Heart of the Valley Page 18

  Brooke passed through a brick archway into Kingston Lodge’s small but pristine complex. The yard was rectangular, with three sides of red-brick stables facing a grassy inner garden. Several shady gums spread limbs and leaves over one end, sheltering a picnic bench and a battered trolley barbecue, a site that, over the years, had witnessed the opening of many bottles of champagne, wine and beer. Tears had been shed there, too. Over horses, hearts, and the myriad tragedies of life.

  The fourth side opened onto a multi-use area containing an undercover rotary horse walker, a concrete wash bay, and a flat, raked-dirt area to trot the horses up for their daily inspections. The stable half doors were all painted Kingston Lodge Racing blue with small, brass-framed blackboards fixed to the lower doors, each with the horse’s name neatly written in white chalk. Bales of straw sat in tidy stacks against the outer walls, some with pitchforks propped behind in readiness for mucking out. Not a single scrap of dung or straw tainted the swept walkways. Several horses regarded her with interest, ears pricked, eyes bright, their coats glossy with robust health and the dedication of their strappers.

  Brooke headed towards the rear of the yard, where Angus stood talking to a strapper who held the lead of an extremely fit-looking chestnut. She tickled soft muzzles and ruffled forelocks along the way, smiling as the yard’s champion, Galapagos Flyer, whickered in recognition. And so he should, given all the mollycoddling she’d provided the horse during his spells at Kingston Downs. She paused to give the adored old campaigner a kiss and a scratch before continuing her walk towards Angus. In a pair of jeans and a body-hugging Kingston Lodge Racing wool jumper, and with his air of calm authority, her eldest brother looked like a younger version of their father. Angus’s smile shone with pleasure at the sight of his sister. A smile that never ceased to lighten Brooke’s mood.

  Patting the chestnut on the rump as the strapper led it away, Angus strode to meet her, kissing her cheek before standing back to eye her new hairstyle. His gaze sparkled with mirth as he shook his head. ‘Mum’s so not going to be happy with you. She hasn’t stopped bragging about how beautiful you looked after your makeover. I take it this is Chloe’s doing?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘At least it’s better than that eastern suburbs bob. Made you look about forty. This, on the other hand, makes you look like a pervert’s schoolgirl fantasy.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘It’s a compliment, Brooke.’ His gaze flitted over the rest of her, expression sobering. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  ‘I’ve been sick, remember?’

  ‘I know that, but Mum and Mark won’t. You know what they’ll think.’

  ‘They can think all they like. I’m perfectly fine.’ She glanced to the right and the walkway leading to the house. ‘Is Dad around? I wouldn’t mind a word with him.’

  Angus shook his head. ‘He’s in Melbourne. McCurdie’s racing in the Bletchingly Stakes at Caulfield.’

  The Bletchingly. Shit. How could she forget the Melbourne Spring Racing Carnival? It was only the biggest on the racing calendar and of major importance to the yard. Christopher Kingston would be tied up with it for weeks, commuting between the two state capitals, his attention on his horses – their preparations and their performances.

  Her heart sank. When she’d turned off the freeway something had happened. The sleepy depressive drone of the high-speed road had disappeared, replaced with the fits and starts of aggressive city traffic, horn honks and ill-tempered drivers burning to reach their destinations. Five minutes, one cut-off and one near miss from a P-plater who looked suspiciously like she was texting, and Brooke had caught their infection. She’d sat up straight with her hands fisting the wheel, her mouth and eyes narrowing, the determination she always harboured rousing like a lioness. This horrible year would not beat her. She would assemble her allies and stand strong.

  But the ally she’d hoped to recruit today was interstate.

  Angus slung a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘Anything your superhero big brother can help with?’

  ‘Not really. I was just hoping to get Dad onside, that’s all.’

  ‘He’ll be back tonight. You can talk to him at home.’

  She shook her head as Angus steered her across the lawn. No way would she be staying. ‘I’m heading home as soon as the Farnlee’s over. I need to get back to Poddy.’

  ‘You’re going to have to rejoin the family one day. You can’t keep using Poddy as an excuse. The horse is fine. Lachie’s there and he’s a pretty capable bloke.’ He caught her eye, eyebrows wiggling. ‘Anything going on in that department?’

  An image from Thursday night dashed across her mind’s eye. Lachlan in the recliner, Chloe close, fingers dancing across the back of the seat, anticipation shivering the air. ‘No.’

  ‘But you want there to be?’

  ‘Angus.’

  His eyes widened. ‘You do!’

  ‘No, I bloody don’t. Anyway, Chloe’s staked a claim.’

  ‘Bugger. Never mind, there’s always Andrew. Marry him and he could buy you a dozen Kingston Downs. Now,’ he said, halting in front of a box containing a rather unattractive, roman-nosed, flea-bitten grey. ‘Meet our new arrival, Cunning Cavalier. Came from Marty Cranbourne’s yard. Ugly, isn’t he? But the connections have this weird belief he’s going to be the next Gunsynd.’

  She rubbed the horse’s forehead. ‘And will he?’

  Angus shrugged. ‘Who knows? Bloodline’s nothing to get excited about and he’s not exactly setting the course on fire at trackwork, but weirder things have happened when a horse changes stables. Although this one’s already been through a few.’

  ‘Flyer looks good, as always. How are the others going?’

  ‘All right. Things have been a bit tough lately but we’ll survive. We always do.’ He glanced at his watch and sighed. ‘Shit. I gotta go.’

  ‘Can I help with anything?’

  ‘No. With McCurdie at Caulfield we only have two runners today and Sally has them both under control.’

  She scanned the yard, desperate for something, anything, to keep her at the Lodge. ‘You sure? There must be something I can do.’

  ‘Stop looking for excuses to stay,’ he said, kissing her cheek and squeezing her arm before pushing her toward the arch. ‘Go on, before Mark realises you’re here and comes out to nag. And trust me, with the crappy mood he’s been in lately you don’t want that. Between him and Mum, Mum’s definitely the lesser of two evils.’ He gave her another gentle shove. ‘I’ll see you later at the track. And Brooke?’

  She swung around. ‘What?’

  ‘Be nice. She’s only acting like she is because she loves you.’

  With heavy feet Brooke trudged back to the Land Cruiser, laden with contrition, yet wondering why, if her mother loved her so much, Ariel was so determined to make her leave the place where she was happiest. There was no question she adored her mother – Ariel was kind, clever and loving – but her well-meaning attentions eroded Brooke’s confidence, increasing her anxiety that she’d never recover from what had happened.

  She slid behind the wheel and started the engine, and, inhaling deep breaths, tried to reignite her spirit, but the harder she tried the more it refused to kindle. Not even the nail-biting drive to Bondi Junction made it flare. By the time she turned into her parents’ street it had extinguished completely, leaving her flat and dreading the afternoon ahead.

  ‘Oh, Brookie, your gorgeous hair!’ Ariel cried when she opened the door. ‘And you looked so beautiful before.’

  Brooke raised an eyebrow. ‘And I don’t now?’

  ‘Of course you do, but …’ Ariel shook her head as she raked her eyes over her daughter, assessing her offspring with maternal efficiency. ‘What are you doing to yourself?’ She grabbed Brooke’s wrist. ‘Look how thin you are.’

  ‘Mum, please don’t start. I’m fine. Honestly. Now, can I come in or are you going to keep me standing on the doorstep all day?’

  ‘
Oh, have a listen to me. There I am nagging and I haven’t even said hello.’ She gathered Brooke in a tight hug. ‘It’s lovely to see you. I know you think I’m a silly sausage but I adore our mother–daughter days and I missed you last week. Saturday just didn’t seem the same.’

  Arm around her shoulders, Ariel guided her into the kitchen. Her mother’s tense back and overly jolly voice kept her on high alert. Ariel wasn’t finished, merely regathering before another attack.

  ‘So how’s your painting going?’ Brooke asked as she perched on a seat at the breakfast bar while her mother set about making coffee – a task that mainly involved positioning two handleless glass latte cups under the automatic espresso machine’s spout.

  ‘Really well,’ said Ariel, her face immediately brightening. ‘I managed to finish another one this last fortnight.’ She gave the cups an unnecessary fiddle. ‘It’d be nice to have more time to dedicate to it but so much of my day seems to be taken up with other commitments.’

  ‘Are you still doing the media stuff?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. It was fun when I first started but now I find it all so very boring. Habillé have asked me to be their racewear ambassador this spring carnival.’ Her face took on a pinched expression. ‘I’m rather inclined to say no.’

  ‘You can’t seriously be thinking of turning down one of the biggest fashion brands in the country, surely? Imagine all the parties you’d get to go to.’

  ‘It’s not all champagne and canapés, Brooke. It’s a job.’

  ‘A very glamorous job that you’ll breeze through like you always do. And think of the extra publicity for the yard.’

  ‘Yes. We mustn’t forget the yard,’ Ariel said tightly before removing the cups from under the espresso machine and passing Brooke her latte.

  Alarmed by the brittleness in Ariel’s voice, Brooke studied her mother, aware she’d spent so long observing the world through the prism of her own worries, she’d become detached from the troubles of others. It was time she paid attention.

  Though as beautiful as ever, Ariel wore an air of tiredness. Tension lines etched the borders of her mouth and eyes, while a downward tilt dragged at her lips. And in her eyes lurked a cloud of what Brooke had interpreted as motherly concern, but which, to her shock, now seemed more akin to sadness.

  Worry rattled through Brooke. Her mother was always so composed and confident. This wasn’t like her at all.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Ariel frowned slightly. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’ She patted fingers over her face, eyes and mouth widening with feigned fear. ‘Am I looking old?’

  Brooke grinned. ‘No. You look twenty years younger, as usual. But you do seem a bit, I don’t know, strained maybe.’

  She waved a hand. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me, I’ll be all right.’ She smiled reassuringly, back to her usual possessed self. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself.’

  Brooke took a sip before replying, feeling terrible for the half-lie she was about to tell, but equally unwilling to reveal the truth of her days at Kingston Downs. ‘You know, riding, keeping an eye on things.’

  ‘In other words, very little.’ Ariel put down her cup and reached for Brooke’s hand, preventing her daughter from tucking it under the bench. Brooke clenched her teeth against the urge to snatch it away so she could rub at her wrist. The lecture was coming, and from the sincere and empathetic look on her mother’s face, nothing would stop it. ‘Please, Brooke. Come home. It’s so obvious you’re not doing well. Look at you – you’ve lost weight, given yourself a radical haircut. You can barely sit still you’re so desperate to rub your wrist. Yes, I noticed. We all have, and it worries us sick. You need help – a therapist who can help you work through your problems and give us back the old Brooke, the one everyone adored because she was always so happy and full of laughter. Come to Sydney, even if it’s just for a few months, so we can get you right.’

  Brooke breathed in hard through her nose, jaw iron tight, teeth hurting from the pressure. She would not cry. Not here.

  ‘I told you, I’m fine. I’m happy. And Lachlan’s helping me with my floating problem.’

  Her mother’s mouth pursed at the mention of Lachlan’s name, the pressure on Brooke’s fingers coming a little harder. ‘I see. And Lachlan is qualified, is he?’

  ‘No. But he’s kind and patient and together I know we’ll beat this.’

  Ariel released her hand and Brooke had to concentrate hard on keeping it above the bench. ‘It sounds like you and he have developed quite a bond.’

  ‘Not really. He’s just offered to help, that’s all.’

  ‘I would have thought he’d be kept busy enough looking after Kingston Downs. It’s no small responsibility he’s been given.’

  ‘He is busy with Kingston Downs,’ said Brooke quickly, alarmed by the frost in her mother’s tone, and fearing she’d landed Lachlan in trouble. ‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on him and he’s knows exactly what he’s doing. Mark was lucky to get him. Good managers are hard to come by.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Ariel, though she didn’t sound the slightest bit impressed. She glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better make ourselves glamorous. We’re having lunch with the Cameron Syndicate and they’re too important to be kept waiting. Even more so since they haven’t had a winner since February.’

  ‘Must have dud horses.’

  ‘Yes. Dud horses your father sold them.’

  There it was again, that edge of strain.

  Forewarning buzzed through her veins as Brooke remembered Angus’s words about the yard. She knew lean years existed in racing, when winners seemed elusive, and Kingston Lodge had had its fair share, but this was the first time she could remember anyone talking about it.

  ‘Is everything all right? I mean, with the yard?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Ariel, but this time there was no mistaking her splintery tone. Brooke’s fingers shot to her wrist as anxiety took hold. Her mother headed for her bedroom, hand held out for Brooke as though she were six years old, choosing to ignore or failing to notice her daughter’s distress. ‘Now, come along. I’ve just remembered a little black Audrey Hepburn dress I have that might fit you. A bit of makeup, a nice jacket and heels and you’ll knock that lovely Jason Cameron for six.’

  Brooke stood in the owners’ stand watching the track as the starters circled for the Farnlee Handicap. As it wasn’t a carnival event, the crowd on Rosehill’s famous lawn was thin and drab, lacking the party atmosphere, excitement and colour of the major meetings. Though she didn’t look at all out of place, the Hepburn-inspired dress, a cropped black and white houndstooth jacket, and heels that squashed her toes and made her ankles ache made her feel ridiculous. At least she’d managed to escape the fascinator Ariel had wanted to pin to her head.

  Dutifully, she smiled at Jason Cameron, son of the Cameron Syndicate’s chairman and an overinflated twerp, as he moved into the seat beside her. He’d done the same at lunch, sidling up to sit next to her and spending the rest of the meal big-noting himself. He was good-looking, in a citified sort of way, with a trendy spiked haircut, dark-chocolate eyes, and clean, smooth skin that spoke of judicious use of male skincare products. But his personality left her cold. For the sake of the yard and to not embarrass Ariel, Brooke had politely tolerated the self-absorbed prat when what she’d really wanted to do was pour her glass of red wine into his lap.

  Sensing movement, she turned to see who’d taken the right-hand seat, stomach clenching when she met her brother’s gaze.

  ‘Mark.’

  ‘Brooke.’ He leaned across her to shake hands with Jason. ‘Jason, how are you? Good lunch?’

  ‘Very good, and made all the better by the excellent company I shared.’ He threw Brooke a wink that made her look quickly to the barriers. Shit. The idiot was coming on to her.

  She indicated her seat to Mark. ‘Here, take my p
lace so you can talk business with Jason.’

  ‘No, we’re fine. We had a good chat yesterday.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Brooke bit her lip, wondering if she could use the excuse of a toilet break to escape, but only a few horses remained to enter the barriers and she wanted to watch the race.

  She glanced across the stand, past her mother who was charming Jason’s prettily plump mother, to where Andrew sat with his mother, Lee. They’d chatted earlier, Andrew barely able to contain his mirth at her outfit, and trying his best to raise a laugh from her when she responded only half-heartedly to his teasing.

  He smiled and discreetly pointed to Jason, before making a wanker gesture with his fist. Brooke rolled her eyes and gave him a ‘you have no idea’ look, then quickly stopped as Jason turned to see who she was grinning at, his face clouding as he recognised Andrew.

  Brooke turned back to the runners. Two barrier attendants in safety vests and helmets held their arms locked behind the Camerons’ horse, Dalliance, pushing the excited, bit-snatching animal into the stalls. Lee’s galloper, Tiny Torpedo, was already in place. With the last of the field locked in its gate and the light above the barrier flashing, the crowd hushed, eager for the burst of horses.

  Light’s on. And they’re racing in the Farnlee Handicap. Tiny Torpedo jumped well, followed by Mangaman and Shirley’s Pride. Then Dalliance and Bossybritches …

  A cheer rose, only to be silenced by nervous tension as the horses settled into their strides. Jason gripped his race book. Further along, Ariel and Jason’s mother clutched arms. Brooke glanced at Andrew and Lee, leaning forward intently, mouths moving as they urged Tiny Torpedo on.

  All eyes, it seemed, were on the race. Except Mark’s.

  He leaned in close to Brooke’s shoulder, his voice low. ‘How’s life up at the holiday farm? Enjoying yourself?’

  Brooke kept her focus on the blur of colour at the back of the track. She wasn’t going to play this game. It wasn’t worth the angst. She had plenty of that already.