Charlotte and the Starlet Read online

  Oh no. She was about to score a direct hit on the boss!

  At the last second Strudworth's horse moved forward and the boots slammed down behind her. Miss Strudworth turned back quickly and scanned. She was sure she had heard two quick thuds but there was nothing in sight. It must have been her imagination. She checked her watch. Right on six. She raised the whistle to her lips.

  Up above, Charlotte began to relax. It could have been so much worse. Now, if she could just wriggle back to her room ... CRACK!!!

  She was falling through the air before she realised the branch had broken. The ground was rapidly rising up to meet her, although she was actually heading for the water tank.

  She hit it dead centre, at the very instant Strudworth was about to blow her whistle. The good thing was that the water broke Charlotte's fall. The bad thing was the obvious one. She was now soaking wet. Charlotte fought her way to the surface of the tank. As the water drained out of her eardrums the first thing she heard was the gale of laughter from the assembled riders. Even though it hadn't been her fault, she wished there were some way she could just burrow down into the earth and hide there for a hundred years. She contemplated remaining in the tank but knew that too would only make things worse.

  Slowly she pulled herself up. The sight that greeted her made her wish she had merely been hung, drawn and quartered. Miss Strudworth was still seated on her horse but she was absolutely soaked. Water dripped off the peak of her riding helmet. Her face was stone.

  'Sorry, Miss,' mumbled Charlotte, as she dropped down from the tank to the ground and retrieved her boots. Charlotte was aware the other girls were trying to avoid eye contact with her in case they got tarred with the same brush. As she put on her boots she saw Strudworth try to write something on her clipboard. The paper was so wet it ripped.

  'Stables,' commanded Strudworth. But when she tried to blow her whistle all that came out was a bubbly burr. Charlotte didn't dare look back as she ran hard to get her horse.

  Leila was considering what she would give right now for a half dozen croissants when the gate flew open and the rube, soaking wet and looking like the creature from the black lagoon, threw a bridle over her. Leila fought hard but the kid was a whole lot stronger than she looked. Before Leila knew it there was a saddle on her back, bright and new and actually quite classy and then – aaaahhhhhh – Leila had to breathe in quickly as the cinch strap snapped around her belly. She fought with all her might but the bridle couldn't be resisted and, centimetre by centimetre, she felt herself dragged out of the stall, through the stable and out to the parade ground, where the grey mare and the rest of the horses were standing in a straight line like the palm trees on Wilshire Boulevard.

  Miss Strudworth watched the Richards girl struggling with the filly. She doubted she would last a week.

  'Riders, mount!' she commanded and all the girls mounted with alacrity and poise, except for Richards, who was having a devil of a time with the pretty bay. 'Just a light canter around the property.'

  The girls moved off efficiently with one exception; Richards' mount was doughnutting like a hooligan in a V8 doing burnouts on a lawn.

  Charlotte was frustrated and would not let Cher win. No way. She finally broke out of the doughnut and into a canter. She hoped that would be it now, that she had established who was boss.

  To Leila, this was just another Sarah-Jane in different clothing. She'd got rid of one, she would get rid of the other. She suddenly broke for a tree with low branches, just like the one that had Sarah-Jane seeing stars.

  Unlike Sarah-Jane, Charlotte was a true horsewoman, not an actor who could ride a bit. When she saw the tree coming at her she dropped straight back like a limbo dancer, the bough passing over her nose.

  Leila couldn't believe it. The rube was still on her back. How was that possible?

  But Leila had many more tricks up her saddlecloth. She began galloping after the other riders and then, just as she felt Charlie relax, she hit the brakes.

  The sudden stop caught Charlotte by surprise and she flew over the horse's head and landed hard on her backside. As she struggled to her knees, she could just see the other riders disappearing in the distance. Cher was standing there, smugly.

  'You horrible, wretched, stupid beast,' she said as she dusted herself off.

  'If I'm so stupid, how come you're the one picking dirt out of your teeth?' the horse replied.

  Without thinking, Charlotte snapped back, 'You had the element of surprise. You won't get that again.'

  The horse was dismissive. 'Pull your breeches down, your voice is muffled.'

  'Very funny,' said Charlotte. 'You can't even talk. You're a horse.'

  Charlotte folded her arms triumphantly, convinced she had won the argument. And then it dawned on her what she had just said. This was a horse. It couldn't talk. She must be imagining it.

  'No, you're not imagining it,' said the horse, as if reading her mind. 'I could talk a whole lot better if you took this stupid bridle off.'

  Charlotte pinched herself. She could feel it clearly. Okay, she wasn't dreaming. But there must be a logical explanation. She must have bumped her head when she fell. Anxiously she felt over her head for blood.

  The horse spoke again. 'You didn't fall. I threw you.'

  Charlotte shook her head. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she slowly opened her eyes. Cher seemed to be standing impassively where she had been before. Tentatively, Charlotte advanced towards her. With each step she took she felt more confident that she had imagined the whole episode. Cher continued to stand there, not moving. Now she was right beside her. Charlotte sighed with relief.

  'I was imagining it.' She stopped to pick up her helmet.

  'No you were-en't,' came that annoying sing-song voice.

  Charlotte almost jumped out of her skin. No, this was not happening.

  The horse spoke up again. 'Will you hurry up and get this bridle off? Come on. I'll tell you all about me.'

  Without understanding what was truly happening or why she was doing this, Charlotte complied and removed the bridle.

  'Much better,' said the horse when it was off. 'By the way, the name is Leila. Not "Cher". And while I've got your attention let's lay down a few ground rules: I want burgers or pizza, none of that corn and hay stuff, I am not to be disturbed before midday and never, ever plait my mane. Now if you'll be so good as to find a phone and call my producer ...'

  The words were just a fog but Charlotte picked out the word producer.

  'Producer?'

  'Don't you recognise me? I'm a movie star, for goodness sake. People say it was J-Lo made curvy butts fashionable again – uh uh. She got the idea after she saw me in the powder room at the Four Seasons. I don't mind, though, me and J-Lo are like that ...'

  The horse who called herself Leila crossed her legs. She continued. 'And take a look ... Familiar?' She turned three hundred and sixty degrees, modelling.

  Charlotte thought she could see a vague resemblance. 'Barbie's Star?'

  Leila nodded proudly. 'Of course, they screwed up the legs, much too chunky. Look at these pins. Now, can you tell me exactly where I am?'

  By now Charlotte was no longer resisting. She felt like Alice in Wonderland, embracing the madness.

  'Australia.'

  'I've never been interested in skiing but the aprèsski bar had always appealed.'

  'I think you're talking about Austria.'

  Leila's eyes went the size of softballs.

  'Australia! That place with killer spiders and ... CROCODILES!!! Oh my God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die.'

  Charlotte folded her arms. The horse could talk but it clearly wasn't that well read.

  'There aren't any crocodiles in this part of the country.' She saw Leila relax and took great pleasure in adding, 'Snakes and poisonous spiders, yeah.'

  'SNAKES!!!' yelled Leila. 'This is like being on Survivor without the cameras.'

  Later, as they trudged back to the stables, Charlotte
was still shaking her head.

  'A talking horse. No-one's going to believe this.'

  'Exactly. 'Cause you're not going to tell them. And even if you did, who is going to believe a rube like you?'

  'Rube?'

  'Yeah. Doofus, schmuck, nancy no-friends. They won't believe a word you say.'

  Charlotte couldn't understand her attitude.

  'Think of how famous you'd be.'

  Leila pointed out she was already famous. 'You think I need hypodermics in my butt, electrodes in my brain and a lot of egg-head scientists prescribing a low-fat diet? I'd be ready for the padded stall before you could crack your whip. I'm sorry I even opened my big mouth.'

  That annoyed Charlotte.

  'You can trust me, you know. In fact, we have to be friends if we're going to make the JOES.'

  Leila had had enough. She didn't need friends, she needed an agent. And a little chilled strawberry milkshake wouldn't go astray.

  'Think you can rustle up a "shake du strawberre"? I'm parched.'

  Charlotte decided not to respond. Okay, a talking horse was amazing but, if she thought Charlotte would play the servant role, she had another think coming.

  The other girls had long since arrived back and now, as they came within the immediate vicinity of the recreation area, Charlotte could smell barbecued sausages and hear the strains of 'Kumbaya' floating over the field. When she got closer she saw Miss Strudworth was strumming an acoustic guitar enthusiastically, bellowing out the vocals like an auctioneer at the cattle sales. All the girls had earphones in and were listening to those iPod things. Charlotte would have killed for a sausage.

  'I hope you're happy. I haven't eaten all day and now I'm too late for the barbecue.'

  'Believe me, you could do with a couple less pounds.'

  Charlotte led Leila to the stables, removed her saddle and began brushing her.

  'Up and to the left,' commanded Leila.

  'We have to talk about the JOES,' began Charlotte.

  'No hurdles, no stupid prancing ... and those leg-breaking brick walls, no way. One scratch on this flank and it's goodbye Melrose.'

  'What?'

  'It's a cool street in Los Angeles where gals like me hang out.'

  'I'm a good rider. You won't get hurt.'

  The kid just didn't get it. 'I'll make you a deal. You call my producer Joel Gold, tell him where to find me, I'll get you a signed photo of Sarah-Jane Sweeney.'

  'Who's she?' asked Charlotte.

  'My point exactly. When I get out of here I'm switching to serious drama. I got this idea: Nelson Mandela as a filly ... daring, good looking and above all, completely and utterly selfless. I wouldn't even have to act.'

  'Okay. I'll call your producer as soon as we make the JOES.'

  Leila snapped. 'What do you think I am? A charity? I'm an actor, kid. I don't help anybody, I entertain, get it? That's my gift to the world. It's much better than actually helping.'

  Charlotte folded her arms defiantly. 'Now, you listen here ...'

  But then she pulled up, sensing something was different. She looked around to see The Evil Three staring at her as if she were a dead bug in the soup.

  Chapter 9

  'Who were you talking to?' asked Emma accusingly.

  Charlotte couldn't admit to talking to a horse. 'Um ... myself.'

  The others swapped the sort of looks that Charlotte's dad and the other stockmen swapped when they had to get into a pen with a mad bull.

  'I heard two voices,' said Lucinda.

  Rebecca was still half-deaf from last night's experiment with Emma's phone but, wanting to be useful, added, 'I saw her lips moving.'

  'Two voices, one talking about acting or something.' Emma's look bored into Charlotte.

  'And you're the only one in here,' said Lucinda weightily.

  Charlotte was still trying to work out a plausible answer.

  'Are you schizo?' asked Emma.

  Rebecca said, 'She could be possessed by the devil. In horror movies that always happens.'

  Charlotte glared at her. Rebecca shrank back.

  Lucinda sighed. 'Look, we just came to tell you that we think it would be better if you moved to another room. And if you're schizo, well, you know, you might need two beds anyway.'

  The others nodded, as if this made sense. Charlotte was very angry now.

  'I'm not schizo, okay?'

  Emma shrugged. 'Well, there's only you and the horse. I guess she was the one talking?'

  'Actually, she was.'

  Charlotte regretted it as soon as it was out of her mouth but she couldn't stop now. 'I know it's pretty crazy. In fact, I thought it might have been you guys playing a trick on me. But it's her. She can speak like a human.' She turned to Leila. 'Go on, show them.'

  Leila was horrified by this course of events. She regretted having spoken up to the rube. Loneliness, she guessed. Fortunately, this kid Charlie was seen as the local fruitcake anyway so all she had to do was keep quiet. Which she did.

  Charlotte grew very angry.

  'She's just doing this to annoy me. Come on, Leila, tell them about your new project.'

  When Charlotte looked back, the other girls had already backed away to the stable's entrance. Then they were gone.

  'Now look what you've done,' she snapped at Leila.

  Miss Strudworth straightened the bone china in the cabinet that had occupied this room since old Tobias' days. She was still a little wounded from that horrible caricature. She glanced across at the large photograph of her favourite royal, Princess Anne. You know what it's like, she thought. She had met the Princess once. In competition. That marvellous memory drew her gaze to the big glass case in the middle of the room where her wonderful pony, Zucchini, stared back at her through glassy eyes. It was ten years now since Zucchini had passed away. She'd had him stuffed and placed here so that she'd always have at least one companion. She moved over to the mantlepiece and dusted the trophies she had won as a young girl. First in dressage, first in jumps, first in cross-country. There had been a time when Miss Strudworth had hoped she might have had to scrunch up those trophies to fit the trophies of a husband on the shelf but, alas, it was not to be. Now at the age of forty-two, she had resigned herself to being purely and simply Miss Strudworth, the very best equestrian mentor in the southern hemisphere.

  A knock on the door derailed her train of thought.

  'Enter.'

  Three of the precocious princesses shuffled in. Strudworth wondered what on earth this would be about. A cable service not working? Poor reception on their mobile phones? No wood-fired pizza?

  'Yes?' she enquired, raising an eyebrow that said don't waste my time.

  The Evil Three brought Strudworth up-to-date with Charlotte's weird behaviour in the stables.

  Rebecca was now going on about her brother and sister.

  'I mean, they're in therapy but that's only because it's like ... cool, you know? They're not actually mad.'

  Strudworth pointed out that there was little evidence to suggest Charlotte Richards was mad.

  'I do applaud you all for your heartfelt concern for a fellow student.'

  'Yeah, great,' said Emma, 'but does that mean we get her out of our room? What if she attacks us or something?'

  Strudworth said there was no reason to believe Charlotte was violent.

  Lucinda had seen her father wield the threat of the law like an axe and now she demonstrated the family lineage. She said that if Strudworth was prepared to take that position in court, she supposed it was her call.

  'But you know, if the unimaginable did happen and say we woke up and found she'd ...'

  'Plucked our eyebrows without permission.' Rebecca felt good about that addition.

  'Right, or, you know, worse, taken a knife –' began Emma.

  'And cut a hole in our Dolce and Gabbana outfits ...' Lucinda suggested.

  'But in a really uncool way,' added Rebecca, wanting to emphasise the point.

  'Then the damag
es bill would be – oh, think of a seven-digit number?'

  Lucinda smiled that killer smile of hers.

  Strudworth felt the blood drain from her face. A settlement like that would cost her Thornton Downs. She barely met expenses as it was. What could she do? She couldn't lose the place. No, they really gave her no choice. Besides, Richards might be better off on her own.

  Charlotte stared at her new room. Bare concrete walls and floors, if you didn't count the pipes that ran into the ceiling. No windows. And it was hot and stuffy from the boiler in the corner. Miss Strudworth pointed brightly at the fold-up camp bed.

  'Quite cosy, really. You can use the bathroom on the second floor. And I'll get a clothes rack put outside for you.'

  The room might be the pits but it was better than having to share with those witches. Charlotte put down her backpack, saying nothing. Strudworth coughed with embarrassment.

  'But before you really settle in I'd like you to come and meet Mr Hatcher, the academy counsellor. He wants to know all about the, er, horse.'

  Mr Hatcher was a balding, pudgy man with glasses and a dirty bow-tie. His desk was cluttered with old coffee mugs and saucers with crumbs on them. It took up most of the small office, which was somewhere on the ground floor near the kitchen area. Hatcher rocked back on his big leather chair and looked over the notes in front of him. Every now and again he darted a lustful glance towards an open packet of chocolate biscuits but he resisted taking one, although he desperately wanted to hoe in.

  Charlotte sat patiently on a small chair, wishing she were riding Stormy through the red desert. Seemingly satisfied with his notes, Hatcher looked up at Charlotte.

  'So, Leila ...'

  'Charlotte. Leila's the horse.'

  Hatcher was stunned at the response – and thrilled. This much so soon!

  'Ah, I see,' he said to himself as he scrawled 'dual personality' on the pad in front of him. 'The horse is Leila and you are Charlotte.'

  He leaned in close, hoping to penetrate the dissociative personality right off. But the girl simply stared at him. 'Can you tell me, Leila ...'