Zara Stoneley - Stable Mates

‘Talking about to die for, I have just got to tell you who I saw today. I mean after I tidied the yard, exercised all the horses and sorted the muck heap, you know in the ten minutes left.’ Lottie just looked at her. ‘Well ask then.’

‘Amaze me, who did you see, Pip?’

‘Tom Strachan.’

‘Tom Strachan?’

‘You know, you do, you have to. Gosh Lottie you really are buried in this place aren’t you? It’s like being on another planet. Tom. He’s a model, and I don’t mean some airy-fairy gay boy, he is hot. Seriously hot. To die for, even by my standards.’

‘And?’

‘He’s moved in, he’s the guy who has rented Blake House. Thomas Strachan is your new neighbour, Lottie, and,’ she put a hand on Lottie’s arm, ‘he’s just got divorced. I’m telling you, while the guys are consoling Amanda, the girls are going to be hot-footing it over to console the man distraught after his wife cleared him out and cleared off. Get your sexy knickers on girl, because we are going to go on a Tom hunt.’

‘But if his wife left him, then he can’t be that hot, can he? Pip?’

But Pip was already heading off across the yard towards her bright pink moped, which was nearly as striking as her mobile phone cover, and with a sigh, Lottie lifted the ramp of the box back up and with a backwards wave clambered up into the cab.

Lottie had decided, as she rifled through her drawers, scattering undergarments, that she hadn’t actually got any sexy knickers. There were the lacy white ones that had looked very sexy, in an untouched kind of way, when she’d bought them. But now they looked thoroughly touched, well, pawed, and a very unfetching shade of pale grey after being thrown in the wash with her jeans. Which left the mum pants or the bright red thong which she didn’t often wear as she was pretty sure you could see it through the clinging cream show jodhpurs that she’d had on for its last outing. Well, at least that was the theory after she’d had her bum ogled by more than the normal quota of randy riders.

Exactly why Pip had insisted she accompany her along on the ‘date’ she’d arranged with the ‘to die for’ Tom, she wasn’t quite sure, until she pushed open the door of the rustic bar/restaurant and spotted the willowy figure, bob of blonde hair now perfectly arranged around her elfin features, smiling beguilingly at a tall man and a teenage girl. Or rather, she was smiling at the man, and the teenager was scowling at both of them.

She really must get that appointment at the opticians for a sight test organised, Lottie thought as she squinted, trying to bring him into sharper focus. At this distance he just looked like a normal man, which was vaguely disappointing when she’d spent ten minutes wriggling about on the floor trying to get the two sides of the flies of her jeans to at least approach each other so she could force the zip up. She’d been promised a demi-god and been delivered a half decent human as far as she could see. And she’d spent another frustrating twenty minutes smothering her hair with anti-frizz products, and more time than she should have, trying to work out which of her tops was sexy but not too tarty. Which, by her reckoning, was an hour wasted that could have been spent on doing something else. Like working out whether it was worth joining in with the exercise DVD she’d been watching or whether it should be consigned to the maybe drawer, or shagging Rory in a proper bed. Shagging in the horsebox could be fun, if you were pissed, or desperate, or both. But after the sixth time of banging an elbow or knee it lost a bit of its shine. She must be getting old or boring, or both.

Pip was waving wildly at her, even with her suspect sight she could work that one out. She took a deep breath and headed over to them, holding her stomach in (just in case Tom was in fact better looking from touching distance) and trying to avoid the teenager’s gimlet stare.

Close up, Tom looked like he had from the door, nice but slightly disappointing after the build-up. And his daughter, Tabatha, sent out waves of disapproval and boredom as she studied Lottie’s hair, make-up and clothes and dismissed her as not worth another glance.

‘Tom, meet Lottie, she knows absolutely everything there is to know about horses. Her dad is Billy Brinkley, the famous showjumper.’

Teenage Tabatha had a slightly more interested look on her face now, which could have been down to the way Lottie was squirming with embarrassment, or the mention of her father. Who’d been known for jumping more than just poles. In fact she could vividly remember one particularly cringeworthy headline that had caused even the mild-mannered Tiggy to explode, and left him with the label Billy ‘the bonk’ Brinkley for quite a while after. ‘Star rider jumps Poles, Germans and Swedes in bid to win gold’ had met her at the breakfast table after someone had posted a picture on Twitter of three naked female riders, and Billy in the middle, celebrating success in a Jacuzzi, wearing nothing more than his birthday suit. And then there had, of course, been a rival rag which had tried to go one better with a ‘Bonko Billy’ cartoon which involved a medal round his neck and Stetson on his head as he straddled what Tiggy had termed (none too fondly) a ‘big boobed babe’.

During her painful adolescence her father’s name had hung heavy round her neck. He was everything you didn’t want in a parent, over the top, in the newspapers and available to any long-legged blonde who wanted a man to drape herself over. In other words, famous…or infamous. Billy believed in the work hard, play hard philosophy. Luckily, her stern grandmother, Elizabeth, had been a stabilising influence, assuring herself, and everyone else in earshot, that it was just a bit of fun and was what athletes did. The word athlete still made Lottie cringe.

‘And,’ Pip paused for effect, ‘her Uncle is Dominic Stanthorpe, the dressage rider.’

Tabatha looked almost impressed.

‘And she helps Rory Steel out.’ Pip finished her triple whammy introduction and sat back, looking very pleased with herself.

‘You know Rory?’ Tabatha couldn’t disguise the sudden interest in her voice. Rory was definitely more poster boy material than the other pair, who were positively ancient in the world of teenagedom. Lottie nodded, raised an eyebrow at Pip and sat down.

‘So she’d be the absolutely perfect person to help you out and give Tabatha some riding lessons. Wouldn’t you, Lots?’

Lottie looked from one to the other and wished, not for the first time in her life, that she’d insisted on some facts before agreeing to something. Or at least listened if there had been any kind of explanation.

‘Can you excuse us?’ She’d only just sat down, and not had a sip of drink or bite of food, but the ladies loos were calling.

***

‘But I am not a riding instructor,’ Lottie hissed, hoping that no one could overhear, and that the word not had been loud enough.

‘You do the pony club camp sessions.’ Pip was flicking her hair and admiring the effect in the mirror, which was most unlike her. Although the way she was doing it looked practised, so Lottie concluded that it was just a side to her that nobody in Tippermere had been treated to before.

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’ Flick, twirl.

‘Will you stop that?’ Lottie was finding it distracting, and funny.

Pip stopped.

‘One, they can all ride.’

‘Tab can ride a bit.’ Pout at her reflection. ‘Tom said so.’

‘Two, I only do it because I did a deal with Dad – I take it off his hands and then I can use the horsebox whenever I want.’

‘And for whatever you want. Does he know you’ve turned it into a passion wagon? Talk about pimp my ride.’