The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights

by Sarah Lefebve

  She followed his line of sight straight to the upright and correct figure of her uncle, Dominic Stanthorpe. Dressage rider extraordinaire, or so a certain gushing woman’s mag had once labelled him. ‘Are you having a go at Uncle Dom again? And how do you know he can’t rise to the occasion?’ She raised an eyebrow, then held up a hand as he opened his mouth to answer. ‘No, on second thoughts, don’t go there. I don’t want to know what the latest trailer-trash gossip is. I like Uncle Dom.’

  ‘You like everyone, darling. Which is why you call so many shits your friends.’

  ‘And are you one of those many shits?’ She checked Flash’s bridle as she spoke, straightening the bit, running a finger along the curb, trying not to be concerned whether he answered or not. ‘Maybe you should try her in a hackamore?’

  ‘Maybe I should put my name on the suicide watch.’ His tone was dry. ‘And no, Charlott-ie,’ his firm, dry lips came down lightly over hers, ‘I try not to shit on my own doorstep.’ He pulled down the stirrup leathers and Flash, who’d gone back to resting a leg, nearly fell over as he landed lightly in the saddle.

  Lottie grinned as they staggered sideways. ‘Never seen a half pass performed half-mounted before. Can you do them when you’re in the saddle too?’

  ‘Smart-arse.’ Rory gave her the finger and straightened his hat. ‘Maybe you should let the dogs out; might be a good distraction.’

  She smiled and dropped a kiss on the mare’s velvet soft nose, breathing in the horsey smell. ‘Try and stay in the ring this time darling.’ Flash snorted in response, not a good sign, her nostrils flaring until she could see the pink lining.

  ‘What the fuck is he doing here in this backwater, anyway?’ Rory was still staring suspiciously over in Dom’s direction.

  Lottie shrugged. ‘Gran probably told him, so he could keep an eye on us.’

  ‘Oh great, so we trek all the way out here where nobody can witness my death and Elizabeth goes and spreads the word to the whole county. I wondered why it was so bloody busy.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating, about the whole county and about your death. Stop being such a prima donna.’

  ***

  Rory and Flash were early in the running, which was a bonus as the patch of grass set aside for warming up was quiet. If they were jumping, it didn’t matter how many other horses were around, Flash had the poles to concentrate on and everything else faded into insignificance. Given an obstacle-free area, though, and the horse seemed to think someone was waiting to plan a surprise, suspicion traced its way through every muscle in her body and anything from another horse to a spectator’s hat was guaranteed to wind her up.

  However much she teased him, Lottie knew Rory was a good rider, and so did he. He was strong from eventing, a sport not for the faint-hearted or weak-bodied, but his muscle tone was long and lean rather than the short, compact build that her show-jumping father sported. And he didn’t seek to dominate, which was a saving grace when it came to a horse like Flash. He sat quietly, confidently, long legs wrapped around her – holding her in a safe embrace. When Flash spooked, he didn’t react, his body going with her, his hands giving but firm.

  Lottie’s gaze was locked onto him. She couldn’t help but watch him. He might not portray quite the picture of elegance and control that Dom did, but it was almost like he was part of the horse. His body adapted, flowed in response, shifting like he had to do during the wild cross-country rollercoaster of twists and turns, ups and downs. She flicked her gaze from Rory to Dom and back again, so different and yet so the same. And yeah, Dom was so controlled, so distant almost, in contrast to the fiery ball of energy that was Rory, that she could see why each regarded the other with suspicion.

  To Dom, Rory was a wild child with no respect for his own safety, and no style. The latter probably being the most injurious to his fine sensibilities. He distrusted the man’s apparent casual attitude to women, was wary of his easy sense of humour and cavalier approach to life. And to Rory, Dom was too prim and proper, totally unbending and most likely gay, which was quite an accomplishment given his parentage and upbringing.

  Lottie grinned as Flash fly-bucked and Rory did a good imitation of a rodeo rider, waving one arm in the air. She could almost feel the waves of disapproval emanating from Dom on the other side of the area. But whatever they said, she was pretty sure they admired each other in some weird, indefinable way.

  The judge’s car horn went and Lottie checked the running order. She signalled at Rory, next in, and saw Flash’s ears flicker in what could have been warning or anticipation.

  Enter at C, working trot was the official first line of the dressage test. The fact that Flash entered was in fact a bonus, but there was nothing that suggested ‘working’ and only a smattering of ‘trot’ in what followed. She danced in a zigzag combination that involved trot, canter and an amazingly good pirouette. Lottie could have sworn Rory closed his eyes briefly as he silently willed the horse down the centre line.

  The next few instructions on the test would have been a mystery to even an experienced onlooker. The ten-metre circle resembled a broken egg and the extended trot, which should have been a thing of controlled beauty, would have been brilliant put to music – the type of music that is played as background to firework displays. Lottie realised she was humming the 1812 Overture in time to the fly bucks and heel kicks, whilst Rory sat strangely calm on top of Flash, resigned to his fate, as if he was hacking out the quiet nag she’d appeared in the stable. They really excelled when they came to the flying change, for a moment they seemed suspended in the air as Flash decided whether to paddle desperately in an attempt to fly into hyperspace, or give up and come back to terra firma.

  Lottie covered her eyes and peered through her fingers, half expecting them to come crashing down in a heap of tangled legs, and then, miraculously, as the mare’s hooves hit the ground, she seemed to calm down. Maybe it was because she’d had that sensation of jumping, and it had switched her mad chestnut brain on to automatic, but something happened. She flew through the next few movements, finished the test with the kind of perfection that instilled silent awe, and then carried on flying – straight out of the ring, narrowly missing the judge’s car and scattering the onlookers who’d come for a quiet day out to watch the horse world’s answer to ballet.

  Rory grinned and dropped the reins as the steward jumped out of the way, clipboard flying straight at the judge’s secretary whose hat went one way and cup of coffee the other, splashing a passing great dane, who, with a yelp of surprise, headed off in the opposite direction, towing his surprised teenage owner, baseball cap askew, with him.

  Lottie started giggling, then glanced up to find Dom had ridden over and was in front of her, staring disapprovingly down his elegant long nose. Even his horse looked like it took a dim view of the situation. ‘That man really doesn’t do the dressage world any favours at all.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Airs above the ground aren’t normally performed at this level, which even a numbskull eventer like Rory should know.’ He tutted, the horse gave a discreet snort. She tried to keep the laughter in, she really did, but it hurt. Her ribs hurt, her eyes started streaming and suddenly she couldn’t help herself anymore. She let it all out, howling with laughter until she was doubled up and could hardly breathe.

  She paused, aware that Dom and his mount were still standing motionless in front of her. Tiny equine hooves oiled and polished so she could see a whisper of her reflection in them. She took a calming breath and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘He’s not that bad, and you know it.’

  Dom shook his head slowly. ‘I think you better go and catch them, don’t you?’

  ‘They’ll be at the horsebox; Flash always heads for home when she’s upset.’ She blew her nose, which helped a little at calming the hysterics that had been bubbling around in her chest. ‘Christ, I hope she hasn’t actually headed for the main gate, she might really want to get home this time.’

  Dom raised an eyebrow even fur
ther.

  ‘Kidding. Honest. They’ll be fine. Oh, good luck.’

  ‘Thank you, Charlotte.’ She half expected him to add, ‘but there is no luck involved’, but he didn’t. He just nodded, although she could have sworn there was a glimmer of a smile chasing across his perfect features as he nudged his horse into a walk. ‘Oh, Charlie,’ he turned in the saddle, almost as an afterthought. ‘Don’t let him break your heart, will you? Men like him are never worth it, believe me.’ Then he gathered his reins and trotted back across the arena.

  ‘No heart left to break, Uncle Dom.’

  ***

  Flash was, as Lottie had expected, by the horsebox when she got there; tied to a piece of twine and tugging lazily at a hay net, happy as an old-age pensioner on a day trip to Brighton.

  Rory was sitting on the ramp, smoking a cigarette. His jacket had been discarded beside him, the cravat on top of it, his dark curls damp and flattened from the hat. He grinned. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep up.’ She sank down beside him, took a draw on his cigarette and handed it back. ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure, but I’d say you were probably eliminated.’

  ‘I don’t believe in doing things by halves.’

  ‘Nope. Balls still intact then?’

  ‘I might have to check on that one, unless you want to do it for me?’

  ‘It’s a bit public here.’

  ‘True.’ He took another long draw on the cigarette, blew a smoke ring. ‘I’d sell that horse if she wasn’t such a bloody good jumper.’

  ‘Maybe next time you should warm her up in the show-jumping ring?’

  ‘Hmm.’ He stood up, ground out the cigarette butt with his boot and picked up his jacket.

  ‘Or maybe you should just use her as a showjumper?’

  ‘And let some idiot like your dad get his heavy-handed mitts on her?’

  ‘Or maybe you should ask Dom to have a look at her?’

  He gave her a look, which she guessed equated to something like, when hell freezes over. Then paused. ‘You can, if you want.’ Which was the closest he was going to get to a yes. He liked the horse, she knew he did. She could be the best on his yard, if she’d do even an average test. And she would be wasted just doing show-jumping. Cross-country was her forte. And the way she’d flown today, even Lottie could see she had paces to die for. Though ‘to die for’ probably weren’t the right words to use where she was concerned.

  ‘You want to check out these balls, then?’

  She grinned. ‘Could do, I’m good at medical things like that.’

  ‘Right, you sort out the Menopausal Madonna and I’ll give the dogs a run before we head back for a full inspection.’

  He stepped off the ramp, then held out a hand and hauled her to her feet.

  ‘Yes sir, Mr Bossy Boots.’

  ‘Do as you’re told for once.’

  ‘Hey, don’t forget this.’ She picked up the bright-pink mobile phone, which he’d dropped on the ramp next to his packet of fags. ‘You never said, what was Amanda calling about this morning?’

  Rory dropped the phone into his pocket, his brow wrinkled as he tried to remember and she fought the impulse to stroke the lines away. ‘Oh, she said he was dead.’ He stared into the distance, still deep in thought. ‘I presume she was talking about Marcus.’

  ‘Marcus, dead?’

  He shrugged, threw open the door of the box and stood back as the three terriers tumbled out.

  ‘She said Marcus was dead?’

  ‘Dunno, don’t worry about it, I probably misheard. Be back in a bit, darling. Come on gang.’ And he whistled the dogs up and headed off, surrounded by a whirlwind of brown and white yappiness, leaving a gobsmacked Lottie staring after him, mouth open.

  Chapter 2

  Philippa Keelan put the brush down and watched as the wagon pulled into the yard. Rory, as male-chauvinistic as ever, was behind the steering wheel; Lottie had her long legs stretched out on the dashboard with a terrier balanced precariously on her thighs. The second, older, terrier was sitting sensibly between driver and passenger, and the third one was galloping back and forth along the back of the seat, trying to peer out of the windows and barking with excitement at being home.

  Pip felt the broad smile spread across her face and knew, deep in her heart, that coming here had been good for her. She’d never thought of herself as a country girl. By the age of fifteen she’d been screaming to get out of the small Welsh village where she’d been unceremoniously ‘dragged up’. But after years of city life, here she was, stuck deep in the Cheshire countryside with a mix of horsey heroes, grumpy farmers and a smattering of WAGs.

  From the first day her mother had shoved pencils and crayons in her direction, to keep her out of mischief, she’d been hooked. From the moment she’d learned that the hieroglyphics spread before her made up words, and the words made up a magical mystery story, she’d become an addict. Words and make-believe were far more interesting than the rolling Welsh hills and dirty sheep. Her wellies had been tossed aside in favour of a good book or, as she hit her teens, a girlie magazine. Pip was born to be a journalist, and a damned good one she’d become.

  Her move to study in London had been the start of a new life, and apart from returning to Wales for the occasional daughterly duties of birthdays and Christmas, she’d never looked, or stepped, back.

  Success had not come cheaply, social life was an enigma as she’d kept her head down and chased every lead and story she’d been offered until she hit the top, her dream job, interviewing the stars and travelling the world. Pip didn’t want a desk job, an editor’s position, she wanted to write. And write she did. Until she met Lottie on a Spanish beach.

  She’d finished an assignment and was spending a couple of days ‘chilling’ as her editor had suggested, well, told her to. But it was a foreign concept and after three hours she’d been champing at the bit to get back to what she thought of as real life, until she’d hooked up with Lottie and her boyfriend. Until she’d listened to the self-deprecating stories that Lottie told about her famous father and her frequent spills from the saddles of his top horses. All of a sudden Pip felt jaded, lost in a sea of words. She needed a reality check. A kick up the arse. Some real people, rather than the endless stream of sycophants and stars.

  And so, with the promise that Lottie would find her some work ‘no probs as long as you don’t mind some shit-shovelling’, she told her editor she was taking a sabbatical. She agreed to work freelance. And now she was here. With a curly-haired lovable rogue called Rory, the madcap, irresponsible Lottie, who she was sure was desperately seeking security, and a bunch of horses that were more than one step up the ladder from the Welsh ponies she’d been brought up on. Although, as she well knew from past bruises, a Section D cob could be just as hot-headed as a thoroughbred, when it could be bothered to put the effort in.

  ‘Well, is it true?’ Lottie was out of the cab, pushing the gates shut before the lorry had halted, with the dogs tumbling out after her and fanning across the yard like an army patrol on search duty.

  ‘Hi, to you too.’ Pip waggled the bottom of her polo shirt to let some air in and wished she had shorts on like Lottie, minus the red-wealed thighs from a wobbling terrier. It had been cool when she’d started work, but now it was surprisingly close for an April day.

  She cut a striking figure, but didn’t quite realise the impact she’d had on the men or the place since landing in Tippermere a few months previously. Her neat bob of blonde hair was almost permanently pulled back into a severe ponytail, but it showed off her fine cheekbones and bright-blue eyes, and to the onlooker she was the picture of London sophistication, not a Welsh country girl. Which was exactly the image she’d set out to project. Pip always achieved what she wanted, even if her soft tone and seemingly laid-back approach belied it. She had an iron will and the determination of one of Rory’s terriers. Which was how she’d got to the top of her career path and how she kept her trim figure and perfect comple
xion. Pip worked hard at whatever she did. Quietly. Which scared men off. Completely. Until she’d come here and found that the horsemen that Lottie shared her life with were a hundred miles from the city slickers she’d been sharing her bed and brain with for the last God knows how many years. She hadn’t decided yet if that was a good thing or bad. Here, taking a gentle hint was an alien concept; ‘no’ had to be articulated very loudly, accompanied by something bordering on GBH. And when they got it, they just laughed and moved on. No fragile egos and over-sensitivity here.

  ‘Pip, you can be so bloody annoying when you want to be.’ Lottie started to lower the ramp of the lorry with the ease of someone who’d done it a billion times.

  ‘Says the girl who stood me up last night so she could lorry-hop.’

  Lottie coloured up. ‘I only went with him because you said you couldn’t. You’re the one who grooms for him, not me.’

  ‘Touché. Yes, then.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  Pip jumped as Rory grabbed her from behind and landed a loud smacker of a kiss on her bare neck. ‘Yuk. That is so gross, can’t you keep him under control, Lottie?’ Lottie shrugged, with a grin flickering briefly across her worried features. Control wasn’t something she was overly bothered about. Out of control was much more fun. But Pip took a much more serious and regulated view of life. ‘How did the little firecracker go, then?’

  ‘You got it in one.’ He made a gesture like an explosion and grinned. ‘I need consoling, proof that my manhood has not been tarnished.’

  ‘I don’t do consolation, betcha Lottie does, though.’

  ‘I thought you could both try.’ He tipped his head on one side and Pip laughed.

  ‘In your dreams, you dirty boy.’

  ‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’

  ‘PIP.’

  They both stared at the explosion from Lottie, who obviously couldn’t wait any longer for an answer to her question.