Page 36 of Short Stack 3

“Oh mygod,” I cry, agonised. “These are my Prada trainers.”

That sets him off even more as I twist and turn to see my foot.

“Luckily, the horse shit was mostly dry,” he offers helpfully.

“Please don’t try and make it better. My shoes will never be the same.”

“Come on.”

I take his hand. “Where are we going? Is it to a shoe shop?”

“No, there’s a river down here.”

“So, I can drown myself?” That sends him into floods of hysterics, and I shove him. “Fucker.”

The river runs alongside us now, the water chuckling and gushing over the stones. He pulls me down to a small, sandy ledge. “Stick your foot in.”

“You want me to put Prada leather into water?”

He grins. “Well, it’s either that or horse shit.”

I immediately dip the sole of my shoe in the water and swirl it around until it’s clean. I pull my shoe out and look at it mournfully.

Ivo tuts. “I often wonder how you could have lived your entire childhood in the countryside and have come out so different from Silas, who cheerfully sticks his hand up sheep’s bums.”

“He’s helping them give birth, not copping a feel.”

“And here’s you, who thinks we’re in the Arctic tundra if we go outside Central London.”

“I can’t help being special. And it’s preciselybecauseof my childhood. Everyone was always so appallingly hearty.”

“You were like a beautiful rose on a dung heap, darling.”

“You think you’re helping, but you’re not.”

He laughs, and we turn and wander along, with me occasionally checking my shoes and Bertie sniffing here and there on the end of his long lead. The house looms near, and the big fields in front of it are full of little tents and cabins with flags and bunting swaying cheerfully in the breeze. The scent of barbecue is strong in the air as the people in the caravans make their food. It’s a bright camp with an air of happy industriousness. It’s an incredibly English scene.

“I presume that’s where the trials are?”

Ivo looks up from where he’s skimming stones on the river. “Apparently so.”

“Are we meeting Ralph?”

“No, he’s seeing his sponsors tonight. He’s taking us out for dinner in London in a couple of days to say thank you. Not that the cheque fromVanity Fairisn’t thanks enough.”

He names an amount, and I whistle and rub my hands together. “I’m a kept man.”

“I don’t think there’s a billionaire on this planet who’s wealthy enough to keep you, Hen. Your tailor’s bill would cripple a small country. Anyway, Ralph says for you to name a place.”

“I’ll try and think of somewhere expensive to get my revenge for all the camping.” I turn back to the scene of the trials. “Is it a big event?”

He comes up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. His body is warm and so familiar against mine. “Yes, there are a lot of good riders on this one. The cross-country is apparently very hard.”

I shudder. “I hated that at school. Always in the cold and the rain. Why couldn’t we do it in a gym?”

“Maybe the clue is in the title. Otherwise, it would be the ‘Across the Floor of the Gym Run’.”

“I used to skive off and go into the village for a drink.” I shudder. “So muchmud. Cross country is wank.”

---