Dead Heat by Nick Oldham Page A

unexpected that it was Charlotte’s mother.
    â€˜Hello,’ he said.
    â€˜Mind if I join you?’
    He shuffled uncomfortably in the plastic chair. ‘Er, not at all,’ he frowned.
    She sat opposite, cradling her mug of steaming coffee in her hands. She placed a plastic lunch box down by her feet. She blew on the hot liquid. ‘I’m Charlotte’s mum,’ she said. Henry nodded. ‘And you are Leanne’s dad.’ He nodded again. He closed his newspaper. He had moved on to a story about Blackpool and its planned regeneration as the Las Vegas and gambling capital of Europe, which he doubted would ever happen. He folded the paper to one side and gave his attention to the lady sitting opposite, who, he noticed for the first time at such close range, was extremely attractive.
    She had well-cared-for, shiny, bobbed blonde hair, wide blue eyes, a slightly flat, elf-like nose and a full mouth which looked very biteable. Her chin was the feature that, if anything, let her down. It was slightly square and jutting, giving her face a hard edge that, as Henry appraised her more, took away the first impression, but only to a few degrees. She was dressed sloppily in loose sweatshirt and jeans.
    It was the first time he had ever been so close to her. He had been aware of her dropping Charlotte off in the past and picking her up again an hour later, but he had only seen glimpses of her in one of several classy motors. He got the impression she was good looking (and knew it) and was obviously loaded, but had thought no more about her. In his newly adopted role in life of being a devoted husband and loving father – as opposed to his former mantle of adulterer and absent parent – he had surgically cut out registering the presence and possibilities of other women. All he wanted now was a simple life without complex entanglements and he never thought about other women any more. At least that had been the case for the last four months and it was his intention for it to be so for the rest of his life.
    He assumed that, for whatever reason, Charlotte’s mum was having to stay on site to wait for her daughter today instead of dumping her and collecting later, and all she wanted was to pass the time by chatting with someone caught in the same situation.
    â€˜Your daughter’s riding is coming along well.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Henry. ‘She’s really keen.’
    â€˜Charlotte’s been riding for some years now and wasn’t getting any better. That’s why we decided to bring her here so she could see how other girls were getting along, maybe help her get better.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Henry, uncomprehending.
    â€˜Since meeting Leanne she has improved.’
    â€˜Good,’ said Henry, still puzzled about what was going on here. ‘She was at another riding school, then?’ he probed.
    â€˜No, we gave her lessons at home.’
    â€˜In the living room?’
    â€˜No,’ she laughed. ‘We have stables and a small indoor arena.’
    â€˜Oh, right, of course you do.’
    â€˜You’re confused . . .’ The woman held out her hand. Henry shook it. It was hot from holding the coffee. ‘My name’s Tara . . . Tara Wickson.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you. I’m Henry Christie.’
    She had shrugged when she said her name, in a gesture which seemed to suggest Henry should know who she was.
    He did not and knew she would have to reveal more if anything further was likely to dawn on him. ‘Wow . . . you’ve got your own stables,’ he said for something to say, trying to sound impressed.
    â€˜Yes, we have a couple of race horses and some jumpers.’
    Henry’s face showed shock and distaste. He could no longer hold back his feelings.
    â€˜You don’t like horses,’ Tara said with a lop-sided smile.
    â€˜Can’t think of one horse on my Christmas card list. I suppose they’re a necessary