Stable Mates. Zara Stoneley
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bloody am. Look, why should we all be in black and miserable as sin just because he’s pegged it?’
‘Well, Dad is.’ She suddenly remembered just what Marcus’s death could mean, did mean. ‘Miserable I mean.’ The equestrian centre had never been like a real family home to her, no more than the place she rented now (which she was never in long enough to add any homely touches to). She had no particular attachment to either place, but it was her father’s livelihood. And it was more. After her mother had died, he’d initially moved out of the farmhouse, which had only been rented, and moved in to the impersonal environment of the groom’s quarters above the stables at Folly Lake equestrian centre, which suited him perfectly. During his waking hours he could shut out the pain and immerse himself in his horses, with every need on tap. But as the nightmares had softened he’d realised that his daughter needed more. They had moved back in to the house that bordered the yard, but his work obsession hadn’t eased. And so Lottie’s early childhood had been spent surrounded by horses and riders, grooms who could keep an eye on her, and on-off nannies who loved horses and dogs. And riders. Not that she had ever thought it unconventional, or herself hard done by. But nor had it given her any roots. Which, Elizabeth was sure, was why she still had the urge to wander. To find what she was missing.
Now, if the centre was sold, Billy could find the refuge he had buried himself in following Alexa’s death dragged from his grasp. And Lottie was old and wise enough to be scared. For both of them. If he lost that, what was left?
‘At least one of us will keep a straight face then. I rely on you, darling.’ Rory blew her a kiss, and raised an eyebrow in his best devil-may-care manner. ‘Do you reckon he’d want me to take the hunting horn?’ He picked up the horn, which she hadn’t spotted, and gave an experimental blow, which sent the terrier, startled, into her arms, scrabbling long red weals down her chest.
‘Shit.’ The muscled-up body of the little dog went over her shoulder and hit the floor running. ‘Don’t you dare, Rory Steel. Go away Tilly, in your bed.’ Instead, the little dog started haring around the kitchen like a minor whirlwind, barking excitedly, sending papers flying from the table in her flight over and under everything that was sat in her way. Lottie knew better than to move. ‘The invite definitely didn’t mention hunting horns.’
‘It did say hunting jacket though, so, like it or not, that’s what I’m wearing.’
‘Without the breeches?’ She looked at his legs pointedly, and wondered, not for the first time, why even the sexiest legs in the world had knobbly knees in the middle.
‘Bugger. It’s your fault for knocking when I was half dressed.’ Rory strode out of the kitchen, all three dogs at his heels, shirt tails sadly covering his well-muscled, but decidedly naked, thighs. ‘Just polish my boots, will you?’
Lottie stared at the boots, still decorated with mud from his last ride out. The smell of leather pricked at her nostrils as she picked one up and wondered whether it would be quicker to drop it in the sink, or scrub it with a brush.
***
It was colder inside the church than out. Lottie wondered if that was a tactical thing to make you feel sad and remorseful. Or just a lack of money. Or stinginess. The church, like her gran, had been around a long time and knew how to spend its pennies on what it wanted and not what the rest of the world might appreciate.
Elizabeth had embraced the theme of the funeral in her normal fashion. Wearing black, because it was what she considered right and proper, and to hell with what the bereaved or deceased might want. ‘Great Expectations’ was the first thought that hit Lottie, followed quickly by ‘Addams Family’ when she saw the dramatic make-up and newly manicured nails. It just wasn’t fair how her gran, who let’s face it didn’t need perfect nails, could have them that length and unchipped when her own looked exactly how nails tended to look when you spent most of your time mucking out stables and moving jump poles.
***
Amanda sat bolt upright, because otherwise she was sure she’d crumple in a heap, and felt strangely detached as she stared at the coffin. So, this was it. It hadn’t been a nightmare when she’d woken up to find his arm pressed cold against her. And it seemed surreal, and somehow wrong, to be sharing his last moments with the group of people he’d wanted here. In life they’d been such different people, and in death they were too. They’d grown apart because they were so different, but stayed together because maybe they were the same, deep down.
For one ghastly moment she imagined the coffin lid coming up and his great guffaw of a laugh ringing out into the silent cavernous exterior of the church. But it didn’t. Just like he hadn’t turned around one day and asked forgiveness for all the women he’d laid and promised to be faithful until the end of his days. No, some things were as improbable as landing on Mars and discovering it actually was inhabited by a race that understood every word you said to them.
The last time she’d sat in a church had been their wedding. Which was bad, maybe she didn’t deserve to be happy? All the trimmings, a horse and carriage, a satin white gown, enough flowers to finish off a hay fever sufferer. The façade of a fairy tale, turning her into the princess he wanted to live with. Well, maybe not live with, the person he wanted to put on a pedestal and use as a symbol of what you could achieve if you worked hard. Which was a bit ironic, as Amanda had worked bloody hard to turn herself into that type of person. From the geeky, unfashionable teenager brought up in the suburbs she’d made a career out of self-improvement. Self being the operative word. If she hadn’t bothered, maybe she’d have found a man who truly loved her, and who was faithful. Maybe not.
‘I’ll be good to you, Mandy. You’ll never want for anything, I promise.’ And he had been, and she hadn’t been left wanting. Whatever everybody thought. Which would have been fine if she’d been a pampered pet poodle.
She’d forgiven his affairs at first, but then she’d realised that he had to shag everything that had a pulse and she knew if she’d thought the tip of the iceberg had been bad enough, the rest that was hidden underwater would end up drowning her. And it was the fact that everyone knew, that was what really hurt her.
He’d been in her bed the night he died for a reason. He’d wanted to explain all the reasons she didn’t want a divorce. Quietly, patiently, like you’d explain to a five-year-old with learning difficulties. Marcus was good, was believable, and was lovable in his own way. He knew how to persuade her, knew every weak spot, and knew that she didn’t really want to go through with it. He wanted to find a compromise that would suit both of them, and she was so close to saying yes to him. So close, because it was next to impossible for her to deny him, whatever he did. But the one thing that any compromise could never give her was what she needed most. Freedom. Freedom and her self-respect back.
The stained-glass window blurred, so she glanced down at the coffin, then down further to her cold hands clasped so tight in her lap that the fingertips had gone from pinkish to white and were heading for blue.
And she fucking missed the stupid bastard. A drop of water splashed down onto her thumb. Shit, she couldn’t cry. She just mustn’t. But tensing her jaw didn’t seem to work, nor did biting her bottom lip. A second, third tear found their way out. Although someone had to mourn his passing, he was, had been, a good man, deep down. That was why she’d married him. He’d spent a whole life changing himself, like she had, into a symbol of success. But she’d recognised that kernel of the original man that still remained, like he’d winkled out the bits of her that hung on from the past. And that was what tied them together. Until the reality of who they’d become had been too heavy to ignore. Why the hell did things have to change? What was wrong with just being happy?
She wiped across her cheek with the back of her hand surreptitiously and glanced around the packed pews. How many of these people knew Marcus? Really knew who he was. Had been. At a guess, none of them knew, and none of them cared. They’d come because he was a success, and even in death some of that might rub off onto them.
If she could just march out now, and tell them all to go to hell, she would. The old Amanda might have done, his Mandy. But she couldn’t. Marcus would have