Dylan stared at his watch. It was five to three and Phoenix’s race was about to start. Where the hell was Flora? He clenched his jaw in anger, then was distracted by an urgent pull on his arm. It was Josh, looking anxious.
‘What are you doing here?’ rasped Dylan. ‘The race is about to start.’
‘She made me do it,’ babbled Josh, looking genuinely petrified.
Dylan frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Flora, she’s riding Phoenix – she made me promise not to say anything.’
Dylan’s eyes widened, then the race was announced over the speaker. Looking through his binoculars he saw her immediately. He’d recognise that pert bottom anywhere. He gulped his rage. Realisation struck him: so that’s what the secrecy was all about.
‘The other day in the stables, Flora collared me, said she was riding Phoenix and I had to keep schtum.’
Dylan stared angrily at him. ‘I saw you two embracing,’ he said in a low, controlled voice, making Josh even more restless.
‘No! No, it was her hugging me, in gratitude! Honestly—’
Then all heads turned as the race was about to start. Dylan lifted his binoculars again. My God, there she was, his precious Flora, about to jump those fences and race this course. His heart pounded. How had he not guessed? How could he think her capable of cheating on him? A cocktail of emotions flooded through him: relief, fury, but most of all fear. His beautiful, delicate girl was about to race. He knew more than any jockey the dangers of racing, having sustained bad injuries in a fall himself.
They were off. Phoenix shot out like a cork from a champagne bottle.
‘Come on, Phoenix!’ Flora shouted into her horse’s ear, but he’d already found rhythm and was making good stride. She gripped her reins tight as they approached the first fence, willing the horse to take off and glide through the air with ease, as he had in the training yard. Flora dug her heels in and away he went, sailing over the fence like a gazelle with a smooth, flawless landing. Perfect. Phoenix needed little direction. It was as if the horse knew he was born to jump race; it was in his blood.
Gaining stride, Flora found herself sandwiched between the two leading horses and about to face the next jump, which also had a ditch. Desperate for more room she gave Phoenix a tap with the whip and in an instant he was off, shifting up a gear and passing the other horses. He took another mighty leap, leaving Flora breathless, but he landed again effortlessly, easily clearing the open ditch. She knew Phoenix was a quality animal, but she didn’t know he could do that so naturally: switch into overdrive like some bionic wonder horse.
*
Dylan gripped his binoculars and held his breath. He was astounded at his horse’s performance and Flora’s, truth be told. It was hard to be cross when he was so infinitely proud of her. His chest thumped uncontrollably as they reached yet another fence. It was huge and he winced, barely able to look, as once again they leapt high, clearing it with ease. He swallowed, tears forming in his eyes, as he watched Flora jump again and again until she looked behind her to see the rest of the field so distant they could have been in another race.
Once safely over the line she raised her arms in triumph. Gary and Tracy cheered with elation, the crowd roared with applause, but Dylan was transfixed by the image of Flora standing up in the saddle as if she’d won the Grand National. Memories of his first win came back to him, along with that sensation of utter elation. He so didn’t want to take that from Flora, but then he so didn’t want her to race again. The very notion terrified him. He was torn.
‘Come on, let’s meet them!’ called Gary, barely able to contain himself. Together they weaved through the crowds and finally made it into the winners’ enclosure. There they were, the worthy winners. Dylan couldn’t help but smile to himself. He didn’t know who looked more pleased, Flora or Phoenix, as the pair basked in all the glory. It was as if the horse was saying, “See, look what I can do,” whilst Flora couldn’t stop beaming and hugging him.
Dylan joined them, which brought all the cameras out. Well, it wasn’t every day the former champion jockey was here at the point-to-point races. Flora looked sheepishly into his eyes, waiting for him to speak.
Dylan closed in to kiss her long and hard. The crowd went wild. Then he whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again.’ He patted Phoenix before he was doused with buckets of water and calmly led out to claps and cheers.
A local brewery presented a case of real ale to the winning yard in each race. Dylan made a point of letting Gary accept theirs, much to his delight. All in all, the day had been a triumph, but Dylan was still feeling unsettled. How was he going to convince Flora not to race again? Could he?
23
Finula and Megan slumped down at the first empty table they found in the coffee shop. It had been a harassing morning to say the least. Megan thought how lucky she was to have found her wedding dress pretty quickly. Not so Finula. Everything they’d looked at just hadn’t been right. All attempts to cajole Finula by the persistent shop assistants were met with a shake of the head, a frown, a polite “I don’t think so” or an outright laugh. Megan was beginning to lose heart. Would her friend ever find anything to suit her?
‘Why don’t you just get one made?’ asked Megan after they’d both ordered cappuccinos and a sandwich.
‘Because I don’t know what to ask for.’
‘You must have some idea, Fin,’ replied Megan with a touch of frustration. She was beginning to feel sorry for Marcus and understood why he was taking the typical man back-seat approach.
‘I’ll know it, when I see it,’ Finula replied with conviction. ‘It’s just a matter of time.’
‘The wedding’s in July, Finula; you haven’t got much time,’ added Megan dryly as their lunch arrived. The sight of a nice, warm cup of coffee and a bite to eat were welcome, after trailing round all the wedding gown shops the Cotswolds had to offer. They’d clocked up quite a few miles and both girls were exhausted. And still no dress. Still, they had bought Finula’s wedding shoes and decided on the ladies’ favours for the tables – organic, handmade mini soaps. But the main item, the dress, was proving more difficult to find by the hour.
‘So what’s little Edward up to today?’ Finula smiled and then tucked into her sandwich. The mention of her son always made Megan beam.
‘His daddy is taking him for a stroll round the estate apparently.’
‘Showing him the ropes a little early, isn’t he?’ Finula laughed and Megan joined in.
‘He’s got a meeting with the estate manager this afternoon. No doubt he’ll have Edward in on that too,’ she joked.
After finishing their lunch, the predicament of the unobtainable wedding dress was discussed.
‘So, you’re sure you don’t like any of the dresses we’ve seen so far?’ reiterated Megan.
‘Absolutely, they’re all so… fussy. What happened to old-fashioned simplicity? Without all this need for layers of lace and frills?’
‘Hmm.’ Megan’s mind pictured the sepia photograph of her gran’s wedding day, where she stood outside the registry office in an elegant turquoise satin tea dress. Then an idea came to her. ‘Finula, have you thought about second-hand dresses?’