retail village with Sylva and a small army of Slovakians carrying shopping bags and had joined the family tableau.
‘Hang on—’ One pap checked his notes against a rival. ‘The horsy bloke’s now with the Caribbean tart, Dillon’s with the wife and Sylva has had the Rockfather, his son
and
the horsy bloke, but is definitely sticking with Pete. Am I close?’
‘Something like that. They’re sex mad, the horse set.’
Trotting happily from the trade stands with Ben, Sophia Meredith decided with a sad sigh that it had been a terribly dull Burghley – apart from the blonde boy from Hugo’s yard winning the Rolex Grand Slam. The horse they part-owned had been eliminated cross-country, Zara Phillips wasn’t there – nor any Royals of note – and the shopping had been very lacklustre. But at least she had managed to get secret RSVPs to almost all of her invitations to the surprise party next month. It looked like it was going to be a show-stopping night.
Much later, in the Beauchamps’ state-of-the-art horsebox, Rory handed Faith his new Rolex watch and made her promise to check that he would be on time for every date that he planned to take her on in coming weeks and months.
‘I am going to wine you and dine you to make up for lost time,’ he promised.
She clipped the watch around her wrist, where it slipped right over her hand. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world now.’ She set it aside, stretching forwards to kiss him. ‘Oh, I do love you, Rory.’
He kissed her back until it all started to get so electrifying and frantic that he lifted her up and staggered towards the steps up to the Luton mattress.
‘I’m probably not as exciting a lover as Dillon,’ he fretted anxiously as they started to pull off layers.
‘He was just coaching me,’ she assured him.
‘Like MC was coaching me?’ he realised, unwrapping her from her shirt with delight, hot stains of colour creeping into his cheeks.
‘Exactly.’ She reached down to pull his shirt from his breeches. ‘We’ve both been coached by pros. Now we’re ready to ride together.’
He may have been coached by a pro, but MC had never possessed a Wonderbra. Rory gave up wrestling with the fastening and settled for feeling the parcel through the wrapping.
‘Wow,’ he reached out and cupped one of her improbably globelike breasts. ‘I really shouldn’t approve of these, but they feel amazing.’
It wobbled strangely under his touch. Then it capsized. Faith froze, panicking that he would no longer fancy her without boobs.
For a moment Rory looked terrified, thinking he’d hurt her. Realisation dawning, he peered at the chicken fillet. ‘You didn’t have cosmetic surgery?’
‘Of course not. You told me not to.’
‘But I thought you went ahead and did it anyway?’
Faith swallowed uncomfortably. ‘You mean all these months and you haven’t even
looked
?’ It didn’t say a lot for his devotion.
But Rory’s pewter gaze was positively eating up her body. ‘I’ve looked, Faith. Believe me, I’ve looked at this amazing woman I’m in love with, who is the most beautiful woman I know, who almost blinds me. But I thought I’d lost you, that you’d moved on. I wanted the real you back, the one who was always in my case about something, who was just as beautiful, just as amazing, just as gorgeous in every way.’ His eyes brimmed with love.
Turning pink with pleasure, Faith let out a little squeak of happiness.
‘You were always perfect. These are fun …’ He pulled out the second chicken fillet, ‘but I
love
these.’ He dipped his head to kiss the treasure trove beneath.
Making love with Rory seemed the most natural thing in the
world to Faith. He was so familiar and so special, his lips and fingers on her body just burnt her love all the more indelibly. It
was
making love, she realised as he shuddered to a climax inside her and her heart seemed to fill up the rest of her shaking, tingling body. She loved him now more than ever. And they could make more and more and more of it for as long as they lived, like a never-ending love-making factory.
As they sank back on the mattress, sweaty and sated, they heard feet clattering up the lorry steps.
Rory just had time to reach out to pull the curtain across when Tash walked into the living area carrying two bottles of champagne, Beetroot at her heels, followed by Hugo with Cora dangling around his neck and Amery on his hip.
‘Oh, they must have popped out,’ she realised. ‘Go and check the stables, will you? They might be helping Franny pack up the trunks.’
Grumbling, Hugo clanked out again, still with Amery. Behind the curtain, Rory rested his cheek on Faith’s hot, naked chest and listened to her heartbeat hammering in his ear. In the living area they could hear Tash clattering about packing up the lorry living, while Cora sang ‘Nick Nack Paddywack’ and clambered all over the seats.
‘Watch!’ she announced, holding up the dropped Rolex.
‘That’s odd.’ Tash took it from her and placed it carefully back in its box on the table.
As she washed up all the plastic plates and cups and put them back in their storage boxes for travelling in the cupboards, Cora – who was very in to climbing – ascended the ladder steps to the Luton and peered around the curtain.
‘Hello Rory!’ she greeted him brightly.
‘Hi,’ he smiled back.
‘Hello Face!’
‘Hi,’ Faith waved politely.
At this, Tash let out a bleat and Cora was hastily removed. ‘Ohmygod I’m sorry!’
But at that moment Hugo thumped back in. ‘No sign of them, but look who I
did
find.’
‘Hi.’ It was Lough’s dry, Kiwi voice, sounding distinctly awkward.
In contrast, Hugo was unusually conciliatory. ‘I’ve insisted he joins us for a drink.’
‘That’s lovely,’ Tash blustered. ‘But can we all go outside?’
Hugo didn’t appear to be listening. ‘He’s just told me who was behind the smear campaign, and you are not going to
believe
how bloody thick we all were not to see it under our noses, Lough here being stupidest of all.’
‘Thanks.’ Lough let out his gruff, embarrassed laugh.
‘We’re practically brothers-in-law.’ Hugo popped a champagne cork. ‘Being stupid is a prerequisite – look at Ben here.’ He welcomed the third man into the box.
‘Just popped in to congratulate the Midwinter boy,’ he hawed. ‘He not here?’
Tash tried again. ‘Hi Ben, do you think you could just turn around and lead the – oh.’
Then there was another voice with a distinctive Swedish accent that Rory knew straight away. ‘Tash, my darling! I hear you have champagne.’
‘Yes, Stefan.’ Tash was getting more and more flustered. ‘The thing is – congratulations on your second place by the way – the thing is, oh hi there, Kirsty.’
‘You’re having another baby!’ Kirsty whooped. ‘That’s great news.’
‘Budge up!’ ordered a familiar bark as Gus Moncrieff joined the fray. ‘Getting a bit crowded around this doorway.’
‘Perhaps we should all go outside, then?’ Tash suggested hopelessly.
‘Don’t be daft, it’s starting to rain.’ Penny’s distinctive laugh rang out as another champagne cork popped. ‘Have you heard the gossip? Pete Rafferty has made Marie-Clair an offer she simply cannot refuse for that lovely black mare Kevin rides … rumour is Sylva Frost is going to compete it …’
‘No!’ Stefan gasped.
‘I heard he was going to take it to America …’
‘Is it true Lem’s run off to join a Cossack stunt-riding troupe, Lough?’
‘Did he really try to kill Hugo at Badminton? It’s all round the lorry park.’
‘I thought they’d all be far more interested in talking about Rory’s romantic stunt.’
‘Oh, wasn’t that gorgeous?’
Behind the curtain, Rory started to kiss Faith again. Ardour
quickly revitalised, he quietly shifted himself on top of her, reaching down to lift her leg.
She raised her eyebrows.
He said nothing, but she knew exactly what he was thinking. In the gypsy life of three day eventers, where everybody was crammed cheek-by-jowl in tiny horsebox living quarters in lorry parks in muddy fields, they would soon get very accustomed to this. They might as well start practising straight away.
‘Don’t Rory and Faith make a lovely couple?’ Kirsty was saying.
Making love just a few feet away, Rory and Faith couldn’t agree more.
November that year
‘SURPRISE!’
Friends appeared out of cupboards and from under tables; they came down from upstairs and up from the cellars; they burst out of side rooms, emerged from behind the curtains and flooded in from the yard. There were more waiting in a marquee discreetly erected at the back of the house, yet more on the lawn and even a few early drunks hiding in the pool, teeth chattering. Cars soon started flooding in as the second wave of guests arrived, cramming every available parking space. A hired coach full of event riders who had block-booked a local hotel dispatched its load in the village lane before turning round to go and fetch more. The more enterprising had brought their horseboxes to stay in overnight, so that one of the Beauchamp’s turn-out paddocks now resembled a horse trials lorry park.
‘Did you know about this?’ Tash asked Hugo in total astonishment.
‘Only that your sister was going to arrange a small get-together for our anniversary.’
‘But there are more people here than came to our wedding party. And why are so many of them wearing cowboy hats?’
Sophia had pulled out all the stops for what had become known
as the Haydown Hooley to all its many co-conspirators. It was a huge, barn-storming party that had succeeded in taking Tash completely unawares and even caught Hugo broadside because Sophia and Ben had led him to believe that this would be a modest anniversary surprise. Instead, the party was also a belated fortieth birthday celebration for Hugo on an epic scale. He hadn’t for a moment expected to return from the short break he and Tash had taken at Le Manoir after Pau trials to find three hundred people waiting for them at Haydown.
Lots of familiar faces were there, scores of event riders congregating from all over the country along with many events organisers, sponsors and owners old and new including Dillon and Fawn Rafferty, Venetia Gundry, the Bucklands and the Seatons. Many had flown in from overseas or delayed their return home at the end of the season. Marie-Clair was there along with Janet Madsen, Stefan, Kirsty and the Florida gang; Jenny and Dolf had come from Germany; Australian and New Zealand friends chattered and joked about the forthcoming long hauls home to see families over Christmas; and the O’Shaughnessys had flown in from LA.