she had blonde hair in a messy bun and
one of those attractive, capable faces that had been genetically supplied with ruddy
skin and good teeth.
Tiggy.
For God’s sake.
You couldn’t make it up.
Almost all of the jobs Becca had
explained to me last night involved the removal of horse poo from one place to
another. ‘Horses are veggies,’ Becca had reassured me, ‘so it
don’t smell too bad, pet. Although their wee’s pretty bad, with all that
ammonia, and they do like to take a good fart on you when you brush out their
tails.’
Her final piece of advice had been about
Joe. ‘Don’t go there,’ she’d advised. ‘He’s had
a go on everyone. He’s gorgeous, if you’re into that sort of thing, but
it’s not worth the pubic lice, my pet. Okay?’
‘I may not know a horse’s
arse from its elbow,’ I’d said, ‘but I do know that I’m not
looking for romance.’
‘Hock.’ Becca had smiled.
‘Horses don’t have elbows. They have knees and hocks.’
I finished my toast and pondered my next
move. Neither Becca nor Tiggy had come downstairs yet and, other than stand and eat
toast that I was too anxious even to taste, I hadn’t the faintest idea what to
do.
I wandered across the warm kitchen floor
– it was
heated, I realized gratefully –
and stared at a black-and-white photo of Mark Waverley on a beautiful horse. He was
wearing a top hat, a tail coat and white gloves, and he was making the horse do a
very boxy, poncy sort of a move. This, I remembered from the Olympics, was that mad
dressage thing, where riders made horses do ballet in a long rectangular arena.
‘He got twenty-six on that
test,’ Becca said, sliding into the kitchen. ‘Fuckin’ sensational.
Don’t think anyone’s ridden a test like that in years.’
I smiled politely. ‘Oh,
right.’
Becca sighed. ‘You don’t
know what I mean, do you?’
‘Nope.’
‘Mark’s an eventer, right?
That means someone who competes in horse trials. Dressage, cross-country and
show-jumping all in one competition. Like a triathlon, I suppose,’ she said,
pulling a large box of Shreddies out of a cupboard. ‘In the dressage phase you
build up penalties for imperfections. Meaning that Mark got only twenty-six
penalties.
Nobody
gets dressage scores like that.’
‘Go away!’ I said, genuinely
impressed. ‘So he really is good, then?’
‘The best,’ she said
proudly. ‘He may be an arsehole but he rides a beautiful dressage test.
Especially on Stumpy.’
‘Dressage, show-jumping,
cross-country,’ I repeated to myself, aware of the need to learn fast.
‘Dressage, show-jumping, cross-country. That’s a lot for one horse to do
in a day.’
Becca smiled. ‘At Mark’s
level, these things take place over three to five days,’ she explained.
‘Otherwise, aye, the horse’d die. So would Mark. So would we.’
I shook my head
ruefully. ‘I’m useless,’ I said. ‘They’ll rumble me in
seconds.’
‘Nonsense, pet. And if you
don’t mind me saying, you’re not going to get very far with an attitude
like that.’
‘Hmph.’
‘We’ll just stick to the
story that you’ve had a few years off horses, so you’re a bit rusty.
They really don’t care, sweetheart. They’ve got enough to worry
about.’
Tiggy marched briskly into the kitchen,
reeking of efficiency and good breeding. ‘Come on, then, folks,’ she
commanded. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
But before anyone had time to get a show
on the road, the door opened and suddenly the atmosphere darkened.
‘Morning,’ a male voice said crisply.
‘Morning!’ we all
tinkled.
Mark Waverley. Younger than he looked in
a riding hat. More handsome, too, with his dark hair and warm-toned skin, a strong,
slightly Roman nose and guarded eyes. Something about him threw me straight off
balance. Not in a good way.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. His
eyes were
one of those attractive, capable faces that had been genetically supplied with ruddy
skin and good teeth.
Tiggy.
For God’s sake.
You couldn’t make it up.
Almost all of the jobs Becca had
explained to me last night involved the removal of horse poo from one place to
another. ‘Horses are veggies,’ Becca had reassured me, ‘so it
don’t smell too bad, pet. Although their wee’s pretty bad, with all that
ammonia, and they do like to take a good fart on you when you brush out their
tails.’
Her final piece of advice had been about
Joe. ‘Don’t go there,’ she’d advised. ‘He’s had
a go on everyone. He’s gorgeous, if you’re into that sort of thing, but
it’s not worth the pubic lice, my pet. Okay?’
‘I may not know a horse’s
arse from its elbow,’ I’d said, ‘but I do know that I’m not
looking for romance.’
‘Hock.’ Becca had smiled.
‘Horses don’t have elbows. They have knees and hocks.’
I finished my toast and pondered my next
move. Neither Becca nor Tiggy had come downstairs yet and, other than stand and eat
toast that I was too anxious even to taste, I hadn’t the faintest idea what to
do.
I wandered across the warm kitchen floor
– it was
heated, I realized gratefully –
and stared at a black-and-white photo of Mark Waverley on a beautiful horse. He was
wearing a top hat, a tail coat and white gloves, and he was making the horse do a
very boxy, poncy sort of a move. This, I remembered from the Olympics, was that mad
dressage thing, where riders made horses do ballet in a long rectangular arena.
‘He got twenty-six on that
test,’ Becca said, sliding into the kitchen. ‘Fuckin’ sensational.
Don’t think anyone’s ridden a test like that in years.’
I smiled politely. ‘Oh,
right.’
Becca sighed. ‘You don’t
know what I mean, do you?’
‘Nope.’
‘Mark’s an eventer, right?
That means someone who competes in horse trials. Dressage, cross-country and
show-jumping all in one competition. Like a triathlon, I suppose,’ she said,
pulling a large box of Shreddies out of a cupboard. ‘In the dressage phase you
build up penalties for imperfections. Meaning that Mark got only twenty-six
penalties.
Nobody
gets dressage scores like that.’
‘Go away!’ I said, genuinely
impressed. ‘So he really is good, then?’
‘The best,’ she said
proudly. ‘He may be an arsehole but he rides a beautiful dressage test.
Especially on Stumpy.’
‘Dressage, show-jumping,
cross-country,’ I repeated to myself, aware of the need to learn fast.
‘Dressage, show-jumping, cross-country. That’s a lot for one horse to do
in a day.’
Becca smiled. ‘At Mark’s
level, these things take place over three to five days,’ she explained.
‘Otherwise, aye, the horse’d die. So would Mark. So would we.’
I shook my head
ruefully. ‘I’m useless,’ I said. ‘They’ll rumble me in
seconds.’
‘Nonsense, pet. And if you
don’t mind me saying, you’re not going to get very far with an attitude
like that.’
‘Hmph.’
‘We’ll just stick to the
story that you’ve had a few years off horses, so you’re a bit rusty.
They really don’t care, sweetheart. They’ve got enough to worry
about.’
Tiggy marched briskly into the kitchen,
reeking of efficiency and good breeding. ‘Come on, then, folks,’ she
commanded. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
But before anyone had time to get a show
on the road, the door opened and suddenly the atmosphere darkened.
‘Morning,’ a male voice said crisply.
‘Morning!’ we all
tinkled.
Mark Waverley. Younger than he looked in
a riding hat. More handsome, too, with his dark hair and warm-toned skin, a strong,
slightly Roman nose and guarded eyes. Something about him threw me straight off
balance. Not in a good way.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. His
eyes were
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