Showdown

  She couldn’t just collapse. She had to get back to the kids.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Before she had a second to compose herself, she looked up to see her dad yelling down at her, leaning over the edge of the box. “That must have been the longest piss in history.”

  A few people around her tittered, but she didn’t care. Holding it together somehow, she climbed back up through the stands, taking her seat as quietly and unobtrusively as she could. Chase and Chance, bored now that the novelty of the horses was wearing off, immediately began clambering all over her, smothering her dress in sticky, peanut butter handprints. Half an hour ago she’d have cared—another outfit ruined. Now, she almost welcomed the distraction.

  “Did you see Candy down there?” asked Jimmy tersely.

  “Sorry?”

  “Jeez. Candy. In the fuckin’ ladies’. Was she there?” he repeated.

  “No,” said Amy, blushing scarlet at the lie. “She wasn’t. I guess she must have tried a different restroom. Looking for a shorter line or something.”

  Right on cue, the door to the box opened and Candy sauntered in.

  Her blond mane of hair, that minutes ago had been flowing long and loose around her shoulders, was now pinned up once again in a neat chignon and her eyes were covered with huge, Jackie-O sunglasses.

  Guilt concealers, thought Amy bitterly.

  “Sorry ah took so long,” she drawled, slipping back into her seat next to Jimmy without so much as a glance in Amy’s direction.

  Perhaps she didn’t know she’d been spotted? Amy had assumed Garth would have told her, but maybe he hadn’t?

  “Never mind,” said Jimmy. “You’re here now.” Reaching over, he took her hand—the same hand that had just been wrapped like a vise around Garth’s cock—and pressed it to his lips.

  Amy felt the bile rising up in her throat.

  “Sorry,” she said, staggering out of her seat. “I’m really not feeling well. I think I need some air.”

  Jimmy frowned. “What’s eating her?”

  “Who knows?” said Candy, snuggling in closer to him. “Lovesick, ah expect. You know what a crush she has on Garth. Forget about it.”

  “Don’t you worry,” he said, running his hand proprietorially up the inside of her thigh. “I intend to.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  October proved to be an exhausting month for Milly. As Todd predicted, her appearance in Playboy catapulted her into the public eye far more effectively than her racing could ever have done, and her promotional work quadrupled overnight. Not since Liz Hurley showed up at Hugh Grant’s premiere in a couple of safety pins had one picture made such a difference to a girl’s career. Suddenly it wasn’t just Western-wear companies queuing up to sponsor her. Everyone from potato chip manufacturers to perfumiers to cell phone giants began beating a path to Brad Gaisford’s door. And it wasn’t just Milly herself that these endorsements helped put on the map. Interest in the whole sport of quarter horse racing climbed to an all-time high. Local cable channels now found themselves competing with the likes of ESPN for TV rights to races that two years ago could barely raise a half-decent local audience. Times were changing in the sport, and there was a tangible smell of money in the air.

  At first Milly felt giddy with excitement, being at the epicenter of it all. With a string of valuable endorsements under her belt and her track record going from strength to strength, she had a lot to celebrate. Her schedule left her no time to dwell on her insecurities over Todd, or any other troubling thoughts, such as how her mother had reacted to the pictures, or what terrible things Rachel might be doing at Newells.

  But it wasn’t long before a sort of jaded exhaustion kicked in. She was still putting in good times, but she knew she could have done better if she weren’t permanently being pulled in a million different directions. Plus a lot of the work she was doing, though well paid, was cheesy as hell; the sort of tacky interpretation of cowboy culture that used to send Bobby off into stratospheric rages. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty to be part of it.

  As for Todd, she’d barely seen him in weeks. Staggering home in the small hours most nights she’d collapse into bed beside him, too shattered even to think about sex, and then have to dash off to the stables or for business meetings with Brad at the crack of dawn. Todd never complained. He was a workaholic himself, after all. But Milly couldn’t help but fret that her long absences must be leaving a hole in his life and his bed that a string of LA whores were falling over themselves to fill.

  She was also worried about Demon. Still dogged by health problems, the last thing he needed was to be overraced. But despite her protestations, Jimmy and Brad kept entering him for all the biggest meetings, insisting that the horse and Milly were branded as a team now and that the crowds turned out for both of them.

  It was weird, to have success arrive so quickly and effortlessly, only to find herself less in control of her own life than she had been before.

  A month after his return from New York, Jimmy threw a party at Koi in Milly’s honor, to celebrate her landing a much-coveted endorsement deal with T-Mobile. There were hundreds of sportsmen and -women in far better known fields who would have given their right arm for such a deal—Garth Mavers was positively fuming about it, apparently—so for a little known, foreign rider like Milly to pull it off was quite a coup.

  But after another long day, yukking it up at Koi with a bunch of Jimmy’s cronies and T-Mobile execs was the last thing Milly felt like doing. Especially with an important race tomorrow at Fresno. Her attendance wasn’t optional, and at least it would provide a chance for her to chat to Amy properly, something she hadn’t been able to do since the Prices got back from New York. She felt bad about that actually, as Amy was obviously very down. But it couldn’t be helped.

  “I think a toast is in order.” Jimmy smiled at the assembled guests, grasping his beer glass with a fat, clammy paw and raising it high. “To Milly, our very own English cowgirl.”

  “To Milly!” An assenting murmur rumbled around the bar.

  Shifting uneasily on her bar stool, Milly tried to look happy and suitably humble—not an easy look in the outfit Brad had picked out for the occasion and insisted that she wear: a dramatic red Badgley Mischka dress, backless and slashed to the tops of the thighs, and a borrowed Fred Leighton diamond pendant that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Oscars.

  The paparazzi, who’d shown up in force half an hour ago, after a tip-off from Brad, were thrilled with her over-the-top look. Stepping out of the Ferrari with Todd, she brought La Cienega to a virtual standstill, posing for picture after picture with her new crystal-encrusted, customized cell phone clearly visible in every shot.

  That part, she had to admit, was fun. But as soon as she got inside she felt like an overdressed idiot. Everyone else was in jeans, even Candy, who looked sick-makingly stunning in a simple silver Chloe top. Todd wasted no time rushing over to say hello to her, which plunged Milly into even deeper gloom.

  Spearing a raw sea urchin with a toothpick, she plunged it angrily into some soy sauce, then put it in her mouth, instantly regretting it as a horrible salty ooze seeped out over her taste buds.

  Naturally it was right at that moment that Sean came over to corner her.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, since it was quite obvious she wasn’t.

  Trying not to vomit, Milly spat the offending mollusk into a paper napkin and took two huge gulps of Diet Coke before replying.

  “No,” she said honestly, staring at Candy’s lissome brown back. “Not really.”

  Following her gaze, Sean saw Candy whispering in Todd’s ear, and Todd throwing his head back with laughter. God, the man was a wanker. Whatever Milly’s faults (and as far as he was concerned there were many), she deserved better than having to put up with a smug cunt like Cranborn for a boyfriend.

  “Ignore him,” he said. “He’s only doing it to wind you up.”

  Milly looked at him, amaze
d. It was the first time Sean had ever said anything remotely nice to her. She had no idea how to react.

  “Do you think so?” she said doubtfully.

  “Sure. Besides, you’re getting your fair share of attention in that little number.” He glanced at her utterly inappropriate red dress, which was indeed drawing stares from all around the restaurant, and smiled. Despite herself, Milly smiled back.

  “Look,” he said, taking advantage of this unexpected thawing in relations to make a serious point. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you actually. I’m worried about Amy.”

  “Oh, me too.” Milly nodded fervently. “Have you spoken to her? I was hoping I’d see her tonight, but she doesn’t seem to be around.”

  “I think she’s been making herself sick,” said Sean. “She’s losing weight like crazy. My guess is it’s something to do with Garth Mavers.”

  “He’s such a fucking prick, that guy,” said Milly with feeling.

  “He is,” agreed Sean. “And a little bird told me he’s been using his fucking prick to service the wicked stepmother over there.” He nodded toward Candy. “Five’ll get you ten that’s why our little Amy’s been sobbing her heart out.”

  “Really?” said Milly. She knew she ought to be concerned for poor Amy. But she couldn’t help but feel a smidgen of relief for herself. If Garth was screwing Mrs. Price, it stood to reason that Todd wasn’t.

  “She needs you, you know,” said Sean, as if reading her mind. “Amy. She’s always been a good friend to you. But now that she needs support herself, you’re never around.”

  “Yes, I am.” Milly instantly bristled. What was it that made Sean think he had the right to preach to her? And since when was her and Amy’s friendship any of his business? “I’ve just been crazy busy since the whole Playboy thing. You know what it’s like. There’s never enough time in the day.”

  Sean shrugged.

  “Whatever,” he said, downing the rest of his drink with a last, meaningful look at Todd. “But, if you ask me, I’d say you have an uncanny knack of making time for all the wrong people.”

  The next morning dawned crisp and clear over the Fresno district fair. By ten A.M., when Milly arrived, it was sunny enough to warrant the giant sunglasses that obscured the best part of her face and protected her from prying eyes as much as from the intense, crystalline blue sky.

  Having ridden competitively since she was four years old, Milly rarely suffered from pre-race jitters, but today she felt jumpier than a bird in a cattery. This was her first race since becoming T-Mobile’s “English Cowgirl,” and she knew every eye would be on her. She might have felt better if she’d gotten a good night’s sleep. But her conversation with Sean at last night’s party, about Candy and Garth’s affair and her not being a good friend to Amy, kept coming back to her. She’d lain awake for hours, next to a drunkenly snoring Todd, alternating between anger at Sean for sticking his nose in and disappointment in herself, because deep down she knew he was right.

  She’d hoped to drive up to Palos Verdes early this morning, check on Demon before he got loaded into the trailer, and, hopefully, see Amy. Maybe if they drove to the track together it would give them a chance to catch up?

  Unfortunately, her new sponsors had other ideas. A car had arrived at six to whisk her off to a radio interview for KCRW, where some imbecilic DJ had proceeded to ask her a bunch of fatuous questions about ranching and whether she preferred rounding up cattle to horse racing. Then, after a snatched breakfast at Dunkin’ Donuts, where she managed to scald her tongue on coffee that she’d helpfully succeeded in sweetening with salt, it was straight to the racecourse for three solid hours of glad-handing in the corporate hospitality tent.

  Not only had she not seen Amy, or Demon, all morning but Todd had flaked on her yet again. He’d sworn faithfully this morning that he’d be at the track by eleven. But at one o’clock, when she was at last allowed to go change into her silks, there was still no sign of him, or even any message on her cell phone.

  “Asshole,” she muttered under her breath as she climbed up onto the scales. All the smiling and nodding she’d been doing had left her with an aching jaw and a neck as weak as a strand of overcooked spaghetti.

  But as soon as she saw Demon, his tail swishing happily in eagerness for the race ahead and all the attention he was going to get, her heart lifted. Vaulting onto his back, Milly walked him over to the paddock, patting his neck and talking to him constantly. Sadly, even there, with minutes to go before the race, she wasn’t to be allowed any peace. She could have coped with the press photographers. They were easy enough to tune out. But Reuben Goldstein, the pushy little nerd with fishy breath and a striking profusion of nose hair who some lunatic at T-Mobile had assigned as her PR guy, refused to leave her side, running after her and Demon like a shadow.

  “What you gotta remember,” he was telling her in his whiny, reed-thin voice, jogging to keep up as she tried repeatedly to trot away from him, “is to always be camera ready. In layman’s terms, that means smile and know your lines—you’re thrilled to be representing the T-3000, blah, blah, blah. . . . Got it?”

  “Sure, Reuben.” Looking around for any excuse to escape, she was overjoyed to catch sight of Amy making her way over from the stands. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “That’s a friend of mine.” And, nudging Demon into a canter, she rode off, leaving him mid-sentence.

  “Making your escape from Captain Charisma, I see?” said Amy.

  Milly grinned. “Yeah. He’s a nightmare.”

  Sean was right. Amy had lost an astonishing amount of weight. Today she was in jeans and a blue shirt, nothing particularly exciting, but for the first time ever Milly could see her waist. Unfortunately, she also looked terribly pale and drawn. And despite her attempts to put on a cheerful front, her eyes were clearly puffy and red from a very recent bout of crying.

  “But, look, never mind Reuben,” said Milly. “What’s been going on with you? I’ve hardly seen you since— Oh, hang on a sec.”

  A group of teenage boys, egging one another on with nudges and shoves, came up to her with disposable cameras and autograph books, begging for pictures.

  “You’re the Playboy girl, right?” asked the boldest, blushing like a stoplight.

  “Among other things,” said Milly.

  Amy stood back and watched the way her face lit up at the attention. She really was loving it. Needless to say, none of the boys gave her a second glance.

  She tried not to feel resentful. But it was hard. Before Playboy, Milly had been her constant companion. Now she was never, but never, around. Whatever her protestations to the contrary it was clear she reveled in her newfound fame. She justified it by telling herself, and anyone else who’d listen, that all she wanted was to raise enough money to buy back her family home. But more and more that was starting to look like an excuse, a front to allow her to bask in the limelight to her heart’s content.

  She’d changed in other ways too, all too often egged on by Todd. Two weeks ago she’d pulled a no-show at Amy’s birthday dinner, when he offered at the last minute to take her with him to some industry bash in Century City.

  “You understand, don’t you?” she said the next day, calling with a belated and halfhearted apology. “He’s been working so hard recently, I didn’t want to let him down.”

  Of course not, thought Amy. But letting me down—that’s not a problem, is it?

  It was always the same story. Whenever there was a chance that the press might show up at an event, Milly hurtled off like an iron filing toward a magnet. In LA speak, this was known as doing a BBD (bigger, better deal), something the old Milly would have abhorred. But these days she made Paris Hilton look camera shy.

  “Sorry.” Turning away from the boys at last she beamed at Amy. “What were you saying?”

  “Nothing,” said Amy quietly. “I wasn’t saying anything. I never got the chance.”

  “Oh.” Milly looked nonplussed. “Sorry. Oh, come
on, don’t be mad at me. Tell me what’s wrong?”

  Amy longed to tell her. She longed to unburden herself about New York, about Garth and that cheating whore Candy, about the look he’d given her like she was nothing, or worse than nothing, like she was a laughingstock. About the publishers only being interested in a tell-all about her father. About how weird it was to feel so fat and ugly and yet, at the same time, invisible. At least the combined misery of these two events had finally prompted her to lose some weight. But not even that silver lining could stop it hurting or take away her need to confide in someone.

  Months ago that someone would have been Milly. But she was so caught up in her own world now, it was impossible. She wouldn’t have understood.

  “I’m not mad. And nothing’s wrong,” she lied. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. The twins have been worse than usual this week.”

  Both girls turned to look as a stream of riders started moving past them toward the gates.

  “Looks like that’s your cue,” said Amy.

  “Yeah,” said Milly. Their conversation hadn’t exactly been the bonding session she’d hoped for, but there was no time to dwell on it now. Her nerves were back with a vengeance, so much so that she was almost relieved now that Todd hadn’t made it in time. She already felt under more performance pressure than she could bear.

  A few minutes later, Amy had joined Sean front and center in the grandstand, next to an anxious-looking Gill. Jimmy had had to fly up to Canada on urgent business this morning, so for once he wasn’t there to cheer on his protégée. But a record-breaking crowd had turned out to see the Playmate rider in action.

  “D’you want my coat?” said Sean, not waiting for an answer as he slipped off his leather jacket and wrapped it around Amy’s shoulders. “It’s getting cool in this breeze. You’re shivering like mad.”

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m nervous for Milly, that’s all.” Despite her recent self-absorption, the real Milly was still in there somewhere. Amy wasn’t ready to give up on her just yet. “I really want her to do well out there.”