Finula picked up on his frame of mind immediately. ‘You all right, Dylan?’ she asked, passing him his fresh orange. Since celebrating his win at Newmarket, he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol.
‘Not really. I think I’m having a mid-life crisis.’
Finula raised an eyebrow. ‘At thirty? I doubt it,’ she laughed. Then realising he was serious she stopped. ‘What’s the matter, Dylan?’ she asked in a sincere tone.
Why not tell her? It might do him good to offload. Finula would be discreet, he knew. So he did. He relayed how he had met a girl with whom he had a lot in common, got to know her, like her, then messed up big time.
‘I take it she’s read the article about your night of passion with Sadie Stringfellow?’
He nodded pitifully. ‘She saw us. She was here in the pub. I just hadn’t noticed her.’
Finula frowned, wondering who she was. Probably someone who lived, locally if she was here. Then she remembered a blonde girl sitting alone in the corner that evening after her friends had left. It was Flora, who worked in the stables at Treweham Hall.
‘It’s Flora, isn’t it?’ Finula asked quietly.
‘Yes.’ Dylan looked at Finula, and his blue eyes were so sad she actually felt sorry for him.
‘Have you tried talking to her?’
‘Yes. She won’t listen. Told me to piss off.’
‘Give it time. She’s only young.’
‘Flora may only be twenty, but she’s the most genuine person I know.’
‘Then don’t give up, Dylan. Persevere. She’ll come round if you’re really contrite.’
