Distraction

Chapter Eight

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.