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Sapphire’s gleaming and shiny, ready to go, so I move on to Kahlua—eye roll for Mummy’s obvious hand in giving all the horses alcohol-themed names—when my phone pings. Esther Fucking Fitzwilliam has switched it up and is sending me ultra close-ups of Velveteen before she tucks in for the night. First there’s a shot of her soft, nuzzleable muzzle, then one of her big, brown eyes and luscious lashes, and finally her ear in full flick, the way she does when there’s a fly within three hundred feet.
My thumbs fly over the phone’s keyboard:
TEXTRSTART_Kiss her for me. Tell her that I’m being a good girl and saving every last penny so I can be with her_TEXTREND
Imwahmy sweet Velveteen’s muzzle on the screen. What wouldn’t I give to share this happiness with her? If she was here, we’d hack out across the fields and down the lane, my girl Teena walking out in her swingiest of gaits with her ears pricked at every new sight. We’d ride until we were spent and then she’d stand quietly, tied to the hitching post outside the nearest pub, thenewWishing Well, while Mariano and I toasted the old wishing well. And then Teena would pack me home, steady beyond her years, brave and curious the whole way, but solid. So solid I know she’ll take care of me on and off the polo field and fight for me if it ever came to that. God, I love that horse.
She knows, but I’ll tell her again.
EFF knows how important it is to remind Teena—in words, with kisses and pets—that I’m still utterly loyal to her and think about her every day. I’m grateful to have such a knowledgeable—and empathetic—horsewoman taking care of my baby.
I’ve barely clicked out of the texting app when:
TEXTLSTART_WASSUP BEEE-OTCH!_TEXTLEND scrolls across the stop of my screen. Alicia’s been good about not asking questions abouthim.But the fact that I’ve been incommunicado since I blurted “He kissed me!”tells her what I haven’t said, sans the particulars.
I ROFL her greeting and the three dots pulse on her side. I wait. She waits. She’s doing her absolute best not to say, “So?” or “And?” or “Then what?” I’m going to have to say something.
TEXTRSTART_I’m at the stables. Call later?_TEXTREND
TEXTLSTART_Bitch, please. You’re killing me over here_TEXTLEND
TEXTRSTART_LOL_TEXTREND
TEXTLSTART_Just a yes or a no will do for now…_TEXTLEND
The dots roll and roll and roll, but she doesn’t ask more.
I finally manage a: TEXTRSTART_Yes_TEXTREND
TEXTLSTART_Squee!!!_TEXTLEND
She’s my best (best, best, best) friend and I’ve told her everything—truly, down to the length (minimal) and width (mediocre) of my last so-called boyfriend’s penis and the fact that English men tend not to be cut—but what is between Mariano and me is so rare and raw and real that I can’t find it in me to share it.
TEXTLSTART_On a scale of Colin Firth to Tom Holland, how was it?_TEXTLEND
TEXTRSTART_You’re the one with the Holland fetish, girlio!_TEXTREND
It’s a non-answer, but it’s all I can offer her.
“I would like you to line up to the right of my crop!” The woman barking orders can be no one other than The Trunchbull.
TEXTRSTART_Talk later. Gotta go_TEXTREND
TEXTLSTART_You’re killing me…_TEXTLEND
I don’t have time to reply. I slip my phone away and turn to watch the drama unfolding by the stable doors.
Mariano has been kind in his descriptions of The Trunchbull. She’s broad across the shoulders, wide in the hips, with legs like hams and a teeny-tiny bun on the back of her head. She uses her crop like a Sergeant Major’s stick, thwacking the calves of her charges as they pass her, even though I’m pretty sure the students fall under our care rather than hers. “When I call your name, I shall need you to step forward and collect the merchandise that has been assigned to you. Pippa Klaushoffer.”
Pippa and Henrietta step up to The Trunchbull in unison. The Trunchbull—whose real name I forget—smiles, all teeth and gums and unctuous, sweaty groveling. For someone who’s not supposed to signal thatthere is a Royal personage in our midstshe’s doing an awful job.
Henrietta accepts a fanny pack—more commonly known as a bum bag in England—and loops it around her waist. TheTS&Klogo catches in the sunlight.
“Oh, no!” The groan escapes me before I can stop it. It’s my mother’s merch. The stuff she’s supposedly selling to her high-end clients.This is the wrong venue, Mother!
The Trunchbull’s head whips around. She scowls in my general direction, but I duck behind Whiskey before she can upbraid me. “If I could prevail upon you to swap out your helmet, Miss Smith, for one of these?”
Henrietta doesn’t complain. In fact, she doesn’t say anything. From my vantage point I can only see Pippa’s reactions, which are a hoot. She gasps and grimaces, turning the merchandise over in her hands before allowing Henrietta to be decked out inThrills, Spills, & Killskit.
