Going Too Far

by Catherine Alliott

  I gulped. ‘Um, no, no, it’s fine, Pippa, leave it to me,’ I croaked. ‘I’ll – I’ll get back to you about hotels and, um,’ I gasped, ‘kennels.’

  ‘Great. Speak to you soon. Sorry I haven’t got time to gas, but we’ll have a long gossip when I come down – I’ve loads to tell you. See you in ten days!’

  ‘Look forward to it,’ I said weakly.

  I replaced the receiver and walked, rather shakily, upstairs. I gazed out of my bedroom window at the pastoral scene below. All was quiet, all was tranquil. In the distance I could see Nick leaning against the tractor, talking to Larry, who was fixing a wheel. The field beyond them was dotted with sheep and young lambs, and the one beyond that with cows and their calves. In ten days’ time they’d be dotted with lights, cameras, vans, trucks, a film crew, actors and twenty mad, rampaging dogs. My mouth felt inexplicably dry, my hands clammy. Blimey. What the hell had I done?

  Chapter Five

  Three days passed, four, five – still I hadn’t told him. On the sixth day I took my courage into my trembling hands and decided tonight was the night.

  I stole into Helston and bought the best fillet steak money could buy, a packet of the ubiquitous jam-tart pastry, and a tin of pâté. Originally, I’d imagined myself lovingly creating the last two components, but fear had got the better of my culinary skills and it was all I could do to slap the pâté on the fillet, cover it with frozen pastry and shove the whole lot in the oven before staggering to the wheel-back chair by the Aga and collapsing in a petrified heap.

  Mrs Bradshaw, who was pretending to clean out a cupboard, was eyeing my preparations with amusement.

  ‘Got a dinner party then, ’ave you?’

  ‘Er, yes, something like that, Mrs Bradshaw,’ I muttered, biting my nails.

  ‘Pulling out all the stops for this one, ain’t you?’ she smirked. ‘Made a pudding, ’ave you? Or is that frozen too?’

  ‘What?’ I was miles away – in the far field actually – wrestling with a rabid dog who’d got his jaws clasped tightly round a lamb’s neck. ‘A pudding? No, no that’s … that’s me!’

  I leaped up. God, forget the dinner, there were some serious preparations to do – I had to go and make myself alluring; we were talking a couple of hours here.

  I fled upstairs and ran a hot bath, pouring as many smellies into it as I could lay my hands on. I wallowed for a long while, letting the extract of horse chestnut do its steamy business and eyeing my tummy and thighs nervously.

  Luckily, the diet I’d chosen to follow over the last six days had been amazingly successful. It was called the too-bloody-terrified-to-eat diet. Every time I’d got a morsel of food near my mouth, I’d felt as sick as a dog, which had reminded me of the twenty or so soon to be marauding through our fields, which had reminded me in turn of Nick’s unamused face, which had instantly made me drop whatever it was I’d been contemplating sending down the red lane.

  Consequently, I’d lost about half a stone already, a hell of a lot, but was it enough, I wondered nervously, eyeing the basque hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I hadn’t had the nerve to try it on yet, but time would tell. I stepped out of the bath, dried myself and stepped gingerly into the garment.

  Time did tell. Half an hour later I was still wriggling around on my bedroom floor, squeezing bits of recalcitrant flesh into position as I tugged on the coat hanger that I’d slotted into the zip for extra leverage.

  ‘Breathe in and – pull!’ I muttered for the umpteenth time. ‘Breathe in and – pull!’ Jesus, the zip must be stuck or something, or the basque must have shrunk in the wash, because this was just ridiculous! There was no way I was this fat, no way!

  I was working up a sensational sweat now, my hands were dripping wet and slipping off the coat hanger every time I tugged at it, my fringe was plastered nicely to my forehead and the rest of my hair was frizzing attractively in the heat. But I wasn’t giving up, no way. I gritted my teeth and tried again, wrestling with the zip. No way, José, I was not giving up! I breathed in so hard my chest hit my chin, gave the zip one last superhuman wrench and – yes! It rocketed up to the top. I’d done it! It was up!

  I lay there beaming with relief, albeit somewhat numbly. You see, I couldn’t move, I was paralysed from chest to hips. I could move my neck, my shoulders and anything bottomwards, but anything pertaining to the torso was locked into the vicelike grip of this deceptively flimsy, lacy undergarment. My waist for instance. Impossible. I simply didn’t have one any more, didn’t bend in the middle; I had a poker for a backbone.

  There was precious little scope for breathing either. One had to sort of – well, hyperventilate really. I gave it a go. Yes – short, chuggy breaths, that was the answer, going no further than the throat, and certainly not down to the lungs or tummy, a short circuit of nose, mouth and not much else. I practised for a bit and when I’d mastered it, decided it was time to try standing up.

  I wriggled over to my bed and, with a little help from my bedside table, levered myself slowly upright. I swayed slightly as everything sorted itself out – blood, heart, lungs, kidneys, liver – they were all having to relinquish their old slots and jostle for new positions and the jostling was having an unfortunate effect on my equilibrium. I steadied myself on the wall and when I was sure at least a smidgen of oxygen had got to my brain, blinked hard and prepared for the acid test.

  With my shoulders necessarily pushed up somewhere near my ears and my arms swinging around like an ape, I turned and addressed the mirror. I blinked. Gosh. Well, the top half didn’t look too bad, I spilled riotously over in what could almost be called a voluptuous, alluring manner. Unfortunately I spilled out at the bottom too, just as voluptuously, but not quite so alluringly. I frowned at the rolling flesh which galloped so wantonly around my thighs. Where on earth had it all come from? Some of it was stuff I’d never even seen before.

  I deliberately went a bit cross-eyed, thus blurring my vision as I went for The Whole Effect. Hmmm … The Whole Effect was rather like a particularly porky sausage in the grip of a very determined bandage, but still, I consoled myself, it was really only the top half that mattered. By the time he’d got down to this stage the basque would be coming off anyway, wouldn’t it?

  Suddenly I froze. Heavy footsteps were coming down the corridor towards me. Christ, Nick! I just had time to throw on a dressing gown as he poked his head around the door.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I twittered nervously. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason, just haven’t seen you for a while.’ He stared. ‘You look awfully pink, Polly, and what’s happened to your hair?’

  ‘Oh, er, it’s just gone a bit frizzy, that’s all – hot bath.’

  ‘Just what I’m going to have, see you later.’ He almost went, then popped his head back. ‘Incidentally, something in the oven smelled a bit suspect. I turned it off but you might take a look.’ He disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.

  Christ, the beef! I quickly toned down my florid face with some talc, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and with a little help from the banisters, lowered myself painfully downstairs to see what was cooking.

  Burning was more like it. I pulled it from the oven and saw at a glance that the black pastry would have to go. I picked it off with a knife and was relieved to see that it had at least protected the fillet which, though cooked to distraction, still vaguely resembled a piece of meat. I threw some broccoli into one pan, some new potatoes into another and then, all cooked out, hobbled into the drawing room in search of something horizontal on which to prostrate myself.

  Breathing in an upright position was becoming a real problem now; my insides were being crushed to smithereens and only a prone position seemed to give any sort of relief. I lowered myself painfully on to the sofa, thinking that what I really wanted to do was take this bloody thing off and have a telly supper and an early night. Never mind, it would all be over soon, and no pleasure without pain, et ceter
a, et cetera. I lay still, trying to sneak some air into my lungs. Damn, I’d forgotten to light the candles in the dining room. I struggled to get up. Sod the candles. I collapsed on my back and shut my eyes, experiencing a bit of head rush. Five minutes later, Nick strode into the room.

  ‘Hello, darling, feeling tired?’ He bent over and dropped a kiss on my recumbent form. ‘Gosh, you’re still pretty hot. Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Fine, fine!’ I bleated.

  ‘The kitchen smells a bit more appetizing now. What are we having?’

  ‘Oh, just a little boeuf en cr … boeuf en its own, and some seasonal vegetables straight from the garden, lovingly garnished with melted butter and freshly ground black pepper. Nothing very exciting.’ I smiled weakly.

  ‘Sounds great. I could just do with a bloody great steak. Shall I lay the table?’

  ‘It’s OK, I’ve done it.’

  ‘Really? Not when I last looked.’

  ‘Oh, not in the kitchen, I thought we’d eat in the dining room.’

  ‘Oh? Who’s coming?’

  ‘No one, I just thought it would be nice for a change.’

  Nick looked surprised. ‘Oh! Oh, right, fine.’ He rubbed his hands together and grinned. ‘Well, let’s go then, shall we? I’m starving.’

  ‘Absolutely! Let’s eat!’ I grinned maniacally back. I simply couldn’t move.

  Nick started towards the door, then turned back. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing really, it’s just I twisted my ankle today and I can’t seem to put much weight on it. You couldn’t sort of help me, could you?’

  ‘Sure.’ Nick hauled me up, much the same way as one would haul up a drawbridge. Plank-like. He frowned.

  ‘Does it hurt much?’

  ‘Good Lord, no.’ I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, not much at all. You go on and I’ll just go and put the finishing touches to supper.’

  Walking like Arnie Schwarzenegger, all chest and pectorals, and breathing like an underwater diver, I disappeared off to the kitchen, where I immediately sensed that supper was not going to be the gastronomic delight I’d hoped for. The vegetables were not so much boiled as puréed, and the beef had a barbecued look about it. Still, there was plenty of it and Nick never really minded what he ate as long as it was abundant. I piled the plates high, tottered back into the dining room and, bending at the knees rather than the waist, lowered his plate in front of him.

  ‘This looks great,’ said Nick dubiously.

  ‘Good.’

  I tottered round and stood by my chair, eyeing it nervously. Would I be able to sit down? Let alone eat? Nick looked up at me.

  ‘Well, come on, let’s eat while it’s still hot.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Come on then, sit!’ he said impatiently, grasping his knife and fork.

  ‘I thought I might stand, actually.’

  ‘Stand? What, to eat supper?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that my ankle –’

  ‘Polly, your ankle will feel a damn sight better if you sit down and take your weight off it. Now come on, you’re being really peculiar. What the hell’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’ I pulled out my chair, bent my knees, and keeping my torso ramrod straight, limbo-danced into it. Somehow I managed to slide into a semi-upright position with my buttocks perched right at the very front of the chair and my head resting on the back.

  Nick regarded me over the table. He could just about see my face over the mahogany. I smiled winningly. He sighed, shook his head wearily and began his meal.

  ‘So, um, what sort of a day have you had, darling?’ I began brightly, toying with a piece of broccoli that was just about level with my nose.

  ‘Pretty good, actually, the lambs are all doing really well now. I’ll probably wean them soon, put the ewes in the meadow by the wood and move the lambs into the back field. It’ll give the grass a bit of a rest too.’

  ‘Great, great,’ I croaked.

  I was beginning to feel most unpleasant. My circulation had clearly been completely cut off at the tummy and I was having violent rushes of blood facewards. It was on fire, absolutely flaming, and I could hardly feel my legs.

  ‘It’s good for the grass to have a rest, is it?’ I gasped.

  Christ, this was hopeless. I’d never get to the pudding stage; I was in too much pain. As soon as he’d finished what he was saying about the sheep, I’d whip my T-shirt off and get it over with. OK, so the seduction scene would come a little earlier than anticipated and he might not have finished his potatoes, but what the hell, anything would be better than this agony.

  ‘Oh, without a doubt, you can’t keep sheep grazing a field indefinitely. It strips the goodness out and …’ And so he went on. And on and on.

  More and more blood was rushing round my head now. I didn’t know I had so much. Feeling sick and woozy, I concentrated like mad on Nick’s face, on his voice, waiting for a gap in the dialogue, willing him to pause. Of course, it wouldn’t do to undress when he was in the middle of explaining the grazing rotation, but the moment there was the briefest lull, I’d be in there. I clutched the bottom of my T-shirt, ready at a moment’s notice to whip it over my head, but all of a sudden I had to transfer my hands to the table to steady myself. Nick’s face was getting fuzzier and fuzzier, his voice fainter and fainter.

  From my perspective everything went white, my head felt as if it was going to explode and in one spectacular close-up, the carpet zoomed up to meet me. From Nick’s perspective I probably went an attractive shade of purple, foamed at the mouth and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  When I came to, I was lying on a sofa in the drawing room. I had a blanket over me and Nick was kneeling beside me, looking anxious.

  ‘Polly? Polly, can you hear me, are you all right?’ His sweet, much-loved voice was full of concern.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ I croaked. ‘Much better, actually. Did I faint?’

  ‘I’ll say – you put the fear of God into me. One minute you were sitting opposite me and the next thing I knew you were flat on your back on the carpet!’

  ‘Well, you know me,’ I grinned weakly, ‘any time, any place. The slightest opportunity, the least provocation.’

  ‘Well, quite, and that’s another thing, what’s with the kinky underwear?’

  I clutched my torso, I was naked under the blanket.

  ‘My basque! Where is it?’

  Nick held it up. ‘I took it off – it was crushing the air out of you. No wonder you fainted; it left great weals on your body where those sticks had dug into you. I had no idea you were into bondage and all that sort of thing, Polly, why didn’t you say?’ He looked keen, if a little nervous.

  I groaned. ‘It’s boned, that’s all, to keep it up. It’s not supposed to be masochistic, just sexy.’

  ‘Really? It looks like an instrument of torture to me.’

  ‘Well, I was a bit thinner when I last wore it, perhaps it was a bit ambitious.’

  ‘A bit!’ Nick guffawed loudly. ‘I’ll say! You must have used a shoe horn to get into it. I should try losing a couple of stone before you try this little number on again, Polly!’

  A couple? I ground my teeth. That hurt. I sat up, clutching my blanket around me.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry it looked so hideous,’ I snapped. ‘I only put it on for your benefit, you know. I don’t enjoy having my insides crushed to a pulp.’

  Nick looked puzzled. ‘My benefit? Why?’

  I bit my lip. ‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ I muttered. Not now, Polly, this was definitely not the right time.

  ‘Come on, darling, please tell me or I’ll worry.’

  Or was it? I looked at his face: anxious, concerned, loving. Yes, why not? When better, in fact? Here I was, stark naked under a blanket, having recently fainted. I was in an extremely delicate, vulnerable condition, wasn’t I? He was hardly likely to ball me out, now was he?

  I let the blanket fall down a bit to reveal some cleavage, gazed up
at him through my eyelashes, and let my bottom lip wobble a bit.

  ‘OK, but don’t be cross, promise?’ I whispered.

  Big mistake. Nick regarded me grimly. ‘Cut the crap, Polly, what’s going on?’

  Damn. I sighed. ‘Well, you see, I wanted to get round you, to ask you something.’

  ‘I gathered that, but is it so awful that you had to get dressed up like Miss Whiplash?’

  ‘Well … the thing is,’ I lied, ‘Pippa asked me to do her an enormous favour, and in a very weak moment I agreed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ I struggled on, feeling a bit sick, ‘I promised her she could sort of use the house. Just for a bit.’

  He frowned. ‘The house? What for?’

  I squirmed, curling my toes up tight. ‘Well, for a shoot, actually, a commercial. As a kind of … location.’

  His face turned to stone. ‘You what?’

  ‘Well, yes, I know I shouldn’t have done, stupid of me really, but she was desperate, you see, Nick. She’d been to see all these different houses and none of them were any good and she said this would be ideal. She was looking so down about it all and not looking forward to telling her boss she’d had a wasted journey and’ – I swallowed hard – ‘well, I just sort of found myself saying yes.’

  Nick stared at me. ‘Well, you can just sort of find yourself saying no,’ he said quietly, his eyes narrowing to two little pieces of flint.

  I gasped, and clutched his arm. ‘What! Oh no! No, Nick, I can’t, you see, I promised.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he snapped, shaking my hand off. ‘There is absolutely no way I’m having a commercial shot here – I’m amazed you even considered it. Did you really think I’d welcome a film crew traipsing all over my house, tramping through the garden, not to mention wrecking the crops and frightening the animals? No, I’m sorry, Polly, it’s out of the question and if you don’t telephone Pippa right now and tell her so, I will.’

  ‘Oh, but, Nick, I can’t!’ I wailed, wringing my hands. ‘She’ll have arranged everything by now – she’ll kill me! Please think it over, we’d get paid really well, you know, you could put a new roof on the barn, maybe even buy some more livestock, it would be a new lease of life for the farm!’