Stable Mates. Zara Stoneley
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when she got the bit between her teeth, and Lottie secretly thought that her grandmother wasn’t as batty, forgetful and deaf as she liked to make out.
‘All I said,’ she passed the drink to Elizabeth who sniffed it as though she suspected it might be laced with something, or more likely not strong enough, ‘was that Rory thought it was strange when Uncle Dom turned up at the dressage. Did you have anything to do with that?’
‘I may have mentioned it.’ She tapped a long nail against the side of the glass, piercing blue eyes fixed on Lottie. ‘You could do a lot better than that man, Charlotte.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘You are so like your mother in some ways.’
When Elizabeth had borne two children for Charles Stanthorpe, she had, in her usual manner, carried out her duties exactly as could have been expected. Their eldest child, Dominic, was a fair-haired, blue-eyed, easy-going child who was always keen to please, courteous, but precise to the point of obsession. More than once, Elizabeth had been filled with an irrational desire to rearrange his meticulously organised toys, and then Alexandra had arrived and done it for her.
Alexa was as beautiful and wild as Dom was pretty and controlled. Her dark eyes would glint with mischievousness and her long curls bob as she dashed around the large house, causing chaos. With the family Labs in her wake, Alexa would tear like a mini tornado, leaving a trail of destruction behind her. But with her ready grin, infectious giggle and affable nature, remonstrating with her was something that was easier left to others. So everybody did. Everyone forgave and forgot, with the result that, by the time she hit her teens, the fun-loving little girl had turned into an irresistible challenge that scared the living daylights out of many of her chosen suitors.
So Elizabeth found, as her children hit puberty, that she was hit with an unexpected problem. Her son showed no apparent interest in the female form, funnelling all his efforts into the pursuit of equine excellence, and her hitherto perfect daughter Alexa showed too much interest in horsemen. At twenty-two she was smitten with the very dashing, but totally unsuitable William Brinkley, at twenty-three she was pregnant with his child. The day after her twenty-fifth birthday she died in a tragic accident.
Lottie knew with the ‘just like your mother comment’ exactly where this conversation was going and did her best to head it off with the skill of someone who’d had to do it many times before. Her mother, Alexandra, had been destined to marry someone befitting her breeding, until she fell for Billy Brinkley. A sportsman who was as competent in the sack as saddle, if the headlines and stable tittle-tattle was to be believed. Lottie had never known her mother; losing her when she was just a toddler had meant she had never felt the real pang of loving and losing, but as she grew up she felt like there was an element of her life missing. The bossy, but well-meaning, Elizabeth had considered it her duty to support her only granddaughter and give her all the information she could ever need, drip-feeding it to her from the day she was old enough to understand.
‘Grandma, I don’t need watching.’
‘I do wish you wouldn’t call me Grandma, it makes me sound ancient.’
‘And I like Rory. He’s fun.’
‘Hmm, I bet he is.’ The sharp eyes gave her an uncomfortable once-over. ‘Life isn’t just about fun though, is it? I mean it is fine for men to sow their wild oats, but even these days it isn’t good form for a lady. And nor are those plimsolls.’ The slight twitch could have been a supressed smile, Lottie reckoned, or a warning there was more to come.
She groaned inwardly. ‘Converses, Gran.’ She knew she couldn’t win any kind of discussion with Elizabeth. And why were ‘plimsolls’, as she termed them, any worse than the green wellies that her grandmother stomped out in, whatever the weather, along with the ancient, waxed Barbour jacket that must be nearly as old as she was?
‘So, are you going to tell me about that young man?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, Bertie, you really shouldn’t.’ Lottie cringed as her grandmother tugged determinedly at her knickers which, for some strange reason, were visible at the waistband of her tweed skirt, then heaved a sigh of relief as Elizabeth triumphantly pulled out a handkerchief which she wafted in front of her nose. Bertie had stood up at the sound of his name and was now swishing his tail around like only a fat Labrador can, his big brown eyes fixed unerringly on his owner. ‘These bloody dogs know exactly how to get what they want. I’m sure he can pass wind at will. Worse than children. Come on you smelly bugger.’ Lottie shifted back so that the whip-like tail didn’t catch her on the shins. She’d got enough bruises and scratches from Rory’s terriers, any more and she’d be looking like a badly patched quilt in shades of purple.
Whatever Elizabeth said though, there was a definite family resemblance between Dominic and his mother. They were both slim, upright and had the type of striking long noses and piercing gazes that left you feeling like you were being told off by a particularly stern schoolteacher. Lottie hadn’t a clue how old her grandmother actually was, but she didn’t act or look it. And she didn’t move at all like a geriatric when she wanted something. She was already marching out of the room, her words echoing in the cavernous, wood-panelled hallway, Bertie and his half-brother, Holmes, hurtling after her, nails tip-tapping on the hard floor in her wake, as Lottie put her drink down and scrambled after them. She was still trying to catch her breath as a welcome rush of fresh air hit her.
Elizabeth didn’t believe in central heating, it was just for softies who liked to burn money, which meant the house was freezing all year round. Even in summer.
‘You were telling me about this man?’
‘Was I?’
Elizabeth tut-tutted and waved the dogs on in front. ‘You were out with Philippa?’
‘Ah, that man.’ It suddenly simultaneously dawned on her who she was being interrogated about and worried her as to why. Elizabeth never made casual enquiries, there had to be a reason. ‘Tom.’
Her grandmother was waiting for more.
‘Tom Strachan. He’s a model.’ She absentmindedly picked up the stick that Bertie had dropped at her feet and flung it as far as she could across the manicured lawn, which wasn’t far. The bounding Bertie soon came back, his head held high, Labrador smile across his happy face as he stopped in front of them. Dropped his prize, his whole body wagging in wobbly ecstasy.
‘Pretty boy, isn’t he? Bertie NO.’
Just in time, before she grabbed it, Lottie realised that Bertie has deposited a decomposed rabbit at her feet this time, not a stick. She wiped her hand down the front of her top, even though she hadn’t actually touched it.
‘Er, yes.’
‘Charles always did say one should never trust a man with long hair. He’s either an artist and waster or a scoundrel.’
‘He’s a model, Gran, and it’s not that long, his hair.’ Lottie tried to remember exactly how long his hair was, but however much she screwed up her eyes and mouth the image didn’t come.
‘Don’t do that, darling, it will give you frown lines.’
‘Anyway, Gramps only said that because he was in the army. He thought anything that wasn’t a short back and sides was long.’
Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. ‘I suppose he will at least dress well, if he’s a model.’
‘I don’t know really. He models underwear, y-fronts, you know, pants.’ Were pristine pants the equivalent of dressing well?
‘I do know what pants are Charlotte, and I know you mean pants not trousers. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’ve lost my marbles. But what’s his proper job? Standing around in your pants isn’t a job for a real man.’ Modelling obviously wasn’t going to cut it.
‘I think.’ Oh, God, why hadn’t she been concentrating on what Pip had said? She should have known the all-seeing Elizabeth would want answers. It suddenly came to her, and she almost shouted it out triumphantly. ‘He runs a