A Three Day Event (14 page)

The Chouinards blamed Polo. He was older, he had seduced her, they assumed. They refused to believe that Polo had also told her she was a fool to give up her education. They saw only that she was in thrall to him, and they assumed he was a fortune hunter as well as an
arrivist
. They were wrong about him on both counts. There were many young women much wealthier than Nathalie on the circuit, and Polo had his pick of them. And he had no social ambitions whatsoever.

The truth was that if there was enthrallment, it was now mutual. Polo wasn’t sure that it was love on his part. But he was sexually obsessed by Nathalie. His ardour didn’t level out or decrease with the years. He wanted her there with him all the time. When he travelled he wanted to think of her there, in the neat pre–fab house that he had built next to the barn. For the first time in his life he was jealous at even the thought of other men around his woman.

Nathalie adored him. She loved being in his house, working in his barn, waiting for his return. It was a perfect set–up. Except for Nathalie wanting to marry him. And, obscurely, Polo knew that marriage would be the end of something wonderful. But he couldn’t arrive at a convincing explanation of why this should be so.

Nathalie became pregnant. By accident, she said. Polo felt betrayed and frightened, and it showed. Nathalie felt betrayed and humiliated, and
it
showed
.
So when she told him she had miscarried and he needn’t marry her after all, he was relieved and so grateful that he rushed to her bedside in Outremont as she lay recuperating, and proposed on the spot. She accepted, of course, but it was not as it should have been. He made her agree that they would wait before having children, that perhaps they wouldn’t even want children. Because they would be all in all to each other. It had seemed a romantic notion at the time…

And they were still waiting.

Some years after their marriage Nathalie began to understand that she might never have the family she yearned for, and that in any case no single other person could be a reason for living. Polo travelled a lot and she resented being alone, the caretaker of horses, not children. So she went back to school part time, studying psychology and thinking about a career away from horses. They hired a fulltime barn manager.

Nathalie wondered sometimes if Polo was faithful to her. If he was, he would be truly unique amongst horsemen, or at least the ones she knew. But she never inquired, because what would she do if he admitted that he had other women? She knew she would never leave him. Or if she did, it wouldn’t be for that.

Polo
was
unfaithful, but not according to his own standards. He never slept with other women in North America, only in Europe. They were women he had known for years, in the horse industry. He was scrupulously careful and hygienically prudent. He never mentioned these episodes, let alone boasted of them, to other men, as other men did to him. He brought nothing of himself to these women, he took nothing away when he left.

He wasn’t proud of himself, and he wasn’t ashamed either. It was part of being a man. He was correctly discreet. He would never do anything to embarrass or humiliate Nathalie. He saw nothing wrong in it. And yet if he had thought for a single instant that Nathalie was being unfaithful to him (she never was), it would have ripped him apart. Polo was old–fashioned in this, and other respects.

* * *

The lunch rush was in full swing at ‘
De Trot
.’ Roch pushed open the door and, as always at the sight of a full house, smiled broadly, as though they were all personal guests attending a party he’d arranged. His eyes searched the room with practiced swiftness, performing a networking triage ritual. Today there were several objects worthy of his attention. But first he had a lesson to teach.

“Okay, Suzy,” he murmured as he guided her into the entrance, “take a good look around.”

Obediently Sue surveyed the room. There were tables for two, four and six. All were filled but one, a small table at the back. That, as she later learned, was always reserved for Roch and whatever last–minute guest he might show up with. When he arrived, he either appropriated it or sat down with another chosen ‘target’, nodding to Caroline to give it away to the next comer.

“You see those two men over there? The old guy and the one with the beard?” Roch asked her. She nodded. “The old guy is Luc Boivin, the Minister for the Environment in Quebec. He loves it here, nobody bugs him, he goes out for a ride, clears his head, he forgets all his troubles, goes back to work a new man. Who’s he with? Henry Dunton, the best blacksmith in Canada. A Loyalist family, goes back forever. Luc thinks he’s a genius because before Henry his horse could never keep a shoe on, and now he has four healthy hooves. Loves the guy.”

“Okay, across the room. That youngish guy, curly hair? With the skinny girl? The guy, that’s Pierre Tremblay, he runs all the triathlons in Quebec, has one here every July and October. That girl, he’s coaching her, she’s for sure going to be world champion this year. Sandra Petty, from Westmount. When she wins, they gonna say she’s a great
québécoise
, right? But I think maybe she doesn’t even speak French, and Pierre, he doesn’t give a shit, because he’s gonna be a world–famous coach from her. And me, I don’t give a shit as long as they come here to train.”

“Those four guys in the middle, two from here, the others from Korea. They’re big shots looking to set up a plant here, the two local guys are one from the town, one’s a
fonctionnaire
from the federal government. Look at them, they’re having a ball, they love it here. And over there, that’s my kids from Ontario. Do they look sad from the politics? Fuck, no. They love it here, too. You getting the picture, Suzy?”

He pointed out mountain bikers from the city, a Granby real estate agent impressing a would–be purchaser, Claude Lafrenière, the local hay and grain merchant lunching with Marie–France, and even two retired priests who ran a marriage counselling retreat in their family estate near the stable.

“You see how it is here, Suzy?” Again he was peering disconcertingly deeply into her eyes, too close for her usual sense of self–possession. “You got a roomful of happy people here. Why? Because they all got their mind on something they like to do. They’re all different. Some of them are rich, and some of them are poor, some of them are French and some of them are English, but who cares? They all got lives, they all got something to think about except politics. Why don’t you write about that for a change,
hein?”

Sue was about to reply when a low, musical voice behind them said, “Hello, Roch.”

Roch grinned with spontaneous pleasure as he greeted Thea Ankstrom. He saluted her warmly and she blushed slightly. “I’ll never get used to both cheeks,” she said demurely. “It makes me feel quite wicked and Continental.”

Roch introduced Thea to Sue. Sue made an immediate bid for time with her to discuss Thea’s role in the show and her views on the sport in general. Thea responded graciously and cooperatively, ending with the suggestion that they get started immediately by eating lunch together. Roch smiled a little smugly at having so smoothly facilitated this tiny networking accomplishment. Trivial as it was in the scheme of things, it seemed to him a nice cap to the thematic thrust of his preceding speech to Sue on the magical social properties of his kingdom.

“Don’t run away so fast, Roch,” Thea said warningly as she read his body language. “You’ve
got
to help me with Bridget. Eventing is the only discipline I can’t get up to date on, and the only reason for that is Bridget’s lack of organization. She hasn’t given me any of the lists I need: volunteers, jump judges, final choices for
chefs d’équipe
. She hasn’t even given me a map of the course, and I can’t possibly have a program ready without it–” She scanned the room. “I was actually hoping to find her here, but no luck.”

Roch sighed and filled her in on the morning’s upsets. Sue, watching Thea’s reactions very closely, felt that she took the news with remarkable sangfroid. When Roch shook his head and confessed that nobody had any convincing argument for the target of the attack on the stallion, Thea mused ironically, “I suppose it could be me!”

In response to the baffled look on Roch’s face, she went on, “Well, think about it. The two horses look quite similar over the top of the barn door. So it may be that the attacker was after
my
horse opposite and got mixed up.”

Roch’s frowned in grudging concession–one more frustrating possibility–and, almost sadistically, or so it seemed to Sue, Thea continued in a wry, detached tone, as if she were speaking of a complete stranger, “Had you also considered the fact that it could even have
been
me that did it? I mean, it’s no secret that Bridget and I have an unsettled score between us–”–here Roch looked puzzled–“I mean, it’s well known that I hold Bridget responsible to some extent for what happened to Stephanie.”

Thea looked calmly and without flinching at Roch throughout this little speech. He found himself troubled and even unnnerved by the strength of her poise and obvious resolve. But resolve to what? Not for the first time he found himself wondering what on earth could have persuaded her to look for therapy in an undertaking of this kind. He was grateful, selfishly, for the sake of the show. She was doing the work of three people. But such coolness, and to say these things in front of this nosy journalist….

He shook off the cloud of gloom that was threatening to re–descend, and with determined good cheer, responded, “I got to admit, Thea, you
anglais,
you got an interesting sense of
l’humour.
Me, I don’t believe a nice lady like you is going to do that. And lunch, it’s no time to think about those sad things.”

Briskly, and without leaving them an option, he concluded, “You girls are lucky. There’s no tables, but I insist you gonna have my space. I know you got a lot to talk about. Ladies always got lots to say,
n’est–ce pas?”
He winked cheerfully at Sue, who glared back at him in completely futile irritation.

Shepherding them cavalierly to the table, he tweaked Sue’s hair, touched Thea lightly on the shoulder and was about to slip away to ‘work the room’ when Thea added, “Roch, you really
must
help me out with her, in spite of everything. I hope you haven’t forgotten that Sunday is the last plenary meeting before the show. I
won’t
have it said that I was the disorganized one. I’m going over to Bridget’s tomorrow to make her walk the course with me and do those lists, and I expect you to back me up!”

“No problem, Thea, no problem,” Roch replied heartily over his shoulder, already halfway across the room. Thea sighed in resignation and gave her attention over to Sue.

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
ue was eager to get to work on Thea Ankstrom, and if
she
had been a more seasoned journalist, she would have been more patient in her attack. She quickly realized that she was no match for Thea’s sophisticated defence system. Even before ordering their lunch—all–dressed burger, fries and coke for Sue,
Salade Niçoise
and Perrier for Thea—several of Sue’s opening gambits had been neatly deflected, and before Sue realized it, she found herself being interviewed by Thea. How had Sue gotten started in equestrian journalism? What did she know about the eventing world in particular? What did she hope to get out of all this?

Well, Sue explained, it was JoJo Katz, a Communications Studies friend who had gotten Sue started on her project by sharing with her the ongoing saga of her family’s troubles in the horse industry. It was a perfect story for a novice investigative reporter because JoJo had all the facts beautifully archived. JoJo and her family became the first of the celebrated lawsuits Sue had written up for her series in the Financial Gazette. So actually she knew quite a bit about eventing, for an outsider, and what she hoped to gain was a story that would grab readers’ attention, further her career, and maybe, just maybe, shake things up in an industry that obviously needed it.

“I’ll be frank, Mrs. Ankstrom, I wanted to talk to you in particular because I’m seeing a pattern emerge. It’s a small world, eventing, and you could help me a lot if you could answer some questions for me about your horse, Robin’s Song.”

Thea was not to be drawn in so quickly. “Tell me the details of your friend’s case,” she said. Sue must have looked a little impatient because Thea added, “My dear girl, I’ve just met you, and you’re a reporter. I know nothing about you apart from your writing, which, by the way, is extremely good. I’m simply doing some due diligence to see if I can trust you to do justice to what I choose to reveal.” She sipped at her Perrier. “Due diligence is a concept not often associated with horse people. I have been as guilty as others in that respect in the past, and the only difference between me and most other horse people is that I tend to learn from my mistakes.”

Sue sighed. “It’s a long story, but fair’s fair. Here goes.” And it was a long story, but Thea listened with quiet attentiveness to every word. Sue stopped every five minutes for a gigantic bite of hamburger, and Thea, nibbling methodically at her salad, waited politely at each of these intervals without comment.

The Katzes had not been sanguine about JoJo’s passion for horses, particularly not about her interest in the riskiest discipline, eventing. But when all their attempts to deflect her from her goals had failed, they reluctantly rallied round and came to the decision that, if she were going to ‘go for the gold’, she might as well do it right, and get a horse worthy of her dreams.

They went to England. They met with Philip Fairclough who assessed JoJo’s abilities (excellent, he said) and riding style, and assured them he would find a horse compatible with her needs and ambitions. The horse would be vetted in England and sent off via his ‘partner’ in Canada, Bridget Pendunnin, who, happily, lived not an hour’s distance from Montreal. Lucky JoJo. And what a coincidence. She had already attended some eventing clinics with Bridget, indeed it was Bridget who had sent them to Fairclough, and JoJo felt confident that under her guidance it would be a perfect set–up.

The horse arrived in due course. The Katzes paid an “obscene” (Mr. Katz’s word to his lawyer) amount of money for it. Within six months, the horse had been through five expert trainers, all of whom had pronounced it a variant of ‘unsuitable for any girl’, ‘a horse for a strong man’, ‘a pig,’ ‘half–broke’, and ‘dangerous, not worth breaking your neck over.’

Mr. Katz conferred with Larry Klepper, a very expensive and successful litigation lawyer who happened to be representing him at the time in a business lawsuit. Normally the horse case would have been beneath a senior partner’s notice, but under the circumstances, and mindful of the “obscene” amount of money he was likely to make on the business suit (
not
the word he used with his client), he agreed to review the details. Having done so, he said he wouldn’t touch the case.

‘You have no case for misrepresentation–legally, that is–although it’s clear that in
fact
you’ve been royally screwed,’ Klepper had said flatly. ‘The agent here will say your daughter is a bad rider, that she somehow ruined the horse, or that you should have exercised more caution in buying it. And your daughter will become a pariah in the sport. You have nothing in writing. You will lose. Is that what you want?’

Mr. Katz was a stubborn man, and was not used to being made a fool of. Also, in his business–he raised millions of dollars of venture capital annually in the field of biotechnology–a person’s word was his bond. A handshake meant something. He concluded deals worth hundreds of thousands of dollars over the telephone on a routine basis. If he were to dupe a potential investor he could be held accountable to the Securities Commission, face huge fines or worse, lose his standing amongst his peers, risk censure in his own, the Jewish, as well as the general Montreal communities.

The consequences of acting in bad faith in his business were therefore unequivocal and far–reaching. Even if he were not an intrinsically ethical person–which in fact he was–he would have had to be a fool to transgress the rubrics of good faith that were the cornerstone of his prosperity and sense of self–worth. This horse business was a new and ugly experience for him.

Because what it came down to was that the Katz family had absolutely no recourse for their complaint. The Federation–C–FES–didn’t want to know about it and stonewalled every attempt Mr. Katz made to have the problem adjudicated within the “profession”. In the end it became clear that he would have had more support from the Consumers’ Protection Act in buying a five thousand dollar used car than any horse buyer had in purchasing even a million dollar animal. It was shocking.

Equally enraging was the reaction of other owners to whom he told his story. Most of them shrugged and offered unresolved and unrequited horror stories of their own. It appeared that this kind of duplicity was so pandemic in the sport–like black flies in the Laurentians in summer, an irritation that spoiled your fun, but about which you could do nothing–that his decision to pursue justice was the exception that proved the rule of passivity amongst the other victims.

Mr. Katz went to England. He spoke–not to Philip Fairclough, whom he by now suspected of being a charlatan and a world–class creep–but to grooms, other riders and even a private investigator in London.

He was astonished to learn that a ‘pre–purchase vetting’ in England was a rather casual affair. If the horse was sound on the day he was vetted, then he passed. If not, he failed. His former history of injuries, operations or whatever were never mentioned in the vetting report. The private investigator made discreet inquiries about JoJo’s horse and found that the animal was not only considered a maverick by his previous riders, but that he had suffered a bowed tendon several years before. It had healed, but it was a weak spot most eventers would be chary of, and should at the very least have been reflected in a lowered purchase price.

Armed with this knowledge and, more important–and rare–written proof of it, Mr. Katz returned to his expensive lawyer who informed him that he now had a case for civil fraud. It was presently still before the courts. Rumours flew around the circuit, but the sport insiders instinctively sided with the professionals or refused to comment. C–FES had deflected Sue’s numerous attempts for information and interviews with practiced insouciance and thinly veiled contempt.

JoJo meanwhile had quit the sport in disgust. She was presently training enthusiastically for her first season of mountain biking competition. And, she had added mischievously, the sport of biking had a great advantage over riding: your coach wasn’t trying to sell you bicycles.

Here is where Sue’s narrative ended. She would wait for later to add that what had intrigued Sue about the Katz case was the ease with which the horse had been palmed off on these really quite intelligent people. She had begun to ask around about horses acquired for eventing through the Fairclough/Pendunnin connection. What she had discovered had surprised and intrigued her.

And so now, munching on her fries, waiting with willed patience to take back control of her agenda as Thea continued to sit in pensive silence, Sue clucked over the tragedy of the stallion and the office mess. No response worth noting, only the implacable banality of clichés. They then discussed some of Thea’s plans and responsibilities for the June show. It was all rather benign, predictable and, to Sue’s aroused professional sensibilities, soporific. She wanted to return to the topic of the stallion as a springboard to her major theme, curious to elicit some real feelings from the woman. Sue’s professional instincts told her that Thea’s cool reception of the story was definitely bogus.

She began with a global and innocuous comment on Thea’s personal involvement in the sport. “You’ve had a long volunteer history in horse sport, Mrs. Ankstrom. The chairman of this committee, Mrs. Smy, tells me you’re one of the most dependable and helpful people around. And I believe your husband was even chairman of C–FES for some time?”

You’re one of us, my dear…

“Oh yes, yes he was. Many years ago. I was actually quite a bit younger than my husband, so I came into the sport pretty wet behind the ears. But very eager to be of service, oh yes indeed. But what is it the young people say? That was then, this is now.”

Sue started. “Oh, that’s so weird. That is exactly the expression that came to mind when Roch was putting me off earlier today, as if the whole strange business with the stallion were a thing of the past, yesterday’s news. And yet it was such a scary thing. If you had seen it…”

Thea waved her hand dismissively. “Roch is like that. He’s the most charming man in the world, and I don’t suppose he would ever do anything to hurt the sport, but he simply doesn’t want to know about bad news.” She paused, sipped at her Perrier, and added bitterly, more to herself, it seemed to Sue, than to anyone else, “They all want to think everything is just going swimmingly all the time.”

Sue could see that the mood had shifted dramatically, she couldn’t think why. Thea was distracted, dealing with some internal conflict as her gaze fastened on empty air and her lips compressed grimly. Sue waited it out. Her gut told her a story was hovering in the air, but it was a fragile thing. She waited as the seconds dragged themselves through empty space, almost biting her tongue in impatience.

Finally, dreamily, Thea went on, her voice low and vibrant with some intense but indecipherable emotion, “And I believe you. The stallion, I mean. Terrible, an ugly thing to do.” Slowly her eyes came back into focus and she gazed solemnly into Sue’s sharp little monkey’s eyes. “Imagine the sense of grievance behind such an act. Just imagine.” She spoke these words calmly and thoughtfully, but Sue’s heart bumped hard in her chest and she shivered involuntarily.

But the moment was propitious and she had to grab it. “Mrs. Ankstrom, I am sure it must be very painful for you to talk about your daughter’s horse, Robin’s Song, and I have no wish to intrude on your privacy, but the question I now want to ask has directly to do with some of the statements you just made–I mean, about bad news and people in the sport not wanting to know.”

Bull’s eye! Thea had gone pale and her face was tense with apprehension as her hands gripped the table edges “Go on,” she said quietly.

Sue plowed forward doggedly. “Okay, here it is. Mrs. Ankstrom, during the time your daughter trained and rode the horse, did you ever notice at any time whether there was something physically–or even mentally–let’s say not quite right about him?”

“Why do you ask that?” Thea’s voice was so low Sue had to strain to hear.

“Because,” Sue replied, “I have made inquiries about practically every horse Bridget Pendunnin has ever brought over from England, and I would say that in virtually half the cases, an old injury or serious character defect has revealed itself within two years of purchase. That is an extraordinarily high number. And her clients are spread all over North America. No one has ever looked at it globally before. Every client thinks they are the only hard luck case. None of them think it’s deliberate. But I’m beginning to wonder.”

Thea had recovered her composure. She looked purposefully at Sue and seemed to think hard for a few moments. She nodded twice, as if she had been asked to sign yes or no to some privately heard question. She reached for the check. And then she posed a very unexpected question to Sue. Nodding towards the telephone on the wall near the coatrack, she asked, “Did you know that you can’t make long distance calls from that telephone, not by reversing the charges or even with a phone card?”

Sue just knew there was a super–excellent reason for her question and excitedly replied, “Yes, I did! I tried to make a call when I got here this morning, and Caroline explained there’s a block on it. Why?”

“Yes, the same thing happened to me. Come to my condo for dinner,” Thea said, pressing her lips to her napkin and placing it neatly across her plate. “I will tell you what I have been told about telephones and horses. And then I will tell you what I believe.”

She rose gracefully from the table, smoothed down her skirt, and said, “It would seem that we have a great deal in common, my dear,” Thea said.

“–?”

“We both appear to be here to praise equestrian sport, when in fact,” she smiled mirthlessly, “ we may be here to bury it…” Sue shuddered as Thea’s glittering gray eyes bored intensely into hers.
She could be ruthless. She is capable of anything.

Sue’s adrenalin was pumping. She had come to do a promotion for the bank, and she would do it. But the bank directors knew what she was really after, and they had not discouraged her. It was in their interest to know the truth for any future sponsorship plans they might wish to review.