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