Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (15 page)

Maybe it would be less upsetting if she just stayed ignorant. She didn’t know
for sure if Seth’s accident had anything to do with her fears before racing, but mightn’t she be risking losing her nerve completely by hearing the whole story? On the other hand, here she was, five years on, with a first-hand witness offering to fill her in on those missing puzzle pieces she’d so often wondered about.

She nodded.

‘I want to know, please.’

*

‘It was the beginning of the season,’ Rhys began. ‘Most of the horses were still doing roadwork before going back into full training. We were taking a string out onto the back roads through Windale Forest. It was a sunny morning, but it had rained the night before so the roads were still wet. Seth was leading the string on Thunder Chief. We were riding two abreast. I was a couple of horses back.’ Rhys paused as he too relived the moment. ‘The roads were quiet and we were trotting. Seth was laughing up ahead. Then a muntjac deer jumped across the road. Came out of nowhere. The horse June was riding upsides Thunder Chief spooked and gave him an even bigger fright. He slipped on the road and went down. Seth didn’t stand a chance of throwing himself clear. It happened so fast. He hit his head and when I—when I…’ Rhys swallowed hard and took a deep breath. ‘When I felt for his pulse, he was already gone. It was so quick. I doubt whether he would even have realised what was happening.’

Tears slipped down Frankie’s cheeks unchecked. She continued to stare at Rhys long after he’d finished. At last she knew. That niggling feeling of unanswered questions had finally abated and all thanks to the most unlikely source.

Rhys twisted his mouth in regret when he saw her tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

She gave a watery smile.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ she whispered.

Rhys stared at the rug, back to his awkward manner and nodded briskly.

‘No problem.’

He rose to his feet.

‘Would you like some dinner?’

Frankie brushed her cheeks dry with the back of her hand and sniffed. She opened her mouth to refuse, but Rhys spoke first.

‘It’s not much, just some
mushroom risotto, but you might as well have some. I’ve got to eat and I certainly can’t have my dinner while you sit there starving.’

*

An hour later, with low-cal, high-carb risotto put away, Frankie’s mobile beeped. She dug it out of her jeans pocket and opened a message from Tom.

‘It’s from Tom.
He’s probably wondering where—oh, okay. Maybe not,’ she corrected herself as she read the text message. ‘His connecting train has been delayed. He’s not going to be home for another hour he says.’ She hazarded a look at Rhys to see how he was digesting the news. His face was expressionless. ‘Sorry.’

Rhys transferred his dinner plate from his lap to the side table.

‘What sort of films do you enjoy?’ he asked.

Frankie beamed with relief that he didn’t seem in too much of a hurry to kick her out.
As long as it was a fairly modern film she wasn’t fussy.

‘I don’t know. I’ve a pretty wide taste.’

He got to his feet and limped over to the DVD cabinet.

‘What about
On the Waterfront
? Marlon Brando. Have you seen that?’

Crikey, every time a coconut.

She shook her head prompting him to pull out the DVD. He looked sheepish as he tapped the case against the palm of his hand.

‘It’s one of my favourites.’

‘Let’s watch it then,’ Frankie replied. She could survive this.
On the Waterfront
was a classic, after all. She pulled her feet up beneath her and made herself comfortable against the arm of the sofa.

Rhys slotted in the DVD and switched on a side lamp before turning off the mains. In the semi-darkness, as the credits began to roll, he came and sat next to her.

*

Despite being mightily impressed by how attractive Marlon Brando had been
in his younger years, Frankie felt her eyelids getting heavier as the film progressed. Lulled in and out of consciousness, she vaguely registered the words
“I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody”
and then the credits rolling once more before sleep overtook her completely. She murmured as a blanket was laid over her. She pulled it up to her neck and nestled down further into the sofa. She didn’t stir as Rhys switched off the light and crept out of the room.

Frankie woke to a lungful of bad breath and a wet cheek. Jasper’s doleful brown eyes lit up when his morning kiss had the desired effect. Frankie groaned and pushed his nose out of her face. She rolled over onto her back. Then she froze. In the semi-darkness of dawn her eyes darted about her. The clink of cups and plates from the kitchen made her jump. She stared at Jasper again, still hovering over her.

‘Shit, Jasper,’ she whispered.

Tunnelling under a blanket she hadn’t recalled wearing last night, she pulled out her mobile phone from her pocket. 5:40am. An envelope flashed in the corner of the screen. Frankie clicked on it. A message from Tom appeared.

Where are you?

‘You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ she murmured.

Giving Jasper another shove, she sat up and rummaged beneath the sofa for her shoes. She stood up
and shivered, then on second thoughts wrapped the discarded blanket around her shoulders. A yellow light seeped through the lounge’s rear archway and Frankie followed it into the kitchen. Jasper trotted ahead like a proud host. Her heart began to pummel her chest when she heard Rhys greet the spaniel.

‘Did you wake her like I asked?’

Frankie turned the corner, seeing Rhys, dressed in a black Adidas tracksuit, squatting down face-to-face with Jasper. His hair was tousled and his face still creased from sleep. A kettle rasped on the worktop behind him.

‘He did.’

Rhys looked up at her cocooned in the blanket he’d laid over her the night before. Frankie gave an embarrassed smile and looked down at the floor tiles.

‘Sorry I fell asleep.’

‘I’m more upset you fell asleep during
On the Waterfront
. That film’s a classic.’ He straightened up. ‘Tea?’

Frankie unsuccessfully tried to bite back a smile at
Rhys’s offended expression and shook her head.

‘I’d better get home. I’ll be late for work otherwise.’

Rhys nodded.

‘Are you riding at Wincanton
this afternoon?’

‘Yes. Only the one though.’

‘Probably see you later then,’ he said.

Frankie nodded. The kettle behind Rhys clicked off. Out of sight, it made his head look like it was steaming. He looked uncomfortable.

‘Well, thanks for letting me stay,’ she settled on a casual tone. ‘And sorry again.’

He followed her out of the kitchen and to the front door. In the narrow entrance hall, Frankie couldn’t meet his eyes. Her lungs contracted and her blood decided to use her veins as an Autobahn. Rhys opened the door for her. Frankie stepped out onto the landing.

‘Frankie—’ he began, his tone urgent.

Did she detect a note of desper
ation in it too?

‘Yes?’

Rhys shifted from five-ten to five-eleven. He pointed vaguely at her body.

‘The blanket?
Can I have it back?’

Her face became the tollgate for her express-travelling blood. She could even feel her eyelids burning. She unwrapped herself and exchanged the blanket for her Asp
en Valley anorak.

*

‘Where’ve you been?’ Tom’s tone was indignant when he answered Frankie’s knock on the front door. Frankie bustled in, keen to get out of the cold. She tried to pinch the slice of peanut-buttered toast which Tom was holding aloft, but he whipped it out of reach.

‘Rhys Bradford’s.’

Tom’s jaw slackened. Frankie’s inner mischief demon rubbed its hands together. She snatched the toast from Tom and made a dash for the kitchen.

‘Rhys Bradford?’ Tom echoed behind her. ‘As in Rhys “I Hate the World and All Who Live In It” Bradford?’

‘The very same,’ she mumbled through a mouthful.

Tom appeared at the kitchen doorway. Frankie offered him his half-eaten breakfast back and he took it like a post-traumatic shock victim. She delved into the laundry basket and extricated a clean pair of jeans.

‘You and Rhys?’

Frankie shrugged.

‘Well, you know how I feel about him.’

‘Yes, but up until about ten days ago you were saying he hated your guts. You ran over his dog, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Not on purpose.’

‘How on earth did you…
you know?’

Frankie grinned and tried to bat the worst creases out of the jeans.

‘You really want all the intimate details?’

Tom looked everywhere but at her.

‘No, but I do want to know how you got to a point where there are intimate details.’

Frankie pretended to examine her nails.
They were blunt and still dirty from yesterday’s work.

‘A scarlet woman never reveals
her secret seduction techniques.’

‘Frankie! Are you being serious? You can’t be.
You’ve had fewer pricks than a brand new dartboard. You’re not scarlet—you’re more of a–a rose pink when it comes to seduction.’

Frankie wrinkled her nose.

‘I hate pink.’

Tom held out his hands in exasperation.

‘Frankie, where were you all night?’

She paused. It was worth stretching this out just to watch Tom’s expression, but she also wanted to find out how his meeting had gone with the Social Services advisor.

‘I was at Rhys’s,’ she said again then held up her hand when Tom rolled his eyes. ‘I was. I forgot my keys to the house and he walked by when I was sitting waiting for you to come home. He invited me round to his flat; we had dinner. Then he put on an old black and white movie and I fell asleep on the couch. The next thing I knew it was morning.’

Tom still looked aghast.

‘He got you to watch an old movie?’

‘It was the only way I could get him to release me from the headlock.’

Tom swallowed.

‘I worry about your sanity, you know.’

Frankie gave him a loving smile and stole the last of his toast on her way to the bathroom.

That evening’s Guides meeting ended on a good note for Frankie. She loved the Showtime Go For It challenge. Everyone had dressed up in costume, plastering each other in makeup before taking to the stage with dramatics and song. It was fun, but by the end she was exhausted. One of the last to step out through Helensvale Community Hall’s creaking door, she was surprised to see Cassa Preston, still dressed in her purple sequinned tutu, which Louise from Starfish Patrol had helped design, sitting on the bottom step of the hall. With just a leotard top for protection, Cassa’s gangly body was trembling with cold. She was trying to punch a number into her mobile phone, but her hands were shivering so much she kept having to start over.

‘Cassa?’
Frankie said, squatting down beside the girl and placing a gentle hand on her icy shoulder. ‘Is your mum picking you up?’

Cassa shook her head.

‘She has to work the graveyard shift tonight at the hospital. She told me to call a taxi.’ Her breath fogged in front of her face, making her features appear even more dismal.

‘Do you live in town?’

Cassa nodded.

‘South end of Helensvale.’

Frankie looked at Cassa thoughtfully. Tonight, for the first time, she’d felt she was making progress with her. Dressed up in a slightly ridiculous outfit, Cassa had sparkled without her mother’s supervision and had joined in the singing and acting with gusto. Frankie remembered the first meeting Cassa had attended and how she’d said she wanted to be a singer, but had changed her mind when Mrs Preston had appeared. Frankie was intrigued.

‘Let me give you a lift home then,’ she said. ‘I probably don’t live too far from you.’

Cassa looked at her hesitantly and Frankie nodded to her phone.

‘Come on, I’m not a stranger. You can text your mum if you like and t
ell her I’m giving you a lift—and saving you some money.’

Cassa smiled and stood up. Frankie was encouraged to see she trusted her enough not to message her mother. They walked across
to the Vauxhall Astra still on loan from the garage. Seeing the car sparked Frankie’s memory.

‘We’ve just got to make a slight detour. My housemate, Tom, will be at the pub and he’s got the keys to our house.’

*

They pulled out of the Community Centre’s car park a
nd headed down Helensvale’s High Street towards the Golden Miller. Frankie was aware of Cassa sitting beside her as relaxed as a stone sculpture.

‘Did you enjoy tonight?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘I thought you would. You said in the GFI Top Job that you wanted to be a singer.’

Cassa sent her a sharp look.

‘It’s okay,’ Frankie said. ‘I’m not about to tell your mum. Although I don’t see why wanting to be a singer should be a problem. From what I heard tonight you’ve got a really good voice.’

Cassa’s big eyes glinted in the darkness.

‘You really think so?’

‘Of course. You’ve got soul. Who’s your favourite singer?’

Cassa shrugged her bony shoulders.

‘I don’t know. I guess I listen to a lot of Adele.’

‘Good taste,’ Frankie said. She attempted the chorus to
Set Fire to the Rain
and Cassa collapsed into the corner of her seat in giggles. Frankie smiled, happy to see her relax.

A couple of minutes later, she yanked the handbrake up. In front of the
m, the Golden Miller looked surprisingly busy. Not heaving, but livelier than usual.

‘Right, won’t be a sec.’

‘Look! They’re having a singing competition,’ Cassa gasped, pointing at a big poster on the door.

‘Oh yes, I forgot that was starting tonight. God, I hope Tom’s not entering. Do you fancy a go?’ She grinned at Cassa as she went to unclip her seatbelt. The humour drained from her face though when she saw Cassa seriously considering her suggestion.

Cassa looked at her like a timid kitten.

‘Do you think I could?’ she whispered.

Entrusted to her care at a Girl Guides meeting, Mrs Preston would not look kindly on Frankie taking Cassa to the local pub and entering her in a karaoke competition.

‘I was just kidding, Cassa. It’s not a good idea.’

‘But you said I was good.’

‘You are, but…
’

Cassa’s eyes bore into hers, desperate for her approval, self-confidence hanging in the balance. Frankie teetered. What harm would it do? Mrs Preston didn’t have to find out and the Golden Miller was a family pub.

‘All right, then,’ she said at last. She hesitated again as Cassa scrabbled to open the door. Leaning behind, she retrieved a black overcoat lying on the backseat. ‘Just wear this, okay? And don’t tell your mother about this.’

*

Holding Cassa’s hand, Frankie weaved her way through the crowd to the bar which, in the dim lighting, gleamed like a crown. Tom was sitting in his usual spot at the far corner of the bar. Nobody noticed their entrance, listening instead in grimacing fascination to a stable lad giving a particularly painful rendition of Kaiser Chiefs’
I Predict A Riot
on a specially rigged stage in the restaurant section. Joey, the bartender, was leaning on the pine bar chatting with Tom. Beneath the sunken lights within the bar’s overhang, Joey’s blond ponytail shone almost white. Tom creased up at something he said, but stopped laughing when he saw Frankie.

‘Evening all,’ she beamed. ‘This is Cassa. We were hoping she
could have a go in this karaoke competition thing. Joey, is there an age limit?’

‘Sixteen, I think.’

Half relieved, Frankie was about to express what a shame that was when Cassa piped up.

‘Lucky I had my birthday the other week then.’

Frankie opened her mouth to object, but closed it again when Cassa squeezed her hand. Her eyes pleaded with her. Frankie swayed. It was just the one evening, Cassa obviously really wanted to do this and she
did
look old for her age.

‘Yes, isn’t it just,’ she said.

Tom narrowed his eyes at her, but Joey didn’t notice her hesitant reply. Instead, he slapped an entry form onto the bar.

‘All you need to do is fill this in and since you’re still under eighteen, we need an adult’s signature.’

What harm could it do
, Frankie asked herself again? Ha! Signing something that was untrue could potentially be very harmful. But Cassa was already carefully filling in both of their names.

‘Just sign here,’ she said, pushing the pen into Frankie’s hand. ‘Please.’

Frankie was just underlining her signature when the stable lad finished his song. A panel of three judges, which she hadn’t noticed before, then proceeded to rip him to shreds.

‘Oh, God.
What am I getting us into?’ she murmured.

*

Twenty minutes later, Frankie had sunk a vodka and orange and was feeling more at ease with her new stint in fraud. She and Tom moved closer to the stage as Cassa’s name was called out.

The vibrant hum in the room quietened as thirteen-year-old Cassa Preston took centre
stage. Her sequinned tutu peeped through the unbuttoned front of Frankie’s oversized coat. Frankie held her breath. Cassa licked her lips and passed the microphone from one hand to the other. The running piano introduction to Adele’s
Someone Like You
flooded the room. Raising the microphone trembling to her lips, Cassa began to sing. Hesitant at first, she gradually found her rhythm. Her rounded shoulders straightened as she belted out the chorus. The overcoat didn’t seem half so big anymore.

Frankie’s breath shuddered through her and her eyes prickled with tears. She darted a look around. The Gold
en Miller was captivated by the heartbroken melody and strength in Cassa’s voice. The final piano chord fell and for a moment the room remained quiet, like the moment following an earthquake. Then the ovation began. Frankie bit her lip and clapped her hands until they stung.

‘My God,’ Tom yelled above the noise. ‘Where did you find her?’

‘Girl Guides,’ Frankie yelled back, beaming with pride.

Cassa stood, smiling uncertainly beneath the spotlight. As the cheering subsided, the judges passed their verdicts. The third, a man who Frankie noticed
had been particularly nasty to the previous contestants, sat with his arms crossed. Frankie figured he was trying to pull off a Simon Cowell, but not quite nailing it in his flat cap.

‘Cassa,’ he said. ‘How old are you?’

Frankie’s heart stopped. Her eyes inadvertently strayed to the exit.

‘S–
sixteen,’ Cassa whispered into the mic.

The judge frowned and Frankie closed her eyes, waiting for her short-lived life of crime to end.

‘You’re at school?’ he prompted instead.

Cassa nodded.

‘So Wednesday nights you’re presumably at home doing your homework?’

‘I g–go to G–
girl Guides.’

He regarded her with over-acted condescension.

‘Not anymore you’re not! You’re through to the next round!’

The patrons of the Golden Miller in their tweed jackets cheered their approval. But Frankie didn’t hear them. She turned to Tom, who was applauding along with them.

‘What does he mean “the next round”?’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought this was a one-night karaoke competition!’

‘Oh, no.’ Tom shook his head. ‘This is huge, one of the Golden Miller’s big ideas to bring in customers. They’re doing their own
X Factor-
cum
-Helensvale’s Got Talent
competition except with pub votes rather than phone votes.’

‘Jesus Christ Almighty, what have I done now?’ Frankie groaned.