Country Rivals Read online

  ‘Look, Lottie, I’m widing, I’m widing Woopert all by myself.’ Roxy grinned, forgot about hanging on to the saddle or the reins and clapped her hands excitedly. ‘Take a picture, picture for Mummy.’

  ‘Crumbs.’ Right now Lottie wasn’t interested in capturing the moment for prosperity, she was more bothered about damage limitation. Sliding in her socks on the polished floorboards, she skidded after her goddaughter, grabbing the lead rope just as the round-barrelled pony opened its mouth to take a bite out of the flower display. The pony retaliated with a loud burst of wind (it could have been worse, Lottie decided, much worse) and Roxy giggled.

  ‘Is that a new fashion statement, darling? And on the catwalk today we have Lottie in green breeches with purple horse blanket artistically attached.’ Rory had wandered in to the room after them and was now leaning against the pony, one arm around Roxy, looking thoroughly amused.

  ‘What?’ Lottie glanced down, confused. ‘Oh bugger.’ She was towing the blanket with her. She’d been concentrating so hard on neat stitches that she appeared to have sewn right through the blanket and her breeches. And she also appeared to be towing a terrier.

  Tilly, spotting a moving object, had forgotten all about her master, Rory, and had taken chase. She now had her teeth firmly attached to the end of the blanket that had been trailing on the floor.

  ‘Should we put Rupert back, Auntie Lottie?’ The softly spoken, but perfectly enunciated, words drifted through the chaos and Lottie looked up to see her little cousin Alice (though she thought of her more as a niece, due to the age difference) standing in the open doorway, her dark hair drawn back into a perfect sleek ponytail, a very solemn look pasted across her pretty features.

  Although only a few months separated Alice and Roxy, they were as different as night and day. Roxy was a born giggler, the spitting image of her own mother, the gloriously over-the-top Samantha Simcock, with a dash of her energetic footballing father thrown in, but Alice saw life in a far more serious light.

  The polite and shyly pretty Alice was the perfect blend of her parents – Dominic Stanthorpe, Lottie’s uncle, who was precise and perfect in everything he did, and his wife, Amanda, who had always been poised and beautiful. Except when she was pregnant. Now, that, Lottie thought, should have been enough to put anybody off ever starting a family. Except poor Amanda had decided to put herself through the ordeal again and was currently back at the puking stage. Which was why Lottie had offered to look after Alice for the afternoon. Which meant she couldn’t say no when Sam had asked if Roxy could join in the fun, could she?

  But what had ever made her think asking Rory to assist had been a good idea?

  Except he was great with kids. They loved him. In fact, she thought with a pang of guilt, he’d make a perfect father. How on earth could she ever think about having a family of their own though, when they were penniless and they lived a life of chaos, dashing between horse shows and trying to come up with schemes to keep food on the table?

  ‘Auntie Lottie?’

  Sometimes, Lottie thought, the three-year-old Alice was more mature than the adults in this place.

  ‘That’s a brilliant idea, Alice.’

  ‘Rubbish, we’ve only just started.’ Rory gathered the terrier into his arms and grinned. ‘Do you want unstitching?’

  The pony, realising that Lottie’s concentration was elsewhere, nudged the vase with its stubby little nose and Roxy giggled as it rocked from side to side. Lottie put a steadying hand out and was glad that most of the stuff in their wing of Tipping House was actually either from Rory’s old cottage, or rubbish. Her life really wasn’t compatible with priceless antiques.

  Whilst she absolutely adored her inherited home and could never, ever imagine leaving it, sometimes she thought that life back at Mere Lodge had been so much safer. At Tipping House you never quite knew what disaster was going to befall you next.

  It was hard to be dignified, but Lottie was going to do her best in front of the children. Not that she really wanted them to think this was normal. ‘I’m not sure you should have ponies in the house, darling.’

  ‘Old Lizzie said we could,’ Rory said with a wink.

  ‘Shhh. Don’t call her Lizzie.’ Lottie lived in dread of the day when her grandmother, Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe, overheard the diminutive of her name and planned revenge. ‘Or old. You know she hates it. And I’m sure she didn’t say you could.’

  ‘Oh come on, don’t be a spoilsport. It’s common knowledge that your mother used to ride her pony in here.’

  ‘That’s different. We’ve got somebody coming to look at the place. What if it smells of horse poo?’

  ‘Woopert poo, Woopert poo.’

  Lottie ignored the little girl, who was now bouncing up and down in the saddle and no doubt increasing the chances of ‘Rupert poo’.

  ‘The last lot who came to look round said it smelled doggy.’ Lottie felt herself redden at the memory of the very haughty young bride-to-be standing in their magnificent hallway with her nose in the air proclaiming that it was old and smelly and not at all what she’d expected. ‘It doesn’t, does it?’ She sniffed as though to check.

  That was the trouble these days. Since the fire, the once-imposing Great Hall had been out of bounds as it smelled strongly of smoke, charred wood and whatever the firemen had used to douse the flames. So, potential customers had to visit the Steel’s own private wing of the house to discuss wedding bookings, which wasn’t quite as clean and tidy as it might have been. Or as sweetly scented. However many bowls of potpourri she distributed. She really should ask the manufacturers of Glade for sponsorship, considering the amount of their products she’d distributed around Tipping House.

  But she was fighting a losing battle. Horse rugs seemed to find their way up from the stable yard, because it was far too cold to repair them down there, scattering loose hair and horsey smells as the heat permeated the grease and sweat-imbued fabric. She had to admit, she loved the smell of horses and hay, but she fully accepted that it probably wasn’t what a bride-to-be was looking for on her special day. And that was the problem. Lottie had built up a business selling dreams, wedding dreams. The glossy brochure promised perfection and the numerous articles in Cheshire Life and Tatler portrayed a sanitised version of life in the countryside and the old creaking mansion. When a bride-to-be came to Tipping House Estate she was buying a fairy tale not the rather less-inspiring reality.

  Lottie sighed. Real life included the dirty boots that were kicked off everywhere but the boot room, the bits of damp leather that were sponged down, soaped and oiled as they sat by the fire in the evening, spreading a rather unique odour, plus the assortment of gifts that the dogs brought in with them. Some dead, some alive, and some unmentionable.

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. Taking bookings for the following spring was all well and good, but would they ever have the money to repair the damage? And what was supposed to happen in the meantime? They’d all but used up the small nest egg she’d accumulated since establishing the business three years previously. The fire had been such awful timing, and her rather naïve assumption that she’d fill in one form and the insurance company would hand over a very large cheque had proved just that. Naïve.

  ‘It doesn’t smell to me.’ Rory kissed his wife on the nose and took the lead rope from her hand. ‘You worry too much.’ He backed the pony up so that it was no longer straddling the rug. ‘And anyway they aren’t coming, Lots, they rang and cancelled this morning.’

  ‘They cancelled?’ She looked at him aghast, her throat tightening with disappointment. ‘Oh no, not another one. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Sorry, darling, forgot. They said something about wanting it to be perfect, but really needing to see the place as it was actually going to be, and muttered some tosh about what if it wasn’t ready in time. All the usual guff. Would have told you earlier but one of the horses had barged through the electric fencing again. That horse must have a hide like a rhino, or he j
ust likes the buzz.’

  ‘Oh damn and blast, what are we going to do, Rory?’ She felt like wailing, but knew there was absolutely no point in collapsing into a pathetic heap. Off the top of her head she had no idea how many appointments had been cancelled, but it was a lot. Too many. The diary was a mass of red crossings out and was beginning to look more like a patchwork quilt than a sign of their success. At this rate, by the time they had the place refurbished and ready to go there would be no business left. They’d have to start from scratch again.

  She had long ago accepted that the coming summer was a write-off and belts would need to be tightened (not that a stable full of horses understood that concept), but had been banking on a healthy number of bookings for the following year.

  ‘This year is going to be hard enough,’ she chewed the side of her fingernail, ‘but we’re completely screwed, sorry, messed up,’ she glanced up at the children guiltily to check if they were listening, ‘if we’ve not got anything definite for next year. I was counting on a full diary from April to September. What am I going to do, Rory?’

  ‘Cheer up. We’ll think of something, darling.’

  ‘We’ll fail. Gran will never forgive me. I’ve let her down.’

  ‘Lottie.’ Rory, noting the dejected tone looked down at her fondly. Although she could come across as totally scatty and disorganised, he’d discovered over the last few years just how strong and determined his wife was, and it was slightly worrying that after keeping her chin up and fighting back since the fire, she was now looking slightly beaten. ‘You’ve never let anybody down. You took this place on and got the business going and you know how proud Elizabeth is of you. We all are. Me especially. You can do this. We can do it. Together.’

  ‘But what—’

  ‘Are we putting them back, Uncle Rory? My pony doesn’t like it on his own outside.’

  Lottie had all but forgotten little Alice, who was still at the doorway waiting patiently. Just like her mother, Amanda, would have been.

  ‘Your pony?’ Lottie suddenly noticed that the little girl was clutching a rope firmly with both hands. ‘Your pony doesn’t like being on his own?’ She looked at Rory. ‘You mean there are two? Where have all these ponies come from?’

  ‘Lady Lizbet bought them.’ Roxy bounced a bit more. ‘I love Lady Lizbet, I love Lady Lizbet.’ She bobbed up and down, and then stopped and grinned. ‘I’m going to be her when I gwow up.’

  Rory nodded confirmation. ‘Late Christmas present. She thought it was time Alice started to ride, said she didn’t want her behaving like her mother did around horses.’

  ‘And didn’t Amanda and Uncle Dom mind?’ Lottie knew only too well how hard Amanda had tried to share Dom’s love of horses, and that she had been totally relieved when he’d said it didn’t matter. Lottie had never, ever, seen anybody look as petrified sat astride a horse as Amanda had been.

  Rory shrugged. ‘Not a clue. And she bought Roxy one too. Said it was only fair.’

  ‘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?’