by Fiona Walker
Taking the wheel of the lorry because he said it was unsafe for her to drive after a fall, Lough insisted on navigating their way home, getting thoroughly lost somewhere the wrong side of Salisbury. The old hunting horsebox, patched up after its accident with new, improved brakes, didn’t have such luxuries as sat nav, and Tash had left the printed directions somewhere at the event.
‘I told you we should have brought my horsebox,’ Lough griped.
‘It costs twice as much in diesel,’ Tash pointed out, misdirecting him into a business park.
They stopped in a layby on a busy bypass to consult the road atlas, but it was ten years old and appeared to pre-date the bypass itself. Traffic was building up around them as rush hour started.
‘Oh crap and bugger!’ Tash howled as she tried to make sense of the map, anxious to get back for the online Kentucky coverage. Soon Rory would be embarking on the most demanding dressage test if his life, starting with the challenge of persuading Rio into the stadium in the first place.
‘I’m fucking sorry, okay?’ Lough snarled.
‘It’s not your fault we’re lost,’ she snapped back, although she knew it was.
He glared out of the windscreen and then slumped back in the driver’s seat, the air and pent-up anger seeming to sigh right out of him.
‘That’s not why I’m sorry, Tash. You know why I’m sorry.’
She watched the traffic flying by and listened to the horses stamping in the back, only too aware that he wasn’t referring to the fact that they were lost. But was he just referring to her apparent attempts to flash him every few days and the growing spark between them, or was he referring to something more sinister, involving threats and rumours?
‘We have to talk,’ he said eventually.
It was like Hugo in reverse, she realised with mounting panic. When she tackled Hugo, saying they needed to talk, he clammed up – now she felt exactly the same. She just wanted to get home.
‘Sorry I’ve been a bit – weird,’ she managed to mumble.
His eyes swivelled in her direction and the brows shot up.
‘I get tense when Hugo’s away competing,’ she went on.
‘Sure.’
‘And I like lots of company.’
‘So I gathered.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘You trust Hugo when he’s away?’
‘Of course,’ she said, untruthfully, now embarrassed that she’d confided her fears to him about Hugo playing away. She tried to make light of it. ‘On eventing’s moral scale, he’s a saint.’
Lough’s eyes scoured her face. ‘I’ve not even got a ranking.’
‘Well, your track record’s not great,’ she agreed.
‘Yeah.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘I know: horse-doping, money laundering, stealing other men’s wives.’
His final words hung in the air.
‘But all that’s changed now?’ she asked in a strangled voice.
He turned to look out of the driver’s door at commuter traffic crawling past as rush hour intensified. ‘My mother always wrote a New Year’s resolutions list then used it as a bookmark in the romantic novels she borrowed from the library each month. It was always the same, with Find a New Man at the top. Every year, my father would blast his way back through her life, wrecking her relationships, leaving her in a mess. None of her boyfriends was ever strong enough to stand up to him.’
‘But you did.’
‘I handled it all wrong.’ He watched the high sides of a supermarket lorry slide past, its slogan boasting fresh value. ‘Bullies like him just make me see red.’
In the back of the lorry, the horses were stamping impatiently.
Suddenly, a flash of anger sparked in Tash as she took offense at the insinuation that Hugo was a bully when she felt there were far worse culprits at Haydown. ‘You should do something about Lemon, then.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how badly he treats Beccy?’
His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. ‘Let’s leave her out of this.’
‘Out of what?’
‘This.’
Tash could feel his eyes on her face again, but she didn’t dare look at him. Another juggernaut drove past them, making the old box sway and groan like a boat in a storm. She suddenly wanted a lifejacket for protection, acutely aware of every movement of Lough’s body beside hers in the cab. When he shifted forwards she was absolutely convinced that he was about to touch her.
But he just picked up the road map again to study it. ‘Right, let’s get going.’
Almost faint with relief, Tash realised their talk was at an end. Within seconds, her nervous reflex kicked in and she started to gabble: ‘I’m sure Beccy will sort things out with Lem. She hates me interfering or worrying, and always insists she’s tougher than she looks.’
Saying nothing, Lough found first gear and indicated to rejoin the bypass, sweeping aside a stormy black wave of hair to squint at a road sign ahead.
‘She’s right about your hair needing cutting.’
Without looking at her, he pulled back onto the dual carriageway. ‘Tonight’s the night, then.’
‘I bet it’ll feel great after waiting so long,’ Tash said inanely, hoping Beccy was up to the job; she’d hardly done her own hair any favours before the dreadlocks came off.
His eyes didn’t leave the road. ‘It’ll feel amazing. Trust me.’
It was several minutes before it occurred to Tash that they might not be talking about quite the same thing.
As soon as she came downstairs from showering and then kissing her sleeping children who had already been in bed when she got home, Tash opened a bottle of wine and set up the laptop to check the Kentucky action. Rory’s test was still over an hour away.
There was no sign of the others yet, but she guessed Beccy was wielding her scissors on Lough in the stables flat, which at least gave her some time to relax. Lemon in particular made her feel horribly tense, and she didn’t even want to think about Lough, although she hoped things might get easier now they’d cleared the air. She drank her first glass of wine rather too quickly and then poured herself another before getting out a big corn-fed chicken from the fridge, cramming it with garlic and onions, slapping it with butter, draping foil on top and slamming it in the Aga. She decided she’d cheat with the roast potatoes and use the frozen ones from the posh farm shop in West Fosbourne.
Washing her buttery hands then drying them on a tea towel, she picked up her BlackBerry and tried to fathom out how to send Rory a text to wish him good luck. Calling him this close to the test wouldn’t be fair, but she wanted him to know that everybody at home was thinking about him. They’d become his unofficial family now. His own clan certainly didn’t seem to be very supportive.
By the time she had typed out the message, she’d drunk the second glass of wine. She poured a third and realised that there was a new message in her inbox. It was from Beccy.
Going to Olive Branch for romantic meal. Tell Lough sorry about haircut. Please text Rory’s dressage score. Bxx
She heard a step and looked up. Lough had come straight from the shower, hair still dripping water on to his shirt, making the cotton cling to his wide shoulders.
‘Beccy can’t come now.’
‘I know.’ He stooped to pat Beetroot, who had sidled up to lean against his leg and squint up at him, tail whisking the flagstones. ‘I told Lem to take her out.’
‘Why?’
‘You said he was mean to her, so he’s treating her to a candlelit meal. I thought you’d be pleased.’
Tash gasped in horror. That’s not what she’d meant at all.
‘According to Lem, Beccy’s just the apprentice. You’re the real stylist, so you can cut my hair tonight.’
Tash wanted to tell him that she couldn’t possibly do it, but it seemed an embarrassing overreaction, as though admitting that one touch of his head could make her foam at the mouth and start pulling his
clothes off.
‘Sure.’ She went in search of scissors, reminding herself it was just like trimming a horse’s feathers. She’d cut the hair of plenty of male riders in the past, and had yet to ravish one.
He sat at the end of the kitchen table. The laptop was tuned to streaming of the afternoon’s dressage tests from Kentucky, one of which was Rory.
Tash climbed up on chairs redirecting every halogen light to shine on the work in hand so that Lough looked as though he was about to be beamed up by Scottie. It was luminously unromantic. He kept his eyes firmly on the computer, watching an American rider trot into the arena. The picture kept freezing as the live feed stalled.
Still playing for time, Tash drained her wine and went to pour herself another but the bottle appeared to be empty. She took a new one for the fridge and poured them both brimming glasses that splashed everywhere as she carried them over.
Then she took up position behind Lough. She was stupidly nervous, hands shaking so much that she was worried she’d cut off his ear.
His hair slithered through her fingers, heavy as lined satin curtains, as she set to work, running a comb through each section, slipping her fingers to either side of the lock of hair and feathering the scissors along the ends, snip-snip-snip.
He smelled shower-fresh, of warm skin and cool deodorant, toothpaste and shaving gel, but undercut with a masculine wood-smoke tang.
Tash leaned past him to reach for her wine, jumping as her breast rubbed against his arm. Even through a heavyweight jumper and thick wad of bra, her nipple fizzed disloyally. She dripped wine on him and set to work again, hands shaking even more.
Dark hair gathered underfoot as she worked, all too aware of the broad angles of his shoulders catching on her belly, his breath against her wrists as she cut that long forelock, the soft shell curls of his ears, the curve of his wide neck. She could see the edge of his tattoo poking out from his T-shirt neckline, matched with the wide inked bands visible on his arms.
On screen, the rider jerked forwards in stop-start images. Then they lost the pictures and the feed cut to the scoreboard and audio only. Neither Tash nor Lough noticed.
As if in a dream, her fingers fluttered closer and closer to the tattoo as she trimmed the fine hairs on the nape of his neck, perfecting the neat v-shape there.
But the tattoo was a decoy. It was the hollow at the base of his jaw that pulled her in, without warning, her left hand landing there lightly, as though just stilling his head to keep cutting his hair, if it weren’t for the thumb, with a life of its own, sliding up under his ear.
In a flash, he’d lifted his arm and clamped a hand over hers.
They both stayed stock still for a moment, watching the pale screen of the computer lined with scores, and listening as a cheerful American commentator announced that it had just started raining heavily over Lexington.
At last Lough spoke, barely more than a whisper. ‘You feel the same way.’
‘You must go,’ Tash said, her voice weird and unnatural in her head, almost drowned out by the pounding of her blood.
‘You feel the same way.’
She tried to pull her hand away but he held tight.
‘I can’t think straight around you any more,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t breathe straight. I want to kiss you all the time.’
Tash certainly couldn’t breathe now. All she could think about was kissing him.
‘And into the stadium, in the pouring rain, comes a young Brit we’ve not seen here before, Rory Midwinter …’ announced the disjointed voice on the laptop. ‘Seems to be having a few problems getting the horse to the arena there, but backwards on two legs is fine as long as they get all the moves right when they’ve entered at A …’
Lough’s hand warm on hers, frozen in time, they stayed silently rooted to the spot like statues, neither of them listening as the commentators talked through Rory’s test. The voices droned on, talking about superb transitions and great showmanship. Tash barely took in a word, able to think of nothing but Lough’s lips and hers finding each other.
When a distorted round of applause from the computer speaker heralded the end of the test, they both jumped with surprise.
‘What a great effort from the young Brit after such a near-catastrophe at the start – and the worst weather of the day. The scores should be on the board any moment …’ the commentator promised.
There seemed to be an interminable pause.
‘He gets fifty or less, we kiss,’ Lough breathed.
‘I don’t make bets like that,’ she managed to croak, despite a crazy urge to agree. ‘That’s Hugo’s weakness.’
‘We have that in common, at least.’
Tash bit her lip, fighting to think straight. ‘What is it you two bet on?’
‘You, of course.’ Lough’s fingers had started to slide up her forearm.
Still resting against the hot skin of his neck, Tash’s hand trembled. She snatched it away and stepped back.
Turning to face her, he stood up, his chair tipping over with a clatter against the flagstones, sending the dogs scuttling away. His eyes burned into hers.
On the live feed, the voice suddenly announced that Rory’s final penalty tally was just over forty points, putting him in second place for the day, ‘well in advance of any of the rest of the Brits to have gone, but with more to names including Olympic gold medallist Hugo Beauchamp to come tomorrow …’
The kiss was without warning or ceremony – a hot brand straight on to her lips, a hand on her neck and a body against hers. She felt her weight go for a moment, her feet struggle to stay under her, the pit of her belly pulled out like a drawer only to be filled with lit fireworks and slammed back in.
But all the time her heart was beginning to panic, desperate to run away and hide. She held up a hand. He gripped it, fingers lacing with hers, pulling her tighter, his lips opening against hers now, a muscular tongue tasting the first soft millimetres of flesh on the inside of her lips.
Just for a split-second, Tash abandoned herself. She yielded, welcomed his body hard against hers, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers on her skin, and welcomed her craving to drag him between her legs. But even as this strangeness, this newness of kissing Lough overwhelmed her, the wave of lust was already retreating, her hand had starting to struggle against his, pushing him away, her heart hurting in her chest.
Then the phone rang and the remaining lust cut off instantly, like a switch.
Lough gripped on to her. ‘Ignore it.’
‘It’ll be Hugo.’
‘Ignore it,’ he urged, his lips still touching hers.
But the moment had gone. Her whole body felt scalded by disgrace and self-loathing.
She pushed him away.
Lough was a strong, athletic man and no lightweight, but he was caught off-balance; Tash rode up to eight horses a day and had arm muscles as strong as a rower’s these days. She didn’t know her own strength, and her thrust could probably have pushed over three muggers simultaneously.
She watched in horror as he stumbled backwards into the fallen chair, throwing an arm behind him in a futile attempt to grab the table edge. He crashed down against the flagstones, and his head made contact with the floor with a loud crack.
Tash screamed, her hands over her mouth, tears instantly rising in fear and panic.
Lough groaned and rolled over, blinking up at the ceiling, his huge, dark eyes flicking quickly across to Tash, clearly checking that she wasn’t standing over him with a cosh waiting to finish him off. Then he slowly sat up. There was blood dripping from his newly shorn hair.
‘Oh Christ, I’m so sorry!’ She stooped down to him.
‘Leave it!’ He hauled himself up, clutching his skull. A moment later, and he’d disappeared out into the night, slamming the door behind him.
The phone was still ringing, echoing around the house.
Unable to think straight, Tash picked up the call.
It was Hugo, now breathlessly running f
rom the dressage arena to the stables alongside Rory.
‘Did you see it? He rode an absolute blinder,’ he enthused. ‘The horse was really far too hot, but all that work we’ve been doing paid off. He stayed focused and kept going forward, didn’t get defensive and fight him. It was bloody superb to watch. Darling little Faith sobbed her heart out. Rory’s about to go and do the press conference now, and absolutely loving all this American razzmatazz. God, I wish you were here.’
‘I wish I was there too,’ she said with all her shame-soaked heart.
Later, Tash crept out to do night-check like an SAS commando, dressed in dark colours, her eyes darting left and right in case Lough jumped out and demanded to know what the hell she was doing, playing mind games with him. But she needn’t have worried. A low light was glowing in the lodge cottage and Lough showed no sign of coming out. His own horses had already been rugged, hayed and watered.
At the crack of dawn the next day, he and Lemon loaded his two up-and-coming advanced horses as planned and set off for Belton Park in Lincolnshire. Tash waited in the house like a coward until they were gone. She was entered on River, but had called the organisers to withdraw, claiming that she couldn’t leave the yard so short-staffed that close to Badminton. The truth was that she was still far too frightened of riding around a track at that level to tackle it, and of being anywhere close to Lough.
In the kitchen Veruschka was squawking in Czech, having discovered last night’s chicken still in the top oven of the Aga, and now charred to a crisp. Acrid smoke billowed around the room.
Donning oven gloves, Tash carried the smouldering remains outside, where she wandered around uselessly, wondering where she could put it to cool that was out of the way of the dogs.