Chapter Eight

Libby perched on the herb garden wall, waiting for Robbie. All that stood between her and a job at Low Wood Farm was a quick riding test. A formality, Andrea had said. Crikey, that woman could wither roses with a disdainful glare, but after thirty minutes grilling Libby, Andrea finally defrosted and even managed a smile before she went to fetch Robbie.

Libby had never wanted a job so badly. Low Wood Farm was a dream with its whitewashed farmhouse, cobbled yard and tidy stables. Horses and Herdwick sheep grazed in the fields while chickens pecked at fallen pony nuts. Maybe one day, she'd have a place just like it.

The kitchen door opened and Libby fought a smile. Had Robbie worked out it was her already? He came out, studying at her CV, but when he looked up, he stopped. For a moment, he simply stared at her. Okay, obviously he hadn't known she was Olivia Wilde.

'No,' he snapped.

What the hell? She stood up, placing her hands on her hips. 'I think there are laws about saying yes or no based on what someone looks like.'

He looked her over, giving a derisory laugh. What was wrong with her? She wore a sensible pink t-shirt with black jodhpurs, her hair in a neat plait. She looked pretty and professional. He hadn't minded her hair or make-up the day before when he kept topping up her glass and pinching her cigarettes. Why did it matter today?

'You want more reasons?' He held up her CV. 'Olivia Wilde.'

'Libby's an accepted abbreviation.'

'St Mary Magdalene's in Wiltshire? Never heard of it and we used to live there.'

Bugger. 'It's an independent school and Wiltshire's a big place.'

'You've had five different jobs in the three years since you went to some unnamed university in London, and not one of them had anything to do with your BA in Performing Arts.' He shook his head. 'Even if you didn't have a suspiciously vague CV, you're tiny, too small.'

'I'm five-five, above average height for a girl in the UK.' She rapped her nails against her hips and raised her chin.

'You couldn't handle the horses. Can you even carry a bucket of water?'

'I've been carrying water buckets since I was six and I can handle any horse.' Her cheeks reddened as she looked down at her boots. 'But maybe not working for an arrogant bastard like you.'

Robbie strode back into the house, slamming the door. Arse.

Fighting tears, she crossed the yard to collect her bag and riding hat. Sacked before she'd landed the job - that was a new one. Oh why had she called him an arrogant bastard? She crouched down to hug the ancient Labrador goodbye.

'Well, I buggered that up. I didn't even get to find out your name, mister. Obviously, my run of Good Luck's over. I've got no new job and Zoe's still not speaking to me.'

The night before, Libby had returned from the Mill, tipsy and stewing in Clara's revelation that Maggie had been a ballerina. The second Zoe walked through the door Libby demanded to know why she hadn't told her.

'How could you be so insensitive? You must've known I'd find out.'

'Let it go, Libby. Either go to class or forget it.'

'I can't forget it.'

'You need to move on, or you'll end up just like her, miserable, bitter with just a cat for company.'

'Should I just throw myself down the stairs now?'

'It's better than living half a life.'

It had been the worst argument they'd had since Zoe lost Libby's sparkly black leg warmers in Year Nine, but back then, they'd made up before supper. This time they'd gone to bed, slamming doors, still not speaking, and even Hyssop's purring hadn't lulled Libby to sleep. But she knew why Zoe had omitted a key fact about Maggie. There's no way Libby would have moved to the Home for Retired Ballet Dancers.

Deciding it would be polite to say goodbye and at least thank Andrea, Libby kissed the Labrador and headed for the kitchen door.

'For heaven's sake,' she heard Andrea snap, but couldn't make out her next words. Hating herself for eavesdropping, Libby snuck closer to the window, straining to hear.

'...wife's leaving in two days and you either get a nanny or a groom. You know I think a nanny is the answer, but if you're determined to look after the children then you need someone bloody good to look after this place. The others weren't a day over nineteen and only the worst of them could actually drive.'

'But-'

'This one,' Andrea went on, 'the one you've sent packing because you don't like the look of her, is twenty-four with not only a driving license, but a bloody car too. She might look like she charges by the hour but she's well educated and polite. You need her.'

Charges by the hour? Bugger being polite. Libby strode away from the house with her head held high.

'Libby!'

Robbie stood in the doorway, beckoning her back, but Libby leant against the yard gate, refusing to dash over simply because he'd summoned her. After muttering what she could only guess was a series of expletives, he walked over, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. God, he looked good in jeans and a t-shirt.

When he reached her, he looked up to the sky and sighed. 'Do you really have BHS Stage Three?'

'I did an intensive course at the Lancashire Equestrian Centre. Give Bridget a call. But I've owned ponies for most of my life and I used to compete at local shows.'

'I suppose you're light enough to ride Lulu's horses.' He simply looked her in the eye for a moment. 'Why didn't you say anything yesterday?'

Because you were flirting and I liked it. 'Felt inappropriate.'

He nodded. 'Shakespeare's the bay in the end stable. The tack room has everything labelled. I'll meet you in the manège in ten minutes. And sorry about before.'

'Me too. For calling you an arrogant bastard, I mean.'

Finally, he smiled. 'I wouldn't worry about it. I've heard worse and I doubt it'll be the last time.'

In the tack room, Libby ran her hand over Shakespeare's saddle, the heady mix of leather, saddle soap and linseed oil reminding her of own childhood stable in Wiltshire. At eleven years old, she'd stood in her empty tack room, ready to leave for ballet school, certain she'd made the right decision. But now? What if horses could've been her life instead, would she be happy?

What ifs? She shook her head, laughing at herself. Her parents hadn't brought her up to dwell on what ifs; she'd been taught to Just Bloody Do It. And don't bugger it up.

With Shakespeare gleaming after a quick brush over, she slipped on his tack, her fingers fumbling to fasten the buckles. She hadn't been this nervous during her BHS exams. Shakespeare rubbed his head against her shoulder, almost knocking her over as he sniffed against her pocket. She laughed and obliged, sneaking him a Polo mint.

'Please look after me, mister,' she said, kissing his nose.

He stood like granite in the yard, never fidgeting while she adjusted her stirrups, and as he walked on, into the manège, she relaxed. Thank god, Robbie wasn't waiting already. She'd been twelve minutes by her watch.

Taking it easy, she walked Shakespeare once around the school, before nudging him into a trot. They glided around immaculate twenty metre circles. She needed the slightest leg action, the lightest of hands to control him, but his muscles twitched, ready to explode beneath her. Tallulah had made him look like a school hack, but that eleven year-old girl had to be one hell of a rider.

Robbie and Tallulah arrived, perching on the high railed fence, but Libby refused to let their scrutiny faze her. She nudged Shakespeare into a canter and took him through two flawless figure-eights before Robbie whistled her over. Libby listened carefully as he explained the simple five jump course. Nothing was over a metre with the first a tiny warm-up cross pole. She stifled a yawn.

'Late night?' Robbie asked, his face betraying no emotions.

Libby shook her head. 'Didn't sleep well.'

Unwilling to discuss the matter, she squeezed Shakespeare on. Instantly, he moved into a bouncy trot, looking towards the first jump with his ears pricked. They sailed over the jumps, wiping away Libby's fatigue and leaving her itching to do the course again, but with the poles raised another twenty centimetres.

I love this horse.

Slowing to a trot, she patted Shakespeare's neck, grinning like a village idiot, but Robbie didn't appear remotely pleased with her efforts.

'Lulu, get Dolomite,' he said.

Tallulah jumped off the fence, but not before Libby clocked her wide-eyed moment of hesitation. Taking slow, steady breaths, Libby walked Shakespeare on a long rein, utterly aware Robbie still watched her. Minutes ticked by and Libby's apprehension grew until Tallulah led in a beautiful dapple-grey gelding with a near black mane and tail.

Libby spent a minute, saying hello, but Dolomite side-stepped, eyeing her with mistrust from under his forelock as she prepared to mount.

'He's strong,' Tallulah said, as she held the offside stirrup. 'Really strong and he falls out on the left-'

'Lulu,' Robbie snapped.

Oh, this was a test. Libby smiled down at her tweenie friend and winked. 'Thanks.'

Ten minutes later, Libby's arms burned and she needed every core muscle she'd ever developed as she fought to keep the bloody grey steam train at a steady trot through ridiculously wonky circles. This wasn't a riding test. It was riding torture.

'Same course as before,' Robbie shouted, his eyes squinting against the sun.

Libby relaxed her hands a touch, letting the gelding move into a canter, but instantly regretted it. He wasn't on the bit and she wasn't in control. They careered toward the first jump, a tiny fifty centimetre warm up, but Dolomite ducked out, shying as if she'd set him up for Beecher's Brook.

Libby landed on his neck, losing her stirrups and her last shreds of control. Somehow, as Dolomite bolted to the far corner of the school, she stayed on, but though luck than anything near ability. She swore. Okay, so he didn't have Shakespeare's natural affinity with jumping. No wonder Tallulah looked so hesitant.

'Okay, baby. You're okay.' She placed a gentle hand on his neck but he flinched as if she'd shocked him with two thousand volts. 'And, god, do I know how that feels. They're just silly jumps. We can do this.'

After a little more soothing, he calmed and she walked him on, remembering the nervy eventer she'd ridden under Bridget's instruction. Don't fight him, work with him. You're a team. Dolomite settled into a trot, and Libby kept up her gentle words, reassuring him while her unrelenting legs and hands kept him going forward.

'You are going over this, mister.'

Come on Good Luck spell, don't fail me now.

Dolomite pulled to the right, trying to duck out again, but she held him. It might've been as ungainly as her first lesson en pointe but he lurched over.

'Three feet. Easy-peasy,' she said, setting him up for the second.

Despite tensing up, he flew over and popped over the third with his ears pricked. Robbie whistled, waving her back, and Libby fought her smile, not wanting to put pride before a spectacular descent into the sand.

Robbie turned to a beaming Tallulah. 'Told you he could do it.'

'What?' Libby frowned but Robbie was already walking away. God, he was hard work.

Tallulah threw her arms around Dolomite's lathered neck. 'That's the first time Dol's gone over anything higher than a trotting pole.'

'You're joking.' Libby dismounted.

She shook her head. 'Dad sold him as a yearling but we heard he was being mistreated, so we got him back. He's getting better but he's still a nutcase. Dad must think you're brilliant to let you ride Dol.'

'Really? He doesn't seem too pleased.'

'He never does.' Tallulah shrugged.

With her legs still shaking, Libby led Dolomite back to his stable, unsure if she should get her hopes up. Tired from the sleepless night, a stressful interview and fifty minutes of schooling hell, she untacked Dolomite and leaned against his shoulder, still holding the saddle in her weary arms.

Robbie appeared with two steaming mugs. 'Tea? Lulu's going to walk him around.'

Grateful, Libby deposited the tack and collapsed onto a wooden bench.

'You have the sketchiest CV I've ever seen,' Robbie said sitting next to her, 'but despite that, and my appalling interviewing skills, how do you fancy a job?'

She laughed, resting her head against the wall behind her. 'Really?'

'Got any fags?'

'You are priceless.' But dutifully she took out a pack and a lighter.

'Smoking, I'd rather was kept nearer the house, less flammable, but never in front of Tilly or Dora. Lulu's seen everything. Come on, I'll show you around.'

He led the way to the far end of the L-shaped stable block where Shakespeare stood with his head over the door. A little brass plaque declared his name and birth date.

'You bred him?' she asked, rubbing the gelding's ears.

'The first for Lulu. She will hit you if you call her that, by the way. She thinks he's dull.'

'He's amazing.'

'I think so too, but she's head over her half-chaps for Dolomite. Can't handle him, of course.'

'Yes, I can imagine. Thanks for that.'

'I needed to know what you could do.'

'And what can I do?'

'I've no idea yet but you're more than capable of schooling Dolomite. I want him ready for Lulu in a year's time. She's struggled in the pony classes because she's so bloody tall but at least now she can ride horses that suit her. Shakes will do for now, but I think her and Dolomite will work next year.'

'Why can't she get him ready herself?'

'She's eleven.'

'When I was...' Libby sipped her tea.

'When you were what?'

When I was eleven, I'd taken control of my own life. Why can't Tallulah? She shook her head. 'It's fine. I can school him.'

She followed him around the yard, unable to stop the comparisons with Sandra. His arse was a lot nicer to start with, but he introduced her to the horses, never once calling them nags as he explained their life stories. Smokey, the elderly grey Shetland was Tallulah's first pony and Ebony, the cheeky Thelwell-wannabe was Matilda's - Dora's had yet to be bought but Robbie had his eye on a skewbald he'd seen near Lancaster.

He peeked down at her pocket. 'Polos?'

Guiltily, she handed them over. 'I only gave Shakespeare one.'

'Meany.' Robbie fed two to Cleo, a stunning bay brood mare, and took one for himself. 'Max, the stallion goes in the field across the lane. He's quite the gent so you won't have any trouble with him.'

'What is he?'

'Andalusian-cross. My grandmother started the line.'

He pointed to the iPod in the tack room window. 'Lulu's. Bloody awful music but you'll be on your own mostly, so you'll probably need the radio for company. Lulu's back at school for another couple of weeks then she'll be hanging around, getting in your way.'

'She's confident for an eleven twelve year-old.'

'Going on twenty. She'll have shows here and there, can you do early starts? You can have the hours back on Sundays.'

She nodded. 'Though I should warn you, my plaiting skills aren't the best.'

'Fortunately, mine are. You'll have to avoid the pub the night before.'

'I wasn't at the pub. What's the dog's name?'

'Cromwell. The cat's called Mittens. Don't ask. You look knackered.'

'Chickens?'

'They're Tilly's. We'll take care of them. Where were you then?'

'Home. Cromwell or Mittens need anything?'

'No. Make yourself at home in the kitchen. Tea, coffee, toast. So what kept you awake at home?'

'None of your business.' She frowned at him, but realised he was trying not to laugh as they headed into the feed room at the far left of the L-shaped block. 'Stop fishing. There's no gossip. I had a fight with Zoe. I felt bad and couldn't sleep.'

'It's mostly nuts and sugar beet but it's all on the board. What were you fighting over?'

'None of your business.'

He shook his head, still fighting a smile. 'Half eight 'til five. Wednesday to Sunday but next week-'

'Want me to do Monday and Tuesday too? First days on your own? Your mum explained.'

His teetering smile vanished. 'Can you?'

She nodded. 'I can't wait to ring Sandra.'

'I can't believe you lasted a week. I'd have told her to piss off on day one. Silly cow was bragging about how efficient you are. I'd love to see the look on her face when she finds out I've poached you.'

'You didn't poach me. Tallulah did.'

'Christ, don't tell her. It'll cost me another horse. Or worse, getting her ears pierced.'

'She's practically twelve and you won't let her get her ears pierced? You're the meany.'

He frowned down at her. 'I can see you being a bad example. If she starts dressing like you, you're fired. Now, aside from the usual stable jobs, the horses need exercising. And I don't mean a half hour tootle. Jupiter and Storm are up for sale and I want them fit, so plenty of schooling and hour long rides over the common.'

Libby saluted him, trying not to smile. If she did, she might just cry with happiness.

Back at Maggie's cottage, Zoe hovered in the kitchen.

'And?' she asked, blinking furiously, her nervous twitch.

Libby smiled. 'I've landed myself a job with the sexiest bloke I've ever met. He's an arrogant bastard, but honestly, you would. Well, you would if wasn't married to Angelina Jolie's doppelgänger. God, I get to ride some of the best horses in the county. I've got a new job!'

Zoe laughed, producing a bottle of cava from behind her back. 'And without getting fired from the previous one. Well done.'

The cork popped and Libby held a mug under the bottle as the wine overflowed. 'What the hell do you do when you want to quit? Can I tell Stella to piss off?'

'Well I wouldn't burn your bridges but...' Zoe smiled briefly. 'I'm so sorry, Lib.'

'Not more than me.'

'I knew you wouldn't come here-'

'I know.'

'And I didn't want to do it on my own.'

Libby nodded. 'Why didn't you like her? Everyone else seems to think she was pretty cool.'

Zoe slumped against the kitchen units. 'I bet they weren't smacked around the ankles with a walking stick if their turnout wasn't just so.'

'Clara said she taught you both.'

'No, she taught, Clara. She terrorised me. Every summer from seven to eleven. Mum and Dad packed me off here, thinking they were giving me this great opportunity, but really they were sending me to boot camp. Lesson, after lesson, and when I wasn't in class... she nagged me. You shouldn't eat this, you shouldn't eat that. You. Must. Lose. Weight.'

When Zoe stalked off, already lighting a cigarette, Libby clenched her fists. Zoe's anorexia had been the cause of their friendship, the initiator at least. When Zoe refused to eat bread at dinner, Libby had called her stupid. Good dancers were athletes and athletes ate healthily. It's what Darcey said. And what Darcey said was law. But no one had ever told Zoe what Darcey said. As she had fifteen years before, Libby sat next to Zoe, resting her head on her friend's shoulder.

'When I got into school...' Zoe took a long drag on the cigarette. 'It was over and I never had to stay here again. The only good thing she did was pay for summer school. God, the amount of girls who whinged about summer school, they had no idea.'

'Why didn't you ever mention her?'

'Remember, our first day? Holly von Kotze kept banging on about how she'd trained with Tamara Rojo?'

Libby opened her mouth, but paused. Bragging about being mentored by one of the world's greatest ballerinas had caused the rest of Year Seven to blank Holly for a week.

'Are you about to tell me that Maggie was-'

'Margaret Keeley, a ballet legend.'

Libby barely knew what to do with the information. What happened to the provincial old lady she'd first pictured Maggie to be? 'What happened to her jewellery?'

'Jewellery? You mean that hideous jade pendant?' Zoe shrugged, topping up their mugs after the bubbles had died down. 'I assume Mum kept it. Now, on a scale of one to fuck-me-now, where does this boss of yours feature?'