by Fiona Walker
She kissed Gus and Penny hello, then turned back to Tash.
‘I said hi to Niall – he looks knackered, poor sod.’ She nodded towards one of Hugo’s panelled sitting rooms in which Niall was clearly ensconced. ‘He says you guys are getting married in the village now. That’s terrific. When are the invitations going out?’
‘Soon,’ Tash coasted vaguely. ‘Is Matty with you?’
Sally shook her head. ‘Babysitting very grudgingly. I’ve told him I’m on an assertiveness weekend. He says that if I assert myself any more, I’ll be assertifiable.’
‘Why didn’t you tell him the truth?’ Tash stared at her blankly.
Sally lifted her chin bravely. ‘I’m here with Lisette – Matty disapproves of our friendship,’ she explained, not quite looking Tash in the eye. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
Tash was about to confess that, childish as it may seem, she did rather mind when there was a sharp blast of cold air behind her.
‘What the –?’ Sally gaped over Tash’s shoulder and then started to laugh.
Turning around, she saw that the fat oak door which led from the kitchen to the long rear lobby was wedged wide open. A loud, roaring engine noise boomed from the narrow passageway and the next moment a glistening wet tyre capped with a vast red mudguard was edging its way over the stone step.
Seconds later there was a loud burst from an engine and Hugo thundered into the kitchen on a vast motorbike which he proceeded to ride around in a wide circle, practically mowing down several party guests including Sophia.
‘God, he’s an immature prat, isn’t he?’ Sally giggled with relish.
Tash, who had been rather carried away by the sexiness of the whole thing, took a hasty swig of wine and tried hard to agree. But there was no denying that Hugo looked obscenely good.
His hair, wet from the drizzle outside, gleamed like Medusa’s snakes around his laughing face as he dodged in and out of the guests, long legs dangling to either side of the huge bike and scuffing the floor to keep balance as its back wheel slithered on the flagstones. Wearing a vast sheepskin flying jacket and scruffy, rain-soaked jeans, he looked more like a hell-raising gate-crasher than a party host.
‘He’s so bloody attractive, it’s unfair,’ Sally sighed. ‘I’d love to think he’s got a small prick, but Lisette assures me otherwise.’
Tash breathed a great mouthful of wine into her wind pipe.
Bringing the beast to a skidding halt on the flagstone floor, Hugo cut the engine and whooped delightedly. ‘Thanks, Ma!’ He blew his mother a kiss and removed a large red satin bow from the handlebars.
‘That monster is Alicia’s present to him,’ Sally muttered to Tash. ‘It seems the old dear’s quite keen to kill him off young so that she can get her court shoes through the door here again.’
‘But Hugo already has about three cars.’ Tash watched as he attached the vast bow from the bike on to the collar of one of the dogs that was milling about at knee height.
‘Ah, but they’ve all got air-bags and anti-roll bars.’ Sally winked.
Looking at Hugo’s big smile and glittering eyes, Tash could tell he was in a dangerous, reckless mood. She had seen him like this before and knew just how unpredictable and nasty he was capable of being. Recently she had been the victim of that relentless, mercurial need for entertainment far too often. Deciding to steer well clear, she slipped into the room which Sally had nodded to when talking about Niall.
He was sprawling loose-limbed on a sofa with Zoe and the local vet, Jack Fortescue. Lounging on the arm beside him, a long thin strip of unlit fuse, was Lisette.
Tash was about to back out again when Niall caught sight of her and bounded upright, almost tipping Lisette into a vast, dead-looking fern.
‘Tash angel, I’ve been searching all over for you.’ He laughed, clearly already very drunk. ‘You having a good time?’
‘Terrific.’ She smiled stiffly as she caught a strong whiff of whiskey. ‘Lots of familiar faces.’
‘Sure, there are, there are – and one of them’s right here.’ He gripped her arm. ‘Come and say hello to Lisette. Doesn’t she look well?’
‘Terrific,’ Tash repeated hollowly. She looked more than well, she looked ferociously beautiful, those huge haunted eyes almost bottomless in their magnetism, the curling mouth strangely reminiscent of Hugo’s with its drooping sensuality and sloping curves. With a free-falling heart she realised that no amount of primping and preening would ever make her that beautiful.
Expecting a gushing faux-welcome in return, Tash was rather surprised to be on the receiving end of a frosty glower.
‘Hi.’ She swallowed uneasily.
‘Hi.’ Lisette stretched out a slender arm.
Thinking she was expected to shake her hand, Tash made a fumbled grab for it before realising too late that Lisette was simply reaching for her drink. A split-second later three inches of red wine cascaded down her own leg and into her ultra-trendy long boot as a result.
‘Christ!’ Tash leaped away, shaking her leg as though performing a spontaneous hokey-cokey. ‘I’m sorry – it was my fault. So clumsy.’
Lisette didn’t argue. Instead she sighed patiently and signalled for one of the roving local girls to bring over the bottle of red. She held up her glass to be refreshed, brushing a few imaginary drops of wine from her own dress. As it had almost all tipped into Tash’s boot, this was pure showmanship.
Suddenly she flashed the big, sexy smile that could floor an entire rugby team at twenty paces.
‘I hear you’re going to let me borrow Niall back for a few weeks?’ she said smoothly.
‘What?’ Tash was preoccupied with the damp vintage whooshing around inside her boot. It felt as though her right foot was plugged into an electric foot spa.
‘The film, Tash.’ Niall was smiling through gritted teeth.
‘Oh, yes. That.’ She nodded vaguely.
‘I’m glad you’re so enthusiastic.’ Lisette’s smile flashed off as instantly as it had beamed on.
Tash was wriggling her toes uncomfortably amid much squelching of claret.
‘Oh, I am.’ She tried to ignore her wet foot. ‘I loved the script – it’s terrifically funny.’
‘She was the one who bullied me to take it.’ Niall touched her arm lovingly.
Lisette flashed the smile on and off again so quickly that she looked as though she had a facial tic. Then, with a malicious glint in her eye, she proceeded to go into every boring, finite detail of the casting, crew and schedule. Having an active interest, Niall was the only rapt listener. Even Zoe, who was killingly polite, stifled a yawn.
Tash caught her eye and was grateful for the sympathy, noticing that Zoe’s long, subtly clinging midnight blue dress brought out her cool blonde colouring perfectly; she looked like a glamorous ice queen in a fairy tale. It was the first time Tash had seen her dressed up since New Year’s Eve, and she was startled by the change it effected. She looked ravishing. Had Zoe gone the whole hog on a more regular basis, she guessed she would be hopelessly intimidated by her.
Sticking out Lisette’s monologue for a couple more minutes so as not to appear rude, Tash finally limped off to locate a loo in which to rinse her foot.
All the downstairs ones were occupied and it appeared that the more riotous the party grew, the less they were being used for their natural purpose. From one, Tash could distinctly make out the sound effects of some very unpleasant projectile vomiting; from another came the zealous grunts and groans of mutual tongue-swallowing.
Now walking with a very strange gait, she headed upstairs. Again, the lavatories with which she was familiar were locked. She knew the house pretty well from previous parties and occasional teaching sessions with Hugo, who had given her some dressage coaching during their brief moment of friendship and even once, on a memorable day, asked her in for doorstep-thick sandwiches and wine afterwards. But her knowledge of Haydown stopped just several yards along the landing and she looked around rather forlor
nly as she tried to figure out where another bathroom might be.
It was a very long, dark, galleried landing, its wooden floors dull and pock-marked from the dashing of booted feet, its tapestried upper walls torn, dusty and faded. To her left, an ancient horse-hair chaise was oozing out stuffing like a splitting soufflé, beside which a low Pembroke table was groaning beneath the weight of a dozen dusty silver photograph frames. Tash hobbled over to take a peek. They were almost all of dogs and horses, she noticed, some clearly dating back several generations. From one, Hugo’s despotic late father glared at her beadily, seeming to accuse her of snooping.
Backing off, she headed through a nearby door and found herself in a vast bedroom, dominated by an unmade four poster, the sheets pouring over the end like a bursting dam, the pillows scattered beside it like a giant’s slippers and a great pile of unmated clean socks littered on top. A tatty biography of Montgomery sat on the bedside table with a pair of spectacles perched on top, and several acres of old newspapers lay on the floor, fluttering in the breeze from an open window.
To her relief Tash spotted what appeared to be an interconnecting bathroom and darted guiltily inside.
There was no lock, so she shut the door firmly and perched on the edge of the bath with her feet inside it to remove her wet boot. The dregs of Lisette’s wine spattered out as she pulled it off, staining the white enamel of the bath like diluted blood. It smelled foul – a nose-punching mixture of hot foot and fruity Brouilly.
Popping the boot on the loo seat, Tash pulled a lime-encrusted brass shower attachment from its antique telephone-like rest above the taps and twiddled the knobs to rinse her foot. The water that jetted out on to her red-stained toes was at first icy cold and then almost immediately so scalding that it almost took her skin off. Letting out a yelp of pain, Tash drenched most of the bathroom as she fell backwards off the bath rim, landing on a scratchy, balding rug and knocking all the air painfully from her lungs.
From her upside-down position, she watched with motionless, winded horror as the bathroom door was pushed open above her head and a pair of long legs walked in, trouser fly already being wrenched open in anticipation of a quick slash. Craning her neck, Tash could just make out the bottom of Hugo’s chin, and was perfectly positioned to look up both of his nostrils.
‘Hi,’ she croaked as, not spotting her at his feet, he almost trod on her face.
Stumbling around to avoid falling over her, he backed away in astonishment as he took in her supine position and the fact that she was clutching his shower attachment to her chest.
‘I might have bloody guessed,’ he sighed, squatting down so that she could see up his nostrils in even closer focus. They were remarkably clean and hairless, she noted with interest, taking advantage of her rare stance to have a good peek. She was starting to get her breath back at last, although it was still shallow and gasping. She tried to get up, but something seemed to be holding her down.
‘Tash, what the hell are you doing?’ He glanced across at her damp boot, which had landed in a large money plant when she’d knocked it off the loo seat in falling.
‘Cleaning my foot.’ Tash smiled weakly up at him, realising that her only escape was to brazen the circumstances out honestly. She was having considerable difficulty getting up now. ‘It got covered in wine, you see.’
‘I see.’ He plainly didn’t, blue eyes narrowed with irritation and mistrust. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off doing it in the bath?’
‘Well, I was, but I . . . ’
‘In your own bathroom,’ he added, leaning across her to turn off the shower which was still dribbling on to the floor beside Tash’s knee.
In doing this, he practically had to clamber over her, and Tash found to her horror that her face was pressed into his hard, muscular stomach just inches above his waistband. She lay flat against the floor like a corpse to avoid touching him. He was wearing a crisp cotton shirt that smelled deliciously of aftershave and deodorant as it brushed against the tip of her nose. She fought an urge to breathe in more deeply.
The shower curtailed, he backed off hastily and regarded her from a safe distance. Tash made another effort to get up and was again cut short.
‘Are you hurt?’ Hugo muttered coldly.
‘Er – no.’ Tash smiled apologetically, wriggling around on the floorboards. ‘But my dress appears to be attached to the floor.’ She rolled her eyes upwards, indicating the back of her neck where her zip had become intimately involved with a large amount of tassel, tethering her to the ancient rug like a prisoner-of-war pinned out in the midday sun.
Swearing under his breath in exasperation, Hugo moved forward to free her – cursing as the tassel refused to budge, and finally using his teeth on the knot. As his hot breath involuntarily caressed the top vertebrae of her spine, Tash tried not to enjoy the sensation at all, but her pulses had started to skip disobedient beats. Flinching away as his lips accidentally made contact with the back of her neck, she didn’t like the ominous ripping sound with which she was finally freed.
‘Thanks.’ She clambered up, using his leg as support before realising what it was and hastily letting it go.
‘Now can you push off so that I can take a piss in private?’ He nodded impatiently towards the door.
As Tash dashed out, she was unpleasantly aware of a chill breeze against her back. But even more discomforting was the pronounced limp she now had as a result of wearing just one boot. The other was still in with Hugo. She couldn’t realistically expect to head downstairs and mingle into the background with one leg four inches shorter than the other and her dress undone. She groaned to herself quietly. However much distance she was longing to put between herself and Hugo’s wet bathroom, she would have to wait for her hostage boot to be released.
Feeling her face start to burn, she sat on the edge of his bed and waited for him to emerge. Fiddling awkwardly around behind her neck with her hands, she managed to get her zip about two-thirds of the way up but beyond that it gritted its teeth and refused to budge, like Snob on a bad day.
He took ages. Waiting nervily, Tash gnawed at her nails and gazed around the room, now realising that it must be his. He was pretty messy, although nothing on Niall’s grand scale of chaos. The huge, dark wardrobes had gaping doors with ties hooked over them like thirsty tongues panting at a trough; a dressing gown was tossed over an old altar stool and a pair of trousers were trying to kick their way back out of a laundry bag. The open drawers of a tall chest were spilling out clean socks and underpants – natty black jersey ones, Tash noted. From the state of the room, she guessed his mind wasn’t set on seduction that night. Even given his devastating good looks, it was pretty off-putting. None of the eventing groupies putting themselves on offer downstairs would mind, but Hugo wouldn’t see them as conquests. Tash doubted he was planning to take Lisette later – not unless he tidied up first. Lisette struck her as a woman who wouldn’t just want a man to take his socks off before sex – she’d prefer that all eighteen pairs were off the bed too.
For something to do, she matched a few clean pairs together and balled them up before stopping herself, realising what Hugo would make of her if he caught her pairing up his socks like a crazed Mary Poppins when he re-emerged. He was taking positively ages in there, she realised worriedly. She hoped he wasn’t ill. She had read somewhere – in a Robert Maxwell biography, she suspected – that men’s blood-pressure could fall dramatically when they relieved themselves, making them drop in a dead faint. She hoped Hugo hadn’t passed out. Men’s lavatorial habits were largely a mystery to her – she tried to discourage Niall from wandering in to take a slash while she was in the bath because she felt some things should remain a mystery, her bath-time habits for one.
Gazing at the walls, she wondered whether his bed was a mess because Kirsty’s boyfriend was shacking up at Lime Tree Farm, meaning that she would go home with him and not stay on at Haydown. He was certainly in a pretty stinky mood considering it was his own birthday party.
Perhaps he minded turning thirty, Tash mused, looking at her watch. He really was taking ages in the loo. She hoped he wasn’t doing anything gruesome to her boot; her one bare foot was starting to get seriously chilly.
His taste in pictures was a conservative mix of hunting oils, naive square farm animals and a couple of family portraits, although she was wildly flattered to spot one of her own oils of his old event horse, Saxophonist, in amongst the far grander marques.
There were piles of papers, schedules, notes and coins on every surface, as though he had emptied his pockets all over the room and never bothered to fill them up again. Tash could see two mobile phones, a Walkman and a digital organiser on one vast dressing table alone. It, too, had gaping drawers, from one of which poked a very tempting-looking hunk of family-sized Galaxy bar, the foil glinting seductively in the dim light.
Her stomach was growling and pleading like a small child tugging its mother’s skirt outside a sweet shop. Tash gazed at the chocolate longingly. It had been a stressful night, and she was certain that Hugo wouldn’t miss a couple of squares. He was still busily occupied, water swooshing now, hot pipes clanking. She briefly wondered if he was having a shower or, even more uncharacteristically, cleaning up after her boot blitz.
Dashing across the room, she broke off several squares of chocolate and was chomping frantically when something caught her eye in the drawer below. With bulging cheeks, she rooted urgently amongst the teenage fan mail, bank statements and credit card slips to extract it.
There it was in all its dreadful splendour – her mis-routed Valentine’s card, complete with lipstick kisses and semi-nude photographs.
Looking at it once again, Tash gasped in horror as she took in the full implication of sending Hugo such a thing. The pictures were simply ghastly – more like mug-shots of a dead prostitute in a Lynda la Plante mini-series than titillating self-portraits. She had been far bigger then, positively bursting out of some of the underwear, and her mastery of the timer on the Polaroid had clearly not been great – most of the pictures were at very odd angles, cutting off a vital limb, her head or most of her body altogether. Sadly, they were all in clear focus. Squinting at a close-up of her cellulite-and-G-string look, Tash wanted to curl up and die with shame, particularly when she spotted the pizza delivery boxes and empty wine bottles in the background of the shot. What was even more ghastly was that Hugo had kept it to gloat over. She hoped to God he wasn’t planning to blackmail her with it.