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‘Mine’s called Woopert and Alice has got Bilbo. He’s black. Mine is owange.’ Supplied Roxy helpfully.
Lottie stared at the pony. ‘We call it chestnut, Roxy.’ And then at the grinning Rory. ‘And what does Sam say?’
‘Wow, isn’t it amazing, babe? How awesome is that? My little princess riding and everything, just like a real lady.’ Rory clapped his hands together and grinned as he completed what Lottie had to admit was quite a good impersonation of Samantha.
‘Mummy says I can go to Lympi next year and I’m going to be a pumpkin.’ Roxy tugged experimentally on one rein. ‘Can you make me into a pumpkin Lottie? You can do sewing stuff and Mummy doesn’t cos it hurts her nails.’ Her face was solemn. ‘I can be owange then like Woopert. I’ve got lots of days to pwactise.’
‘Chestnut.’ Lottie corrected automatically.
‘She means Olympia Horse Show. She’s been watching YouTube videos of the fancy-dress parade.’
‘Doesn’t she mean a plum pudding then? You don’t see pumpkins at Christmas really, do you?’ She leaned in closer to Rory and lowered her voice so the girls couldn’t hear. ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to have given owange Woopert to Alice and let Roxy have black Bilbo? She can say her Bs.’
‘Your grandmother specifically said they were to be this way round.’
‘I bet she did.’
‘Said something about speech impediments should not stand in the way of life decisions.’
Lottie rolled her eyes.
‘What colour are plum puddings, Worwy?’
Rory never got chance to answer as a squeal of delight, and clapping of hands, had everybody turning round, apart from the pony.
‘Oh my God, oh wow, aren’t they just gorge? How adorable is that cute little horse?’ Rushing in on her high heels, bracelets jangling, Samantha Simcock blew a kiss in Rory’s direction then wrapped her arms around Lottie, engulfing her in a waft of very expensive perfume, which contrasted alarmingly with Lottie’s own eau-de-horse. In fact the two girls appeared polar opposites in every visible way. Where Lottie had curves, Sam was model-slim (with the exception of her very expensive boobs), her complexion was as perfectly made-up and blemish-free as a touched-up photo of a model, her clothes the height of fashion and her blue eyes as clear as a baby’s. But appearances could be deceptive and Sam was as down to earth and honest as they came, and more – like Lottie – strong willed and determined than she looked.
When Sam and her husband, England goalkeeper David Simcock, had moved into the neighbouring (and very upmarket) village of Kitterly Heath she had, for a very brief time, been lonely, but with her extrovert personality and natural warmth it hadn’t taken her long to make friends.
In Tippermere she should have been a fish out of water, but she wasn’t. Everybody warmed to Sam; she was non-judgemental and generous to a fault, which more than compensated for the fact that her view of life in the country was slightly unusual, to say the least. Sam’s dog, Scruffy, was the only dog in the village to sport a diamante collar; she was the only girl who had ever turned up at a Boxing Day meet in six-inch heels, and she flatly refused to get on a horse on the grounds that a fall might have a devastating effect on her boob implants.
Sam had hung on to her bling and embraced the countryside in her own way – complete with high heels, hair extensions, weekly manicure and Botox.
Lottie loved every outrageous inch of her friend and couldn’t imagine life without her.
‘How are you doing, babe? You and Rory are just so sweet looking after little Roxy for me. Aww, come on Alice honey, don’t stand in the doorway all shy. You get on your little horse as well, sweetie pie, and I can take a picture of you both together. Her Ladyship is so fab, isn’t she? Oh Daddy will be so proud. Our own little princess on a horse, just like the royal family and Jordan, you know, whatchamacallher, Katie.’
Lottie wasn’t too sure that the Windsors would want to be wrapped up in the same sentence as an ex glamour model, nor was she sure that her gran was ‘fab’.
‘Maybe it would be better if we all went outside?’
‘It’s a bit nippy out there, babe. Did you know you’ve got a blanket thing dangling from you?’ The stage whisper carried clearly across the room.
Lottie gave the blanket an experimental tug, wondering if ripping it off would work or whether she needed scissors. ‘They’re ponies. They’re supposed to be outside. That’s why they’ve got fur coats.’ Lottie looked pointedly from Sam’s fur to the ponies and back again. ‘And the light’s much better if you want to take a photo. It’s so gloomy in here in the winter.’
‘Aww aren’t you clever? Here you are, babe. I’ve got some nail scissors in my bag somewhere.’ She rifled through the contents of her very large tote, eventually coming up trumps. ‘Come on girls.’
‘Do you think we should wash him?’ Alice was staring at her Shetland pony, who was waiting patiently behind her in the hallway, and was looking as genuinely concerned as her mother often did when faced with a cushion that needed plumping up. Lottie had never met a child quite like her (although she was the first to admit she was no expert where children were concerned), but found her much easier to handle than Roxy, who at three years old was already as huggable as Sam was, but twice as energetic. Rory loved her.
‘I think you could brush him later.’ Lottie gave Alice a hug. ‘But he might turn into an icicle if we get him all wet now. Here you are, let me lift you up.’ Once in the saddle, Alice was as still, upright and elegant as her dressage rider father, unlike Roxy, who was bouncing about like one of the terriers.
‘Mummy, Mummy can we paint Woopert’s nails so they look like mine?’
It was only then that Lottie noticed Roxy’s teeny tiny nails were sparkling like diamonds. In fact they could be diamonds, knowing Sam.
‘Course we can, babe, can’t we Lottie? He will look so cute with pretty feet.’
‘They’re not real diamonds, are they?’ Lottie hoped she didn’t sound as horrified as she felt.
‘Don’t be daft, hun.’ Sam giggled, a carbon copy of Roxy’s. She lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell her but they’re diamante, like Scruffy’s collar, but she thinks they’re the real deal.’ Her voice lifted. ‘Cos she’s my little princess, aren’t you, babe?’
‘And Woopert is my pwince.’ Roxy for once sounded serious, then grinned.
‘It might come off quite quickly in the field.’ Lottie dreaded what Uncle Dom, or her gran, would say, if they spotted a diamond-encrusted pony in the paddock.
Samantha frowned, then just as quickly smiled. ‘Well we can get him a nice sparkly harness thing for his head can’t we? Like Scruffy’s collar. I mean he’s got to look handsome when we go to Olympia and ride in front of all those people, hasn’t he?’
‘I don’t think …’ Lottie didn’t know quite how to put this.
‘We are going aren’t we, babe? Dave will be so proud, just like Wembley and him playing for England. When he played in the World Cup I was so proud of him, and he’ll be just as chuffed to see his little princess on her horse, won’t he, babe?’
‘It’s not that easy. Roxy has only just started riding, and,’ Lottie floundered, looking at Rory for help, wondering just how to explain that the three-year-old might not quite be ready to star at an international horse show. Whereas she often had doubts, Sam had none. She was an unstoppable force, totally confident of her own ability to conquer the world.
‘Bit of a challenge for next year, Sam. Have to see how it goes, won’t we girls?’ Rory supplied.
Sam gave him a hug. ‘Oh, you’re so sensible and clever, isn’t he, Lots?’ She kissed him. ‘The best godfather in the world, isn’t he Roxy, babe?’ She giggled. ‘The godfather, oh that sounds bad, doesn’t it? Aww and it’s so nice of you to bring the horses inside. I mean it’s parky out, freeze the balls off a …’ She put a hand over her mouth and laughed again. ‘Listen to me, and in front of the kiddies.’
‘The horses aren’t supposed to come in the house.’ Lottie frowned in Rory’s direction.
‘Aren’t they babe? Well, why?’
‘Worwy said Lady Lizbet would let us.’ Roxy was now fed up of sitting on the motionless pony and spotting a way back onto centre stage went for it. ‘Catch me.’ And before anybody could stop her, she’d flung her leg over the pony’s withers and launched herself in her mother’s direction.
‘Isn’t she priceless? Bless.’ Sam kissed her daughter on the head. ‘Shall we take your little pony back to his bed, then?’
‘And then go shopping for nice sparkly things for him to wear?’
Sam, who could never say no to a good shopping trip, especially one that included anything that sparkled, grinned. ‘Course we can, princess.’
Lottie was pretty sure that it was impossible to buy a diamante bridle in Shetland pony size, and totally impossible to buy anything horsey with diamonds on. Pretty sure. But then she’d never seen a shaggy mongrel wearing a diamond-encrusted collar and an Armani jumper until Sam had rehomed Scruffy. Oh, what would the dogs’ home think of him if they could see him now?
‘Come on.’ Roxy tugged experimentally on the reins and the pony turned his head the other way. ‘Naughty horsey.’ Sam might be blond, busty and blingy (in her own words) but she was also ‘bloody determined’ when it suited her, and Roxy, it seemed, had inherited her mother’s genes by the bucket load. Heading round to the other side, she pushed.
Rupert sighed, then yawned, showing a good set of teeth, and shook his head and neck with such vigour that he showered Roxy with what Lottie hoped was shavings, and not as she suspected, dried flakes of mud and poo. Then he rested a back leg as though to demonstrate his complete lack of interest.
Roxy waved a finger. ‘I’m vewy disappointed in you.’ Lottie tried to keep a straight face, but one glance in Sam’s direction and she knew she couldn’t keep it up. Rupert the pony, sensing that his fun might be over, didn’t want to leave the party. ‘Uncle Worwy, make him move.’
‘Has your mummy never told you that boys don’t like bossy girls?’
‘Mummy tells Daddy she’ll,’ she grimaced, concentrating, ‘make him beg for more and he likes that. It makes him do his big smile.’
‘Roxanne!’
Lottie and Rory, who had never heard Sam call her daughter by her full name, tried to avoid looking at each other.
‘When did you hear that?’
‘When you played horsey in your bedwoom. Now I’m playing horsey widing too.’
‘Rory maybe you should make him move?’ Lottie didn’t dare wait to hear what Roxy might come out with next.
The thing was, Rupert didn’t want to move. Not even with Rory pulling, Lottie and Roxy pushing, and Sam waving the bowl of sugar lumps in front of his nose.
‘Hang on.’ Lottie was out of breath. ‘Idea.’ She held a hand up. They all waited until she could speak. ‘Backwards.’
And so Rupert departed Tipping House in reverse. He very nearly got stuck in the doorway when he sped up, taking Sam with him, and nearly made her the filling in a sandwich between his hairy bulk and the door jamb, but pretty soon he was surprised to find himself at the top of the stone steps.
‘Don’t bring him in again, Rory. Please,’ Lottie begged, hoping she didn’t sound a complete spoilsport.
But Rory was too busy putting Roxy back in the saddle to hear. ‘Ready to go, Alice?’
Alice who had been watching the proceedings with interest, nodded. ‘I don’t think he liked going backwards,’ she said solemnly. ‘Once he started he couldn’t stop.’
‘Like the wheels on the bus,’ added Rory with a nod. ‘All day long.’ And broke into song.
‘Aww bless, isn’t he good with the kids? I can’t wait for you two to have your own.’ Sam winked at Lottie. ‘And you’d make an ace mum. I mean you’ve had all that practice with foals and puppies and stuff.’ She paused. ‘I mean I know it’s not my business, babe, but if you’ve got problems with your tubes I know this doctor.’
Lottie shook her head.
‘You’ve got this lovely big house, you could fill it with kids and hardly notice.’
Lottie thought she probably would notice, even one little teeny tiny baby. After a particularly drunken night at the pub Sam had shown her all her baby pictures of Roxy, every last one of her through the blooming stage of her pregnancy, and most of the in-labour ones, and she’d thought Lottie was kidding when she said that quite frankly she’d rather have a puppy.
‘He would make a lovely daddy, though, wouldn’t he?’
‘He would.’ Lottie agreed, which rather took Sam by surprise. But, as she watched the trio of the man she loved and the two little girls make their way to the stables all singing about the wheels on the bus at the top of their voices (well, Alice’s was slightly muted) she suddenly felt a pang. Would she ever make a good mother?
It wasn’t just Sam who’d dropped heavy hints to Lottie about starting a family, these days it seemed to be on everybody’s mind. In fact she’d started to feel like it was expected, her duty, and if she wasn’t waving an ultrasound scan from the flag-post soon she’d be letting the side down. Even Rory had joined in and that was truly the worst part. She wanted to be there for him, to give him whatever he wanted, support him as he supported her in the running of the estate. But the mere thought of having a baby made her palms go clammier than when she was faced with a bucking youngster and a three-foot hedge.
So she’d said the same to her husband as she had to everybody else. They didn’t have enough money to feed another family member. Right now, it was all hands to the pump doing the work with the horses themselves. Paying a groom was completely out of the question, so for now the only help was Tab, who worked in exchange for lessons and a horse to compete. She couldn’t afford to have her feet up playing the pregnant mother. Not yet.
Lottie sighed and clutched the horse blanket to her. The part that really scared her wasn’t being short of money, it was what she’d say when they’d got their lives back on track. Would the man she loved still want her when she admitted that she was prepared to do almost anything except bear his child?
Chapter 4 (#ulink_2abc40d9-2c63-51f2-96d1-78c3237f4307)
‘It’s for charity, love,’ said Mrs Jones, admiring Mr August for a lot longer than Lottie thought necessary. ‘Oh my, would you look at Mr July? His helmet’s hardly big enough to cover his meat and two veg.’
Lottie cringed at the rush of middle-aged hormones the normally restrained shopkeeper was displaying as she waggled the calendar around. ‘There’s something about a fireman, isn’t there, love? I wouldn’t mind being rescued by Mr February and look at the way he’s cuddling that puppy. I don’t know which is more adorable.’ She shoved the calendar under Lottie’s nose. ‘Maybe we need a hot horseman one. What do you think, dear? Your Rory and that lovely Mick. People would pay to see them with only their riding hats and boots on now, wouldn’t they?’ She frowned. ‘And your dad. Although a lot of people have seen him in his undies already.’
She said it kindly, but Lottie still blushed. It was years, no, decades, since her father, Billy Brinkley, had appeared in the tabloids, but everybody remembered. And brought it up regularly. Even the village gossips. Although she supposed they were a similar age to him. Really, they were all old enough to know better.
‘Sorry, love. But your old man was quite a pin up in his day.’ Mrs Jones sighed and Lottie fidgeted, hoping that was the end of the conversation. ‘And he was such a naughty boy, just like your Rory. Must be something to do with all that fresh air and horses, eh?’ She winked. ‘Your mother had her hands full, I can tell you.’
Please let the ground swallow me up, thought Lottie. Instead the tring of the little bell above the door announced another customer. Bugger, if she wasn’t careful there would be a full-scale debate about what made a horseman hunky and whether Billy was still up for a full frontal for charity.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you, dear? It is for charity and it is the start of the New Year tomorrow. Where does the time go? So it’s your last chance. You wouldn’t want to miss a single day of Mr January would you?’
‘Just the er, pint of milk and, er, yes, okay one of these.’ She grabbed the calendar. ‘For charity, of course.’ Maybe if she took it with her that would be the end of it, and after all that the fire brigade had done for her, the least she could do was show some support. If they hadn’t been on the scene within minutes of the blaze being spotted, the whole of Tipping House (and guests) could have been barbecued, not just the main entertaining rooms.
‘Hang on, hold your horses, love, is that the last one?’
She hadn’t moved fast enough. The booming gruff tone was instantly recognisable. Her father.
Lottie glanced up and he was standing there, large as life, in his boots and breeches, blue eyes twinkling. His thinning sandy curls were damp against his head from the riding hat that he’d just taken off (which luckily meant his horse must be tied up outside, so he wouldn’t be there for long) and his arms were folded over his rather stout frame.
‘I hope you’re not planning on pinning that up in the bedroom to give the lad some competition.’ He guffawed.
Mrs Jones joined in. ‘You’re a card, Billy. We were just talking about you, weren’t we? Those were the days when I couldn’t put the newspapers out on a Sunday morning without seeing your body.’
‘Dad!’ Lottie felt vaguely nauseous. The conversation about her father’s naked butt (and, yes, it would get onto that if she hung around) was bad enough. I mean, who wants to even acknowledge their parents have bodies, let alone ones that have been lusted over by the nation? But for him to even hint at anything going on in her own marital bedroom was just plain weird. Cringe-worthy.
Mrs Jones obviously thought it was hilarious though.
‘I’m only getting it because it’s for charity,’ Lottie protested.
‘Yes, well you can stop looking, love. Come on,’ he waved a hand, ‘give it here. I need that if it’s the last one.’
She found she was gripping it more tightly than she’d expected when he tried to take it. ‘What do YOU want with naked firemen?’
‘It’s a surprise for Tiggy.’
Oh God, now he was dragging her step-mum and their relationship into this. ‘Here.’ She shoved it at him. ‘Don’t say another word.’
‘After a younger man is she, Bill?’ There was what sounded suspiciously like a girly giggle from Mrs Jones, who appeared to be flirting outrageously as she leant her elbows on the counter, displaying an ample cleavage. ‘Always a place in my bed for you if you need it, my darling.’
‘No, no, no.’ Lottie put her hands over her ears and hummed.
‘Tigs took a shine to Mr February. She said she’s thinking of doing a bit of painting again and I haven’t got the time to pose for her, have I now, Molly?’ Billy winked at Mrs Jones, then looked back to his daughter, who was studying the bars of chocolate avidly. ‘Want me to buy you some sparklers while I’m here, love?’
Lottie looked at him, startled. Was that some kind of euphemism? Did he think her and Rory’s love life needed a boost? Was Sam now responsible for the corner shop stocking vajazzle kits as well as superior fake tan?
‘We always had them when you were a kid. Thought the sprogs would want some.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Sparklers for little Alice and Roxy? Fireworks? To see the New Year in with, Lottie. I know Rory’s stocked up with more fireworks than they’ve got on the Thames, but a few of these never go amiss, do they?’ He tapped the packet she hadn’t spotted on the counter. ‘I’m sure young Roxy could put a few to good use.’
‘Oh God, yes, of course, thanks, got to go. Happy New Year.’ She grabbed both packets of sparklers that Mrs Jones was now holding out, made a lunge for the pint of milk and was out of the shop faster than a starter at Aintree.
Her father’s guffaws echoed round the shop as the door slammed shut behind her, and if it hadn’t been for Harry’s whine of surprise she would have forgotten all about the spaniel and left him still tied to the hook under the window.
‘Cripes, Harry, they go sex mad after a certain age.’ She would have actually quite liked to have had a closer look at the fireman’s calendar, but no way was she ever going to mention it again. To anybody. ‘Come on, Harry, we’re off to Sam’s to talk about something sensible like acrylic nails and boob jobs, and pick up the nibbles for tonight.’
