Showjumpers. Stacy Gregg
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blocks in the distance, where earlier that morning she’d said a tearful goodbye to Belladonna.
She wouldn’t see her horse again until after the mid-term break. “You don’t know what it’s like,” Georgie had complained to her best friend Alice as she locked the loose-box door for the last time. “You’re so lucky – getting to take Will home with you for the holidays.”
“Oh, please!” Alice had laughed. “You cannot seriously tell me that you would rather stay here with Belle than go away with James for five days?”
No one had been more surprised than Georgie when James Kirkwood had asked her to spend mid-term break with him at his family’s mansion in Maryland. James was a whole year ahead of Georgie and even amongst the world-class riders at this exclusive equestrian boarding school he stood out. He was a gifted showjumper, handsome and talented, the shining star of the Burghley House polo team, and heir to the Kirkwood millions.
The only downside of spending the holidays with James was his sister. Kennedy Kirkwood was a first year at the school, just like Georgie. From the moment that Kennedy discovered Georgie had topped the UK auditions for Blainford she had been desperately competitive with her. And after losing dramatically to Georgie on the cross-country course during mid-term exams, Kennedy’s dislike of her rival had reached epic proportions. Georgie had spent the last week of school virtually in hiding so that she could avoid Kennedy and her gang – the showjumperettes. But so far James hadn’t mentioned his sister. There was still no sign of her and Georgie was beginning to hope that maybe Kennedy wasn’t coming.
“Here you go, an OJ cocktail before take-off.” James passed Georgie her juice and threw himself down in the seat next to her, sighing as he looked at his watch.
“Hey, Lance!” he called out.
In the cockpit, the pilot put down the newspaper he was reading.
“Yes, Mr Kirkwood?”
“What’s the weather like in Maryland?”
“Clear as a bell, Mr Kirkwood,” the pilot replied. “It should be a nice flight. We’re just waiting on the others and then we’ll depart.”
“What others?” Georgie asked nervously. Her question was answered with a dramatic whoosh as the gull-wing doors of the plane opened and a girl with glossy red hair wearing a white sundress and gold sunglasses stepped on board. She took one look at Georgie and her expression soured.
“What is she doing here?”
“I told you I was bringing someone,” James said, “and you’ve kept us waiting – which is typical!”
“It wasn’t me this time.” Kennedy Kirkwood dropped her bags before collapsing elegantly into one of the plane’s plush leather seats. “It was Arden. She took forever to pack.”
Georgie couldn’t believe it. Spending the break with Kennedy was bad enough without the equally toxic socialite Arden Mortimer in tow!
It got even worse when a pointy-faced blonde girl entered the cabin weighed down with several large Louis Vuitton bags.
“Kennedy! Can’t you tell the pilot to turn off those appalling plane engines? They’re ruining my blow dry!” The cut-glass British accent belonged to Tori Forsythe – the third member of the showjumperettes. She struggled up the stairs, while Arden Mortimer breezed in afterwards, her glossy dark mane tied back in a high ponytail and nothing but a make-up compact and a lip gloss in her hands.
“Where are your bags, Arden?” Kennedy asked. “Andrew’s got them,” Arden said airily as she took a seat. Behind her on the stairs a boy dressed in a Ralph Lauren mint green polo shirt was grunting as he struggled with Arden’s matching luggage.
“Man, Arden,” the boy groaned as he threw the bags down at her feet, “why am I carrying your stupid bags? And what have you got in here anyway?”
Arden gave him a dark look. “Andrew, you might be able to survive on your pastel polo shirt collection, but some of us need to accessorise to get through a five-day break.”
Andrew Hurley ignored this and strode over to help himself to a Coke out of the fridge, then he turned to James.
“Dude,” he frowned, refusing to acknowledge Georgie, “you didn’t tell us you were bringing her.”
“Her name is Georgie,” James said coolly. “Georgie – you know Andrew Hurley, right? He’s in Burghley House with me.”
“Hi, Andrew,” Georgie smiled at him.
“Whatever,” Andrew groaned as he slumped into his seat at the back of the plane.
The last passenger to board the plane was a boy with black wavy shoulder-length hair. His name was Damien Danforth. Georgie had seen him around the school with the rest of the second-year polo set. At school he dressed in the same uniform as the rest of the Blainford boys – black jodhpurs, brown boots and a navy shirt – but somehow managed to carry himself with a poetic flair that the others didn’t possess, wearing his navy shirt intentionally a size too large and leaving the buttons undone so that the cotton billowed as he strolled about the quad. Damien had a way of speaking, as if each word was an enormous effort. He had a transatlantic accent – neither American nor British, but somewhere in between.
“James,” he said as he shoved his bags up into the locker, “I couldn’t find my hunting stock. I’ll have to borrow one of yours…” Then he turned and spotted Georgie. “Hello! I didn’t realise Taylor Swift was coming with us.”
Georgie felt suddenly self-conscious about the fact that Alice had helped her to style her hair into ringlet curls instead of her usual plain blonde ponytail.
“Damien, this is Georgie Parker,” James said, “and before you say anything else rude to her, you should know that she’s my guest.”
“I wasn’t being rude!” Damien looked aghast. “I adore Taylor Swift!” He threw himself into the seat in the aisle opposite Georgie and leaned over to her.
“So Taylor, sweetheart, where did you come from?”
“Umm,” Georgie was thrown. “I’m from Little Brampton, in Gloucestershire.”
“Georgie is British eventing royalty,” James added. “She’s Ginny Parker’s daughter.”
“Is that true?” Damien looked impressed.
“Well, yes,” Georgie nodded, “but only the bit about my mum being Ginny Parker.”
“Oh, good,” Damien said with relief. “We’ve already got Kennedy on the plane – we don’t need another princess onboard.”
“Shut up, Damien!” Kennedy threw the pillow off her seat at him.
“Hey, no fighting! Buckle up, everyone,” James grinned.
“We’re taking off.”
As they’d been talking, the jet had done its short taxi to the end of the grassy airstrip and the engines were whining and thrumming. Suddenly Georgie was thrust back in her seat as the plane gathered speed, until it struck that moment of pure freedom as the wheels lifted off the ground and they were airborne in the clear blue sky, bound for Maryland.
Georgie thought it was ironic that James had introduced her as eventing royalty. Royalty implied being privileged, but that was the last thing that Georgie felt. Her mother, Ginny Parker had died in a tragic accident on the crosscountry course four years ago and since then it had just been Georgie and her dad. Their country life was hardly one of luxury and Georgie had been forced to sell her beloved black pony Tyro because she couldn’t afford to board him with her at Blainford. Instead, she had been allocated one of the Academy’s horses to ride. At Blainford, riding a school horse tainted you with a whiff of impoverishment – a fact that Kennedy was only too keen to point out.
Georgie hadn’t been exactly thrilled about her assigned horse at first either, but now she adored