Going the Distance

Going the Distance

Christina Jones

Maddy Beckett lives in the horse-racing village of Milton St John. Recovered from a disastrous love-affair and running her own small business, she’s happy being single until she meets and falls for the gorgeous Drew Fitzgerald. Everything about Drew is perfect – until his cool and impossibly elegant wife appears on the scene. Maddy loves Drew, but doesn’t know if she loves him enough to become “the other woman”? Morally, it’s out of the question, but physically …?

Has their relationship got what it takes to go the distance …?

Dedicated with all my love to the memory of my parents, Fred and Aimee Wilkins, who gave me the gifts of love and laughter, freedom and imagination.

“No Regrets”

To Hilary Johnson of the R.N.A., not only for her generous advice, constant support and encouragement, but also for making me laugh.

To Pat Powell, my best friend for ever, for making the research a never-to-be-forgotten experience.

To Hilary Lyall and Carol-Ann Davis who always believed in me.

To Dorothy Hunter with many thanks.

To Gill Boucher, Corinne Rees and Jane Clark for being such true friends and giving me all those lovely nights out when I never stopped talking.

To Rob and Laura for loving me, for being my inspiration, and for never once complaining about it being beans on toast again.

Contents

Chapter One

She was sure her suspenders were showing. Twisting around, craning her neck to check in the mirror, Maddy grinned. They were covered. Just.

Even with the breath-taking aid of Fran’s second-best basque, Maddy had always known the dress was going to be too tight and far too short. Resignedly tugging the borrowed grey, crepe shift over her head, she gazed dolefully at her wardrobe. She couldn’t wear the green velvet again – which left an exciting choice between the black skirt and the black trousers, either of which would need a suitable party top …

With a sigh, she hurled Fran’s dress on to her bed, where it hovered for a moment before slithering to the floor amidst several discarded newspapers and an empty tub of Slimfast. A week ago she had vowed she would live on nothing but Slimfast. She was going to slink into tonight’s party looking svelte and toned and seductive, and Peter would wonder why he had ever left her for Stacey, the bow-legged stick-insect.

Of course, she hadn’t reckoned on the Slimfast being quite so moreish – especially when mixed with condensed milk and a dollop of Cornish ice cream …Maddy kicked the diet plan under the bed and decided to seek consolation in a chocolate Hobnob. It was only the insistent chirrup of the telephone that prevented her from polishing off the remains of the packet.

‘How was the dress?’ Fran’s voice was that of the eternal optimist. ‘OK with the corset, was it?’

Maddy pulled a face. ‘No. It wouldn’t have been OK with steel girders. The basque helped a lot – but I still looked like a lumpy pillow.’

‘Pity.’ Fran giggled. ‘It always has the desired effect on Richard.’

‘That’s probably because I’m two sizes larger than you – or because Richard is turned on by lumpy pillows. Thanks for trying, Fran, but it looks like it’ll have to be the black skirt again – if I can find a top.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll give the party a miss.’

‘Oh no.’ Fran became school-marmish. ‘Maddy Beckett, you are not a quitter. You’ll shimmy in there tonight – as we planned – and hit Peter right between the eyes.’

‘My chest’ll probably do that,’ Maddy said. ‘Always supposing that the thighs don’t get him first.’

‘Good girl. A man likes a sense of humour, although why you’re attempting to waste it on Peter, God only knows. Especially after the way he –’

‘Fran.’ The word was heavy with dire threat.

‘OK. OK. You loved him – you still love him.’

‘No I don’t,’ Maddy protested. ‘I want to prove that I’ve survived and prospered without him. That there is life in Milton St John without Peter Knightley. And life in Maddy Beckett … It’s just that if he’s got Stacey in tow I’ll feel like a beached whale.’

‘Which, as I recall, was what he likened you to.’ Fran’s voice dripped ice. ‘The bastard.’

‘Well, I am a bit overweight.’

‘Nonsense,’ Fran said briskly. ‘You’re curvy and pretty and sexy. Peter Knightley was a prat.’

‘People always say hurtful things at the end of a relationship.’ Maddy was beginning to shiver inside the basque. She really must remember to ask someone to look at the boiler. It slept soundly all day, conserving its energy for sporadic bursts of tropical heat at about three in the morning. ‘I’m sure I was just as unpleasant. Anyway, it’s all history. I’ll drop your things off tomorrow on my way to work.’

‘Goody.’ Fran’s voice was smiling again. ‘I’ll get the kids out of the way and the kettle on – and open a new packet of chocolate fingers. I shall want to hear every detail, mind. All of it. And Maddy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Borrow a top from Suzy. That white one she wore to the Cat and Fiddle last week should render Peter speechless.’

‘Brilliant! Fran, I love you!’

A toe-amputating draught was screaming under the front door as Maddy replaced the receiver. Having had to become energy conscious since the last heating bill, she tugged at the mat which had got caught between the door frame and the step, but it held fast. Irritably, she opened the front door, kicked the mat back into place, and smiled at Mr Pugh from the Village Stores who was wobbling past on his bicycle. She was closing the door when Suzy came tearing up the path.

Maddy dragged her sister inside. ‘Oh, good. You’re just in time. Fran’s dress was hopeless. I want that white top thing of yours, Suzy. The one that drapes…’

‘Holy hell!’ Suzy’s heavily kohled eyes blinked in astonishment. ‘You didn’t, did you, Mad? You opened the door – like that? I wondered why Bernie Pugh’s bike was more shaky than usual. And for heaven’s sake come away from the window. You’ll frighten the horses. Why,’ Suzy sniffed with all the superiority of a seventeen-year-old sister over one ten years her senior, ‘are you dressed like a tart?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Maddy sighed. ‘And can I have that white blouse for tonight?’

‘Nah, it’s in the wash.’ Suzy was tugging off her mud-caked boots. ‘You can have the pink one.’

‘I can’t wear pink!’ Maddy wailed. ‘I’ve got red hair!’

‘So have I – sometimes. Of course you can wear pink. Where are you going, anyway?’

‘Diana and Gareth’s drinks party.’

Suzy arched an eyebrow. ‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought you had the right number of hyphens in your surname for one of Diana’s parties. What’s the catch?’

‘No catch. Diana thought I’d enjoy it.’

‘Can’t imagine why.’ Suzy had removed most of her riding clothes and was striding through to the kitchen. Maddy watched her waif-like figure without envy. Although it was thoroughly sickening to be faced with a pert size eight – especially when it was related and lived in the same house – there were compensations. Suzy favoured voluminous jumpers and stretchy tops. Maddy borrowed them at every opportunity.

She sucked in her breath. ‘Because Peter is going to be there.’

There. She’d said it. She waited for the explosion. It wasn’t long coming.

‘Holy hell, Mad!’ Suzy paused in the middle of slapping golden syrup on to a chunk of bread. ‘Have you got a death wish? Are you going to let Peter the Perv perform another public execution?’

‘Don’t call him that – and no. I’m not. I’m going because I want him to see how well I’ve done without him. He’s thinking of coming back to Milton St John, Diana says, and she thought –’

‘She thought she’d make you look a complete fool. Diana James-Jordan is a cow. Look what she did to Richard and Fran. I thought they were your friends?’

‘They are. Fran knows I’m going. I’ve promised not to say anything about Richard being jocked off in favour of Newmarket’s golden wonder. And, after all, Diana does put work my way.’

‘And loyalty to your friends takes a nosedive because she’s invited Pete to snuffle in her trough!’

Maddy groaned. Sometimes she despaired at Suzy’s coarseness. It was mixing with all those stable lads that did it, her mother had said. Maddy was pretty sure that Suzy could teach the lads a thing or two about colourful epithets. She really didn’t want to get dragged into a discussion on the ethics of race riding – or Peter Knightley. Suzy was very strident in her views on both.

‘Look, I’m freezing here and I’m going to be late. Where’s your pink blouse?’

‘Under the bed,’ Suzy mumbled through a mouthful of

golden syrup. ‘On the left – the clothes side, not the shoes …’

Suzy’s bedroom made Maddy’s clutter look pristine. Ignoring conventional furniture, Suzy kept her entire life beneath her bed. Maddy fished around with trepidation, and eventually emerged triumphant with a handful of pink lace.

Suzy had descended on Milton St John in general, and Maddy in particular, the previous May. Maddy, at that time still smarting from Peter’s rejection, had welcomed her younger sister with motherly delight. It hadn’t taken long to discover that Suzy didn’t need mothering. Suzy, Mr and Mrs Beckett’s menopausal mistake, had been given her head and it showed.

Maddy, planned for, cosseted and protected, had still been in ankle socks at twelve. Suzy had been fierce and fearless, Maddy timid and unsure. A late developer, Maddy reckoned she’d gone through puberty at about nineteen. And then there was the question of a career …

Suzy had always known she would be a jockey. This was not a childish dream engendered by pony clubs and gymkhanas, but an obsession with horse racing bordering on the unhealthy. At the age of seven, Suzy could work out odds, read form, and pick winners. Maddy, struggling with A-levels, had been highly in awe of this talent. She was even more in awe of the fact that Suzy knew at primary school exactly what she was going to do with her life. Maddy had a vague notion of going to university if her results were good enough, but after that she didn’t have a clue.

There had been loudly voiced reservations from her parents about this wild child of their middle-age pursuing such an unladylike vocation – especially as Maddy had been something of a disappointment – but Suzy had taken no notice. As soon as Maddy moved to Milton St John, she wrote begging letters to every trainer. As Maddy was well known in the village, there had been some speculation about Suzy’s ability to achieve riding weight, and Maddy had been forced to admit that Suzy took after the bone-thin side of the family. So far, it had worked out very well. It was like having a whole second wardrobe.

Maddy hurried across the hall to her bedroom. As it was too late to have a bath, and there would only be half an inch of hot water at this time of the evening anyway, she squirted herself liberally with Body Mist. Deciding to make the most of the basque and stockings, she pulled her black skirt over the top of them, and struggled into the pink blouse.

The result was less disappointing than she’d expected. Peter was hardly likely to fall panting at her feet – not that she wanted him to, of course – but neither would he recoil in horror. With make-up on, she squinted into the mirror. She might even pass as glamorous …

Suzy wandered into the bedroom eating a pork pie as Maddy applied haphazard blusher. ‘What shall I do with my hair?’

‘Put it up.’ Suzy perched on the bed. ‘It sort of tightens your face.’

‘Cheers.’ Maddy wrenched her abundant auburn curls on top of her head and anchored them with several clips. ‘So? How do I look?’

‘Surprised.’ Suzy slid from the bed in search of more food. ‘No, really Mad, you look super. Very pretty. Everyone will fancy you rotten. Oh, and guess what I heard today? Someone has bought Peapods at last.’

Not Peter, Maddy thought in panic. She had only just got used to the idea that Peter was back in Milton St John. She really couldn’t cope with him living in the massive house just across the road.

‘Who?’ She tugged on her black suede boots.

‘Oh, some foreign geezer. Well. Welsh, or something. He’s going to use it as a stables again. He’s been training flat horses somewhere or other and he wants to move on to a mixed yard. I think his name’s Dermot – Dermot MacAndrew.’

‘That is neither foreign nor Welsh.’ Maddy applied scarlet lipstick and wished she had time for matching nail varnish. ‘It sounds like a fairly good Celtic cocktail. Still, it will be nice to have Peapods running as a stables again – the health farm was a disaster.’

‘Yeah.’ Suzy poked her head round the door. ‘Especially when it employed people like Stacey …’ She managed to duck the lipstick as Maddy lobbed it towards the doorway. ‘And take the car tonight, Mad. Don’t rely on Pete giving you a lift home. It looks so tacky to be hanging around hopefully at the end.’

‘Won’t you need it?’

‘Nah. I’m walking down to the pub with Jason and Oily. It’s karaoke tonight.’

‘OK. Fine.’ Maddy scooped up the car keys from the dressing table. ‘I’m off. Wish me luck.’

‘I’ll wish you whatever you wish yourself.’ Suzy looked at her sister fondly. ‘Just don’t go breaking your heart – again.’

But of course, she hadn’t, Maddy thought, as she drove towards the white curve that passed as a main road in Milton St John. Broken her heart, that is. Peter had. Peter with his golden hair and his golden skin and his honeyed voice. Peter Knightley, who had left her fifteen months, three weeks, and two days ago – not that she was counting – for Stacey the bimbo stick-insect. And he hadn’t even told her. He’d just gone – and written a letter two weeks later.

She supposed Fran and Suzy were right to be anguished about his equally abrupt return, but then they hadn’t known him like she had. It had taken Maddy only moments to fall in love with Peter, to fall in love for the first time in her life. It had been an intense and all-consuming passion. For nearly four years Peter Knightley had been her life. More important than her work, more important than Suzy or her parents, more important, God help her, than her friends. When Peter had ended their relationship and left Milton St John he had not only taken her heart, he had practically taken her entire existence. That was why it was vital that she should make a survival statement tonight.