Elizabeth didn’t believe in central heating, it was just for softies who liked to burn money, which meant the house was freezing all year round. Even in summer.
‘You were telling me about this man?’
‘Was I?’
Elizabeth tut-tutted and waved the dogs on in front. ‘You were out with Philippa?’
‘Ah, that man.’ It suddenly simultaneously dawned on her who she was being interrogated about and worried her as to why. Elizabeth never made casual enquiries; there had to be a reason. ‘Tom.’
Her grandmother was waiting for more.
‘Tom Strachan. He’s a model.’ She absentmindedly picked up the stick that Bertie had dropped at her feet and flung it as far as she could across the manicured lawn, which wasn’t far. The bounding Bertie soon came back, his head held high, Labrador smile across his happy face as he stopped in front of them. Dropping his prize, his whole body wagged in wobbly ecstasy.
‘Pretty boy, isn’t he? Bertie NO.’
Just in time, before she grabbed it, Lottie realised that Bertie had deposited a decomposed rabbit at her feet this time, not a stick. She wiped her hand down the front of her top, even though she hadn’t actually touched it.
‘Er, yes.’
‘Charles always did say one should never trust a man with long hair. He’s either an artist and waster or a scoundrel.’
‘He’s a model, Gran, and it’s not that long, his hair.’ Lottie tried to remember exactly how long his hair was, but however much she screwed up her eyes and mouth the image didn’t come.
‘Don’t do that, darling, it will give you frown lines.’
‘Anyway, Gramps only said that because he was in the army. He thought anything that wasn’t a short back and sides was long.’
Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. ‘I suppose he will at least dress well, if he’s a model.’
‘I don’t know really. He models underwear, y-fronts, you know, pants.’ Were pristine pants the equivalent of dressing well?
‘I do know what pants are Charlotte, and I know you mean pants not trousers. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’ve lost my marbles. But what’s his proper job? Standing around in your pants isn’t a job for a real man.’ Modelling obviously wasn’t going to cut it.
‘I think.’ Oh, God, why hadn’t she been concentrating on what Pip had said? She should have known the all-seeing Elizabeth would want answers. It suddenly came to her, and she almost shouted it out triumphantly. ‘He runs a rescue home for dogs as well.’ Or something like that. Bertie barked, impatient at the delay, and Elizabeth made a huffing noise.
‘And there’s obviously a huge demand for that type of thing here.’ Elizabeth’s tone was laden heavy with sarcasm.
Okay, dog rescue wasn’t going to cut it either. ‘I think he came here because his wife left him, and his daughter likes horses, so…’ She shrugged and threw the stick, which hit the sunbathing Holmes squarely on the rump, followed closely by the full weight of Bertie, who was going too fast to stop and didn’t believe in swerving. Holmes leapt up with a snarl, as his seniority demanded in times of attack.
‘Boys, stop that.’ Even Lottie jumped as the full force of Elizabeth’s bellow stopped them dead. ‘And do you think he’s gay?’
‘Gay? I never said I thought he was gay. Well, no, I mean he’s married, and then his daughter—’
‘No, not Thomas, Dominic.’
‘Well, I—’
‘He’s not dear.’ Elizabeth patted her arm. ‘I must admit I did wonder, but I’d say he’s just very careful. Right, hadn’t you better be off?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m supposed to be playing golf this afternoon, although why on earth that woman can’t get up early like normal people do and get a round in before breakfast is a mystery. Come along dear, you can give me a lift to Christine’s and I will get Dominic to pick me up later.’
Elizabeth turned on her heel and set off back towards the house, Lottie and the dogs getting tangled up in the scramble to follow her.
***
It was only when Lottie got to her car, luckily in advance of Elizabeth, that it dawned on her that it was even more of a mess than it normally was. Which was down to too much time spent trying to fit visits to Rory in, in between running around after her father.
Lottie sighed as she opened the passenger door of her car and a crisp packet drifted out. She stared at the mess. Brushing the car seat with the old pair of jodhpurs she found on the backseat didn’t seem to help matters at all; in fact it left a very nasty brown smear on the seat, which just had to be chocolate. And when she opened the glove compartment to shove the empty drinks can and sandwich box in, several empty Minstrel packets, along with a Snickers packet (empty) and a Mars wrapper (full) tumbled out. She took a bite of the chocolate bar and then started to stuff things under the seat with her spare hand. Elizabeth had no qualms about climbing into a Land Rover full of muddy boots and dog hair, but food wrappers of any kind were worthy of a sniff. One just didn’t buy things in wrappers, well at least Elizabeth didn’t. The housekeeper did, then she unwrapped everything, burned the paper and pretended that everything was cooked from raw ingredients that she’d more or less grown with her own hands. The operative word being ‘less.’
Driving her grandmother the handful of miles to her friend’s house was the normal ordeal. Lottie honestly didn’t know anyone who made her quite so nervous. She was more than capable of handling a horsebox, and had been driving her father’s tractor since her legs had been long enough for her feet to reach the pedals, but with Elizabeth in the passenger seat her nerves were shot to bits. It was always the same; she started with a routine inspection of the interior, then she moved onto comments about speed (‘doesn’t this car go any faster?’), cornering (‘do you really need to brake every time?’), overtaking (‘just because the stupid man wants to go at that speed doesn’t mean we all need to, dear, in my day he’d have been run off the road’) and ended with parking (where she just opened the door and stared pointedly at the kerb, ‘shall I call a cab dear?’ being the normal comment, if she bothered with one).
‘Maybe your father needs to get you a better car. That might help,’ was always her parting comment before she slammed the door hard enough to check for rust damage, and after dusting herself down, she headed off.
It took most of the drive back, with the window down and the radio turned up full blast, sending the echoes of a defiant Pink into the countryside, before Lottie had relaxed her jaw enough to stop her teeth aching. By the time she drew up outside Rory’s cottage, she could almost, almost see the funny side.
***
Lottie walked on to Rory’s yard just as a man she’d never seen before stripped his t-shirt over his head and displayed a very attractive six-pack. She counted. It was definitely a six-pack. And she was pretty sure that if she had seen it before she would have remembered. Bodies like that tended to make a lasting impression.
Driving back from Tipping House, she’d had two things on her mind. One, what was her grandmother up to? Because she was definitely up to something as far as Tom and Uncle Dom went. And two, why was Tom here, in Tippermere? Why here, exactly? There was something he wasn’t saying, and she had a horrible feeling there was something Elizabeth knew. Or why would she have been so interested?
Both thoughts were swiftly relegated to the back of her mind though as the beautiful naked torso, or was that naked beautiful torso, grabbed every inch of her attention. As he had his top fixed firmly over his head, and so couldn’t see, there didn’t seem to be a problem in taking advantage and staring. So she did. Until she realised he’d thrown the clothing to one side and she was staring open-mouthed at a guy who was staring straight back at her. He wasn’t open-mouthed, though, he looked slightly concerned, as if she might be a deranged mad woman escaped from the nearest loony bin. She shut her mouth.
‘Sorry.’ And went red. ‘I, er, have you seen Rory, or er Pip?’
‘You must be Lottie.’ Now that was
the type of deep, dark, sexy voice she thought only existed in her imagination. She’d always had a thing for a nice accent, and Irish just shot straight to the top of the hit parade. Lottie resisted the fleeting urge to shut her eyes and ask him to keep talking. Then it registered that he knew her name. And she didn’t know his; she really would have remembered if she’d met him before. With or without clothes. Definitely.
Rory had a lot of friends; no one she would have ever called close, but lots of drinking buddies, eventing buddies, hunting buddies. Ever since they’d fallen into dating, he’d been surrounded by people, and at every party you could find the entertaining Rory in the thick of things, which at times could be bloody annoying. This included most of the times when she’d had a few drinks and was starting to feel either mildly randy and in need of attention, or well-oiled enough for her chatterbox mode to have kicked in and she just needed to talk. To him. But, even though they’d spent a lot of drunken evenings together (and drunken nights), she was pretty sure she would have spotted this guy, even if she did only have eyes for Rory.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’ Lottie squeaked, cleared her throat and tried again. She had been quite happy ogling him, now the tables were turned she felt more than a little bit uncomfortable. Like an eavesdropper who’d been caught out with a glass to the wall, not that she’d stoop to that kind of thing.
Mick O’Neal repressed the smile, put his hands on his hips and took the time to drink in the vision that had materialised before his eyes. She wasn’t at all how he’d expected her from the sketchy descriptions Rory had laced into their conversations. For one, he’d translated the ‘plenty to grab hold of’ as fat, whereas Charlotte was as shapely as she was toned.
‘Are they in?’
‘They are indeed. Last I heard, Rory was trying to blame Pip for not entering his horse in some event, and she was giving him a bollocking back. She threw his phone at him, along with a few other things from the sound of it. I’m Mick by the way.’
He held out a hand and she stared at it with suspicion. Then regretted it when he placed it back on his hip. And then decided that the safest place to be was as far away from him as possible. Contact might be a mistake.
‘Great, thanks, so you are.’ Feeling mildly stupid, which was nothing new, Lottie made a dash for the safety of the kitchen and Rory, only to find a battlefield. The small kitchen table was normally piled high with entry forms, schedules, directions, vets bills and every other conceivable bit of information that an eventer might ever need. Today they’d been scattered in all directions. She teased one out of the corner of a terrier’s mouth and then gave it back to the dog when she realised it was only a phone bill. A second terrier lay forlornly in her small basket, sheets of paper still slowly floating down, her chin on her paws and her eyes darting anxiously between her master and the arm-flailing Pip.
‘I pay you to send in the fucking entries on time.’
‘You don’t bloody pay me, and even if you did, what am I supposed to be? A bloody mind-reader?’
‘I do pay you.’
‘Not to be your bloody cleaner, housemaid or secretary. I,’ she waved her arms towards the still-open door, ‘work out there, you moron. You said you wanted a bloody groom, not a nanny.’
Rory, who was sitting on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, dumped his muddy boots on the chair opposite and crossed his arms rebelliously. Which Lottie was sure was because he just knew his attitude would wind Pip up even more.
‘What are you two arguing about now?’ She pulled out a spare chair and sank back onto it, a dog landing on her lap for reassurance almost before her bum was settled on the seat. When Lottie had suggested Pip come and work for Rory, it had never occurred to her how the sparks might fly. Lottie and Rory thought along the same lines, they were both slightly disorganised, both more interested in play than work and neither of them took much seriously, apart from, of course, horses. Pip was different. Pip took everything seriously and ran her life with military precision when she was on duty. And when she was at the yard, it was business not pleasure. And Rory drove her round the bend. Neither of them would give an inch, one because of his male pride, the other because she was never, ever wrong and wasn’t prepared to pretend she was. The fact that she was quite happy to throw things if it got her point across made life interesting. She’d only been here a matter of months, but already Rory had found out that if he was wrong he was damned well going to be told. Repeatedly. Until he admitted it. The only problem was, Rory was never, in his eyes, wrong.
‘He’s lost his entry for next weekend.’ Pip glanced at her briefly, then fixed an accusing glare back on Rory.
‘I’ve lost?’ He ran his hand through his curls, eyes wide with the injustice of it all.
‘You’ve lost. You did not ask me to send that entry in, Rory Steel, and we both know it.’
‘It’s not the one in the wagon is it? For Rio?’ Lottie tried to sound casual and hide the note of guilt in her voice. She distinctly remembered Rory picking up his post on the way out last weekend, and reading it in the cab as they took Flash to the dressage. And when he’d left it on the seat, she’d glanced briefly then stuffed it all in the glove compartment to stop the terriers chewing it to shreds. Then forgotten all about it. Until now. She kept her gaze fixed on the terrier and rubbed the silky ear between thumb and finger.
‘You are kidding?’ Pip had reached the hands-on-hips stage.
The terrier yelped as she rubbed a bit too hard. Rory frowned. ‘Oh, yeah I remember now. I did enter, that was the confirmation.’ He grinned. ‘Brilliant. Glad we got that sorted.’
‘Sorted? You call that sorted? You bastard, I just knew it was nothing to do with me.’ Pip was almost stamping her foot.
‘So,’ Lottie coughed to get their attention as they were back to a stand-off, ‘who is that guy on the yard?’
‘Oh, shit, I was supposed to be helping him, he said he’d sort Kis for me.’
Rory laughed as Pip shot out of the kitchen. ‘Come here gorgeous, I need some TLC after that battering.’
‘It’s your own fault.’ Lottie stood up, tipping the terrier onto the floor, and moving over to sit on his knee, shivering as his fingers rubbed exactly the right spot between her shoulder blades. ‘You know she’s not going to take it lying down if you blame her for things that aren’t her fault.’
‘Will you take it lying down?’
‘You’re being rude again, aren’t you? Anyway, who is he?’
‘Why, do you fancy him?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and unceremoniously dumped her off his knee. ‘Come on, I thought you knew him. Or maybe he arrived when you were off on your world tour.’
For a moment Lottie thought she heard a note of censure in his voice, then dismissed it. He didn’t care that she’d gone off in search of freedom and wide open spaces, he hadn’t even seemed that pleased when she’d got back. After a brief period of awkward side-stepping and enquiries about each other’s health and welfare, they’d just fallen back into step and carried on where they’d left off.
Mick was holding a hoof between his firm, denim-clad thighs and pointing at bits to Pippa, their heads close together, her blonde shiny bob and his unruly dark hair a stark contrast. To Lottie it just looked like a hoof; how could anyone be that interested?
‘He’s into this barefoot trimming crap.’ Rory lit up a cigarette and leaned against the stable door to watch him. ‘Aren’t you, mate?’
Mick ignored him and flicked a large bit of hoof off with his trimming knife, which the smallest and nippiest of the terriers leapt on and carried off like a trophy. When he looked up, his dark gaze met Lottie’s and she didn’t know whether to squirm or melt. Or just feel guilty. ‘You’re a farrier?’ And state the obvious.
‘I am. And for my sins I’m staying here, with that heathen.’ He dropped the hoof, straightened up and waved the knife in Rory’s direction. ‘I had to go back to Ireland for a bit to sort some business,
so I missed the homecoming,’ he smiled straight at her, ‘I got back last night.’
Mick had been brought up by a traditional Irish farrier and was trimming feet by the time he could hold a knife. The fact that it wasn’t safe or probably legal was by the by. He only hit a problem when he started experimenting with something other than traditional shoeing and his father termed him an ‘eejit who should know better’. But it had left one of his terminally lame horses sound enough to compete again, which was good enough to make him consider that maybe his father didn’t know everything. Mick was wise enough, though, to keep the fact to himself, continue to shoe in the way he’d been taught and to spread the word only to the few who sought him out. He rubbed out the kinks in his spine and watched as Pip trotted the horse up the yard for him.
His move to Cheshire had been totally unplanned. But it had stopped him dissolving into a bottle of whiskey and self-pity after Niamh had waved an airline ticket in his face and told him the time for ‘fecking about’ was over. He could put a ring on her finger and fly with her, or rot in Ireland on his own. He’d chosen Ireland and his horses. And then, after a week of drinking too much, and a day out hunting with Rory, he’d booked a one-way ticket of his own and taken the boat over to Liverpool. He’d been fond of his girlfriend in a way he’d never been fond of anyone before. But ultimatums didn’t do it for him. And the thrill of setting foot on foreign soil could never beat the adrenalin rush of galloping across country on nearly half a ton of barely controlled horseflesh. And Rory had some very attractive horseflesh on his yard.
Mick tore his gaze back from the easy-to-look-at Lottie onto the challenge that was Pip. The girl was attractive enough, except she never stopped asking questions long enough for you to appreciate it, and she was the bossiest female he’d come across in his life, with the possible expectation of his very Irish, very interfering, mother. Now she was staring at him expectantly and all but tapping her foot.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 101